50 Shades of Freed- COMPLETE! all chap page 3-7 13th Feb - Page 3

Chap4

I'm restless. zain has been holed up in the onboard study for over an hour. I

have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathing"fully dressed sunbathing"but I

can't relax, and I can't rid myself of this edgy feeling. After changing into shorts

and a T-shirt, I remove the ludicrously expensive bangle and go to find Taylor.

"Mrs. abdullah," he says, startled from his Anthony Burgess novel. He's sitting

in the small salon outside zains study.

"I'd like to go shopping."

"Yes ma'am." He stands.

"I'd like to take the Jet Ski."His mouth drops open. "Erm." He frowns, lost for words.

"I don't want to bother zain with this."

He represses a sigh. "Mrs. abdullah . . . um . . . I don't think Mr. abdullah would be

very comfortable with that, and I'd like to keep my job."

Oh, for heaven's sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them instead, sighing heavily and expressing, I think, the right amount of frustrated indignation that I am not mistress of my own destiny. Then again, I don't want zain mad at Taylor"or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him, I knock

on the study door and enter.

zain is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. He

glances up. "Andrea, hold please," he mutters down the phone, his expression serious. His gaze is politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I've entered the principal's office? This man had me in handcuffs yesterday. I refuse to be intimidated

by him, he's my husband damn it. I square my shoulders and give him a broad

smile.

"I'm going shopping. I'll take security with me."

"Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too," he says, and I know that

whatever's happening is serious because he doesn't question me further. I stand

staring at him, wondering if I can help.

"Anything else?" he asks. He wants me gone. Crap.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile.

"No, baby, I'm good," he says. "The crew will look after me."

"Okay." I want to kiss him. Hell, I can"he's my husband. Strolling purposefully forward, I plant a kiss on his lips, surprising him.

"Andrea, I'll call you back," he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the

desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I am

breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.

"You're distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my honeymoon." He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilting my

face up.

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize, Mrs. abdullah. I love your distractions." He kisses the

corner of my mouth.

"Go spend some money." He releases me.

"Will do." I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her

head and purses her lips. You didn't tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, she

chastises me in her singsong voice. I ignore her . . . Harpy.

Taylor is patiently waiting.

"That's all cleared with high command . . . can we go?" I smile, trying to

keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Taylor doesn't hide his admiring smile.

"Mrs. abdullah, after you."

Taylor patiently talks me through the controls on the Jet Ski and how to ride it. He

has a calm, gentle authority about him; he's a good teacher. We are in the motor

launch, bobbing and weaving on the calm waters of the harbor beside the Fair

Lady. Gaston looks on, his expression hidden by his shades, and one of the Fair

Lady's crew is at the controls of the motor launch. Jeez"three people with me,

just because I want to go shopping. It's ridiculous.

Zipping up my life jacket, I give Taylor a beaming grin. He holds out his

hand to assist me as I climb onto the Jet Ski.

"Fasten the strap of the ignition key around your wrist, Mrs. abdullah. If you fall

off, the engine will cut out automatically," he explains.

"Okay."

"Ready?'

I nod enthusiastically.

"Press the ignition when you've drifted about four feet away from the boat.

We'll follow you."

"Okay."

He pushes the Jet Ski away from the launch, and it floats gently into the main

harbor. When he gives me the okay sign, I press the ignition button and the engine

roars into life.

"Okay, Mrs. abdullah, easy does it!" Taylor shouts. I squeeze the accelerator.

The Jet Ski lurches forward then stalls. Crap! How does zain make it look so

easy? I try again, and once again, I stall. Double crap!

"Just steady on the gas, Mrs. adullah," Taylor calls.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mutter under my breath. I try once more, very gently

squeezing the lever, and the Jet Ski lurches forward"but this time it keeps going.

Yes! It goes some more. Ha ha! It still keeps going! I want to shout and squeal in

excitement, but I resist. I cruise gently away from the yacht into the main harbor.

Behind me, I hear the throaty roar of the motor launch. When I squeeze the gas

further, the Jet Ski leaps forward, skating across the water. With the warm breeze

in my hair and a fine sea spray on either side of me, I feel free. This rocks! No

wonder zain never lets me drive.

Rather than head for the shore and curtail the fun, I veer around to do a circuit of the stately Fair Lady. Wow"this is so much fun. I ignore Taylor and the

crew behind me and speed around the yacht for a second time. As I complete the

circuit, I spot zain on deck. I think he's gaping at me, though it's difficult to

tell. Bravely, I lift one hand from the handlebars and wave enthusiastically at him.

He looks like he's made of stone, but finally he raises his hand in the semblance

of a stiff wave. I can't work out his expression, and something tells me I don't

want to, so I head to the marina, speeding across the blue water of the Mediterranean that shimmers in the late afternoon sun.

At the dock, I wait and let Taylor pull up ahead of me. His expression is

bleak, and my heart sinks, though Gaston looks vaguely amused. I wonder briefly

if something has happened to chill Gallic-American relations, but deep down I

suspect the problem is probably me. Gaston leaps out of the motorboat and ties it

to the moorings while Taylor directs me to come alongside. Very gently I ease the

Jet Ski into position beside the boat and line up beside him. His expression softens

a little.

"Just switch off the ignition, Mrs. abdullah," he says calmly, reaching for the

handlebars and holding out a hand to help me into the motorboat. I nimbly climb

aboard, impressed that I don't fall in.

"Mrs. abdullah," Taylor blinks nervously, his cheeks pink once more. "Mr. abdullah

is not entirely comfortable with you riding on the Jet Ski." He's practically

squirming with embarrassment, and I realize he's had an irate call from zain.

Oh, my poor, pathologically overprotective husband, what am I going to do with

you?

I smile serenely at Taylor. "I see. Well, Taylor, Mr. abdullah is not here, and if

he's not entirely comfortable, I'm sure he'll give me the courtesy of telling me

himself when I'm back on board."

Taylor winces. "Very good, Mrs. abdullah," he says quietly, handing me my

purse.

As I climb out of the boat, I catch a glimpse of his reluctant smile, and it

makes me want to smile, too. I cannot believe how fond I am of Taylor, but I

really don't appreciate being scolded by him"he's not my father or my husband.

Crap, zains mad"and he has enough to worry about at the moment.

What was I thinking? As I stand on the dock waiting for Taylor to climb up, I feel

my BlackBerry vibrate in my purse and fish it out. Sad's "Your Love is King" is

my ring tone for zain"only for zain.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hi," he says.

"I'll come back on the boat. Don't be mad."

I hear his small gasp of surprise. "Um . . ."

"It was fun, though," I whisper.

He sighs. "Well, far be it for me to curtail your fun, Mrs. abdullah. Just be careful. Please."

Oh my! Permission to have fun! "I will. Anything you want from town?"

"Just you, back in one piece."

"I'll do my best to comply, Mr. abdullah."

"I'm glad to hear it, Mrs. abdullah."

"We aim to please," I respond with a giggle.

I hear his smile in his voice. "I have another call"laters, baby."

"Laters, zain."

He hangs up. Jet Ski crisis averted, I think. The car is waiting, and Taylor

holds the door open for me. I wink at him as I climb in, and he shakes his head in

amusement.

In the car, I fire up the e-mail on my BlackBerry.

From: aliya

Subject: Thank You

Date: August 17, 2011 16:55

To: zain

For not being too grouchy.

Your loving wife

Xxx

From: zain

Subject: Trying to Stay Calm

Date: August 17, 2011 16:59

To: aliya

You're welcome.

Come back in one piece.

This is not a request.

Zain xxx

CEO & Overprotective Husband, abdullah Enterprises Holdings Inc.

His response makes me smile. My control freak.

Why did I want to come shopping? I hate shopping. But deep down I know why,

and I walk determinedly past Chanel, Gucci, Dior, and the other designer

boutiques and eventually find the antidote to what ails me in a small, overstocked,

touristy store. It's a little silver ankle bracelet with small hearts and little bells. It

tinkles sweetly and it costs five euros. As soon as I've bought it, I put it on. This

is me"this is what I like. Immediately I feel more comfortable. I don't want to

lose touch with the girl who likes this, ever. Deep down I know that I'm not only

overwhelmed by zain himself but also by his wealth. Will I ever get used to

it?

Taylor and Gaston follow me dutifully through the late afternoon crowds, and

I soon forget they are there. I want to buy something for zain, something to

take his mind off what's happening in Seattle. But what do I buy for the man who

has everything? I pause in a small modern square surrounded by stores and gaze

at each one in turn. When I spy an electronics store, our visit to the gallery earlier

today and our visit to the Louvre come back to me. We were looking at the Venus

de Milo at the time . . . zains words echo in my head, "We can all appreciate

the female form. We love to look whether in marble or oils or satin or film."

It gives me an idea, a daring idea. I just need help choosing the right one, and

there's only one person who can help me. I wrestle my BlackBerry out of my

purse and call rehaan.

"Who . . . ?" he mumbles sleepily.

"rehaan, it's aliya."

"aliya, hi! Where are you? You okay?" He sounds more alert now, concerned.

"I'm in Cannes in the South of France, and I'm fine."

"South of France, huh? You in some fancy hotel?"

"Um . . . no. We're staying on a boat."

"A boat?"

"A big boat." I clarify, sighing.

"I see." His tone chills . . . Shit, I should not have called him. I don't need

this right now.

"rehaan, I need your advice."

"My advice?" He sounds stunned. "Sure," he says, and this time he's much

more friendly. I tell him my plan.

Two hours later, Taylor helps me out of the motor launch onto the steps up to the

deck. Gaston is helping the deckhand with the Jet Ski. zain is nowhere to be

seen, and I scurry down to our cabin to wrap his present, feeling a childish sense

of delight.

"You were gone some time." zain startles me just as I am applying the

last piece of tape. I turn to find him standing in the doorway to the cabin, watching me intently. Holy shit! Am I still in trouble over the Jet Ski? Or is it the fire at

his office?

"Everything in control at your office?" I ask tentatively.

"More or less," he says, an annoyed frown flitting across his face.

"I did a little shopping," I murmur, hoping to lighten his mood, and praying

his annoyance is not directed at me. He smiles warmly, and I know we're okay.

"What did you buy?"

"This," I put my foot up on the bed and show him my ankle chain.

"Very nice," he says. He steps over to me and fondles the tiny bells so that

they jingle sweetly around my ankle. He frowns again and runs his fingers lightly

along the mark, sending tingles up my leg.

"And this." I hold out the box, hoping to distract him.

"For me?" he asks in surprise. I nod shyly. He takes the box and shakes it

gently. He grins his boyish, dazzling smile and sits down beside me on the bed.

Leaning over, he grasps my chin and kisses me.

"Thank you," he says with shy delight.

"You haven't opened it yet."

"I'll love it, whatever it is." He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing. "I don't

get many presents."

"It's hard to buy you things. You have everything."

"I have you."

"You do." I grin at him. Oh, you so do, zain.

He makes short work of the wrapping paper. "A Nikon?" He glances up at

me, puzzled.

"I know you have your compact digital camera but this is for . . . um . . . portraits and the like. It comes with two lenses."

He blinks at me, still not understanding.

"Today in the gallery you liked the Florence D'elle photographs. And I remember what you said in the Louvre. And of course, there were those other photographs." I swallow, trying my best not to recall the images I found in his closet.

He stops breathing, his eyes widening as realization dawns, and I continue

hurriedly before I lose my nerve.

"I thought you might, um . . . like to take pictures of . . . me."

"Pictures. Of you?" He gapes at me, ignoring the box on his lap.

I nod, desperately trying to gauge his reaction. Finally he gazes back down at

the box, his fingers tracing over the illustration of the camera on the front with

fascinated reverence.

What is he thinking? Oh, this is not the reaction I was expecting, and my subconscious glares at me like I'm a domesticated farm animal. zain never reacts

the way I expect. He looks back up, his eyes filled with what, pain?

"Why do you think I want this?" he asks, bemused.

No, no, no! You said you'd love it . . .

"Don't you?" I ask, refusing to acknowledge my subconscious who is questioning why anyone would want erotic photographs of me. zain swallows and

runs a hand through his hair, and he looks so lost, so confused. He takes a deep

breath.

"For me, photos like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I

know I've objectified women for so long," he says and pauses awkwardly.

"And you think taking pictures of me is . . . um, objectifying me?" All the air

leaves my body, and the blood drains from my face.

He scrunches up his eyes. "I am so confused," he whispers. When he opens

his eyes again, they are wide and wary, full of some raw emotion.

Shit. Is it me? My questions earlier about his birth mom? The fire at his

office?

"Why do you say that?" I whisper, panic rising in my throat. I thought he was

happy. I thought we were happy. I thought I made him happy. I don't want to confuse him. Do I? My mind starts racing. He hasn't seen Flynn in nearly three

weeks. Is that it? Is that the reason he's unraveling? Shit, should I call Flynn? And

in a possibly unique moment of extraordinary depth and clarity, it comes to

me"the fire, Charlie Tango, the Jet Ski . . . He's scared, he's scared for me, and

seeing these marks on my skin must bring that home. He's been fussing about

them all day, confusing himself because he's not used to feeling uncomfortable

about inflicting pain. The thought chills me.

He shrugs and once more his eyes move down to my wrist where the bangle

he bought me this afternoon used to be. Bingo!

"zain, these don't matter." I hold up my wrist, revealing the fading welt.

"You gave me a safe word. Shit"yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. Stop brooding

about it"I like rough sex, I've told you that before." I blush scarlet as I try to

quash my rising panic.

He gazes at me intently, and I have no idea what he's thinking. Maybe he's

measuring my words. I stumble on.

"Is this about the fire? Do you think it's connected somehow to Charlie

Tango? Is this why you're worried? Talk to me, zain"please."

He stares at me, saying nothing and the silence expands between us again as

it did this afternoon. Holy f**king crap! He's not going to talk to me, I know.

"Don't overthink this zain," I scold quietly, and the words echo, disturbing a memory from the recent past"his words to me about his stupid contract. I

reach over, take the box from his lap, and open it. He watches me passively as if

I'm a fascinating alien creature. Knowing that the camera is prepped by the overly

helpful salesman in the store, and ready to go, I fish it out of the box and remove

the lens cap. I point the camera at him so his beautiful anxious face fills the frame.

I press the button and keep it pressed, and ten pictures of zains alarmed expression are captured digitally for posterity.

"I'll objectify you then," I murmur, pressing the shutter again. On the final

still his lips twitch almost imperceptibly. I press again, and this time he smiles . . .

a small smile, but a smile nevertheless. I hold down the button once more and see

him physically relax in front of me and pout"a full-on, posed, ridiculous, "Blue

Steel" pout, and it makes me giggle. Oh, thank heavens. Mr. Mercurial is

back"and I've never been so pleased to see him.

"I thought it was my present," he mutters sulkily, but I think he's teasing.

"Well, it was supposed to be fun, but apparently it's a symbol of women's

oppression." I snap away, taking more pictures of him, and watch the amusement

grow on his face in super close-up. Then his eyes darken, and his expression

changes to predatory.

"You want to be oppressed?" he murmurs silkily.

"Not oppressed. No," I murmur back, snapping again.

"I could oppress you big time, Mrs. abdullah," he threatens, his voice husky.

"I know you can, Mr. abdullah. And you do, frequently."

His face falls. Shit. I lower the camera and stare at him.

"What's wrong, zain?" My voice oozes frustration. Tell me!

He says nothing. Gah! He's so infuriating. I lift the camera to my eye again.

"Tell me," I insist.

