The Sheikh's Wife. Jane Porter

you marry another man? How could you think I’d give you up?”

      “Because the divorce—” she choked, beginning to feel genuinely frightened, not by him but by the idea of still being married to him. Their marriage was over; it had to be over.

      “What divorce?” he demanded.

      “The divorce…our divorce.”

      The dark hallway threw sinister shadows across his face. “There was no divorce. You never returned the last of the paperwork, and with documents unsigned the divorce was dropped.”

      Her mouth dried. Her heart hammered harder. She could feel every ragged beat, every quick painful surge of blood. “Documents?” she stuttered, repeating the word as though it were foreign.

      “I contested the divorce, refused to accept that you’d left me. It wasn’t desertion, I told the judge, but a temporary leave of absence. The judge sent you paperwork and you never filled it out. Therefore the divorce wasn’t granted.”

      “You bought the judge. You gave him money—”

      “Don’t get carried away. Your legal system isn’t all that corrupt. If you want to place blame, place it on your shoulders.”

      He’d rendered her speechless, stole her breath, her words, her anger.

      Could he be possibly right? Had she somehow let paperwork slip?

      Her brain raced, struggling to remember that first year, those horrible months of struggling with the baby on her own. She’d moved a half-dozen times in as many months, did temp jobs on top of her regular job just to pay her bills. Swallowing hard Bryn found her voice. “I didn’t know you could contest a divorce in Texas.”

      “In Texas, anything’s possible.”

      She suddenly saw him scooping Ben into his arms, boarding his private jet and taking off. He’d have Ben. She’d never see him again. The vision was so awful, so vivid and real, it felt as though he’d thrust his dagger, the one he wore beneath his robes, straight through her heart. “Why are you doing this?”

      His gold-flecked gaze slowly moved across her face, scrutinizing. “You married me. You understand the vows. I’m keeping the vows. And so are you.”

      “I’ll never live with you again, Kahlil.”

      “But you are my wife. You’ll remain my wife.”

      She crossed her arms over her chest chilled to the bone. A life tied to him. It would be a life in chains. And Ben…she closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought of Ben trapped with her.

      Her lashes lifted, her gaze fixed on her husband’s face. She’d once found him impossibly beautiful. Now she found him impossibly frightening. “What do you want?”

      “You.”

      Her stomach fell, plummeting to her feet. Never. Ever, ever. She dug her fingers into her bare upper arms, fingers pressing into muscle, nails into firm flesh. “It’s not going to happen.”

      He smiled, a small, hard, uncompromising smile. “It will. I’ll bet my life on it.” Kahlil moved to the door, opened it and stepped onto the small cement porch. “I’ll send my car for you tomorrow. We’ll have dinner, discuss the future.”

      She lunged toward him, fists clenched. “There is no future!”

      “Oh, yes, there is. How does seven o’clock sound?”

      She’d have Ben here then. It would be his bathtime, then stories and bed. She couldn’t possibly go out, couldn’t possibly let Kahlil return here, either. “You can’t just bully your way back into my life. If what you say is true…” Her voice fell away. She swallowed hard, unable to fathom such a truth. After a tense silence she forced herself to continue. “I need time. I need to make some calls, and of course, there is Stan—”

      “Oh, yes, nice old Stanley Hopper. Your boss, your fiancé, your insurance agent.”

      “Get out.”

      Shrugging he reached for the doorknob, twisting it open. “I’m staying at the Four Seasons. I won’t leave town until we’ve sorted matters out.” He leaned over, dropped a kiss on her parted lips. “By the way, you look lovely in that dress.”

      She’d forgotten all about her wedding gown. Self-consciously she pressed the skirt smooth, the silk delicate and light beneath her fingertips. She’d been trying it on, making sure it didn’t need any last-minute alterations. “I wanted to see if it fit.”

      “It fits.” He smiled, eyes glinting. “Beautifully.”

      Bryn was still shaking an hour after Kahlil finally left. She’d changed, made a cup of tea, but couldn’t relax, couldn’t calm down.

      Kahlil was wrong, he had to be wrong. She wasn’t married to him. She wasn’t his wife. She couldn’t be.

      Her thoughts raced here, there, scattering in a thousand directions as she drove to Ben’s preschool to pick him up.

      If she were really still Kahlil’s wife, then Kahlil would have a legal right to see Ben. To take Ben.

      Making dinner that night Bryn battled to hide her worry from Ben. The cheerful chatter she usually enjoyed grated on her and she was relieved when he finally went to bed and she had some quiet to think.

      She paced the small living room, chewing on her thumbnail. The only way she could protect Ben from danger was to keep him a secret, and she didn’t know how she’d managed to hide Ben, but she had to. She just had to.

      Bryn took the next day off from work and spent it making phone calls—to the courthouse, to lawyers, to anyone who might be able to help her sort out the facts regarding her divorce. With horror she heard one clerk after another explain that paperwork was indeed missing and that the divorce suit had been dropped over a year ago.

      Then Kahlil was right. The marriage, their marriage, still existed, under Texas law.

      It took her another two days to accept the terrible truth. Two days of a churning stomach, and two awful, endless, sleepless nights when she cursed herself for not being on top of details, for failing to ensure the divorce was finalized. This was her fault, her fault entirely.

      Finally, heart aching, Bryn called Stan and broke the news. He immediately drove over and they talked for hours but in the end the facts remained the same and there was nothing they could do but postpone the wedding. Stan behaved like a true gentleman, offering no reproaches, just promising his full support.

      But after he left, and the house was silent again, Bryn knew she had one last painful phone call to make.

      She called the Four Seasons Hotel and was put through to Kahlil’s presidential suite. If he sounded surprised to hear from her he gave no indication. But Bryn wasn’t about to chitchat. Her voice cool, her tone formal, she suggested they meet the following night for dinner and named a popular Dallas restaurant.

      Kahlil offered to send a car, she refused. She’d drive there, she told him, drive home and that would be the last time she’d see him again.

      But dinner the next evening didn’t start off the way she’d planned. First her car wouldn’t start, and then instead of dropping Ben off at the baby-sitter’s house, she had to call and ask the sitter to come for Ben. Finally she was forced to phone Kahlil and leave word at the restaurant that she’d be late due to car difficulties. Before the taxi arrived, a black limousine pulled up in front of her house. Kahlil. She knew it without a glimpse of him, knew it without a word from him. She felt him. Felt his strength, his anger, his conviction.

      From the living-room window she saw him step out of the back and stand next to the limousine’s open door. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply waited, and in his aggressive stance she saw ownership. He was stating his belief, that she was his, and only his.

      Kahlil wasn’t going to go away. He wasn’t going to leave her alone.

      The