Marriage Behind the Fa?ade (12 page)

Even now, the words had the power to make her shiver.

She’d been certain he must feel
something
—but Malik was not the sort of man to talk openly about his feelings. He never had been. Sydney bit her lip. She had no idea where things stood between them now. Just because they’d had sex, it didn’t mean that everything was grand.

It didn’t mean they could leave Jahfar and forget about the divorce. Nor did she want to. She’d given up everything when she’d married him—and then she’d given up her self-respect while she’d waited for him to say he loved her, to contradict what he’d told his brother on the phone.

She would not be so weak again. Loving someone didn’t mean you were capable of having a relationship with them, especially if they didn’t have the same level of commitment to it as you.

Sydney gathered her things together and shoved them into the small suitcase she’d brought. It wasn’t very hard to do so since she hadn’t brought a lot. Within the hour, they were in the Land Rover and heading out of the oasis. Sydney turned to look back at the stand of palms with the cool, clear water and the black goat-hair tents arrayed around it. A child stood behind one of the palms, arms wrapped around the tree, watching them go.

Inexplicably, hot tears rose to her eyes. Not because she was going to miss the oasis terribly—she hadn’t been there long enough to get attached to it—but the child represented a kind of innocence she would never have again. It was impossible not to be tossed about by the vicissitudes of life when you got older. And impossible not to long for a simpler time when your heart was breaking.

Sydney blinked away the tears as she turned to concentrate on the rolling sand before them. The desert was blinding, but the windows were tinted and helped to cut the glare. Waves of heat rippled in the distance. Malik had the air on, but only barely. She knew it was to keep the engine from overheating.

“How long will it take?” she asked.

Malik shrugged. “About two hours.”

They lapsed into silence then. Sydney stared out the window, but her eyes were growing heavy. She hadn’t had nearly enough sleep last night. She tried to keep them open, but finally gave up to the inevitable and dozed off.

She awakened with a start, what felt like only a short time later. Something didn’t feel quite right. She blinked, sitting up higher. And then she realized—

The Land Rover wasn’t moving. And Malik wasn’t inside any longer.

In a panic, she grabbed for the door pull and yanked hard. The vehicle sat at an angle that tilted her door down so that it swung wide very quickly when the latch was released.

Sydney barely caught herself before she tumbled onto the sand below.

“Careful,” Malik said, and her thudding heart gave a little leap. He hadn’t left her.

She closed her eyes. Dear God, she wasn’t alone.

“Why did we stop?” she asked, climbing down from the vehicle to join him.

The Land Rover sat in the minimal shade of a giant dune. She glanced up, realizing the sun was still fairly high overhead. It was past its zenith, which meant it was after the noon hour at least.

She brought her gaze back to Malik, her pulse thrumming quickly, her blood pumping hard. She didn’t know if it was fear, or the adrenaline from nearly falling into the sand.

Malik leaned against the side of the Land Rover. His head was wrapped and his dark gaze burned steadily as he stared at her.

This couldn’t be good…
.

“We did not stop on purpose,
habibti.
We have broken down.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE hours passed slowly in the desert. Sydney gazed up at the horizon for the hundredth time, wondering where their rescue was. Malik had told her not to fear because he had a satellite phone and a GPS transmitter. They were not lost, and not unrecoverable.

But they were all alone, and likely would be for some hours yet. There had been a sandstorm to the north, which cut them off from Al Na’ir city. And Al Na’ir city from them.

A hose had broken, and there was no spare. Malik seemed calm enough now, but she knew he would have sworn violently when he realized it.

Yet he’d let her sleep through the whole thing.

Sydney perched on a chair in the sand and made whorls with her foot. It was hot, but not as bad now that the sun had fallen deeper and deeper in the sky. The shadow of the dune was long, and they were in it. Thankfully.

“Drink some water,” Malik said, handing her a fresh bottle from the cooler in the back. Not that the water was icy cold, but it had been refrigerated in the oasis and put into a chilled container for their trip.

Sydney unscrewed the top and took a sip. “Will they come soon?” she asked, wiping her hand across her mouth.

Malik looked toward the horizon. Then he turned back to her. “The truth is that I don’t know. It may be morning before anyone can make it.”

“Morning?” She tried not to shudder at the thought. A night in the desert. In a Land Rover. Not exactly her idea of a fun vacation.

Malik shrugged. “It will be fine. So long as the storms don’t turn south.”

“And if they do?”

He speared her with a steady look. “That would be bad,
habibti.
Let us hope they do not.”

A few minutes of silence passed between them again. “Malik?”