"Nothing," he says and abruptly disappears from the viewfinder. In one swift,

smooth move, he sweeps the camera box onto the cabin floor, grabs me and

pushes me down onto the bed. He sits astride me.

"Hey!" I exclaim and take more photographs of him, smiling down at me

with dark intent. He grabs the camera by the lens, and the photographer becomes

the subject as he points the Nikon at me and presses the shutter down.

"So, you want me to take pictures of you, Mrs. abdullah?" he says, amused. All I

can see of his face is his unruly hair and a broad grin on his sculptured mouth.

"Well, for a start, I think you should be laughing," he says, and he tickles me ruthlessly under my ribs, making me squeal and giggle and squirm beneath him until I

grasp his wrist in a vain attempt to make him stop. His grin widens, and he renews

his efforts while snapping pictures.

"No! Stop!" I scream.

"Are you kidding?" he growls and puts the camera down beside us so that he

can torture me with both hands.

"zain!" I splutter and gasp my laughing protest. He has never ever

tickled me before. f**k"stop! I thrash my head from side to side, trying to

wiggle out from under him, giggling and pushing both of his hands away, but he's

unrelenting"grinning down at me, enjoying my torment.

"zain, stop!" I plead and he stops suddenly. Grabbing both of my hands,

he holds them down on either side of my head while looming over me. I am panting and breathless with laughter. His breathing mirrors mine, and he gazes down

at me with . . . what? My lungs stop functioning. Wonder? Love? Reverence?

Holy cow. That look!

"You. Are. So. Beautiful," he breathes.

I stare up at his dear, dear face bathed in the intensity of his gaze, and it's as

if he's seeing me for the first time. Leaning down, he closes his eyes and kisses

me, enraptured. His response is a wake-up call to my libido . . . seeing him like

this, undone, by me. Oh my. He releases my hands and curls his fingers around

my head and into my hair, holding me gently in place, and my body rises and fills

with my arousal, responding to his kiss. And suddenly the nature of his kiss alters,

no longer sweet, reverential and admiring, but carnal, deep and devouring"his

tongue invading my mouth, taking not giving, his kiss possessing a desperate

needy edge. As desire courses through my blood, awakening every muscle and

sinew in its wake, I feel a frisson of alarm.

Oh, Fifty, what's wrong?

He inhales sharply and groans. "Oh, what you do to me," he murmurs, lost

and raw. He moves suddenly, lying down on top of me, pressing me into the mattress"one hand cupping my chin, the other skimming over my body, my breast,

my waist, my hip, and around my behind. He kisses me again, pushing his leg

between mine, raising my knee, and grinding against me, his erection straining

against our clothes and my sex. I gasp and moan against his lips, losing myself to

his fervent passion. I dismiss the distant alarm bells in the back of my mind,

knowing that he wants me, that he needs me, and that when it comes to communicating with me, this is his favorite form of self-expression. I kiss him with

renewed abandon, running my fingers through his hair, fisting my hands, holding

tight. He tastes so good and smells of zain, my zain.

Abruptly, he stops, stands up, and pulls me off the bed so that I am standing

in front of him, dazed. He undoes the button on my shorts and kneels quickly,

yanking them and my panties down, and before I can breathe again, I am back on

the bed beneath him and he's unbuttoning his fly. Holy cow, he's not taking off

his clothes or my T-shirt. He holds my head and with no preamble whatsoever he

thrusts himself inside me, making me cry out"more in surprise than anything

else"but I can still hear the hiss of his breath forced through his clenched teeth.

"Yesss," he hisses close to my ear. He stills, then swivels his hips once,

pushing deeper, making me groan.

"I need you," he growls, his voice low and husky. He runs his teeth along my

jaw, nipping and sucking, and then he's kissing me again, hard. I wrap my legs

and arms around him, cradling and holding him hard against me, determined to

wipe out whatever's worrying him, and he starts to move . . . move like he's trying to climb inside me. Over and over, frantic, primal, desperate, and before I lose

myself in the insane rhythm and pace he's setting, I briefly wonder once more

what's driving him, worrying him. But my body takes over, obliterating the

thought, climbing and building so I am awash with sensation, meeting him thrust

for thrust. Listening to his harsh breathing, labored and fierce at my ear. Knowing

that he's lost in me . . . I groan loudly, panting. It's so erotic"his need for me. I

am reaching . . . reaching . . . and he's driving me higher, overwhelming me, taking me, and I want this. I want this so much . . . for him and for me.

"Come with me," he gasps, and he rears up over me so I have to break my

hold around him.

"Open your eyes," he orders. "I need to see you." His voice is urgent, implacable. My eyes flicker open momentarily, and the sight of him above me"his face

taut with ardor, his eyes raw and glowing. His passion and his love is my undoing,

and on cue I come, throwing my head back as my body pulses around him.

"Oh, aliya," he cries and he joins my climax, driving into me, then stilling and

collapsing onto me. He rolls over so that I'm sprawled on top of him, and he's

still inside me. As I surface from my orgasm and my body steadies and calms, I

want to make some quip about being objectified and oppressed, but hold my

tongue, uncertain of his mood. I glance up from zains chest to examine his

face. His eyes are closed and his arms are wrapped around me, clinging tight. I

kiss his chest through the thin fabric of his linen shirt.

"Tell me, zain, what's wrong?" I ask softly and wait anxiously to see if

even now, sated by sex, he'll tell me. I feel his arms tighten around me further,

but it's his only response. He's not going to talk. Inspiration hits me.

"I give you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in

health, to stand by your side in good times and in bad, to share your joy as well as

your sorrow," I murmur.

He freezes. His only movement is to open wide his fathomless eyes and gaze

at me as I continue my wedding vows.

"I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals and

dreams, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, to share my

hopes and dreams with you, and bring you solace in times of need." I pause, willing him to talk to me. He watches me, his lips parted, but says nothing.

"And to cherish you for as long as we both shall live." I sigh.

"Oh, aliya," he whispers and moves again, breaking our precious contact so

that we're lying side by side. He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles.

"I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our

union and you," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "I promise to love you faithfully,

forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness or in health,

regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust you, and respect you. I

will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in times of need. I promise to

cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams and keep you safe at my side. All

that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love from this

moment on for as long as we both shall live."

Tears spring to my eyes. His face softens as he gazes at me.

"Don't cry," he murmurs, his thumb catching and dispatching a stray tear.

"Why won't you talk to me? Please, zain."

He closes his eyes as if in pain.

"I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don't make me

break my vows."

He sighs and opens his eyes, his expression bleak. "It's arson," he says

simply, and he looks suddenly so young and vulnerable.

Oh f**k.

"And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me""

He stops, unable to continue.

". . . They might get me," I whisper. He blanches, and I know that I have finally uncovered the root of his anxiety. I caress his face.

"Thank you," I murmur.

He frowns. "What for?"

"For telling me."

He shakes his head and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. "You can be very

persuasive, Mrs. abdullah."

"And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to

death. You'll probably die of a heart attack before you're forty, and I want you

around far longer than that."

"Mrs. abdullah, you'll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski"I

nearly had a coronary." He flops back on the bed and puts his hand over his eyes,

and I feel him shudder.

"zain, it's a Jet Ski. Even kids ride Jet Skis. Can you imagine what

you'll be like when we visit your place in Aspen and I go skiing for the first

time?"

He gasps and turns to face me, and I want to laugh at the horror on his face.

"Our place," he says eventually.

I ignore him. "I'm a grown-up, zain, and much tougher than I look.

When are you going to learn this?"

He shrugs and his mouth thins. I decide to change the subject.

"So, the fire. Do the police know about the arson?"

"Yes." His expression is serious.

"Good."

"Security is going to get tighter," he says matter-of-factly.

"I understand." I glance down his body. He's still wearing his shorts and his

shirt, and I still have my T-shirt on. Jeez"talk about wham, bam, thank you

ma'am. The thought makes me giggle.

"What?" zain asks, bemused.

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes. You. Still dressed."

"Oh." He glances down at himself, then back at me, and his face erupts into

an enormous smile.

"Well, you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you, Mrs.

abdullah"especially when you're giggling like a schoolgirl."

Oh yes"the tickling. Gah! The tickling. I move quickly so that I'm straddling him, but immediately understanding my evil intent, he grabs both of my

wrists.

"No," he says and he means it.

I pout at him but decide that he's not ready for this.

"Please don't," he whispers. "I couldn't bear it. I was never tickled as a

child." He pauses and I relax my hands so he doesn't have to restrain me.

"I used to watch usman with harshad and barkat, tickling them, and it looked like

such fun, but I . . . I . . ."

I place my index finger on his lips.

"Hush, I know," I murmur and plant a soft kiss on his lips where my finger

has just been, then curl up on his chest. The familiar painful ache swells inside

me, and the profound sadness that I hold in my heart for zain as a little boy

seizes me once more. I know I would do anything for this man because I love him

so.

He puts his arms around me and presses his nose into my hair, inhaling

deeply as he gently strokes my back. I don't know how long we lie there, but

eventually I break the comfortable silence between us.

"What is the longest you've gone without seeing Dr. Flynn?"

"Two weeks. Why? Do you have an incorrigible urge to tickle me?"

"No." I chuckle. "I think he helps you."

zain snorts. "He should; I pay him enough." He pulls my hair gently,

turning my face to look up at him. I lift my head and meet his gaze.

"Are you concerned for my well-being, Mrs. abdullah?" he asks softly.

"Every good wife is concerned for her beloved husband's well-being, Mr.

abdullah," I admonish him teasingly.

"Beloved?" he whispers, and it's a poignant question hanging between us.

"Very much beloved." I scoot up to kiss him, and he smiles his shy smile.

"Do you want to go ashore to eat, Mrs. abdullah?"

"I want to eat wherever you're happiest."

"Good." He grins. "Aboard it is where I can keep you safe. Thank you for my

present." He reaches over and grabs the camera, and holding it at arm's length, he

snaps the two of us in our post tickling, postcoital, post confessional embrace.

"The pleasure is all mine," I smile and his eyes light up.

We wander through the opulent, gilt splendor of the eighteenth century Palace of

Versailles. Once a humble hunting lodge, it was transformed by the Roi Soleil into a magnificent, lavish seat of power, but even before the eighteenth century

ended it saw the last of those absolute monarchs.

The most stunning room by far is the Hall of Mirrors. The early afternoon

light floods through windows to the west, lighting up the mirrors that line the east

wall and illuminating the gold leaf dcor and the enormous crystal chandeliers.

It's breathtaking.

"Interesting to see what becomes of a despotic megalomaniac who isolates

himself in such splendor," I murmur to zain as he stands at my side. He gazes

down and cocks his head to one side, regarding me with humor.

"Your point, Mrs. abdullah?"

"Oh, merely an observation, Mr. abdullah." I wave my hand airily at the surroundings. Smirking, he follows me to the center of the room where I stand and

gawk at the view"the spectacular gardens reflected in the looking glass and the

spectacular zain abdullah, my husband, reflected back at me, his gaze bright and

bold.

"I would build this for you," he whispers. "Just to see the way the light burnishes your hair, right here, right now." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

"You look like an angel." He kisses me just below my earlobe, takes my hand in

his, and murmurs, "We despots do that for the women we love."

I flush at his compliment, smiling shyly, and follow him through the vast

room.

"What are you thinking about?" zain asks softly, taking a sip of his after-dinner coffee.

"Versailles."

"Ostentatious, wasn't it?" He grins. I glance around the more understated

grandeur of the Fair Lady's dining room and purse my lips.

"This is hardly ostentatious," zain says, a tad defensively.

"I know. It's lovely. The best honeymoon a girl could want."

"Really?" he says, genuinely surprised. And he smiles his shy smile.

"Of course it is."

"We've only got two more days. Is there anything you'd like to see or do?"

"Just be with you," I murmur. He rises from the table, comes around, and

kisses me on the forehead.

"Well, can you do without me for about an hour? I need to check my e-mails,

find out what's happening at home."

"Sure," I say brightly, trying to hide my disappointment that I'll be without

him for an hour. Is it freaky that I want to be with him all the time? My subconscious presses her lips into a narrow, unattractive line and nods vigorously.

"Thank you for the camera," he murmurs and heads for the study.

Back in our cabin I decide to catch up on my correspondence and open my laptop.

There are e-mails from my mom and from yasmin, giving me the latest gossip from

home and asking how the honeymoon is going. Well, great, until someone decided to burn down AEH Inc. . . . As I finish my response to my mom, an e-mail

from yasmin hits my inbox.

From: yasmin

Date: August 17, 2011 11:45 PST

To: aliya

Subject: OMG!!!!

Aliya , just heard about the fire at zain's office.

Do you think it's arson?

Y xox

yasmin is online! I jump on to my newfound toy"Skype messaging"and see

that she's available. I quickly type a message.

Aliya: hey r u there?

Yasmin: YES! Aliya! How r u?how's the honeymoon? Did u see my email? Does zain know about the fire?

Aliya: im good,honeymoons great! Yes, I saw ur email. Yes, zain knows.

Yasmin: I thoughthe would. News is sketchy on what happened. And harshad wont tell me anything.

Aliya: are you fishing for a story?

Yasmin: you know me too well aliya

Aliya: zain hasn't really told me much

Yasmin: harshad heard from suraiyya!

Oh no"I'm sure zain doesn't want this broadcast all over Seattle. I try my

patented distract-tenacious-khan technique.

Aliya: how are harshad and bilal?

Yasmin: bilal has been accepted into the psych course at seattle for his master's degree. Harshad is adorable.

Aliya: way to go ethan!

Yasmin:hows out favourite ex-dom?

Aliya: YASMIN!

Yasmin: what?

Aliya: YOU KNOW WHAT!

Yasmin: k.sorry

Aliya: he's fine. More than fineJ

Yasmin: well as long as youre happy, im happyJ

Aliya: im blissfully happy;)

Yasmin: J I have to run, can we talk later?

Aliya: not sure,see if im online. Time zones suck!

Yasmin: they do. Love you aliyaJ

Aliya: love you too,laters x

Yasmin: laters<3

Trust yasmin to be on the trail of this story. I roll my eyes and shut Skype down

before zain sees the chat. He wouldn't appreciate the ex-Dom comment, and

I'm not sure he's entirely ex . . .

I sigh loudly. yasmin knows everything, since our tipsy evening three weeks before the wedding when I finally succumbed to the khan inquisition. It was a

relief to finally talk to someone.

I glance at my watch. It's been about an hour since dinner, and I am missing

my husband. I head back on deck to see if he's finished his work.

I am in the Hall of Mirrors and zain is standing beside me, smiling down at

me with love and affection. You look like an angel. I beam back at him, but when

I glance into the looking glass, I'm standing on my own and the room is gray and

drab. No! My head whips back to his face, to find his smile is sad and wistful. He

tucks my hair behind my ear. Then he turns wordlessly and walks away slowly,

the sound of his footsteps echoing off the mirrors as he paces the enormous room

to the ornate double doors at the end . . . a man on his own, a man with no reflection . . . and I wake, gasping for air, as panic seizes me.

"Hey," he whispers from beside me in the darkness, his voice filled with

concern.

Oh, he's here. He's safe. Relief courses through me.

"Oh, zain," I mumble, trying to bring my pounding heartbeat under control. He wraps me in his arms, and it's only then that I realize I have tears streaming down my face.

"Aliya, what is it?" He strokes my cheek, wiping away my tears, and I can

hear his anguish.

"Nothing. A silly nightmare."

He kisses my forehead and my tearstained cheeks, comforting me. "Just a bad

dream, baby," he murmurs. "I've got you. I'll keep you safe."

Drinking in his scent, I curl around him, trying to ignore the loss and devastation I felt in my dream, and in that moment, I know that my deepest, darkest fear

would be losing him.

