"My home. Louisiana. Near Lafayette." His words were curt, holding no welcome.
She thought for a moment. "That state has much water but also pra.. .prairies and its borders touch the Gulf of Mexico. Lafayette is near Baton Red... No, Baton Rouge. It is sometimes called Cajun Country, is it not?"
The man she was joined to was staring at her. "What, you read encyclopedias in your spare time?"
Since that was exactly what she did, she scowled at his sarcastic tone. "They are very informative." And she was starved for information.
Her father didn't believe in higher education for females, but she'd managed to educate herself, first through books and later through clandestine use of the Internet-linked computer in the study. As a teenager, she'd railed against the unfairness of being denied the educational opportunities lavished on her two uninterested brothers, but had soon realized the futility of her pleas.
"What's your favorite subject?" It was the lack of sarcasm in Marc's question that startled her out of her dark mood.
"You're not making fun of me?" She didn't understand his curiosity. Her husband was not reacting as she'd expected. Instead of nursing his anger over their disastrous wedding night, he appeared to be trying to facilitate a conversation between them.
Those piercing eyes seemed to narrow. "No."
"Well then. It is economics, theories of management, things such as that." Aware that it wasn't a feminine type of subject, she stared right back at him, defiant.
"Sure, princess. I believe you." He appeared to be fighting a smile.
Suddenly her frustration erupted. "How dare you... what is your word.. .patronize me? You see only what you think to see. You cannot recognize what is beneath the surface for you are a man who buys only on outward appearance!" She turned on her heel, the wind generated by her dark skirts buzzing angrily around her legs. "I will be ready to leave within the hour."
His arrogance made her angry, but beneath the anger the broken edges of lost dreams rubbed her raw with pain.
Despite everything, she'd dared to dream that her American husband would be a man who'd allow her to spread her wings and fly. That hope was now forever lost.
He was just like her father, intent on caging her in the box he'd set aside for her in his mind. She'd fallen for his slow, seductive smile-so rare on that brutally masculine face... a warrior's face-forgetting that being akin to a warrior was no guard against male failings.
Marc frowned as he watched his wife storm out of the room, as regal as a true princess. He'd learned long ago that appearances counted for nothing. Had he committed the cardinal sin and judged his wife on her beautiful face rather than what lay within?
It took him only a minute to discard that idea. If she was so damn smart, what was she doing living in her father's home, on his charity? Zulheil wasn't a restrictionist culture. Sure, the women were well protected and cherished, but they were allowed the same opportunities as their male counterparts.
If nothing else, Hira could've gained the money she needed for study by joining the modeling world. The minute she walked into an agency, the bookers would've crawled on their hands and knees to sign her up. One of his best friends had clawed her way out of poverty using her face, and he respected her for it.
Snorting at almost falling for his spoiled new wife's tricks, he continued to sign papers relating to a minor outstanding matter. He'd have to return to Zulheil in a month or so for a further set of negotiations, but right now he was needed in Louisiana.
Truth to tell, he missed his watery homeland. All this stunning golden desert and too-blue sky could get wearing on a matt used to humidity and mosquitoes and the occasional gator.
Hira didn't speak to Marc again until they were winging their way through the clouds, seated side by side in the first-class cabin of a commercial jetliner. Having never flown before, she was feeling more than a little lost and wished Marc would talk to her instead of working on his documents. He might be stubborn and inclined to snap, but at least she knew him. All these other people were strangers, even the flight attendants who smiled at her so nicely but whose eyes were cold.
They thought her nothing but a pretty face, a rich man's newest toy. Marc's dismissive attitude toward her had undoubtedly strengthened that belief. Her anger at the way she was always labeled without being given a chance was a pulsing wound inside her, a wound that grew each time she tried to protect herself by showing a cold face instead of shattering with rage.
Even the times when she'd broken down and cried, she'd done so in the dead of night, in silence. Who could she tell? Who wouldn't laugh at her and call her a "poor little rich girl," as if her looks and her father's wealth meant that she was never to be accorded any real sympathy?
Yet all her life, how she'd envied those plain girls who were adored by their husbands for their laughter and their wit; girls who would never have to worry about being forgotten once their skin wrinkled and their bodies changed. Girls who could joyfully confess to gaining a few pounds, safe in the knowledge that in their husbands' eyes they'd remain forever beautiful.
Despair and hurt tangled inside her soul, making her want to scream and cry at the same time. But she did neither. She'd been brought up to be the perfect daughter and the perfect wife. Seen, not heard. Never heard.
The blond flight attendant passed by again, giving Marc a subtly interested glance. He didn't look up. At least he wouldn't humiliate her by openly flirting with other women, though it was likely that many would throw out lures.
He wasn't a man who could be described as handsome, but there was something compelling about him. Power and strength, buried passion, depths without end-he had the kind of charisma women found irresistible. She'd been pressured into marrying him, but in the privacy of her mind, she admitted that he was a man who made her blush with impure thoughts.
The first time she'd seen him, he hadn't been aware of her scrutiny. She'd been standing in a hidden alcove on the upper floor of their home, looking down onto the banquet hall to check that everything was in order. Barely after she'd arrived, her eyes had landed on Marc, drawn by his magnetic presence.
He'd been standing alone in one corner, his determined and ruthless nature stamped on his features. She didn't fear ruthlessness-all the truly strong males she knew had that element in their makeup. It was part of what made them the powerful men they were.
When he'd moved, she'd imagined him as the most predatory of hunters, all dangerous grace and barely contained power. Her eyes had followed him across the room, unable to drag themselves away. Disturbingly, he'd paused midstep and looked right up at the alcove, as if he'd known she was watching.
Shaking from the impact of those ice-gray eyes, she'd retreated with her hand pressed over the thundering beat of her heart. It had taken her half an hour to calm down enough to finally join the banquet.. .where Marc had smiled that slow, secret smile at her and turned her whole world inside out.
In short, her husband was a very sexy man.
But even concentrating on Marc's undeniable sexual allure wasn't alleviating her fear. Aware that she couldn't expect sympathy from the man she'd frozen out of their marriage bed, she forced herself to reach for a magazine.
Moments later she watched in dismay as the glossy paper slid out from between fingers numbed by the desperate way she'd gripped the armrests.
Without saying a word, Marc put down his pen and picked up the magazine, placing it atop his papers. Eyes wide, she waited. Before she could ask for its return, he reached over and closed one big hand around her trembling fingers. She froze.
"Not a good flier, princess?" There was no mockery in his expression, only concern.
She gave him a watery smile, stunned at his compassion. "It is my first.. .flying."
"Your first flight?" His surprise was clear. "I've met your father several times in Munich, L.A., even Madrid.'"
She knew all the facts and figures for those places, could name streets and landmarks, but never had she seen them in reality. "My father believes in unmarried women remaining at home." She tightened her grasp on his hand. "But he never took my mother, either, so perhaps he really believes in keeping all women at home.'"