12 Gifts for Christmas

“Not at all,” she said, squaring her shoulders against that dry, insinuating tone. Meeting his eyes as if he had no power to hurt her, when they both knew better. But what else did she have? What else could she do? “In the stories my mother told me, the handsome man who inevitably swept me away from my former life was kind.”

His dark gray eyes gleamed, but she still did not look away. Whole hours could have passed. Days. And still he gazed upon her as if he were reading into the most shadowed corners of her soul. Lucy was far too afraid of what he might find there.

Restless and something else, something she was afraid to name, she got to her feet and moved away from him. Distance was good, she thought. Safer. She went and stood by the fire that crackled invitingly in the grate, and welcomed the heat of the flames against her skin. Better to be burned by fire than by Rafi. Burns from a flame healed. The kind of damage Rafi inflicted lasted forever.

“I don’t understand you,” he said quietly, in that cold way of his that sliced into her and made her bones weak. “You play the part of the victim so beautifully, but we both know you are no such thing. And yet you never drop the act, not even when we’re alone.”

It was too much. This never-ending assault. Why had she thought that summoning him here would be better than surviving somehow the long insult of his absence? What could she have been thinking?

She whirled to face him, a storm inside of her, building by the moment and tearing her apart.

“What do you want from me, Rafi?” she begged him. She forgot about pride, about shame. She searched his face, her hands open in supplication. “How long do you plan to punish me? I hardly became pregnant on my own, did I?”

He rose to his feet then, his eyes stark, his mouth a tight line. She thought he paled.

“You dare to throw that lie at me?” he asked, his voice the barest thread of sound. “Now? After you have been exposed?”

“Exposed?” She shook her head, reeling, her heart pounding. She felt sick. “Is that what you call it?”

“The word I prefer is trapped,” Rafi growled, advancing on her. He towered over her, his eyes black. Condemning. “Your claims of pregnancy, which I, a man of honor, could only address in one way. Followed by your claims of a conveniently timed miscarriage, barely a month after the wedding. And this after I had proclaimed your innocence, your innate goodness, to the whole of my country. How much of a fool do you take me for, Lucy?”

She stared at him in horror.

“Is that who you think I am?” she asked, stunned. Horrifed.

“That is exactly who you are,” he retorted.

Which made him far less of a fool than she was, she realized, her stomach lurching. This, finally, explained the way he’d treated her for these long months. He despised her. Believed her to be the worst kind of woman.

And she was the idiot who was still in love with him.

CHAPTER FOUR

LUCY stared at him, looking stricken. As if he’d wounded her, deeply and unfairly. Rafi bit back a curse. How did she do that? How could she act as if the truth were a weapon wielded against her?

She is good at what she does, his aide, Safir, had said to him months ago when Rafi had uncharacteristically let some of his anguish at her betrayal slip out. She has made it her life’s work, he’d said.

She really was good at it, Rafi thought. She had lied her way into what was, for her, a spectacular marriage. He was the one who had to suffer the consequences.

“So that’s why you disappeared,” she said after a long moment. “You think I lied about the baby and the miscarriage.” Her brown eyes were wide with distress, and one delicate hand hovered near her throat. This close, he could smell her unique, intoxicating scent. The faintest hint of jasmine, the suggestion of her warmth. He longed to haul her into his arms, to lose himself in her as he had before. “That’s why this is the first time I’ve seen you in more than three months.”

“Despite all evidence to the contrary,” he said quietly, deliberately, holding her gaze with his, “I did not want to suspect you of this. I wanted to believe you were exactly who you claimed to be. A woman as swept away by what happened between us as I was.”

It hurt him to admit that, but it was true. It was just as every one had warned him, though he had been so determined not to believe it in the beginning. But what he had never admitted was that there was some part of him that had been relieved—because if she were that scheming, that grasping, it absolved him of responsibility, didn’t it? Every man had a weakness, even him. And he would spend the rest of his life coming to terms with what his own weakness had wrought.