Chap5

I stir, instinctively reaching for zain only to feel his absence. Shit! I wake instantly and look anxiously around the cabin. zain is watching me from the

small, upholstered armchair by the bed. Stooping down, he places something on

the floor, then moves and stretches out on the bed beside me. He's dressed in his

cut-offs and a gray T-shirt.

"Hey, don't panic. Everything's fine," he says, his voice gentle and soothing"like he's talking to a cornered wild animal. Tenderly, he smooths the hair

back from my face and I calm immediately. I see him trying and failing to hide his

own concern."You've been so jumpy these last couple of days," he murmurs, his eyes wide

and serious.

"I'm okay, zain." I give him my brightest smile because I don't want

him to know how worried I am about the arson incident. The painful recollection

of how I felt when Charlie Tango was sabotaged and zain went missing"the

hollow emptiness, the indescribable pain"keeps resurfacing; the memory nagging me and gnawing at my heart. Keeping the smile fixed on my face, I try to

repress it.

"Were you watching me sleep?"

"Yes," he says gazing at me steadily, studying me. "You were talking."

"Oh?" Shit! What was I saying?

"You're worried," he adds, his eyes filled with concern. Is there nothing I can

keep from this man? He leans forward and kisses me between my brows.

"When you frown, a little V forms just here. It's soft to kiss. Don't worry

baby, I'll look after you."

"It's not me I'm worried about, it's you," I grumble. "Who's looking after

you?"

He smiles indulgently at my tone. "I'm big enough and ugly enough to look

after myself. Come. Get up. There's one thing I'd like to do before we head

home." He grins at me, a big boyish yes-I'm-really-only-twenty-eight grin, and

swats my behind. I yelp, startled, and realize that today we're going back to

Seattle and my melancholy blossoms. I don't want to leave. I've relished being

with him 24-7, and I'm not ready to share him with his company and his family.

We've had a blissful honeymoon. With a few ups and downs, I admit, but that's

normal for a newly married couple, surely?

But zain cannot contain his boyish excitement, and despite my dark

thoughts, it's infectious. When he rises gracefully off the bed, I follow, intrigued.

What has he got in mind?

zain straps the key to my wrist.

"You want me to drive?"

"Yes." zain grins. "That's not too tight?"

"It's fine. Is that why you're wearing a life jacket?" I arch my eyebrow.

"Yes."

I can't help my giggle. "Such confidence in my driving capabilities, Mr.

abdullah."

"As ever, Mrs. Abdullah ."

"Well, don't lecture me."

zain holds his hands up in a defensive gesture, but he's smiling. "Would

I dare?"

"Yes you would, and yes you do, and we can't pull over and argue on the

sidewalk here."

"Fair point well made, Mrs. abdullah. Are we going to stand on this platform all

day debating your driving skills or are we going to have some fun?"

"Fair point well made, Mr. abdullah." I grasp the handlebars of the Jet Ski and

clamber on. zain climbs on behind me and kicks us away from the yacht.

Taylor and two of the deckhands look on in amusement. Sliding forward, zain wraps his arms around me and snuggles his thighs against mine. Yes, this is

what I like about this form of transport. I insert in the ignition key and push the

start button, and the engine roars into life.

"Ready?" I shout to zain over the noise.

"As I'll ever be," he says, his mouth close to my ear.

Gently, I pull on the lever and the Jet Ski moves away from the Fair Lady,

far too sedately for my liking. zain tightens his embrace. I pull on the gas

some more, and we shoot forward and I'm delighted when we don't stall.

"Whoa!" zain calls from behind, but the exhilaration in his voice is palpable. I speed past the Fair Lady toward the open sea. We're anchored outside the

Port de Plaisance de Saint-Claude-du-Var, and Nice Cte d'Azur Airport is

nestled in the distance, built into the Mediterranean, or so it seems. I've heard the

odd plane landing since we arrived last night. I decide we need to take a closer

look.

We shoot toward it, skipping rapidly over the waves. I love this, and I'm

thrilled zains letting me drive. All the worry I've felt over the past two days

melts away as we skim toward the airport.

"Next time we do this we'll have two Jet Skis," zain shouts. I grin because the thought of racing him is thrilling.

As we zoom over the cool blue sea toward what looks like the end of the runway, the thundering roar of a jet overhead suddenly startles me as it comes in to

land. It's so loud I panic, swerving and hitting the throttle at the same time, mistaking it for a brake.

"Aliya!" Zain shouts, but it's too late. I'm catapulted off the side of the Jet

Ski, arms and legs flailing, taking zain with me in a spectacular splash.

Screaming, I plunge into the crystal blue sea and swallow a nasty mouthful of

the Mediterranean. The water is cold this far from the shore, but I surface within a

split second, courtesy of my life jacket. Coughing and spluttering, I wipe the seawater from my eyes and look around for zain. He's already swimming toward me. The Jet Ski floats inoffensively a few feet away from us, its engine

silent.

"You okay?" His eyes are full of panic, as he reaches me.

"Yes," I croak, but I cannot contain my elation. See, zain? That's the

worst that can happen on a Jet Ski! He pulls me into his embrace, then grabs my

head between his hands, examining my face closely.

"See, that wasn't so bad!" I grin as we tread water.

Eventually he smirks at me, obviously relieved. "No, I guess it wasn't. Except I'm wet," he grumbles, but his tone is playful.

"I'm wet, too."

"I like you wet." He leers.

"zain!" I scold, trying for faux righteous indignation. He grins, looking

gorgeous, then leans in and kisses me hard. When he pulls away, I'm breathless.

His eyes are darker, hooded and heated, and I'm warm in spite of the cold water.

"Come. Let's head back. Now we have to shower. I'll drive."

We laze in the British Airways first class lounge at Heathrow in London, waiting

for our connecting flight to Seattle. zain is engrossed in the Financial Times.

I pull out his camera, wanting to take some photographs of him. He looks so sexy

in his trademark white linen shirt and jeans, and his aviator specs tucked into the

V of his open shirt. The flash disturbs him. He blinks up at me and smiles his shy

smile.

"How are you, Mrs. abdullah?" he asks.

"Sad to be going home," I murmur. "I like having you to myself."

He clasps my hand and lifting it to his lips, grazes my knuckles with a sweet

kiss. "Me too."

"But?" I ask, hearing that small word unsaid at the end of his simple

statement.

He frowns. "But?" he repeats disingenuously. I tilt my head to one side, gazing at him with the tell me expression I have been perfecting over the last couple

of days. He sighs, putting his newspaper down. "I want this arsonist caught and

out of our lives."

"Oh." That seems fair enough, but I'm surprised by his bluntness.

"I'll have Welch's balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen

again." A shiver runs down my spine at his menacing tone. He gazes at me impassively, and I don't know if he's daring me to be flippant or what. I do the only

thing I can think of to ease the sudden tension between us and raise the camera

and snap another photograph.

"Hey, sleepyhead, we're home," zain murmurs.

"Hmm," I mumble, reluctant to leave my tantalizing dream of zain and

me on a picnic blanket at Kew Gardens. I am so tired. Travelling is exhausting,

even in first class. We've been up for more than eighteen hours straight, I

think"in my fatigue I've lost track. I hear my door open, and zain is leaning

over me. He unbuckles my seat belt and lifts me into his arms, waking me.

"Hey, I can walk," I protest sleepily.

He snorts. "I need to carry you over the threshold."

I put my arms around his neck. "Up all thirty floors?" I give him a challenging smile.

"Mrs. abdullah, I am very pleased to announce that you've put on some weight."

"What?"

He grins. "So if you don't mind, we'll use the elevator." He narrows his eyes

at me, though I know he's teasing.

Taylor opens the doors to the Escala lobby and smiles. "Welcome home Mr.

abdullah, Mrs. abdullah."

"Thanks, Taylor," says zain.

I give Taylor the briefest of smiles and watch him head back to the Audi

where Sawyer waits at the wheel.

"What do you mean I've put on weight?" I glare at zain. His grin

broadens, and he clasps me closer to his chest as he carries me across the lobby.

"Not much," he assures me but his face darkens suddenly.

"What is it?" I try to keep the alarm in my voice under control.

"You've put on some of the weight you lost when you left me," he says

quietly as he summons the elevator. A bleak expression crosses his face.

His sudden, surprising anguish tugs at my heart. "Hey." I curl my fingers

around his face and into his hair, pulling him toward me. "If I hadn't gone, would

you be standing here, like this, now?"

His eyes melt, the color of a storm cloud, and he smiles his shy smile, my favorite smile. "No," he says and steps into the elevator still holding me. He leans

down and kisses me gently. "No, Mrs. abdullah, I wouldn't. But I would know I

could keep you safe, because you wouldn't defy me."

He sounds vaguely regretful . . . Shit.

"I like defying you." I test the waters.

"I know. And it's made me so . . . happy." He smiles down at me through his

bemusement.

Oh, thank heavens. "Even though I'm fat?" I whisper.

He laughs. "Even though you're fat." He kisses me again, more heated this

time, and I fist my fingers in his hair, holding him against me, our tongues twisting in a slow sensual dance with each other. When the elevator pings to a halt at

the penthouse, we are both breathless.

"Very happy," he murmurs. His smile is darker now, his eyes hooded and full

of salacious promise. He shakes his head as if to recover himself and carries me

into the foyer.

"Welcome home, Mrs. abdullah." He kisses me again, more chastely this time,

and gives me the patented-Zain-Abdullah-full-gigawatt smile, his eyes dancing

with joy.

"Welcome home, Mr. abdullah." I beam, my heart answering his call, brimming

with my own joy.

I think zains going to put me down, but he doesn't. He carries me

through the foyer, across the corridor, into the great room, and deposits me on the

kitchen island where I sit with my legs dangling. He retrieves two champagne

flutes from the kitchen cupboard and a bottle of chilled champagne from the

fridge"our favorite Bollinger. He deftly opens the bottle, not spilling a drop,

pours the pale pink champagne into each glass, and hands one to me. Taking up

the other, he gently parts my legs and moves forward to stand between them.

"Here's to us, Mrs. abdullah."

"To us, Mr. abdullah," I whisper conscious of my shy smile. We clink glasses

and take a sip.

"I know you're tired," he whispers, rubbing his nose against mine. "But I'd

really like to go to bed . . . and not to sleep." He kisses the corner of my mouth.

"It's our first night back here, and you're really mine." His voice drifts off as he

plants soft kisses down my throat. It's early evening in Seattle, and I am dog-tired,

but desire blooms deep in my belly and my inner goddess purrs.

zain is slumbering peacefully beside me as I stare at the pink and golden

streaks of the new dawn through the vast windows. His arm is draped loosely over

my breasts, and I try to match his breathing in an effort to get back to sleep, but

it's hopeless. I'm wide-awake, my body clock on Greenwich mean time, my mind

racing.

So much has happened in the last three weeks"who am I kidding, the last

three months"that I feel that my feet haven't touched the ground. And now here I

am, Mrs. Aliya abdullah, married to the most delicious, sexy, philanthropic, absurdly wealthy mogul a woman could meet. How did this all happen so fast?

I shift onto my side to gaze at him, appraising his beauty. I know he watches

me sleep, but I rarely get the opportunity to repay the compliment. He looks so

young and carefree in his sleep, his long lashes fanned against his cheek, a light

smattering of stubble covering his jaw, and his sculptured lips slightly parted, relaxed as he breathes deeply. I want to kiss him, to push my tongue between his

lips, run my fingers over his soft yet prickly stubble. I really have to fight the urge

not to touch him, not to disturb him. Hmm . . . I could just tease his earlobe with

my teeth and suck. My subconscious glares up at me over her half-moon spectacles, distracted from volume two of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens,

and mentally chastises me. Leave the poor man alone, Aliya.

I am back to work on Monday. We have today to reacclimatize, then we're

back into our routine. It will be odd not seeing zain for a whole day after

spending almost every minute together for the last three weeks. I lie back and

stare at the ceiling. One would think that spending so much time together would

be suffocating, but that's just not the case. I've loved each and every minute, even

our fighting. Every minute . . . except the news of the fire at Abdullah House.

My blood chills. Who could want to harm zain? My mind gnaws at this

mystery again. Someone in his business? An ex? A disgruntled employee? I have

no idea, and zain remains tight-lipped about it all, drip feeding me the minimum information he can get away with in a bid to protect me. I sigh. My shining

white-and-dark knight always trying to protect me. How am I going to make him

open up more?

He stirs and I still, not wanting to wake him, but it has the opposite effect.

Damn! Two bright eyes gaze at me.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep." I try my reassuring smile. He stretches, rubs his

face, and then grins at me.

"Jet lag?" he asks.

"Is that what this is? I can't sleep."

"I have the universal panacea right here, just for you, baby." He grins like a

schoolboy, making me roll my eyes and giggle at the same time. And just like that

my dark thoughts are swept aside and my teeth find his earlobe.

Zain and I cruise north on the I-5 toward the 520 bridge in the Audi R8. We

are going to have lunch at his parents', a welcome-home Sunday lunch. All the

family will be there, plus yasmin and bilal. It will be strange to be in so much company when we've been on our own all this time. I haven't had an opportunity to

talk to zain most of the morning. He was holed up in his study while I unpacked. He said I didn't have to, that Mrs. Jones would do it. But that's something

else I need to get used to"having domestic help. I run my fingers absentmindedly

over the leather upholstery of the door to distract my wandering thoughts. I feel

out of sorts. Is it the jet lag? The arson?

"Would you let me drive this?" I ask, surprised that I say the words out loud.

"Of course," zain replies, smiling. "What's mine is yours. If you dent it,

though, I will take you into the Red Room of Pain." He glances swiftly at me with

a malicious grin.

Shit! I gape at him. Is this a joke?

"You're kidding. You'd punish me for denting your car? You love your car

more than you love me?" I tease.

"It's close," he says and reaches across to squeeze my knee. "But she doesn't

keep me warm at night."

"I'm sure it could be arranged. You could sleep in her," I snap.

zain laughs. "We haven't been home one day and you're kicking me out

already?" He seems delighted. I gaze at him and he gives me a face-splitting grin,

and although I want to be mad at him, it's impossible when he's in this kind of

mood. Now that I think about it, he's been in a better frame of mind ever since he

left his study this morning. And it dawns on me that I'm being petulant because

we have to go back to reality, and I don't know if he's going to revert to the more

closed pre-honeymoon zain, or if I'll get to keep the new improved version.

"Why are you so pleased?" I ask.

He flashes yet another grin at me. "Because this conversation is so . . .

normal."

"Normal!" I snort. "Not after three weeks of marriage! Surely."

His smile slips.

"I'm kidding, zain," I mutter quickly, not wanting to kill his mood. It

strikes me how unsure he is of himself sometimes. I suspect that he's always been

like this, but has just hidden his uncertainty beneath an intimidating exterior. He's

very easy to tease, probably because he's not used to it. It's a revelation, and I

marvel again that we still have so much to learn about each other.

"Don't worry, I'll stick to the Saab," I mutter and turn to stare out of the window, trying to shake off my bad mood.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're so frustrating sometimes, Aliya. Tell me."

I turn and smirk at him. "Back at you, abdullah."

He frowns. "I'm trying," he says softly.

"I know. Me too." I smile and my mood brightens a little.

usman looks ridiculous in his chef's hat and Licensed to Grill apron as he stands

at the barbecue. Every time I look at him, it makes me smile. In fact, my spirits

have lifted considerably. We are all sitting around the table on the terrace of the

Abdullah family home, enjoying the late summer sun. suraiyya and barkat are setting various salads out on the table, while harshad and zain trade friendly insults and

discuss plans for the new house, and bilal and yasmin grill me about our honeymoon. zain keeps hold of my hand, his fingers toying with my wedding and

engagement rings.

