Bride Behind The Desert Veil (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Marchetti Dynasty, Book 3) Abby Green (primary phonics TXT) 📖

Thomas left and Liyah investigated her space. Her luggage had been magically unpacked and put away, and she tried not to wince at how shabby her things looked in the pristine space.

She had sisters who wouldn’t be caught dead in anything without a designer label, but that had just been one of the many differences between them and Liyah.

She explored the terrace, taking in the truly stupendous view. The sidewalk looked many miles below her, where people scurried like ants. The sky was bright blue and the air was sharp and cold. But there was no snow.

Liyah had never seen snow. It hadn’t ever been that cold when she’d been in Europe.

Despite her sleep on the plane, Liyah felt weary. It had been a tumultuous couple of days. And this was supposedly her wedding night with her new husband. Except it was morning—daytime—and they were on the other side of the world. And he obviously had no intention of sleeping with her again.

Thoroughly discombobulated, and not wanting to dwell on the revelations of her new situation, Liyah took off her clothes and crawled into the enormous bed between sheets that felt like silk to the touch. She was asleep in seconds.

That evening Sharif looked out over the view of a lowering grey sky. He’d never really got used to the cold winters in New York, but as this was where he’d moved the headquarters of the Marchetti Group’s operations after his father’s death he’d come to tolerate them.

Moving here from the main hub in Rome had been his first step in breaking all ties with his father’s legacy. His first step in stamping out his father’s influence. The next steps would be the final death knells and would wipe Domenico Marchetti’s name out of existence, reducing his legacy to dust.

But even now, as he reminded himself of all that was at stake and all that was to come, Sharif couldn’t focus. He was distracted. He’d been distracted all day. Thinking of her. His new wife. The woman who was also his mysterious temptress from the oasis—who had lured him like a siren and then kissed him like a novice.

But now he knew better. She’d been no novice.

She’d known exactly what she was doing at that oasis and she’d taken him for a complete fool—

A sound from behind him brought his thoughts to a stop. He turned around slowly. His wife stood in the doorway. She looked hesitant. She was wearing a long cream traditional Taraqi tunic. V-necked, it dipped just low enough to show the top of the curve of her breasts. She also wore slim-fitting matching trousers and flat sandals. He noticed there was still henna on her feet. If this was a traditional marriage he would be taking her to his bed tonight.

A skewer of need twisted in Sharif’s gut and he crushed it. This was not a traditional marriage and he would not be taking her to his bed. Ever again.

Her hair was down, curling wildly around her shoulders, parted in the middle to reveal the effortless beauty of her face. Those huge almond eyes. Wide, generous mouth, lush lips. High cheekbones.

Sharif could imagine her as a teenager, all coltish limbs and awkward grace. But now she was a grown woman, and he had seriously underestimated her.

‘Would you like a drink?’ He forced civility into his voice when he felt far from civil.

She nodded and walked in.

Sharif couldn’t help but notice the soft sway of her breasts under the material of her tunic. Dio. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Considering what he knew now, he suspected that was on purpose. Her talk of not needing money from him had been a cute deflection from her true nature.

‘A soda and lime would be nice, thank you.’

So demure. So deceptive.

Sharif poured her drink, handed it to her, and then poured himself a Scotch.

She hovered, as if unsure what to do or where to go.

Her apparent reticence irritated him now. It was all an act. He cursed himself for not investigating her sooner. But he had investigated her sister, and nothing untoward had come back, so he’d just assumed she would be the same. A serious lapse in Sharif’s usual attention to detail.

‘Please, sit, Liyah. You don’t need permission.’

Liyah sat on one of the couches, sending him a slightly inquisitive look, which he ignored.

Sharif chose a chair. Instead of demanding that she explain herself straight away, he decided to play dumb. ‘Did you rest this afternoon?’

She nodded and took a sip of her drink. ‘Yes, thank you.’

But Sharif knew he couldn’t string this out—he was too angry. ‘You don’t have to thank me for everything. This is your home now too, and you’re free to come and go. But...’ He paused for a moment, watching her carefully. ‘I will not tolerate the kind of behaviour you have displayed on your hedonistic jaunt around Europe over the last couple of years.’

Hedonistic jaunt.

Liyah had just taken a sip of her drink and she nearly choked, but she managed to swallow before she did.

She looked at her husband.

He’d seen the papers and the paparazzi photos.

The hurt that she’d felt the first time she’d realised she’d been so betrayed felt fresh again. The fact that she wasn’t similarly armed with information on Sharif made her feel very defenceless now. But then she told herself she was being paranoid.

‘What exactly are you talking about?’

His mouth thinned. ‘The nice little portfolio my assistant put together for me, featuring your various and myriad exploits last summer in Europe, mainly on the Côte d’Azur.’

She wasn’t being paranoid. Liyah’s insides cramped. ‘Those pictures weren’t—’

He cut in. ‘Weren’t what they looked like? Spare me the excuses, Liyah. It was pretty clear what they were—pictures of an entitled royal socialite living to excess. But I couldn’t care less what you got up to, or that you seem to