“You wanted to believe it,” she said softly, her eyes moving over his face as if she searched for something. Her lips trembled slightly as if she fought off some great emotion. “But you did not.”

“My investigator found out quickly enough that you weren’t supposed to be working at the club that night,” Rafi said. “The only question is, how did you know I would be there? Did you target me specifically, or were you simply casting a wide net? I must commend you, Lucy. I was completely taken in.”

He let out a hollow laugh, but he could not seem to help the way he drifted closer to her, as if compelled. She did not move away.

“Your investigator,” she said. She swallowed. “You mean your aide. Safir.”

“He is a loyal employee,” Rafi said darkly. “Far better than I deserve. He dared to tell me the truth about you when I refused to see the evidence before me.”

“Let me guess,” she said in a tone he could not quite read—one both bitter and very nearly amused, at odds with the turmoil in her coffee-colored eyes. “A cocktail waitress must be in want of a wealthy husband, and any one will do.”

Ignoring her words, he reached out and traced the line of her collarbone, a hard satisfaction moving through him when she shivered in response. She pulled her wrap tighter around her as if she were cold, but he knew better. Whatever her plans, whatever her schemes, she could not have been prepared for this fire that raged between them—this wild, maddening rush.

He had stayed away because he could not keep his hands off of her when he was near her. She was temptation incarnate. Tonight, with her blond curls piled on her head, she looked beautiful, and all he could think about was tasting the elegant line of her neck. He wanted to peel the layers of her clothing from her magnificent body and bury himself within her, again and again and again. When he touched her, he didn’t care that he was Rafi Qaderi and she was nobody. He didn’t care that she had altered the course of his life.

He only wanted her. Here, now.

And this close to her, he could not think of a single reason why that was a bad idea.

“You have bewitched me,” he muttered harshly in his own language, well aware she would not understand the words. And then, yielding to the very same urge that had brought them here in the first place, he took her mouth with his.

Rafi’s kiss was hot, slick.

Perfect.

She should push him away. She should denounce him and the horrible things he thought about her. She should tell him the truth.

But Lucy could not bring herself to do any of those things. She was awash in sensation. The way he pulled her into his arms, pressing her against the enticing wall of his chest. The way he angled his head for a better fit, tasting her, teasing her, making her whole body hum with approval and need.

She loved him.

It was that simple. That disastrous. She loved him and he hated her, just as she would no doubt hate herself when this was over—when she was left to reflect on the fact that she was so weak, so easy, that she could listen to him say such ugly things about her and then let him kiss her as if he had every right.

But it had been so long. And oh, how she ached for him. For this. All the long, lonely days and nights seemed to disappear like smoke. All the agony, the pain and the terrible truth of what had happened to her seemed less bright, less vicious, when he kissed her like this.

As if he felt the same wild fire, the same mad connection.

As if he were as helpless to control it as she was.

As if he’d missed her, missed this, too.

It was that last thought that finally penetrated the fog and forced Lucy to take a step back. One hand flew to her mouth and she could only stare at him while her body objected to the space she’d put between them. Her breasts felt too heavy, too full. Her heart shuddered against her ribs. And low in her belly, she ached. Burned.

But he hadn’t missed her, had he. He had believed whatever poisonous things Safir had told him. He would have been content to stay away on his endless business trips forever—would have done so, in fact, had she not claimed she needed him here, that it was an emergency. He’d had no intention of ending these months of punishment. He’d had no intention of coming back at all.

“Do you think you can just kiss me and it will be as if none of this ever happened?” she asked. She wanted to sound tough, strong, but her voice was barely a whisper.

“There is no pretending it didn’t happen,” he said darkly. His gaze was trained on her mouth and she could not help the surge of heat within her. “But why not celebrate the one thing we ever did well? Surely we should take our compensations where we can. We have so little else.”