"So if you can get the plans finalized with Gia, I have a window September

through to mid-November and can get the whole crew on it," harshad says as he

stretches and drops an arm around yasmin's shoulder, making her smile.

"Gia is due to come over to discuss the plans tomorrow evening," replies

zain. "I hope we can finalize everything then." He turns and looks expectantly at me.

Oh . . . this is news.

"Sure." I smile at him, mostly for the benefit of his family, but my spirits take

a nosedive again. Why does he make these decisions without telling me? Or is it

the thought of Gia"all lush hips, full breasts, expensive designer clothes, and

perfume"smiling too provocatively at my husband? My subconscious glares at

me. He's given you no reason to be jealous. Shit, I am up and down today. What's

wrong with me?

"Aliya," yasmin exclaims, snapping me out of my reverie. "You still in the South

of France?"

"Yes," I reply with a smile.

"You look so well," she says, though she frowns as she says it.

"You both do." suraiyya beams while harshad refills our glasses.

"To the happy couple." usman grins and raises his glass, and everyone

around the table echoes the sentiment.

"And congratulations to bilal for getting into the psych program at Seattle,"

chips in barkat proudly. She gives him an adoring smile, and bilal smirks at her. I

wonder idly if she's made any headway with him. It's difficult to tell.

I listen to the banter around the table. zain is running through our extensive itinerary over the last three weeks, embellishing here and there. He sounds

relaxed and in control, the worry of the arsonist forgotten. I, on the other hand,

don't seem to be able to shake my mood. I pick at my food. zain said I was

fat yesterday. He was joking! My subconscious glares at me again. harshad accidentally knocks his glass onto the terrace, startling everyone, and there's a sudden

flurry of activity to get it cleaned up.

"I am going to take you to the boathouse and finally spank you in there if you

don't snap out of this mood," zain whispers to me.

I gasp with shock, turn, and gape at him. What? Is he teasing me?

"You wouldn't dare!" I growl at him and from deep inside I feel a familiar,

welcome excitement. He cocks an eyebrow at me. Of course he would. I glance

quickly at yasmin across the table. She's watching us with interest. I turn back to

zain, narrowing my eyes at him.

"You'd have to catch me first"and I'm wearing flats," I hiss.

"I'd have fun trying," he whispers with a licentious grin, and I think he's joking.I blush. Confusingly, I feel better.

As we finish our dessert of strawberries and cream, the heavens open and unexpectedly soak us. We all leap up to clear the plates and glasses from the table,

depositing them in the kitchen.

"Good thing the weather held off till we finished," suraiyya says pleased, as we

drift into the back room den. zain sits down at the shiny black upright piano,

presses the quiet pedal, and starts to play a familiar tune that I can't immediately

place.

suraiyya asks me for my impressions of Saint Paul de Vence. She and usman

went years ago during their honeymoon, and it occurs to me that this is a good

omen, seeing how happy they are together now. yasmin and harshad are cuddling on

one of the large overstuffed couches, while bilal, barkat, and usman are deep in a

conversation about psychology, I think.

Suddenly, as one, all the abdullah's stop talking and gape at zain.

What?

zain is singing softly to himself at the piano. Silence descends on us all

as we strain to hear his soft, lyrical voice. I've heard him sing before, haven't

they? He stops, suddenly conscious of the deathly hush that's fallen over the

room. yasmin glances questioningly at me and I shrug. zain turns on the stool

and frowns, embarrassed to realize he's become the center of attention.

"Go on," suraiyya urges softly. "I've never heard you sing, zain. Ever."

She stares at him in wonder. He sits on the piano stool, looking absently at her,

and after a beat, he shrugs. His eyes flicker nervously to me, then over to the

French windows. The rest of the room suddenly erupts in self-conscious chatter,

and I'm left watching my dear husband.

suraiyya distracts me, grasping my hands then suddenly folding me in her arms.

"Oh, darling girl! Thank you, thank you," she whispers, so only I can hear. It

brings a lump to my throat.

"Um . . ." I hug her back, not really sure why I am being thanked. suraiyya

smiles, her eyes shining, and kisses my cheek. Oh my . . . What have I done?

"I am going to make some tea," she says, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.

I amble over to zain who is now standing, staring out through the French

windows.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hi." He puts his arm around my waist, pulling me to him, and I slip my hand

into the back pocket of his jeans. We gaze out at the rain.

"Feeling better?"

I nod.

"Good."

"You certainly know how to silence a room."

"I do it all the time," he says and he grins at me.

"At work, yes, but not here."

"True, not here."

"No one's ever heard you sing? Ever?"

"It appears not," he says dryly. "Shall we go?"

I gaze up at him, trying to gauge his mood. His eyes are soft and warm and

slightly bemused. I decide to change the subject.

"You going to spank me?" I whisper, and suddenly there are butterflies in my

stomach. Perhaps this is what I need . . . this is what I have been missing.

He gazes down at me, his eyes darkening.

"I don't want to hurt you, but I'm more than happy to play."

I glance nervously around the large room, but we are out of earshot.

"Only if you misbehave, Mrs. abdullah." He bends and murmurs in my ear.

How can he put so much sensual promise into six words?

"I'll see what I can do." I grin.

Once we've said our good-byes, we walk over to the car.

"Here." ain throws me the keys to the R8. "Don't bend it""he adds in

all seriousness""or I will be f**king pissed."

My mouth goes dry. He's letting me drive his car? My inner goddess whips

on her leather driving gloves and flat shoes. Oh yes! she cries.

"Are you sure?" I mouth, stunned.

"Yes, before I change my mind."

I don't think I have ever grinned so hard. He rolls his eyes and opens the

driver's door so that I can climb in. I start the engine before he's even reached the

passenger side, and he jumps in quickly.

"Eager, Mrs. abdullah?" he asks with a wry smile.

"Very."

Slowly, I ease the car backward and turn it in the driveway. I manage not to

stall it, surprising myself. Boy, is the clutch sensitive. Carefully navigating the

driveway, I glance in my rearview mirror and see Sawyer and Ryan climb into the

Audi SUV. I had no idea our security had followed us here. I pause before I set

out onto the main road.

"You're sure about this?"

"Yes," zain says tightly, telling me he's not sure about this at all. Oh, my

poor, poor Fifty. I want to laugh at both him and myself because I'm nervous and

excited. A small part of me wants to lose Sawyer and Ryan just for the kicks. I

check for traffic then inch the R8 out onto the road. zain curls up with tension and I can't resist. The road is clear. I put my foot down on the gas and we

shoot forward.

"Whoa! Aliya!" zain shouts. "Slow down"you'll kill us both."

I immediately ease off the gas. Wow, can this car move!

"Sorry," I mutter, trying to sound contrite and failing miserably. zain

smirks at me, to hide his relief, I think.

"Well, that counts as misbehaving," he says casually and I slow right down.

I glance in the rearview mirror. No sign of the Audi, just a solitary dark car

with tinted windows behind us. I imagine Sawyer and Ryan flustered, frantic to

catch up, and for some reason this gives me a thrill. But not wanting to give my

dear husband a coronary, I decide to behave and drive steadily with growing confidence toward the 520 bridge.

Suddenly, zain swears and struggles to pull his BlackBerry from the

pocket of his jeans.

"What?" he snaps angrily at whoever it is on the other end of the line. "No."

he says and glances behind us. "Yes. She is."

I briefly check the rearview mirror, but I don't see anything odd, just a few

cars behind us. The SUV is about four cars back, and we're all cruising at an even

pace.

"I see." zain sighs long and hard and rubs his forehead with his fingers,

tension radiates off him. Something's wrong.

"Yes . . . I don't know." He glances at me and lowers the phone from his ear.

"We're fine. Keep going," he says calmly, smiling at me, but the smile doesn't

touch his eyes. Shit! Adrenaline spikes through my system. He picks the phone up

again.

"Okay on the 520. As soon as we hit it . . . Yes . . . I will."

He slots the phone into the speaker cradle, putting it on hands-free.

"What's wrong, zain?"

"Just look where you're going, baby," he says softly.

I'm heading for the on-ramp of the 520 in the direction of Seattle. When I

glance at zain, he's staring straight ahead.

"I don't want you to panic," he says calmly. "But as soon as we're on the 520

proper, I want you to step on the gas. We're being followed."

Followed! Holy shit. My heart lurches into my mouth, pounding, my scalp

prickles and my throat constricts with panic. Followed by whom? My eyes dart to

the rearview mirror and, sure enough, the dark car I saw earlier is still behind us.

f**k! Is that it? I squint through the tinted windshield to see who's driving, but I

see nothing.

"Keep your eyes on the road, baby," zain says gently, not in the truculent tone he normally uses where my driving is concerned.

Get a grip! I mentally slap myself to subdue the dread that's threatening to

swamp me. Suppose whoever's following us is armed? Armed and after zain! Shit! I'm hit by a wave of nausea.

"How do we know we're being followed?" My voice is a breathy, squeaky,

whisper.

"The Dodge behind us has false license plates."

How does he know that?

I signal as we approach the 520 from the on-ramp. It's late afternoon, and although the rain has stopped, the roadway is wet. Fortunately, the traffic is reasonably light.

Ghulam's voice echoes in my head from one of his many self-defense lectures.

"It's the panic that's gonna kill you or get you seriously hurt, aliya." I take a

deep breath, trying to bring my breathing under control. Whoever is following us

is after zain. As I take another deep steadying breath, my mind begins to

clear and my stomach settles. I have to keep zain safe. I wanted to drive this

car, and I wanted to drive it fast. Well, here's my chance. I grip the steering wheel

and take a final glance in my rearview mirror. The Dodge is closing on us.

I slow right down, ignoring zains sudden panicked glance at me, and

time my entrance on to the 520 so that the Dodge has to slow and stop to wait for

a gap in the traffic. I drop a gear and floor it. The R8 shoots forward, slamming us

both into the backs of our seats. The speedometer whips up to seventy-five miles

per hour.

"Steady, baby," zain says calmly, though I'm sure he's anything but

calm.

I weave between the two lines of traffic like a black counter in a game of

checkers, effectively jumping the cars and trucks. We're so close to the lake on

this bridge, it's as if we're driving on the water. I studiously ignore the angry, disapproving looks from other drivers. zain clutches his hands together in his

lap, keeping as still as possible, and in spite of my fevered thoughts, I wonder

vaguely if he's doing it so he doesn't distract me.

"Good girl," he breathes in encouragement. He glances behind him. "I can't

see the Dodge."

"We're right behind the unsub, Mr. abdullah." Sawyer's voice comes through the

hands-free. "He's trying to catch up with you, sir. We're going to try and come

alongside, put ourselves between your car and the Dodge."

Unsub? What does that mean?

"Good. Mrs. abdullah is doing well. At this rate, provided the traffic remains

light"and from what I can see it is"we'll be off the bridge in a few minutes."

"Sir."

We flash past the bridge control tower, and I know we're half way across

Lake Washington. When I check my speed, I'm still doing seventy-five.

"You're doing really well, aliya," zain murmurs again as he gazes out the

back of the R8. For a fleeting moment, his tone reminds me of our first encounter

in his playroom when he patiently encouraged me through our first scene. The

thought is distracting, and I dismiss it immediately.

"Where am I headed?" I ask, moderately calmer. I have the feel of the car

now. It's a joy to drive, so quiet and easy to handle it's hard to believe how fast

we are going. Driving at this speed in this car is easy.

"Mrs. abdullah, head for I-5 and then south. We want to see if the Dodge follows

you all the way," Sawyer says over the hands-free. The traffic lights on the bridge

are green"thank heavens"and I race onward.

I glance nervously at zain, and he smiles reassuringly. Then his face

falls.

"Shit!" he swears softly.

There is a line of traffic ahead as we come off the bridge, and I have to slow.

Glancing anxiously in the mirror once more, I think I spot the Dodge.

"Ten or so cars back?"

"Yeah, I see it," zain says, peering through the narrow rear window. "I

wonder who the f**k it is?"

"Me too. Do we know if it's a man driving?" I blurt out toward the cradled

BlackBerry.

"No, Mrs. abdullah. Could be a man or woman. The tint is too dark."

"A woman?" zain says.

I shrug. "Your Mrs. Robinson?" I suggest, not taking my eyes off the road.

zain stiffens and lifts the BlackBerry out of its cradle. "She's not my

Mrs. Robinson," he growls. "I haven't spoken to her since my birthday. And

Elena wouldn't do this. It's not her style."

"Leila?"

"She's in Connecticut with her parents. I told you."

"Are you sure?"

He pauses. "No. But if she'd absconded, I'm sure her folks would have let

Flynn know. Let's discuss this when we're home. Concentrate on what you're

doing."

"But it might just be some random car."

"I'm not taking any risks. Not where you're concerned," he snaps. He replaces the BlackBerry in its cradle so we're back in contact with our security

team.

Oh shit. I don't want to rattle zain right now . . . later maybe. I hold my

tongue. Fortunately, the traffic is thinning a little. I am able to speed over the

Mountlake intersection toward the I-5, weaving through the cars again.

"What if we get stopped by the cops?" I ask.

"That would be a good thing."

"Not for my license."

"Don't worry about that," he says. Unexpectedly, I hear humor in his voice.

I put my foot down again, and hit seventy-five. Boy, this car can move. I love

it"she's so easy. I touch eighty-five. I don't think I have ever driven this fast. I

was lucky if my Beetle ever hit fifty miles an hour.

"He's cleared the traffic and picked up speed." Sawyer's disembodied voice

is calm and informative. "He's doing ninety."

Shit! Faster! I press down on the gas and the car purrs to ninety-five miles

per hour as we approach the I-5 intersection.

"Keep it up, aliya," zain murmurs.

I slow momentarily as we glide onto the I-5. The interstate is fairly quiet, and

I'm able to cross straight over to the fast lane in a split second. As I put my foot

down, the glorious R8 zooms forward, and we tear down the left lane, lesser mortals pulling over to let us pass. If I wasn't so frightened, I might really enjoy this.

"He's hit one hundred miles per hour, sir."

"Stay with him, Luke," zain barks at Sawyer.

Luke?

A truck lurches into the fast lane"Shit!"and I have to slam on the brakes.

"f**king idiot!" Christian curses the driver as we lurch forward in our seats.

I am grateful for our seatbelts.

"Go around him, baby," zain says through clenched teeth. I check my

mirrors and cut right across three lanes. We speed past the slower vehicles and

then cut back to the fast lane.

"Nice move, Mrs. abdullah," zain murmurs appreciatively. "Where are the

cops when you need them?"

"I don't want a ticket, zain," I mutter, concentrating on the highway

ahead. "Have you had a speeding ticket driving this?"

"No," he says, but glancing quickly at him, I can see his smirk.

"Have you been stopped?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Charm, Mrs. abdullah. It all comes down to charm. Now concentrate. Where's

the Dodge, Sawyer?"

"He's just hit one hundred and ten, sir." Sawyer says.

Holy f**k! My heart leaps once more into my mouth. Can I drive any faster? I

push my foot down once more and streak past the traffic.

"Flash the headlights," zain orders when a Ford Mustang won't move.

"But that would make me an asshole."

"So be an asshole!" he snaps.

Jeez. Okay! "Um, where are the headlights?"

"The indicator. Pull it toward you."

I do it, and the Mustang moves aside though not before the driver waves his

finger at me in a none-too-complimentary manner. I zoom past him.

"He's the asshole," zain says under his breath, then barks at me, "get off

on Stewart."

