“Hala says that your room is prepared, habibti. You may sleep as long as you wish.”

She’d expected that a servant would show her the way, but Malik took her elbow—no matter how lightly he touched her, she still burned—and guided her into a huge sunken living area and down a hallway that led to a small suite. The outer room had cushions arrayed around a central table, a rosewood desk in one corner and two low-slung couches that faced each other across a fluffy white goat-hair rug. The bedroom featured a tall bed covered in crisp white cotton linens that beckoned seductively.

“I need my bags,” she said, realizing suddenly that she had nothing to change into. They’d left the airport without collecting her luggage.

“They are on the way. In the meantime, you will find all you need in the bathing room.” He gestured to another door. Sydney walked into the spacious bath, marveling at the sunken tub, a shaft of sunlight coming from high up in the ceiling and illuminating the marble. The light picked out the red and gold veins of the stone, sparkled in the glass mosaic tiles surrounding the tub.

“I trust it meets with your approval.”

Sydney whirled, his voice startling her, though it shouldn’t have. She’d known he was behind her, watching her from the door.

“It’s lovely,” she said, swallowing hard. Why did it feel so surreal to be here like this? She’d agreed to come, known it was necessary, and yet she felt off balance, out of her element in a way she hadn’t expected.

And why not? This is Jahfar, not Paris, she told herself. Not Los Angeles.

Malik crossed to her, cupped her face in his hands while her heart thundered in her ears.

She meant to protest, she really did, but her voice froze in her throat.

“There is nothing to fear, Sydney,” he said. “We will get through this.”

When he lowered his head, her eyelids fluttered closed automatically. Because she was tired, of course. No other reason.

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing her forehead while her pulse throbbed. The sound speared into her heart, reminded her of a different time when she still believed in a fairy tale ending with the handsome prince.

“Don’t,” she choked out as his lips moved to her temple.

An instant later, he released her and took a step backward. “Of course,” he said, his voice thicker than it had been only a moment ago. “As you wish.”

Sydney put a shaking hand to her throat, dropping it again when she realized how frightened and helpless it made her seem. She was neither of those things, though she was most definitely nervous. She’d loved him. She’d been through hell because of him. This situation was strange, unnatural.

For them both, she thought. He would probably prefer to be with his current mistress instead of her, the wife he’d thought he was rid of.

“I think it’s best if we don’t … touch,” she said.

He arched an elegant brow. “You are afraid of a little touch, Sydney? And here I thought I was resistible.”

He was mocking her. Naturally. She lifted her head. “There is no purpose to our touching, Malik. We aren’t happily married. We are nothing to each other. Not anymore. I realize I’m an inconvenience to you, but I just want to get this over with. You don’t have to pretend otherwise to make me feel more comfortable.”

His dark eyes flashed with emotion. “I see. How wise you have grown, Sydney. How very jaded.”

“I always thought you liked jaded women,” she retorted—and felt instantly contrite. If she were trying to make him believe they could behave with cool civility for forty days, she’d just failed abominably.

He leaned against the door frame, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking him relaxed. No, he was carefully—and tightly—controlled. It had been one of the things that had driven her the most insane about him, that ability to shut down his emotions and rein them in so hard that he was nearly inhuman.

“I did not realize you cared,” he said softly. Mockingly, still.

Sydney flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly. “I don’t.”

He straightened to his full height. “Let us not descend into games, habibti. You have had a long night of travel. Bathe, rest. I will see you when you are prepared to be reasonable.”

Her temper spiked at the condescension in his tone. “I’m not playing games, Malik. I came, didn’t I? I’m here because I want this over with. Because I want to be free of you forever.” She flung the last at him, unable to stop herself from saying the words.

His jaw hardened, his eyes flashing hot once more. “You will get your wish,” he growled. “But first I will get mine.”

Her stomach flipped. “Wh-what do you mean?”

He looked so menacing. “Scared, Sydney? Afraid of what I will exact from you now that you are here?”

She swallowed, her throat thick with emotion. “Of course not.”

His gaze slid down her body, back up, his eyes hot on hers. His voice came out as a sensual drawl that made heat flare in her core. “Then perhaps you should be.”

MALIK was in a bad mood. He sat in his study, working on minute details that were mind-numbing and boring and meant to distract him. They did not.

He shoved back from the computer and turned his head until he could see the sparkle of the sea beyond the windows.

She was here. His errant wife. The one woman he’d thought might be different, might make him happy—but who, instead, had run away from him. He was not accustomed to women running away from him.

It had been a singular moment when he’d realized she’d truly gone.

He’d raged. He’d made plans. He’d sworn to go after her and drag her back by force if necessary.

And then he’d thought, no.

She’d walked out. Let her be the one to come back. Instead, she’d started divorce proceedings.

Yet he still wanted her. His body desired hers, regardless of his wishing otherwise. From the moment she’d opened the door to the house in Malibu, he’d wanted her with a fierceness that surprised him after so much time.

Especially considering how very angry he still was with her.

But she’d looked so virginal, so pure, in her white jacket and pale pink dress. Her long legs had been displayed to perfection, enhanced by the nude-colored high heels she’d worn. He’d imagined those legs wrapped around him as he thrust into her body.

It had taken every ounce of control he’d possessed not to press her. Because he’d known that she still wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her.

Her body wanted him, but her heart did not. And that was what had stopped him, both then and today.

He squeezed the pen he held until it cracked, its jagged edge slicing into his finger. A drop of blood welled on the tip. He grabbed a tissue from the box sitting on his desk and swiped the blood away.

Sydney Reed—Sydney Al Dhakir, he corrected—was so beautiful, so very luscious, so bad for his control. From the first minute he’d seen her, he’d wanted her. She’d been aloof … but only at first. When he’d finally gotten her into his arms, she’d burned so hot he’d known that once with her wasn’t enough.

She probably wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, but he couldn’t actually remember another being more compelling to him. Her skin was as pale as milk, her hair the color of the red dunes of the Jahfaran desert. Her eyes were like a rain-gray sky, the kind of sky one often found hanging over Paris in winter.

While others might find rain depressing, he found it unbearably lovely.

Especially when it was reflected in her eyes.

Malik swore softly. He’d known, when he’d impulsively married her, that it could not last. Because he’d married her for all the wrong reasons, not least the utter dismay it would cause his family. That, and he’d wanted her with a fierceness that had shocked him.