“We have nothing,” she said, surprised at her own voice. How clear it was. How little it shook. “You will leave tomorrow morning and who knows when you’ll be back. In six months? A year?” She tossed her head. “You can’t abandon me with so little regard for me and then expect me to fall into your bed at a moment’s notice!”

“Expect? No.” His fingers brushed her cheek, traced the shape of her mouth. “But why deny this passion when we are both in the same room?”

“Because it is the biggest lie of all!” Lucy cried. She jerked her head from his clever fingers and moved away from him, toward the door. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway. This time, I’m the one leaving, and I won’t be back at all. You can count on it.”

“Lucy …” He said her name but she didn’t know if it was to plead with her or to curse her.

Not that it made a difference, she told herself fiercely. She needed only to survive the night. In the morning Rafi would be gone, she would be on a one-way flight back to reality and she would finally be able to breathe again.

She just had to make it through the night.

CHAPTER FIVE

WHEN Lucy woke the next morning, tucked away in one of the lesser bedrooms—behind a locked door to be safe as much from herself as from him—the world outside her window was pure white.

Snow fell inexorably from above, just as it must have been falling throughout the night because the usually breathtaking view was entirely obscured. She could not see six feet from her window, much less into the great valley below.

There was a terrible sinking sensation in her belly and a quick check of her messages confirmed her fears. Her car could not make it through the snow and all the flights had been canceled.

She wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was Rafi.

She dressed quickly and then made her way through the house. Even today, she was unable to walk through the grand halls without marveling at the Qaderis’ power, their grace and consequence. It was evident in the richly appointed rooms, the banquet halls, even the smallest vase upon an incidental table—everything was clearly precious. Ancient. Part of the great sweep of Alakkul’s history.

Except for her. She was nothing but the cocktail waitress whom Rafi believed had trapped him into marriage.

It was no wonder her stomach twisted when she walked into the breakfast room and found him sitting there, lounging back in one of the elegant chairs with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and his brooding gaze directed out the windows.

The fire crackling away in the nearby fireplace was nothing next to the heat of his gray eyes when he turned them on her. Lucy froze.

“You’re still here,” she said stupidly even though she’d known he would be. Was she distraught? Or relieved?

He only gestured toward the window and the snow that continued to fall, silent and impassable. The roads in these mountains were treacherous at the best of times; it would be days before they’d be cleared, and then only once the snow stopped falling.

But her mind reeled away from what that must mean. For both of them.

It was almost funny, she thought from some kind of distance, her gaze trapped in his far darker one. She’d gone to so much trouble to get him here and now that he’d be stuck here for some time—now that they were both stuck here—she wanted no part of it.

“It looks as if your wish has come true,” he said with an edge in his voice, as if he blamed her for the snowfall on top of everything else. “I will be here for Christmas after all. You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled, Lucy thought as her heart fluttered wildly and her throat clenched tightly, was not at all how she would describe her feelings. She swallowed and told herself to pull it together. He lounged there at the end of the table, looking impossibly big and dangerous, but she assured herself it was just nerves and nothing else that swelled and contracted within her, sharp and rhythmic, making it hard to breathe.

“Christmas is in three days,” she said. She forced a bland smile. “Anything can happen.”

It was the longest day of his life.

Rafi found himself in the old library later that afternoon, swirling his drink in a crystal tumbler as he scowled into the fireplace. He felt restless. Hunted. As if she were right there with him, crowding him. An itch he could not reach, that would not leave him be.

She had avoided him for hours, yet he was as wild as if she’d had him naked in their bed, begging for her touch. He, who had never begged. He, who was more and more convinced that she possessed some supernatural power that enslaved him to her whenever he was near her. Even if she was only under the same roof.

With a growl of impatience, he tossed back the remainder of his drink and slapped the tumbler down on the mantelpiece. He raked his fingers through his hair. This enforced seclusion was clearly making him insane. He was supposed to be back in Germany by now, talking contracts and profit margins. Not … trapped here. With her.