Yes sir!

"We're taking the Stewart Street exit," zain says to Sawyer.

"Head straight to Escala, sir."

I slow, check my mirrors, signal, then move with surprising ease across four

lanes of the highway and down the off-ramp. Merging onto Stewart Street, we

head south. The street is quiet, with few vehicles. Where is everyone?

"We've been damned lucky with the traffic. But that means the Dodge has,

too. Don't slow down, aliya. Get us home."

"I can't remember the way," I mutter, panicked by the fact the Dodge is still

on our tail.

"Head south on Stewart. Keep going until I tell you when." zain sounds

anxious again. I zoom past three blocks but the lights change to yellow on Yale

Avenue.

"Run them, aliya," zain shouts. I jump so hard I floor the gas pedal,

throwing us both back in our seats, speeding through the now red light.

"He's taking Stewart," Sawyer says.

"Stay with him, Luke."

"Luke?"

"That's his name."

A quick glance and I can see zain glaring at me as if I'm crazy. "Eyes on

the road!" he snaps.

I ignore his tone. "Luke Sawyer."

"Yes!" He sounds exasperated.

"Ah." How did I not know this? The man has been following me to work for

the last six weeks, and I didn't even know his first name.

"That's me, ma'am," Sawyer says, startling me, though he's speaking in the

calm, monotone voice he always uses. "The unsub is heading down Stewart, sir.

He's really picking up speed."

"Go, aliya. Less of the f**king chitchat," zain growls.

"We're stopped at the first light on Stewart." Sawyer informs us.

"aliya"quick"in here," zain shouts, pointing to a parking lot on the

south side of Boren Avenue. I turn, the tires screeching in protest as I swerve into

the crowded lot.

"Drive around. Quick," zain orders. I drive as fast as I can to the back,

out of sight of the street. "In there." zain points to a space. Shit! He wants me

to park it. Crap!

"Just f**king do it," he says. So I do . . . perfectly. Probably the only time I

have ever parked perfectly.

"We're hidden in the parking lot between Stewart and Boren," zain says

into the BlackBerry.

"Okay, sir." Sawyer sounds irritated. "Stay where you are; we'll follow the

unsub."

zain turns to me, his eyes searching my face. "You okay?"

"Sure," I whisper.

zain smirks. "Whoever's driving that Dodge can't hear us, you know."

And I laugh.

"We're passing Stewart and Boren now, sir. I see the lot. He's gone straight

past you, sir."

Both of us sag simultaneously with relief.

"Well done, Mrs. abdullah. Good driving." zain gently strokes my face with

his fingertips, and I jump at the contact, inhaling deeply. I had no idea I was holding my breath.

"Does this mean you'll stop complaining about my driving?" I ask. He

laughs"a loud cathartic laugh.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that."

"Thank you for letting me drive your car. Under such exciting circumstances,

too." I try desperately to keep my voice light.

"Maybe I should drive now."

"To be honest, I don't think I can climb out right now to let you sit here. My

legs feel like Jell-O." Suddenly I'm shuddering and shaking.

"It's the adrenaline, baby," he says. "You did amazingly well, as usual. You

blow me away, aliya. You never let me down." He touches my cheek tenderly with

the back of his hand, his face full of love, fear, regret"so many emotions at

once"and his words are my undoing. Overwhelmed, a strangled sob escapes

from my constricted throat, and I start to cry.

"No, baby, no. Please don't cry." He reaches over and, despite the limited

space we have, pulls me over the handbrake console to cradle me in his lap.

Smoothing my hair off my face, he kisses my eyes, then my cheeks, and I curl my

arms around him and sob quietly into his neck. He buries his nose in my hair and

wraps me in his arms, holding me tight and we sit, neither of us saying anything,

just holding each other.

Sawyer's voice startles us. "The unsub has slowed outside Escala. He's casing the joint."

"Follow him," zain snaps.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and take a deep steadying breath.

"Use my shirt." zain kisses my temple.

"Sorry," I mutter, embarrassed by my crying.

"What for? Don't be."

I wipe my nose again. He tips my chin up and plants a gentle kiss on my lips.

"Your lips are so soft when you cry, my beautiful, brave girl," he whispers.

"Kiss me again."

zain stills, one hand on my back, the other on my behind.

"Kiss me," I breathe, and I watch his lips part as he inhales sharply. Leaning

across me, he takes the BlackBerry out of its cradle, and tosses it onto the driver's

seat beside my sandaled feet. Then his mouth is on me as he moves his right hand

into my hair, holding me in place, and lifts his left to cradle my face. His tongue

invades my mouth, and I welcome it. Adrenaline turns to lust streaking through

my body. I clasp his face, running my fingers over his sideburns, relishing the

taste of him. He groans at my fevered response, low and deep in his throat, and

my belly tightens swift and hard with carnal desire. His hand moves down my

body, brushing my breast, my waist, and down to my backside. I shift fractionally.

"Ah!" he says and breaks away from me, breathless.

"What?" I mutter against his lips.

"aliya, we're in a car lot in Seattle."

"So?"

"Well, right now I want to f**k you, and you're shifting around on me . . .

it's uncomfortable."

My craving spirals out of control at his words, tightening all my muscles below my waist once more.

"f**k me then." I kiss the corner of his mouth. I want him. Now. That car

chase was exciting. Too exciting. Terrifying . . . and the fear has jump-started my

libido. He leans back to gaze at me, his eyes dark and hooded.

"Here?" His voice is husky.

My mouth goes dry. How can he turn me on with one word? "Yes. I want

you. Now."

He tilts his head to one side and stares at me for a few moments. "Mrs. abdullah,

how very brazen," he whispers, after what feels like an eternity. His hand tightens

around my hair at my nape, holding me firmly in place, and his mouth is on mine

again, more forcefully this time. His other hand skims down my body, down over

my behind and lower still to my mid-thigh. My fingers curl into his overlong hair.

"I'm so glad you're wearing a skirt," he murmurs as he slips his hand beneath

my blue and white patterned skirt to caress my thigh. I squirm once more on his

lap and the air hisses between his teeth.

"Keep still," he growls. He cups my sex with his hand, and I still immediately. His thumb brushes over my c***oris, and my breath catches in my throat as

pleasure jolts like electricity deep, deep, deep inside me.

"Still," he whispers. He kisses me once more as his thumb circles gently

around me through the sheer fine lace of my designer underwear. Slowly he eases

two fingers passed my panties and inside me. I groan and flex my hips toward his

hand.

"Please," I whisper.

"Oh, Mrs. abdullah. You're so ready," he says, sliding his fingers in and out, tortuously slowly. "Do car chases turn you on?"

"You turn me on."

He smiles a wolfish grin and withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving me

wanting. He scoops his arm under my knees and, taking me by surprise, he lifts

me and swings me around to face the windshield.

"Place your legs either side of mine," he orders, putting his legs together in

the middle of the footwell. I do as I'm told, placing my feet on the floor on either

side of his. He runs his hands down my thighs, then back, pulling up my skirt.

"Hands on my knees, baby. Lean forward. Lift that glorious ass in the air.

Mind your head."

Shit! We really are going to do this, in a public parking lot. I quickly scan the

area in front of us and see no one, but feel a thrill coursing through me. I'm in a

public lot! This is so hot! zain shifts beneath me, and I hear the telltale sound

of his zipper. Putting one arm around my waist and with his other hand tugging

my lacy panties sideways, he impales me in one swift move.

"Ah!" I cry out, grinding down on him, and his breath hisses through his

teeth. His arm snakes around me up to my neck and he grasps me under my chin.

His hand spreads across my neck, pulling me back and tilting my head to one side

so he can kiss my throat. His other hand grips my hip and together we start to

move.

I push up with my feet, and he tilts himself into me"in and out. The sensation is . . . I groan loudly. It's so deep this way. My left hand curls around the

hand brake, my right hand braced against my door. His teeth graze my earlobe

and he tugs"it's almost painful. He bucks again and again into me. I rise and fall,

and as we establish a rhythm, he moves his hand around beneath my skirt to the

apex of my thighs, and his fingers gently tease my c***oris through the sheer finery

of my panties.

"Ah!"

"Be. Quick," he breathes into my ear through gritted teeth, his hand still

curled around my neck beneath my chin. "We need to do this quick, Aliya." And he

increases the pressure of his fingers against my sex.

"Ah!" I feel the familiar build of pleasure, bunching deep and thick inside

me.

"Come on, baby," he rasps at my ear. "I want to hear you."

I moan again, and I am all sensation, my eyes tightly closed. His voice at my

ear, his breath on my neck, pleasure radiating out from where his fingers tease my

body and where he slams deep inside me, and I am lost. My body takes control,

craving release.

"Yes," zain hisses in my ear and I open my eyes briefly, staring wildly

at the cloth roof of the R8, and I scrunch them closed again as I come around him.

"Oh, aliya," he murmurs in wonder, and he wraps his arms around me and

rams into me one last time and stills as he climaxes deep inside.

He runs his nose along my jaw and softly kisses my throat, my cheek, my

temple as a lie on him, my head lolling against his neck.

"Tension relieved, Mrs. abdullah?" zain closes his teeth around my earlobe

again and tugs. My body is drained, totally exhausted, and I mewl. I feel his smile

against me.

"Certainly helped with mine," he adds, shifting me off him. "Lost your

voice?"

"Yes," I murmur.

"Well aren't you the wanton creature? I had no idea you were such an

exhibitionist."

I sit up immediately, alarmed. He tenses. "No one's watching are they?" I

glance anxiously around the car lot.

"Do you think I'd let anyone watch my wife come?" He strokes his hand

down my back reassuringly, but the tone of his voice sends shivers down my

spine. I turn to gaze at him and grin impishly.

"Car sex!" I exclaim.

He grins and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Let's head back. I'll

drive."

He opens the door to let me climb off his lap and out into the parking lot.

When I glance down he's quickly doing up his fly. He follows me out and then

holds the door open for me to climb back in. Strolling quickly around to the

driver's side, he climbs in beside me, retrieves the BlackBerry, and makes a call.

"Where's Sawyer?" he snaps. "And the Dodge? How come Sawyer's not

with you?"

He listens intently to Ryan, I assume.

"Her?" he gasps. "Stick with her." zain hangs up and gazes at me.

Her! The driver of the car? Who could that be"Elena? Leila?

"The driver of the Dodge is female?"

"So it would appear," he says quietly. His mouth presses into a thin angry

line. "Let's get you home," he mutters. He starts up the R8 with a roar and reverses smoothly out of the space.

"Where's the, er . . . unsub? What does that mean by the way? Sounds very

BDSM."

zain smiles briefly as he eases the car out of the lot and back onto Stewart Street.

"It stands for Unknown Subject. Ryan is ex-FBI."

"Ex-FBI?"

"Don't ask." zain shakes his head. It's obvious he's deep in

contemplation.

"Well, where is this female unsub?"

"On the I-5, heading south." He glances at me, his eyes grim.

Jeez"from passionate to calm to anxious in the space of a few moments. I

reach over and caress his thigh, running my fingers leisurely up the inside seam of

his jeans, hoping to improve his mood. He takes his hand off the steering wheel

and stops the slow ascent of my hand.

"No," he says. "We've made it this far. You don't want me to have an accident three blocks from home." He raises my hand to his lips and plants a cool kiss

on my index finger to take the sting out of his rebuke. Cool, calm, authoritative . . . My Fifty. And for the first time in a while he makes me feel like a wayward child. I withdraw my hand and sit quietly for a moment.

"Female?"

"Apparently so." He sighs, turns into the underground garage at Escala, and

punches the access code into the security keypad. The gate swings open and he

drives on, smoothly parking the R8 in its designated space.

"I really like this car," I murmur.

"Me too. And I like how you handled it"and how you managed not to break

it."

"You can buy me one for my birthday," I smirk at him.

zains mouth drops open as I climb out of the car.

"A white one, I think," I add, leaning down and smirking at him.

He smiles. "aliya abdullah, you never cease to amaze me."

I shut the door and walk to the end of the car to wait for him. Gracefully he

climbs out, watching me with that look . . . that look that calls to something deep

inside me. I know this look well. Once he's in front of me, he leans down and

whispers, "You like the car. I like the car. I've f**ked you in it . . . perhaps I

should f**k you on it."

I gasp. And a sleek silver BMW pulls into the garage. zain glances at it

anxiously, then with annoyance and smirks down at me.

"But it looks like we have company. Come." He grabs my hand and heads for

the garage elevator. He pushes the call button and as we wait, the driver of the

BMW joins us. He's young, casually dressed, with long, layered, dark hair. He

looks like he works in the media.

"Hi," he says, smiling warmly at us.

zain puts his arm around me and nods politely.

"I've just moved in. Apartment sixteen."

"Hello." I return his smile. He has kind, soft brown eyes.

The elevator arrives and we all walk in. zain glances down at me, his expression unreadable.

"You're Zain Abdullah," the young man says.

zain gives him a tight smile.

"Noah Logan." He holds out his hand. Reluctantly, zain takes it. "Which

floor?" Noah asks.

"I have to input a code."

"Oh."

"Penthouse."

"Oh." Noah smiles broadly. "Of course." He presses the button for the eighth

floor and the doors close. "Mrs. abdullah, I presume."

"Yes." I give him a polite smile and we shake hands. Noah flushes a little as

he gazes at me a fraction too long. I mirror his flush and zains arm tightens

around me.

"When did you move in?" I ask.

"Last weekend. I love the place."

There's an awkward pause before the elevator stops at Noah's floor.

"Great to meet you both," he says sounding relieved and steps out. The doors

close silently behind him. zain taps in the entry code and the elevator ascends

again.

"He seemed nice," I murmur. "I've never met any of the neighbors before."

zain scowls. "I prefer it that way."

"That's because you're a hermit. I thought he was pleasant enough."

"A hermit?"

"Hermit. Stuck in your ivory tower," I state matter-of-factly. zains lips

twitch with amusement.

"Our ivory tower. And I think you have another name to add to the list of

your admirers, Mrs. abdullah."

I roll my eyes. "zain, you think everyone is an admirer."

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

My pulse quickens. "I sure did," I whisper, my breath catching in my throat.

He cocks his head to one side, wearing his smoldering, arrogant, amused expression. "What shall we do about that?"

"Something rough."

He blinks to hide his surprise. "Rough?"

"Please."

"You want more?"

I nod slowly. The doors to the elevator open and we're home.

"How rough?" he breathes, his eyes darkening.

I gaze at him, saying nothing. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then

grabs my hand and hauls me into the foyer.

When we burst through the double doors, Sawyer is standing in the hallway,

looking expectantly at the two of us.

"Sawyer, I'd like to be debriefed in an hour," zain says.

"Yes, sir." Turning, Sawyer heads back into Taylor's office.

We have an hour!

zain glances down at me. "Rough?"

I nod.

"Well, Mrs. abdullah, you're in luck. I'm taking requests today."

Chap6

"Do you have anything in mind?" zain murmurs, pinning me with his bold

gaze. I shrug, suddenly breathless and agitated. I don't know if it's the chase, the

adrenaline, my earlier bad mood"I don't understand, but I want this, and I want

it badly. A puzzled expression flits across zains face. "Kinky f**kery?" he

asks, his words a soft caress.

I nod, feeling my face flame. Why am I embarrassed by this? I have done all

manner of kinky f**kery with this man. He's my husband, damn it! Am I embarrassed because I want this and I'm ashamed to admit it? My subconscious glares

at me. Stop overthinking."Carte blanche?" He whispers the question, eyeing me speculatively as if

he's trying to read my mind.

