Free His Christmas Captive by Caitlin Crews Page B

bravely.
    Rafi almost
admired her. Almost.
    "And it
doesn't matter anyway," she continued. "I'm still leaving you. I
should have done it a long time ago."
    She looked so
small. So fragile. Her arms were crossed over her chest as if she were holding
herself together by sheer force of will. Her coffee-colored eyes were huge and
dark beneath her pale blond curls, giving her the look of an innocent.
    That was her
deepest deception, the one that he had believed so fiercely no matter what
those closest to him—including all of his staff and Safir—had told him when
he'd first fallen under her spell. No matter what proof they'd claimed to have
of her manipulative ways.
    Until that
phone call three months ago when she had revealed the truth in that hollow,
shameless way, and he had been more devastated than he could remember ever
being before.
    Sometimes he
thought he still was.
    Rafi stepped
away from his wife before he did something he would regret. Like taste her
again. Hadn't that been what had caused all this trouble in the first place?
    He was a man
who prided himself on his rigid code, his steely commitment to his duty. He
lived for his name, his honor, his family and the responsibilities that were
his by virtue of being the oldest male Qaderi of his generation. His cousin
Adel might have been the current king's chosen successor, but Rafi was charged
with making sure the future king's family maintained its wealth and power, the
better to serve and support Adel when he ascended the throne. Rafi considered
it an honor.
    More than
that, he was a man hewn of the very mountains of Alakkul itself, like his
ancestors before him. Many empires had tried—and failed—to take this little
valley, to use it for their own ends. But Alakkulians did not bend. They did
not break. Rafi felt the truth of that like the very blood that ran through his
veins, marking him, defining him.
    And then one
day he'd glanced up at a cocktail waitress in a club in Manchester, England,
and lost his head. Lost himself. It was those damned eyes, soft and vulnerable,
over a mouth that made him hard every time he looked at it. Even now.
    And what a
pretty mess she'd made of him, hadn't she?
    "I know
it's important to you to believe the worst of me," she said, her voice
clipped, color flooding her porcelain cheeks. "After all, how better to
excuse your own appalling behavior?"
    " My behavior?" Temper pounded through him, threaded with that desire for her
that never left him, no matter how much distance he put between them. He bit
out a laugh. "I'm sure that in your mind, your deceit and betrayal is as
nothing." He held her gaze until her skin reddened. "Unfortunately
for you, Lucy, I live in the real world."
    He realized
they were too close when his hands found their way to her upper arms, holding
her there. He let go as if electrocuted. But he could not dismiss the beguiling
satin feel of her skin as easily. He let his eyes travel over her.
    It took a
moment, but the difference in her appearance filtered through. She
looked…perfectly appropriate. Her messy curls were tamed into a chignon, which
only drew his attention to her mouth. The dress itself was exquisite, tailored
to showcase her femininity without broadcasting her sensuality.
    He felt a
pang in the vicinity of his chest, but thrust it aside. She had been all bold colors,
garish and exotic, when he'd brought her here. Hadn't that been what had lured
him in when he'd met her, in the midst of all that British rain? Her artless
delight. Her simplicity.
    But, of
course, that had all been a lie, too. Hadn't it? He shouldn't mourn its loss.
He should be pleased that his uncultured wife had bettered herself in his
absence and now more closely suited the image of what his wife should be. So
why did he want to thrust his fingers into her hair and shake it from its
bonds, see it wild and free?
    "Are you
in costume?" he asked, without knowing he meant to speak. He indicated her
clothes with a jerk of his chin.