He had hardly slept the night before. Being near Lucy made him edgy. As if he were suddenly made entirely of angles. He’d tossed in his magnificent four-poster bed, unable to sleep, images of Lucy haunting him. Taunting him and teasing him.

He remembered that first, delicious night. As he’d watched her work, he had been blindsided by the maelstrom of lust and need she had stirred within him. He had hardly known what he’d been doing, but he’d waited for her at the club until her shift was over and then taken her back to his hotel. She’d gone with him eagerly, seemingly as dazed by their connection as he was. The instant the doors of the hotel’s lift had closed behind them, he’d had his hands on her rich curves and his mouth on hers. He’d urged her legs around his waist and pressed her to the wall within moments of entering his hotel suite. He remembered the fierce, incomparable joy of that first slick entry, right there against the wall. He remembered her soft cries, the look of wonder on her face.

And that had only been the beginning.

Now, as the snow fell outside, he tortured himself with images of that first long night and the holiday he’d coaxed her into taking with him afterward.

I’ll take you to Paris, he’d said, and he’d done so, but it had hardly mattered where they were. They might as well have stayed in Manchester for all they’d seen of the City of Lights. He had no memory of the weather or anything else. It might have been a heat wave or a blizzard. Rafi hadn’t known and hadn’t cared. But he remembered her body in perfect detail. Every freckle, every curve. He knew the texture of her nipples against his tongue and the sweet weight of her astride him, riding them both into oblivion.

He’d thought he’d known her just as well.

“Even the great Rafi turns out to be fallibly mortal,” his cousin Adel had teased him in a family meeting not long after Rafi’s quick wedding—and not long after the phone call that had ripped his heart to shreds. “I would never have believed it possible.”

“We are not all of us destined to wed the future Queen of Alakkul, should she ever be found,” Rafi had replied, forcing a smile. He was known for his cool head, his unshakable resolve—and yet he had fallen for the oldest trick imaginable? A temptress and a liar?

“A beautiful woman should be a prize, Rafi,” Adel had replied, his gaze too calm, too knowing. “Not a curse.”

But Rafi did not believe it. Would not let himself believe it—and he was certain his cousin, who had given over his life to his duty and the glory of their country, was only being kind.

It still filled him with a kind of rage, sharp and deep.

But that, he knew, was not the true reason he despaired of himself.

How could Lucy have betrayed him in every possible way—ruined him and shamed him, tricked him and used him—and he still wanted her this much? Even now, when betrayal and bitterness twisted inside of him and fused into something darker, something hotter, he wanted her.

It was lucky his cousin was meant to be king and not him—because he would no doubt walk away from a throne for this woman, just as he had walked away from all he held dear, all he’d believed to be true about himself.

He remembered with perfect clarity when he’d realized he was nothing like the man he’d always thought he was. It had been during another meeting in another hotel in another interchangeable city somewhere in Europe. His aide had been reading out his messages in his usual bland tone. The standard petitioners for the Qaderi fortune, the regular communications from people such as the family doctor and the senior housekeeper and the usual sheaf of messages from Lucy.

“It is nothing out of the ordinary,” Safir had said in summary of Lucy’s calls, shrugging.

“Of course not,” Rafi had replied curtly, remembering with searing pain the last phone call he had taken from her, the one where she’d revealed her true nature. “My wife is nothing if not consistent.”

And even then, even as he’d pretended otherwise, he’d ached for her. Ached for all the things he’d believed she was, that he knew she could never and would never be.

Rafi pulled in a breath and turned to look out at the falling snow. Still it came, trapping him. Stranding him. Making him a captive in his own home. Making a mockery of the lies he’d told himself about the distance between him and Lucy.

But maybe he had been seeing this from the wrong angle all along, he thought then, as his body hardened, readying itself. Perhaps he should not have distanced himself when he learned the extent of her betrayal. In the end, what did it matter? There would be no divorce. And one day, there would be heirs. So what was he fighting?