Carte blanche? Holy f**k"what will that entail? "Yes," I murmur

nervously, as excitement blooms deep inside me. He smiles a slow sexy smile.

"Come," he says and tugs me toward the stairs. His intention is clear. Playroom! My inner goddess wakes from her post-R8-sex slumber, wide-eyed and raring to go.

At the top of the stairs, he releases my hand and unlocks the playroom door.

The key is on the Yes Seattle keychain that I gave him not so long ago.

"After you, Mrs. abdullah," he says and swings the door open.

The playroom smells reassuringly familiar, of leather and wood and fresh

polish. I blush, knowing that Mrs. Jones must have been in here cleaning while we

were away on our honeymoon. As we enter, zain switches on the lights and

the dark red walls are illuminated with soft, diffused light. I stand gazing at him,

anticipation running thick and heavy through my veins. What will he do? He locks

the door and turns. Inclining his head to one side, he regards me thoughtfully and

then shakes his head, amused.

"What do you want, aliya?" he asks gently.

"You." My response is breathy.

He smirks. "You've got me. You've had me since you fell into my office."

"Surprise me then, Mr. abdullah."

His mouth twists with repressed humor and carnal promise. "As you wish,

Mrs. abdullah." He folds his arms and raises one long index finger to his lips while he

appraises me. "I think we'll start by ridding you of your clothes." He steps forward. Grasping the front of my short denim jacket, he opens it and pushes it over

my shoulders so it falls to the floor. He clasps the hem of my black camisole.

"Lift your arms."

I obey, and he peels it off over my head. Leaning down, he plants a soft kiss

on my lips, his eyes glowing with an alluring mix of lust and love. The camisole

joins my jacket on the floor.

"Here," I whisper gazing nervously at him as I remove the hair tie from

around my wrist and hold it up for him. He stills, and his eyes widen briefly but

give nothing away. Finally, he takes the small band.

"Turn around," he orders.

Relieved, I smile to myself and oblige immediately. Looks like we've overcome that little hurdle. He gathers my hair and braids it quickly and efficiently before fastening it with the tie. He tugs the braid, pulling my head back.

"Good thinking, Mrs. abdullah," he whispers in my ear, then nips my earlobe.

"Now turn around and take your skirt off. Let it fall to the floor." He releases me

and steps back as I turn to face him. Not taking my eyes off his, I unbutton the

waistband of my skirt and ease the zipper down. The full skirt fans out and falls to

the floor, pooling at my feet.

"Step out from your skirt," he orders. As I step toward him, he kneels swiftly

down in front of me and grasps my right ankle. Deftly, he unbuckles my sandals

one at a time while I lean forward, balancing myself with a hand on the wall under

the pegs that used to hold all his whips, crops and paddles. The flogger and the

riding crop are the only implements that remain. I eye them with curiosity. Will he

use those?

Having removed my shoes so I'm just in my lacy bra and panties, zain

sits back on his heels, gazing up at me. "You're a fine sight, Mrs. abdullah." Suddenly he kneels up, grabs my hips and pulls me forward, burying his nose in the

apex of my thighs. "And you smell of you and me and sex," he says inhaling

sharply. "It's intoxicating." He kisses me through my lace panties, while I gasp at

his words"my insides liquefying. He's just so . . . naughty. Gathering up my

clothes and sandals, he stands in one swift, graceful move, like an athlete.

"Go and stand beside the table," he says calmly, pointing with his chin. Turning, he strides over to the museum chest of wonder.

He glances back and smirks at me. "Face the wall," he commands. "That way

you won't know what I'm planning. We aim to please, Mrs. abdullah, and you

wanted a surprise."

I turn away from him listening acutely"my ears suddenly sensitive to the

slightest sound. He's good at this"building my expectations, stoking my desire . . . making me wait. I hear him put my shoes down and, I think, my clothes

on the chest, followed by the telltale clatter of his shoes as they drop to the floor,

one at a time. Hmm . . . love barefoot zain. A moment later, I hear him pull

open a drawer.

Toys! Oh, I love, love, love this anticipation. The drawer closes and my

breathing spikes. How can the sound of a drawer render me a quivering mess? It

makes no sense. The subtle hiss of the sound system coming to life tells me it's

going to be a musical interlude. A lone piano starts, muted and soft, and mournful

chords fill the room. It's not a tune I know. The piano is joined by an electric guitar. What is this? A man's voice speaks and I can just make out the words,

something about not being frightened of dying.

zain pads leisurely toward me, his bare feet slapping on the wooden

floor. I sense him behind me as a woman starts to sing . . . wail . . . sing?

"Rough, you say, Mrs. abdullah?" he breathes in my left ear.

"Hmm."

"You must tell me to stop if it's too much. If you say stop, I will stop immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I need your promise."

I inhale sharply. Shit, what is he going to do? "I promise," I murmur breathless, recalling his words from earlier: I don't want to hurt you, but I'm more than

happy to play.

"Good girl." Leaning down, he plants a kiss on my naked shoulder then

hooks a finger beneath my bra strap and traces a line across my back beneath the

strap. I want to moan. How does he make the slightest touch so erotic?

"Take it off," he whispers at my ear, and hurriedly I oblige and let my bra fall

to the floor.

His hands skim down my back, and he hooks both of his thumbs into my

panties and slides them down my legs.

"Step," he orders. Once more I do as I'm told, stepping out of my panties. He

plants a kiss on my backside and stands.

"I am going to blindfold you so that everything will be more intense." He

slips an airline eye mask over my eyes, and my world is plunged into the darkness. The woman singing moans incoherently . . . a haunting, heartfelt melody.

"Bend down and lie flat on the table." His words are softly spoken. "Now."

Without hesitation, I bend over the side of the table and rest my torso on the

highly polished wood, my face flush against the hard surface. It's cool against my

skin and it smells vaguely of beeswax with a citrus tang.

"Stretch your arms up and hold on to the edge."

Okay . . . Reaching forward, I clutch the far edge of the table. It's quite wide,

so my arms are fully extended.

"If you let go, I will spank you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to spank you, aliya?"

Everything south of my waist tightens deliciously. I realize I've wanted this

since he threatened me during lunch, and neither the car chase nor our subsequent

intimate encounter has sated this need.

"Yes." My voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Why?"

Oh . . . do I have to have a reason? Jeez. I shrug.

"Tell me," he coaxes.

"Um . . ."

And from out of nowhere he smacks me hard.

"Ah!" I cry out.

"Hush now."

He gently rubs my behind where he's hit me. Then he leans over me, his hips

digging into my backside, plants a kiss between my shoulder blades and trails

kisses across my back. He's taken his shirt off, so his chest hair tickles my back,

and his erection presses against me through the rough fabric of his jeans.

"Open your legs," he orders.

I move my legs apart.

"Wider."

I groan and spread my legs wider.

"Good girl," he breathes. He traces his finger down my back, along the crack

between my buttocks, and over my anus, which shrinks at his touch.

"We're going to have with some fun with this," he whispers.

f**k!

His finger continues down over my perineum and slowly slides into me.

"I see you're very wet, aliya. From earlier or from now?"

I groan and he eases his finger in and out of me, over and over. I push back

on his hand, relishing the intrusion.

"Oh, Aliya, I think it's both. I think you love being here, like this. Mine."

I do"oh, I do. He withdraws his finger and smacks me hard once more.

"Tell me," he whispers, his voice hoarse and urgent.

"Yes, I do," I whimper.

He smacks me hard once more so I cry out, then sticks two fingers inside me.

He withdraws them immediately, spreading the moisture up over and around my

anus.

"What are you going to do?" I ask, breathless. Oh my . . . is he going to f**k

my ass?

"It's not what you think," he murmurs reassuringly. "I told you, one step at

time with this, baby." I hear the quiet spurt of some liquid, presumably from a

tube, then his fingers are massaging me there again. Lubricating me . . . there! I

squirm as my fear collides with my excitement of the unknown. He smacks me

once more, lower, so he hits my sex. I groan. It feels . . . so good.

"Keep still," he says. "And don't let go."

"Ah."

"This is lube." He spreads some more on me. I try not to wriggle beneath

him, but my heart is pounding, my pulse haywire, as desire and anxiety pump

through me.

"I have wanted to do this to you for some time now, aliya."

I groan. And I feel something cool, metallically cool, run down my spine.

"I have a small present for you here," zain whispers.

An image from our show-and-tell springs to mind. Holy cow. A butt plug.

zain runs it down the parting between my buttocks.

Oh my.

"I am going to push this inside you, very slowly."

I gasp, anticipation and anxiety charging through me.

"Will it hurt?"

"No, baby. It's small. Once it's inside you, I'm going to f**k you real hard."

I practically convulse. Bending over me, he kisses me once more between my

shoulder blades.

"Ready?" he whispers.

Ready? Am I ready for this?

"Yes," I mutter quietly, my mouth dry. He runs another finger down past my

ass and perineum and slips it inside me. f**k, it's his thumb. He cups my sex and

his fingers gently caress my c***oris. I moan . . . it feels . . . good. And gently,

while his fingers and thumb work their magic, he pushes the cold plug slowly into

me.

"Ah!" I groan loudly at the unfamiliar sensation, my muscles protesting at the

intrusion. He circles his thumb inside me and pushes the plug harder, and it slips

in easily, and I don't know if it's because I'm so turned on or if he's distracted me

with his expert fingers, but my body seems to accept it. It's heavy . . . and

strange . . . there!

"Oh, baby."

And I can feel it . . . where his thumb swirls inside me . . . and the plug

presses against . . . oh, ah . . . He slowly twists the plug, eliciting a long drawn-out

moan from me.

"zain," I mumble, his name a garbled mantra, as I adjust to the

sensation.

"Good girl," he murmurs. He runs his free hand down my side until it reaches

my hip. Slowly he withdraws his thumb, and I hear the telltale sound of his zipper

opening. Grasping my other hip, he pulls me back and parts my legs further, his

foot pushing against mine. "Don't let go of the table, aliya," he warns.

"No," I gasp.

"Something rough? Tell me if I'm too rough. Understand?"

"Yes," I whisper, and he slams into me and pulls me onto him at the same

time, jolting the plug forward, deeper . . .

"f**k!" I cry out.

He stills, his breathing harsher and my panting matches his. I try to assimilate

all the sensations: the delicious fullness, the tantalizing feeling that I am doing

something forbidden, the erotic pleasure that spirals outward from deep within

me. He pulls gently on the plug.

Oh jeez . . . I moan, and I hear his sharp intake of breath"a gasp of pure,

unadulterated pleasure. It heats my blood. Have I ever felt so wanton . . . so"

"Again?" he whispers.

"Yes."

"Stay flat," he orders. He eases out of me and rams into me again.

Oh . . . I wanted this. "Yes," I hiss.

And he picks up the pace, his breathing more labored, matching my own as

he thrashes into me.

"Oh, Aliya," he gasps. He moves one of his hands from my hips and twists the

plug again, tugging it slowly, pulling it out and pushing it back in. The feeling is

indescribable, and I think I'm going to pass out on the table. He never misses a

beat as he takes me, again and again, moving strong and hard inside me, my insides tightening and quivering.

"Oh f**k," I moan. This is going to rip me apart.

"Yes, baby," he hisses.

"Please," I beg him and I don't know what for"to stop, to never stop, to

twist the plug again. My insides are tightening around him and the plug.

"That's right," he breathes, and he slaps me hard on my right buttock, and I

come"again and again, falling, falling, spinning, pulsing around and

around"and zain gently pulls the plug out.

"f**k!" I scream and zain grabs my hips and climaxes loudly, holding

me still.

The woman is still singing. zain always puts songs on repeat in here. Strange.

I am curled in his arms on his lap our legs tangled together, with my head resting

against his chest. We're on the floor of the playroom by the table.

"Welcome back," he says, peeling the blindfold off me. I blink as my eyes

adjust to the muted light. Tipping my chin back, he plants a soft kiss on my lips,

his eyes focused on and anxiously searching mine. I reach up to caress his face.

He smiles.

"Well, did I fulfill the brief?" he asks, amused.

I frown. "Brief?"

"You wanted rough," he says gently.

I grin, because I just can't help it. "Yes. I think you did . . ."

He raises his eyebrows and grins back at me. "I'm very glad to hear it Mrs.

abdullah. You look thoroughly well f**ked and beautiful at this moment." He

caresses my face, his long fingers stroking my cheek.

"I feel it," I purr.

He reaches down and kisses me tenderly, his lips soft and warm and giving

against mine. "You never disappoint." He leans back to gaze down at me. "How

do you feel?" His voice is soft with concern.

"Good," I murmur, feeling a flush creep across my face. "Thoroughly well

f**ked." I smile shyly.

"Why, Mrs. abdullah, you have a dirty, dirty mouth." zain feigns an offended expression, but I can hear his amusement.

"That's because I'm married to a dirty, dirty boy, Mr. abdullah."

He grins a ridiculously stupid grin and it's infectious. "I'm glad you're married to him." He gently takes hold of my braid, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the

end with reverence, his eyes glowing with love. Oh my . . . did I ever have a

chance of resisting this man?

I reach for his left hand and plant a kiss on his wedding ring, a plain platinum

band matching my own. "Mine," I whisper.

"Yours," he responds. He curls his arms around me and presses his nose into

my hair. "Shall I run you a bath?"

"Hmm. Only if you join me in it."

"Okay," he says. He sets me onto my feet and stands up beside me. He's still

wearing his jeans.

"Will you wear your . . . er . . . other jeans?"

He frowns down at me. "Other jeans?"

"The ones you used to wear in here."

"Those jeans?" he murmurs blinking with perplexed surprise.

"You look very hot in them."

"Do I?"

"Yeah . . . I mean, really hot."

He smiles, shyly. "Well for you, Mrs. abdullah, maybe I will." He bends to kiss

me then grabs the small bowl on the table that contains the butt plug, the tube of

lubricant, the blindfold, and my panties.

"Who cleans these toys?" I ask as I follow him over to the chest.

He frowns at me, as if not understanding the question. "Me. Mrs. Jones."

"What?"

He nods, amused and embarrassed, I think. He switches off the music.

"Well"um . . ."

"Your subs used to do it?" I finish his sentence. He gives me an apologetic

shrug.

"Here." He hands me his shirt and I put it on, wrapping it around myself. His

scent still clings to the linen, and my chagrin about butt plug washing is forgotten.

He leaves the items on the chest. Taking my hand, he unlocks the playroom door

then leads me out and downstairs. I follow him meekly.

The anxiety, the bad mood, the thrill, fear, and excitement of the car chase

have all gone. I'm relaxed"finally sated and calm. As we enter our bathroom, I

yawn loudly and stretch . . . at ease with myself for a change.

"What is it?" zain asks as he turns on the faucet.

I shake my head.

"Tell me," he asks softly. He spills jasmine bath oil into the running water,

filling the room with its sweet, sensual scent.

I flush. "I just feel better."

He smiles. "Yes, you've been in a strange mood today, Mrs. abdullah." Standing,

he pulls me into his arms. "I know you're worrying about these recent events. I'm

sorry you're caught up in them. I don't know if it's a vendetta, an ex-employee, or

a business rival. If anything were to happen to you because of me"" His voice

drops to a pained whisper. I curl my arms around him.

"What if something happens to you, zain?" I voice my fear.

He gazes down at me. "We'll figure this out. Now let's get you out of this

shirt and into this bath."

"Shouldn't you talk to Sawyer?"

"He can wait." His mouth hardens, and I feel a sudden pang of pity for Sawyer. What's he done to upset zain?

Zain helps me out of his shirt then frowns as I turn to him. My breasts

still bear faded bruises from the love bites he gave me during our honeymoon, but

I decide not to tease him about them.

