Bride Behind The Desert Veil (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Marchetti Dynasty, Book 3) by Abby Green (free e reader .TXT) 📕

Was it his imagination or had she flinched slightly when he’d said that? Her eyes were huge and very green. Then she looked away and it irritated him, because usually he was the one to avoid eye contact. And why did he feel the need to justify why the Marchetti Group was so important when he’d never felt the need to before?

He wanted her eyes back on him. ‘I’ve got a team lined up to come here tomorrow and set you up.’

She looked at him again, and Sharif felt a moment of satisfaction even as a spike of need made his body tighten.

She said, ‘Set me up?’

He nodded, imagining her in a sleek satin and lace concoction before he could stop himself. ‘A stylist and a hair and beauty team. A few others. To make sure you’re prepared for our first event on Wednesday evening.’

The colour drained out of her face slightly. ‘That’s the day after tomorrow!’

Sharif nodded. ‘A press release will be issued tomorrow, announcing our marriage. We’ve flown under the radar so far, which is how I wanted it. But you need to be ready to face the world I inhabit. This is going to be far removed from the tacky haunts you frequented in Europe and that dusty palace in Taraq.’

Her cheeks flushed again and her jaw tightened. ‘It wasn’t me in those—’ She stopped suddenly.

‘It wasn’t you in what?’

She shook her head, letting her hair fall forward. ‘Nothing.’ Then she looked at him again and pulled at a wayward strand. ‘There’s not much I can do about this unless you want me to cut it off.’

To Sharif’s surprise he felt a visceral rejection of that notion even as he wanted to tame it somehow, because it reminded him too much of the wildness she aroused inside him.

He shook his head. ‘No need. I have the best in the business lined up—they’ll make sure you’re presentable.’

‘Thanks.’

Sharif almost smiled at her sarcastic tone. ‘Believe me, you’re going to need all the armour you can get. As the wife of the Marchetti Group’s CEO, your every move and item of clothing will be scrutinised with a magnifying glass. But it shouldn’t be too daunting. After all, you are a princess, so you were always going to be on display to a lesser or greater extent.’

A short while later, after Sharif had excused himself to go to his study and make some calls—did the man never stop working?—Liyah was curled up in a chair in front of one of the big windows, her hands around a mug of herbal tea delivered to her by Thomas.

Manhattan looked like a magical carpet of diamonds outside. She could see the blinking lights of all the helicopters flying in the sky. Delivering more billionaires to their luxurious apartments?

Sharif’s words resounded in her head. ‘You were always going to be on display.’ Was she? She knew he was right, but somehow, she’d believed that by escaping to Europe to go to university she’d somehow slip under the radar. And then Samara had needed her.

The thought of being moulded to fit into Sharif’s world filled her with dread. She’d always preferred being in the background, even though she’d inevitably stood out. When she’d been a teenager she’d been gangly and uncoordinated, and then, seemingly overnight, she’d developed curves that she’d had no idea what to do with.

The women of the palace had always used to pass comment that she was too tall. Too ungainly. Not delicate and feminine like the rest of her sisters.

That had been one of the things that had attracted her to the guy who had shown her attention at university. The guy she’d trusted with her innocence when she shouldn’t have. He’d been tall, although not as tall as Sharif. He’d seemed glad that she was tall, even making a joke about how nice it was not to have to bend down to kiss someone.

It had all been smooth lies to fulfil a bet.

Liyah cringed now to think of how desperate she’d been to forge a life for herself, to fit in, and how starved of attention. Weak, for affection.

But Sharif hadn’t had to say anything. He’d just looked at her as if he wanted to devour her. She shivered now, even though the apartment was at the perfect temperature for comfort.

On an impulse, she went and retrieved her laptop from her luggage and brought it back to the living room. Sitting cross-legged on the chair, she did what she should have done days ago. She looked up her husband.

She was immediately bombarded with a slew of paparazzi shots of Sharif with women. Lots of women. And each one absolutely stunning. Redheads. Blondes. Brunettes. All pale and sleek and elegant.

None like Liyah, with her wild untameable hair and dark skin. Something twisted painfully inside her. She clearly wasn’t his type. What had happened between them at the oasis had been an anomaly. No wonder he didn’t want anything more to happen.

She delved further and noted that he was rarely seen with the same woman more than a handful of times. And then she came across the recent spate of ‘kiss and tells’. Women clearly unhappy with the way he’d unceremoniously ended their liaisons.

Liyah shivered again. She could imagine only too well how it must feel—like being under the scorching rays of the sun only to be suddenly thrust into the icy winds of the Arctic.

She shook her head at her fanciful imagination. It was a good thing to know what kind of a man he was and realise that she’d escaped relatively unscathed.

Unscathed? mocked a voice in her head. Unscathed doesn’t quite account for the fact that he’s ignited a wicked hunger inside you.

Liyah ignored the voice and purposely clicked on a link relating to the Marchetti business, moving away from incendiary images and thoughts. She read about Sharif’s deceased father, who sounded like a larger