CHAPTER SIX

RAFI was prepared for more fireworks. In fact, he craved them. He didn’t care what lies Lucy told tonight, he assured himself as he prowled through the old house, the seat of his family’s power for centuries. He didn’t care that she was the most inappropriate bride he could possibly have chosen and that she had used his honor against him. He didn’t care about any of it.

He only wanted her—badly—and if they had to fight in order to light that spark between them … he was happy to fight.

He was almost smiling in anticipation when he swung into the master suite, expecting to find her once again tucked away in the small sitting room she preferred. But instead he stopped dead, his heart hammering against his chest in a manner he refused to examine too closely.

She was curled up on the far side of the great bed, fully dressed, her hands beneath her cheek. From the doorway, he could see only the shape of her in the low lights that spilled from the dressing room. That perfect hourglass that called to the male in him, that delectable shape that had inspired artists and lovers throughout the ages. The beauty of a woman’s curves—his woman’s curves—nearly took his breath.

He moved to the side of the bed and looked down at her, aware that he was scowling again, though he could not have said why. In sleep, she appeared younger than she ought to, and infinitely more fragile. He saw not a scheming tramp who’d set out to ensnare him, but an exhausted, beautiful woman. His gaze shifted to her mouth, that wicked, deliciously carnal mouth.

His hand reached out of its own accord and he watched it as if it belonged to someone else, watched his fingers trace a pattern over the flushed, warm satin of her cheek. She murmured something in her sleep, incoherent and soft, and then settled against the bed.

He should not have felt that clutching sensation in his chest, as if his heart were involved in this. He should not have felt the quiet of the room and the blanketing silence of the snow outside as some kind of sacrament. The lust that had spurred him into coming here melted into something else, something far more dangerous.

But he could not seem to help himself. He crawled onto the bed beside her, yielding to a compulsion he did not dare study too closely. For a while he lay next to her, soaking in the peace of it. The quiet sense of belonging that he now admitted had always existed, no matter what betrayals were piled on top of it.

And still she slept. Even when he moved closer and pulled her into his chest. Even as he held her, stroking her hair and freeing the wild golden curls from the tight bun she’d kept them in. Even when his lips gently brushed the crown of her head. And even as he drifted off himself, holding her as if the only thing that had ever been between them was this.

Lucy was deliciously, impossibly warm. She woke slowly, savoring the heat, and it took her long time to realize where it was coming from. She was sprawled across Rafi’s chest like a cat in a sunbeam.

Gasping, she reared back—to find Rafi wide-awake and watching her.

“Let go of me.” But her voice was the barest thread of sound. His fascinating mouth quirked.

“I am not holding you,” he pointed out, entirely too rationally. Very nearly amused. “You are lying on me.”

“I only lay down for a moment,” she began, but then he shifted beneath her. The slide of his body against hers made her shiver, as a heat of a different kind washed over her, humming into something molten and incandescent. Nor was he immune. She could feel the evidence of his desire, hard between them. She could see the flare of passion in his dark gray gaze.

It would be so much easier if she didn’t want him, too. If she didn’t love him.

“I cannot divorce you,” he said then, his hands moving to tangle in her hair. “I cannot let you leave. Qaderis keep their vows. They do not bow to the whims of modernity and merrily divorce.”

Lucy couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She couldn’t seem to pull away. She felt caught in his eyes, suspended. Her breasts were too full, pressed against the hard wall of his chest.

“What do you know about vows?” she asked. “You keep yours in name only from as far away as possible, don’t you?”

“I am not far away now,” he said quietly, his gaze intense. Searing into her. “With my body, I thee worship.” His lips crooked. “If you’ll let me.”

She shuddered as one of his hands traveled down her back, spreading fire down the length of her spine, making her yearn to move against him. With him. It had always been like this. He need only touch her, and she was his. She had followed him out of the nightclub, into his hotel room and then all the way across the planet to this tiny little country. She should hate him for it, for this power he wielded over her treasonous body, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.