"I wonder if Ryan has caught up with the Dodge?"

"We'll see, after this bath. Get in." He holds his hand out for me. I climb into

the hot, fragrant water and sit tentatively.

"Ow." My ass is tender, and the hot water makes me wince.

"Easy, baby," zain warns, but as he says it, the uncomfortable sensation

melts away.

zain strips and climbs in behind me, pulling me against his chest. I nestle

between his legs, and we lie idle and content in the hot water. I run my fingers

down his legs, and gathering my braid in one hand, he twirls it gently between his

fingers.

"We need to go over the plans for the new house. Later this evening?"

"Sure." That woman is coming back again. My subconscious gazes up from

volume 3 of The Complete Works of Charles Dickens and glowers. I'm with my

subconscious. I sigh. Unfortunately, Gia Matteo's designs are breathtaking.

"I must get my things ready for work," I whisper.

He stills. "You know you don't have to go back to work," he murmurs.

Oh no . . . not this again. "zain, we've been through this. Please don't resurrect that argument."

He tugs my braid so my face tilts up and back. "Just saying . . ." He plants a

soft kiss on my lips.

I pull on sweat pants and a camisole and decide to fetch my clothes from the playroom. As I make my way across the hallway, I hear zains raised voice from

his study. I freeze.

"Where the f**k were you?"

Oh shit. He's shouting at Sawyer. Cringing, I dash upstairs to the playroom. I

really don't want to hear what he has to say to him"I still find shouty zain

intimidating. Poor Sawyer. At least I get to shout back.

I gather up my clothes and zains shoes, then notice the small porcelain

bowl with the butt plug still on top of the museum chest. Well . . . I suppose I

should clean it. I add it to the pile and make my way back downstairs. I glance

nervously through the great room, but all is quiet. Thank heavens.

Taylor will be back tomorrow evening, and zain is generally calmer

when he's around. Taylor is spending some quality time today and tomorrow with

his daughter. I wonder idly if I'll ever get to meet her.

Mrs. Jones comes out of the utility room. We startle each other.

"Mrs. abdullah"I didn't see you there." Oh, I'm Mrs. abdullah now!

"Hello, Mrs.Jones."

"Welcome home and congratulations." She smiles.

"Please call me aliya."

"Mrs. abdullah, I wouldn't feel comfortable doing that."

Oh! Why must everything change just because I have a ring on my finger?

"Would you like to run through the menus for the week?" she asks, looking at

me expectantly.

Menus?

"Um . . ." This is not a question I have ever anticipated being asked.

She smiles. "When I first worked for Mr. abdullah, every Sunday evening I

would run through the menus for the upcoming week with him and list anything

he might need from the grocery store."

"I see."

"Shall I take those for you?"

She holds out her hands for my clothes.

"Oh . . . um. Actually I haven't finished with these." And they are hiding the

bowl with the butt plug in! I turn crimson. It's a wonder I can look Mrs. Jones in

the eye. She knows what we do"she cleans the room. Jeez, it's just weird having

no privacy.

"When you're ready, Mrs. abdullah. I'd be more than happy to run through

things with you."

"Thank you." We are interrupted by an ashen-faced Sawyer who stalks out of

zains study and briskly crosses the great room. He gives us both a brief nod,

not looking either of us in the eye, and slinks into Taylor's study. I'm grateful for

his intervention as I don't wish to discuss menus or butt plugs with Mrs. Jones

right now. Offering her a brief smile, I scurry back to the bedroom. Will I ever get

used to having domestic staff at my beck and call? I shake my head . . . one day,

maybe.

I dump zains shoes on the floor and my clothes on the bed, and take the

bowl with the butt plug into the bathroom. I eye it suspiciously. It looks innocuous enough, and surprisingly clean. I don't want to dwell on that, and I wash it

quickly with soap and water. Will that be enough? I'll have to ask Mr. Sexpert if

it should be sterilized or something. I shudder at the thought.

I like that zain has turned the library over to me. It now houses an attractive

white wooden desk I can work at. I take out my laptop and check my notes on the

five manuscripts I read on honeymoon.

Yep, I have everything I need. Part of me dreads going back to work, but I

can never tell zain that. He'd seize on the opportunity to make me quit. I remember Roach's apoplectic reaction when I told him I was getting married and to

whom, and how, shortly afterward, my position was confirmed. I realize now it

was because I was marrying the boss. The thought is unwelcome. I am no longer

acting commissioning editor"I am aliya haider, Commissioning Editor.

I haven't yet plucked up the courage to tell zain that I am not going to

change my name at work. I think my reasons are solid. I need some distance from

him, but I know there will be a fight when he finally realizes that. Perhaps I

should discuss this with him tonight.

Sitting back in my chair, I start my final chore of the day. I glance at the digital clock on my laptop, which tells me it's seven in the evening. zain still

hasn't emerged from his study, so I have time. Taking the memory card out of the

Nikon camera, I load it into the laptop to transfer the photographs. As the pictures

upload, I reflect on the day. Is Ryan back? Or is he still on his way to Portland?

Has he caught up with the mystery woman? Has zain heard from him? I want

some answers. I don't care that he's busy; I want to know what's going on, and I

suddenly feel a tad resentful that he's keeping me in the dark. I rise, intending to

go and confront him in his study, but as I do the photos from the last few days of

our honeymoon pop up onscreen.

Holy crap!

Picture after picture of me. Asleep, so many of me asleep, my hair over my

face or fanned out across the pillow, lips parted . . . shit"sucking my thumb. I

haven't sucked my thumb for years! So many photos. I had no idea he'd taken

these. There are a few candid long shots, including one of me leaning over the rail

of the yacht, staring moodily into the distance. How did I not notice him taking

this? I smile at the photos of me curled up beneath him and laughing"my hair

flying as I struggle, fighting his tickling, tormenting fingers. And there's the one

of him and me on the bed in the master cabin that he took at arm's length. I am

cuddled on his chest and he gazes at the camera, young, wide-eyed . . . in love.

His other hand cups my head, and I am smiling like a love-struck fool, but I cannot take my eyes off zain. Oh, my beautiful man, his ruffled just-f**ked hair,

his gray eyes glowing, his lips parted and smiling. My beautiful man who cannot

bear to be tickled, who could not bear to be touched just a short while ago, yet

now he tolerates my touch. I must ask him if he likes it, or whether he lets me

touch him for my pleasure rather than his.

I frown, gazing down at his image, suddenly overwhelmed by my feelings for

him. Someone out there wants to harm him"first Charlie Tango, then the fire at

AEH, and that damned car chase. I gasp, putting my hand to my mouth as an involuntary sob escapes. Abandoning my computer, I leap up to find him"not to

confront him now"just to check that he's safe.

Not bothering to knock, I barge into his study. zain is sitting at his desk

and talking on the phone. He looks up in surprised annoyance, but the irritation on

his face disappears when he sees it's me.

"So you can't enhance it further?" he says, continuing his phone conversation, though he doesn't take his eyes off me. Without hesitation, I walk around his

desk, and he turns in his chair to face me, frowning. I can tell he's thinking what

does she want? When I crawl onto his lap, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I put

my arms around his neck and cuddle into him. Gingerly, he puts his arm around

me.

"Um . . . yes, Barney. Could you hold one moment?" He cups the phone

against his shoulder.

"Aliya, what's wrong?"

I shake my head. Tipping my chin up, he gazes into my eyes. I pull my head

free from his hold, tuck it beneath his chin, and curl up smaller on his lap.

Bemused, he wraps his free arm more tightly around me and kisses the top of my

head.

"Okay, Barney, what were you saying?" He continues, wedging the phone

between his ear and his shoulder, and taps a key on his laptop. A grainy black and

white CCTV image appears on the screen. A man with dark hair wearing pale

coveralls comes on the screen. zain presses another key, and the man walks

toward the camera, but with his head bowed. When the man is closer to the camera, zain freezes the frame. He's standing in a bright white room with what

looks like a long line of tall black cabinets to his left. This must be AEH's server

room.

"Okay Barney, one more time."

The screen springs to life. A box appears around the head of the man in the

CCTV footage and suddenly we zoom in. I sit up, fascinated.

"Is Barney doing this?" I ask quietly.

"Yes," zain answers. "Can you sharpen the picture at all?" he says to

Barney.

The picture blurs, then refocuses moderately sharper of the man consciously

gazing down and avoiding the CCTV camera. As I stare at him, a chill of

recognition sweeps up my spine. There is something familiar in the line of his

jaw. He has scruffy short black hair that looks odd and unkempt . . . and in the

newly sharpened picture, I see an earring, a small hoop.

Holy crap! I know who it is.

"Zain," I whisper. "That's Jack Hyde."

Chap7

"You think?" zain asks, surprised.

"It's the line of his jaw." I point at the screen. "And the earrings and the

shape of his shoulders. He's the right build, too. He must be wearing a wig"or

he's cut and dyed his hair."

"Barney, are you getting this?" zain puts the phone down on his desk

and switches to hands-free. "You seem to have studied your ex-boss in some detail, Mrs. abdullah," he murmurs, sounding none too pleased. I scowl at him, but I'm

saved by Barney."Yes, sir. I heard Mrs. abdullah. I'm running face recognition software on all the

digitized CCTV footage right now. See where else this asshole"I'm sorry

ma'am"this man has been within the organization."

I glance anxiously at zain, who ignores Barney's expletive. He's studying the CCTV picture closely.

"Why would he do this?" I ask zain.

He shrugs. "Revenge, perhaps. I don't know. You can't fathom why some

people behave the way they do. I'm just angry that you ever worked so closely

with him." zains mouth presses into a hard, thin line and he encircles my

waist with his arm.

"We have the contents of his hard drive, too, sir," Barney adds.

"Yes, I remember. Do you have an address for Mr. Hyde?" zain says

sharply.

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Alert Welch."

"Sure will. I'm also going to scan the city CCTV and see if I can track his

movements."

"Check what vehicle he owns."

"Sir."

"Barney can do all this?" I whisper.

zain nods and gives me a smug smile.

"What was on his hard drive?" I whisper.

Zain's face hardens and he shakes his head. "Nothing much," he says,

tight-lipped, his smile forgotten.

"Tell me."

"No."

"Was it about you, or me?"

"Me." He sighs.

"What sort of things? About your lifestyle?"

zain shakes his head and puts his index finger against my lips to silence

me. I scowl at him. But he narrows his eyes, and it's a clear warning that I should

hold my tongue.

"It's a 2006 Camaro. I'll send the license details to Welch, too," Barney says

excitedly from the phone.

"Good. Let me know where else that f**ker has been in my building. And

check this image against the one from his SIP personnel file." zain gazes at

me skeptically. "I want to be sure we have a match."

"Already done, sir, and Mrs. abdullah is correct. This is Jack Hyde."

I grin. See? I can be useful. zain rubs his hand down my back.

"Well done, Mrs. abdullah." He smiles and his earlier rancor forgotten. To Barney he says, "Let me know when you've tracked all his movements at HQ. Also

check out any other AEH property he may have had access to, and let the security

teams know so they can make another sweep of all those buildings."

"Sir."

"Thanks, Barney." zain hangs up.

"Well, Mrs. abdullah, it seems that you are not only decorative, but useful, too."

zains eyes light up with wicked amusement. I know he's teasing.

"Decorative?" I scoff, teasing him back.

"Very," he says quietly, pressing a soft, sweet kiss on my lips.

"You're much more decorative than I am, Mr. abdullah."

He grins and kisses me more forcefully, winding my braid around his wrist

and wrapping his arms around me. When we come up for air, my heart is racing.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"No."

"I am."

"What for?"

"Well"food actually, Mrs. abdullah."

"I'll make you something." I giggle.

"I love that sound."

"Of me offering you food?"

"You giggling." He kisses my hair then I stand.

"So what would you like to eat, Sir?" I ask sweetly.

He narrows his eyes. "Are you being cute, Mrs. abdullah?"

"Always, Mr. Abdullah . . . Sir."

He smiles a sphinxlike smile. "I can still put you over my knee," he murmurs

seductively.

"I know." I grin. Placing my hands on the arms of his office chair, I lean

down and kiss him. "That's one of the things I love about you. But stow your

twitching palm"you're hungry.

He smiles his shy smile and my heart clenches. "Oh, Mrs. Abdullah , what am I

going to do with you?"

"You're going to answer my question. What would you like to eat?"

"Something light. Surprise me," he says, mirroring my words from the playroom earlier.

"I'll see what I can do." I sashay out of his study and into the kitchen. My

heart sinks when I see Mrs. Jones is there.

"Hello, Mrs. Jones."

"Mrs. Abdullah . Are you ready for something to eat?"

"Um . . ."

She is stirring something in a pot on the stove that smells delicious.

"I was going to make subs for Mr. abdullah and me."

She pauses for a heartbeat. "Sure," she says. "Mr. abdullah likes French

bread"there is some in the freezer cut to sub length. I'd be happy to make it for

you, ma'am."

"I know. But I'd like to do this."

"I understand. I'll give you some room."

"What are you cooking?"

"This is a bolognaise sauce. It can be eaten anytime. I'll freeze it." She smiles

warmly and turns the heat right down.

"Um"so what does zain like in a, um . . . sub?" I frown, struck by what

I've just said. Does Mrs. Jones understand the inference?

"Mrs. abdullah, you could put just about anything in a sandwich, and as long as

it's on French bread, he'll eat it." We grin at each other.

"Okay, thank you." I skip to the freezer and find the French bread cut to size

in Ziplock bags. I place two of them on a plate, pop them into the microwave, and

set it to defrost.

Mrs. Jones has disappeared. I frown as I return to the fridge to search for ingredients. I suppose it will be up to me to set the parameters by which Mrs. Jones

and I will work together. I like the idea of cooking for zain on the weekends.

Mrs. Jones is more than welcome to do it during the week"the last thing I'll want

to do when I come home from work is cook. Hmm . . . a bit like zains

routine with his submissives. I shake my head. I mustn't overthink this. I find

some ham in the fridge, and in the crisper a perfectly ripe avocado.

As I am adding a touch of salt and lemon to the mashed avocado, zain

emerges from his study with the plans for the new house in his hands. He puts

them on the breakfast bar, saunters toward me, and wraps his arms around me,

kissing my neck.

"Barefoot and in the kitchen," he murmurs.

"Shouldn't that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?" I smirk.

He stills, his whole body tensing against me. "Not yet," he declares, apprehension clear in his voice.

"No! Not yet!"

He relaxes. "On that we can agree, Mrs. abdullah."

"You do want kids though, don't you?"

"Sure, yes. Eventually. But I'm not ready to share you yet." He kisses my

neck again.

Oh . . . share?

"What are you making? Looks good." He kisses me behind my ear, and I

know it's to distract me. A delicious tingle travels down my spine.

"Subs." I smirk, recovering my sense of humor.

He smiles against my neck and nips my earlobe. "My favorite."

I poke him with my elbow.

"Mrs. abdullah, you wound me." He clutches his side as if in pain.

"Wimp," I mutter disapprovingly.

"Wimp?" he utters in disbelief. He slaps my behind, making me yelp. "Hurry

up with my food, wench. And later I'll show you how wimpy I can be." He slaps

me playfully once more and goes to the fridge.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" he asks.

"Please."

zain spreads Gia's plans out over the breakfast bar. She really has some spectacular ideas.

"I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but . . ."

"But?" zain prompts.

I sigh. "I don't want to take all the character out of the house."

"Character?"

"Yes. What Gia is proposing is quite radical, but . . . well . . . I fell in love

with the house as it is . . . warts and all."

zains brow furrows as if this is anathema to him.