He turned to look at her. He was every inch a desert warrior, she realized. Tall, commanding and as at home in this harsh environment as he was in the finest tuxedo.

“Yes?”

“Did you spend much time in the desert when you were growing up?”

She thought he might not answer, might consider it too personal in light of their conversation last night, but he nodded slowly. “My father thought that his boys should all understand and fear the desert. We came many times, and when we reached a certain age, we underwent a survival test.”

She didn’t like the way that sounded. “A survival test?”

He took a drink of his own water. “Yes. We were left at a remote location with a survival pack, a compass and a camel and told to find our way to a certain point. None of us ever failed.”

“But if you had?”

“None of us did. If we had, I imagine my father would have sent someone to retrieve us before we died.”

Sydney swallowed. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. How could you send your own children into danger?

“I don’t understand your life at all.” It was so foreign to her, so otherworldly. She’d been protected, educated, guided. She’d never been tested.

Perhaps she should have been. If she had been allowed to choose for herself, even if the choice was wrong, then maybe she’d have learned to trust herself more.

“And I don’t understand yours,” he replied.

She took a deep breath. “Then tell me what you want to know about me. I’m an open book, Malik.” Because, if she were open with him, if she were willing to talk, then maybe he would do the same. Maybe they could learn to understand each other. It was a long shot, but she had nothing left to lose.

His gaze grew sharp. Considering. “I want to know why you have no confidence in yourself, Sydney.”

Her stomach flipped. “I don’t know what you mean. That’s ridiculous.”

“You do. You work for your parents, at a job you despise, and you think you are not worthy of more. They’ve taught you that you are not worthy of more.”

“I don’t despise my job.” But her throat was dry, her ears throbbing as the blood pounded in them. “And my parents only want the best for me. That’s all they’ve ever wanted.”

She’d attended the finest schools, taken culture and deportment lessons, learned to ride horses, play piano. Her parents had given her everything she needed to be successful.

They were wildly successful, a perfect couple—and their children would be perfect, too. The perfect Reed family.

“You do despise your job,” he said firmly. “You’re good at it, but it’s not what you want.”

Her eyes burned. “How do you know what I want?”

“Because I pay attention. You don’t miss your job when you are away. You would rather play with your designs on the computer.”

Her pulse was racing, throbbing, aching. “How do you know that? I’ve never told you that.”

“Because I know more than you think, Sydney.”

She could only stare at him, wondering. And then it dawned on her.

“You had me watched,” she said, her throat suddenly threatening to close up. “You spied on me.”

His gaze glittered. “I did have you watched. For your safety,
habibti.
You are my wife, and just because you chose to leave me, that did not mean you would not be of interest to people.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. And yet it suddenly made terrible sense. She’d always wondered why no one ever bothered her, why the paparazzi left her alone. She was the wife of a renowned international playboy, and no one ever hounded her for pictures or quotes.

She should have known. Anger welled inside her. “You had me watched, but you never called me yourself.”

“I have already stated it was so.”

“I realize that,” she snapped. “It just sounds so unbelievable, even for you. As if picking up the phone and calling me was such a monumental task.”

“We have discussed this before,” he said evenly. “The answer has not changed since the last time.”

Sydney crossed her arms and looked out over the red desert. So much time wasted, and all because of pride.
Both of you,
a little voice said.

“You made sure no one bothered me, didn’t you? The paparazzi, I mean.”

“Yes.”

She thought of the media in L.A., the way they hounded the stars, the way nothing ever seemed to stop them from getting one more picture, a picture they hoped would be embarrassing or shocking enough to earn them big money on the open market. She wasn’t a celebrity, but he was. She would have definitely been on their radar for her connection to him alone.

But for Malik’s intervention. He should not have been able to do it. But he had.

“How?”

“Money is a strong motivator, Sydney. And power. Never forget power.”

She looked down, at the whorls her foot was making in the sand. Emotion threatened to choke her, but she would not let it. He had done it for his own purposes, not for her. She couldn’t think it was more than it was.

“Well, okay then.” She sucked in a breath, and then another. “But what makes you think I have no confidence? I meet with clients as wealthy as you on a regular basis. And I’ve sold a lot of real estate. You can’t do that without confidence.”

“Tell me about your family,” he commanded.

She looked at him askance. “Why? What’s that have to do with this discussion.”

“Humor me.”

She folded her hands in her lap, her emotions in riot. “What is there to tell that you don’t already know? My parents are passionate about their real estate business and they’ve built it into one of the most successful firms in L.A. My sister is incredibly smart. She’ll take over the business one day, and she’ll make it into something even better than it already is.”

“And you?”

She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “I’ll help her.”

“Help.” He said it as a statement, not a question. “Why don’t you take over? Or why don’t you be her partner?”

Sydney rolled her neck. She was beginning to feel like this was the inquisition. And she wasn’t enjoying it, regardless that she’d said she was an open book. Apparently she was not so open as she claimed. “I
will
be her partner. That’s what I meant.”

“But not what you said.”

“And your point would be?” She arched an eyebrow, tried her best to look haughty. Hard to do when you were sweaty and tired.

“My point is that you can’t think of yourself in control. You think your sister is the better businesswoman—”

“Because she is,” Sydney said. “There’s no shame in admitting it.” Not that it didn’t prick her sometimes to think she wasn’t the one her parents counted on, but that’s just how it was. She was valuable in her own way.

“You told me once that you wanted to study graphic design and art.”

“I did?”

“In Paris. Shortly after we were married. We went to dinner at that little café on the Seine, and you told me you had always wanted to design things for people. Websites, logos, advertising.”

She remembered now, remembered that night when she’d been drunk on love and tipsy from too much wine. Her entire life had seemed to be waiting for her, a long stretch of time in which everything would be perfect because she’d married her own Prince Charming. She’d felt nervous and she’d wanted to impress him, because she was beginning to realize the import of what she’d done when she’d married him. He was not simply a man who happened to have a title. He was a prince in all senses of the word.

He’d made her feel insignificant, though he’d not said a word to make her feel that way. It was his presence, his bearing. The knowledge that she was out of her depth and would no doubt lose her appeal once he realized how very boring she was.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said. “Graphic design is a legitimate business.”

He scoffed. “That’s your father talking, trying to form you into something he can understand. Something he can approve of.” His voice dropped. “But that’s not what you really want, Sydney.”

Her heart was pounding, threatening to leap from her chest. Sweat beaded on her skin, and not from the heat. Her palms were clammy as she wiped them down the fabric of her
abaya.

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about—”

He moved then, grabbed her by the shoulders and bent so that his face was only inches from hers. “I’ve been inside your apartment. I’ve seen the paintings on your walls that have your signature. And I watched you in the Louvre, the Jeu de Paume, the Orangerie. You want art, Sydney. Beautiful, magical art. It’s what you want to do, whether it’s to paint or to simply own a gallery of your own where you showcase collections you have selected—”

“No,” she cried, pushing him away. “You’re wrong!”

“Am I?”

She could only stare up at him, her body hurting with the truth of what he said, her mind rebelling. It was so … crazy. There was no money in such a thing, no future. The paintings on her wall were from a different time in her life, when she’d still thought she might find a way to do what she wanted. They had been part of that cultural education she’d received: enough to educate, but not enough to corrupt.

But she was no one, nothing. How could she dare to paint, dare to claim she knew art well enough to run a gallery?

Her parents would be horrified. Alicia would frown and shake her head. Sydney, flighty Sydney, off on one of her fantastical mind trips again. Being an imperfect daughter. A disappointing daughter. An
ungrateful
daughter.

She put her face in her hands and took deep breaths. She would not cry. It was ridiculous to cry. Who got upset over such a thing? Lots of people worked jobs they hated in order to pursue the hobbies they loved on the side.

Except that she’d even denied herself that. She’d never pursued art, as if it were an abomination to do so.

No.
She’d never pursued it because once she started, she was afraid of where it would lead. Of the obsession it might become.

The Reed Team needed her. Her parents. Alicia. They counted on her.

But if that were true, a voice asked, why had she left them so easily when Malik had asked her to the first time?

“Sydney.” His voice was soft, his hands gentle on her arms. He pulled her palms from her face.

She sniffled. “It’s a fantasy, Malik. I can’t afford to be a starving artist. I don’t even know what I would paint.”

He smiled then, his hand sweeping wide. “What about this? The dunes are beautiful, are they not?”

“They are.” She gripped his arm. “But I haven’t painted in years. I’d be terrible.”

“Does it matter?”

Did it? Was this really something she could do?

“I—I guess not.” What did being terrible matter so long as you enjoyed it? Lots of hobbyists would never be professionals, but that didn’t stop them from enjoying their hobbies. “So long as I don’t quit my job,” she added. She tried to smile, but it shook at the corners.

“Was that so hard to admit? You aren’t doing what makes you happy, Sydney. You’re doing what makes other people happy. You have to put yourself first for once. Stop caring what they think.”

“You make it sound so easy. But it’s not, Malik. I still have responsibilities.” And the expectations that went with those responsibilities.

“You also have a responsibility to yourself.”