"I kind of like it the way it is," I whisper. Is this going to make him mad?

He regards me steadily. "I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever

you want. It's yours."

"I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too."

"I'll be happy wherever you are. It's that simple, aliya ." His gaze holds mine.

He is utterly, utterly sincere. I blink at him as my heart expands. Holy cow, he

really does love me.

"Well""I swallow, fighting the small knot of emotion that catches in my

throat""I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the

house a little more sympathetically."

zain grins. "Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs

and the basement?"

"I'm cool with those."

"Good."

Okay . . . I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. "Do you want to

put in a playroom?" I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask.

zains eyebrows shoot up.

"Do you?" he replies, surprised and amused at once.

I shrug. "Um . . . if you want."

He regards me for a moment. "Let's leave our options open for the moment.

After all, this will be a family home."

I'm surprised by the stab of disappointment I feel. I guess he's right . . . although when are we going to have a family? It could be years.

"Besides, we can improvise." He smirks.

"I like improvising," I whisper.

He grins. "There's something I want to discuss." zain points to the master bedroom, and we start a detailed discussion on bathrooms and separate walk-in

closets.

When we finish, it's nine thirty in the evening.

"Are you going back to work?" I ask as zain rolls up the plans.

"Not if you don't want me to." He smiles. "What would you like to do?"

"We could watch TV." I don't want to read, and I don't want to go to bed . . .

yet.

"Okay," zain agrees willingly, and I follow him into the TV room.

We have sat here three, maybe four times total, and zain usually reads a

book. He's not interested in television at all. I curl up beside him on the couch,

tucking my legs beneath me and resting my head against his shoulder. He

switches on the flat-screen television with the remote and flicks mindlessly

through the channels.

"Any specific drivel you want to see?"

"You don't like TV much, do you?" I mutter sardonically.

He shakes his head. "Waste of time. But I'll watch something with you."

"I thought we could make out."

He whips his face to mine. "Make out?" He gazes at me as if I've grown two

heads. He stops the endless flicking, leaving the TV on an over lit Spanish soap

opera.

"Yes." Why is he so horrified?

"We could go to bed and make out."

"We do that all the time. When was the last time you made out in front of the

TV?" I ask, shy and teasing at the same time.

He shrugs and shakes his head. Pressing the remote again, he flicks through

another few channels before settling on an old episode of The X-Files.

"zain?"

"I've never done that," he says quietly.

"Never?"

"No."

"Not even with Mrs. Robinson?"

He snorts. "Baby, I did a lot of things with Mrs. Robinson. Making out was

not one of them." He smirks at me and then narrows his eyes with amused curiosity. "Have you?"

I flush. "Of course." Well kind of . . .

"What! Who with?"

Oh no. I do not want to have this discussion.

"Tell me," he persists.

I gaze down at my knotted fingers. He gently covers my hands with one of

his. When I glance up at him, he's smiling at me.

"I want to know. So I can beat whoever it was to a pulp."

I giggle. "Well, the first time . . ."

"The first time! There's more than one f**ker?" He growls.

I giggle again. "Why so surprised, Mr. abdullah?"

He frowns briefly, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at me as if seeing

me in a completely different light. He shrugs. "I just am. I mean"given your lack

of experience."

I flush. "I've certainly made up for that since I met you."

"You have." He grins. "Tell me. I want to know."

I gaze into patient gray eyes, trying to gauge his mood. Is this going to make

him mad, or does he genuinely want to know? I don't want him sulking . . . he's

impossible when he's sulking.

"You really want me to tell you?"

He nods slowly once, and his lips twitch with an amused, arrogant smile.

"I was briefly in Vegas with Mom and Husband Number Three. I was in

tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in physics."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

"And what's he doing now?"

"I don't know."

"What base did he get to?"

"zain!" I scold"and suddenly he grabs my knees, then my ankles, and

tips me up so I fall back on to the couch. He slides smoothly on top of me, trapping me beneath him, one leg between mine. It's so sudden that I cry out in surprise. He grabs my hands and raises them above my head.

"So, this Bradley"did he get to first base?" he murmurs, running his nose

down the length of mine. He plants soft kisses at the corner of my mouth.

"Yes," I murmur against his lips. He releases one of his hands so that he can

clasp my chin and hold me still while his tongue invades my mouth, and I surrender to his ardent kissing.

"Like this?" zain breathes when he comes up for air.

"No . . . nothing like that," I manage as all the blood in my body heads south.

Releasing my chin, he runs his hand down over my body and back up to my

breast.

"Did he do this? Touch you like this?" His thumb skims over my nipple,

through my camisole, softly, repeatedly, and it hardens under his expert touch.

"No." I writhe beneath him.

"Did he get to second base?" he murmurs in my ear. His hand moves down

across my ribs, past my waist to my hip. He takes my earlobe between his teeth

and gently tugs.

"No," I breathe.

Mulder blurts from the television something about the FBI's most unwanted.

zain pauses, leans up, and presses mute on the remote. He gazes down at

me.

"What about Joe Schmo number two? Did he make it past second base?"

His eyes are smoldering hot . . . angry? Turned on? It's difficult to say which.

He shifts to my side and slides his hand beneath my sweatpants.

"No," I whisper, trapped in his carnal gaze. zain smiles wickedly.

"Good." His hand cups my sex. "No underwear, Mrs. abdullah. I approve." He

kisses me again as his fingers weave more magic, his thumb skimming over my

c***oris, tantalizing me, as he pushes his index finger inside me with exquisite

slowness.

"We're supposed to be making out." I groan.

zain stills. "I thought we were?"

"No. No sex."

"What?"

"No sex . . ."

"No sex, huh?" He withdraws his hand from my sweatpants. "Here." He

traces my lips with his index finger, and I taste my slick saltiness. He pushes his

finger into my mouth, mirroring what he was doing a moment earlier. Then shifts

so he's between my legs, and his erection pushes against me. He thrusts, once,

twice, and again. I gasp as the material of my sweatpants rubs in just the right

way. He pushes once more, grinding into me.

"This what you want?" he murmurs and moves his hips rhythmically, rocking

against me.

"Yes." I moan.

His hand moves back to concentrate on my nipple once more and his teeth

scrape along my jaw. "Do you know how hot you are, Aliya?" His voice is hoarse

as he rocks harder against me. I open my mouth to articulate a response and fail

miserably, groaning loudly. He captures my mouth once more, tugging at my bottom lip with his teeth before plunging his tongue into my mouth again. He releases my other wrist and my hands travel greedily up his shoulders and into his

hair as he kisses me. When I pull on his hair, he groans and raises his eyes to

mine.

"Ah . . ."

"Do you like me touching you?" I whisper.

His brow furrows briefly as if he doesn't understand the question. He stops

grinding against me. "Of course I do. I love you touching me, Aliya. I'm like a

starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch." His voice hums with passionate sincerity.

Holy cow . . .

He kneels between my legs and drags me up to haul off my top. I'm naked

beneath. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head and tosses it on

the floor, then pulls me onto his kneeling lap, his arms clasped just above my

behind.

"Touch me," he breathes.

Oh my . . . Tentatively I reach up and brush the tips of my fingers through the

smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales sharply

and his pupils dilate, but it's not with fear. It's a sensual response to my touch. He

watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin, first to one nipple

and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress. Leaning forward, I plant soft

kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his shoulders, feeling the hard, sculptured lines of sinew and muscle. Jeez . . . he's in good shape.

"I want you," he murmurs and it's a green light to my libido. My fingers

move into his hair, pulling his head back so I can claim his mouth, fire licking hot

and high in my belly. He groans and pushes me back onto the couch. He sits up

and rips off my sweatpants, undoing his fly at the same time.

"Home run," he whispers, and swiftly he fills me.

"Ah . . ." I groan and he stills, grabbing my face between his hands.

"I love you, Mrs. abdullah," he murmurs and very slowly, very gently, he makes

love to me until I come apart at the seams, calling his name and wrapping myself

around him, never wanting to let him go.

I lay sprawled on his chest. We're on the floor of the TV room.

"You know, we completely bypassed third base." My fingers trace the line of

his pectoral muscles.

He laughs. "Next time, Mrs. abdullah." He kisses the top of my head.

I look up to stare at the television screen where the end credits for The XFiles play. zain reaches for the remote and switches the sound back on.

"You liked that show?" I ask.

"When I was a kid."

Oh . . . zain as a kid . . . kickboxing and X Files and no touching.

"You?" he asks.

"Before my time."

"You're so young." zain smiles fondly. "I like making out with you,

Mrs. abdullah."

"Likewise, Mr. abdullah." I kiss his chest, and we lie silently watching as The XFiles finish and the commercials come on.

"It's been a heavenly three weeks. Car chases and fires and psycho ex-bosses

Notwithstanding. Like being in our own private bubble," I mutter dreamily.

"Hmm," zain hums deep in his throat. "I'm not sure I'm ready to share

you with the rest of the world yet."

"Back to reality tomorrow," I murmur, trying to keep the melancholy from

my voice.

zain sighs and runs his other hand through his hair. "Security will be

tight"" I put my finger over his lips. I don't want to hear this lecture again.

"I know. I'll be good. I promise." Which reminds me . . . I shift, propping

myself up on my elbows to see him better. "Why were you shouting at Sawyer?"

He stiffens immediately. Oh shit.

"Because we were followed."

"That wasn't Sawyer's fault."

He gazes at me levelly. "They should never have let you get so far in front.

They know that."

I blush guiltily and resume my position, resting on his chest. It was my fault.

I wanted to get away from them.

"That wasn't""

"Enough!" zain is suddenly curt. "This is not up for discussion, aliya. It's a fact, and they won't let it happen again."

Aliya! I am Aliya when I am in trouble just like at home with my

mother.

"Okay," I mutter, placating him. I don't want to fight. "Did Ryan catch up

with the woman in the Dodge?"

"No. And I'm not convinced it was a woman."

"Oh?" I look up again.

"Sawyer saw someone with their hair tied back, but it was a brief look. He assumed it was a woman. Now, given that you've identified that f**ker, maybe it

was him. He wore his hair like that." The disgust in zains voice is palpable.

I don't know what to make of this news. zain runs his hand down my naked back, distracting me.

"If anything happened to you . . . ," he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

"I know," I whisper. "I feel the same about you." I shiver at the thought.

"Come. You're getting cold," he says, sitting up. "Let's go to bed. We can

cover third base there." He smiles a lascivious smile, as mercurial as ever, passionate, angry, anxious, sexy"my Fifty Shades. I take his hand and he pulls me

to my feet, and without a stitch on, I follow him through the great room to the

bedroom.

The following morning, zain squeezes my hand as we pull up outside SIP.

He looks very much the powerful executive in his dark navy suit and matching tie,

and I smile. He's not been this smart since the ballet in Monaco.

"You know you don't have to do this?" zain murmurs. I am tempted to

roll my eyes at him.

"I know," I whisper, not wanting Sawyer and Ryan to overhear me from the

front of the Audi. He frowns and I smile.

"But I want to," I continue. "You know this." I lean up and kiss him. His

frown doesn't disappear. "What's wrong?"He glances uncertainly at Ryan as

Sawyer climbs out of the car. "I'll miss having you to myself."

I reach up to caress his face. "Me, too." I kiss him. "It was a wonderful honeymoon. Thank you."

"Go to work, Mrs. abdullah."

"You, too, Mr. abdullah."

Sawyer opens the door. I squeeze zain's hand once more before I climb

out onto the sidewalk. As I head into the building, I give him a little wave. Sawyer

holds open the door and follows me in.

"Hi, Aliya." Claire smiles from behind the reception desk.

"Claire, hello." I smile back.

"You look wonderful. Good honeymoon?"

"The best, thank you. How's it been here?"

"Old man Roach is the same, but security has been stepped up and our server

room is being overhauled. But Hannah will tell you."

Sure she will. I give Claire a friendly smile and head to my office.

Hannah is my assistant. She is tall, slim, and ruthlessly efficient to the point

that sometimes I find her a little intimidating. But she's sweet to me, in spite of

the fact that she's a couple of years older. She has my latte waiting"the only coffee I let her get for me.

"Hi, Hannah," I say warmly.

"Aliya, how was your honeymoon?"

"Fantastic. Here"for you." I pop the small bottle of perfume I bought for her

onto her desk, and she claps her hands with glee.

"Oh, thank you!" she says enthusiastically. "Your urgent correspondence is

on your desk, and Roach would like to see you at ten. That's all I have to report

for now."

"Good. Thank you. And thanks for the coffee." Wandering into my office, I

rest my briefcase on my desk and gaze at the piled up letters. Jeez, I have a lot to

do.

Just before ten there's a timid tap on my door.

"Come in."

Elizabeth looks around the door. "Hi, Aliya. I just wanted to say welcome

back."

"Hey. I have to say, reading through all this correspondence, I wish I was

back in the South of France."

Elizabeth laughs, but her laughter is off, forced, and I cock my head to one

side and gaze at her like zain does to me.

"Glad you're back safely," she says. "I'll see you in a few minutes at the

meeting with Roach."

"Okay," I murmur, and she shuts the door behind her. I frown at the closed

door. What was that about? I shrug it off. My e-mail pings"it's a message from

zain.

From: zain

Subject: Errant Wives

Date: August 22, 2011 09:56

To: aliya

Wife

I sent the e-mail below and it bounced.

And it's because you haven't changed your name.

Something you want to tell me?

Zain xx

CEO, Abdullah Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Attachment:

From: zain

FW Subject: Bubble

Date: August 22, 2011 09:32

To: aliya

Mrs. Abdullah

Love covering all the bases with you.

Have a great first day back.

Miss our bubble already.

Zain xx

Back in the Real World CEO, Abdullah Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Shit. I hit reply immediately.

From: aliya

Subject: Don't Burst the Bubble

Date: August 22, 2011 09:58

To: zain

Husband

I am all for a baseball metaphor with you, Mr. abdullah.

I want to keep my name here.

I'll explain this evening.

I am going in to a meeting now.

Miss our bubble, too . . .

PS: Thought I had to use my BlackBerry?

Aliya Haider

Commissioning Editor, SIP

This is going to be such a fight. I can feel it. Sighing, I gather up my papers

for the meeting.

The meeting lasts for two hours. All the commissioning editors are there, plus

Roach and Elizabeth. We discuss personnel, strategy, marketing, security, and

year-end. As the meeting progresses, I grow more and more uncomfortable.

There's a subtle change in how my colleagues are treating me"a distance and

deference that wasn't there before I left for my honeymoon. And from Courtney,

who heads up the non-fiction division, there's downright hostility. Maybe I'm just

being paranoid but it goes some way to explaining Elizabeth's odd greeting this

morning.

My mind drifts back to the yacht, then to the playroom, then to the R8 speeding away from the mystery Dodge on I-5. Perhaps zains right . . . perhaps I

can't do this anymore. The thought is depressing"this is all I've ever wanted to

do. If I can't do this, what will I do? As I walk back to my office, I try to dismiss

these dark thoughts.

When I sit down at my desk, I quickly check my e-mails. Nothing from

zain. I check my BlackBerry . . . Still nothing. Good. At least there's been no

adverse reaction to my e-mail. Perhaps we'll discuss this tonight as per my request. I find that hard to believe, but ignoring my uneasy feeling, I open the marketing plan I was given at the meeting.

As is our ritual on a Monday, Hannah comes into my office with a plate for my

packed lunch courtesy of Mrs. Jones, and we sit and eat our lunches together, discussing what we want to achieve during the week. She brings me up to date with

the office gossip, too, which"considering I've been away for three weeks"is

pretty thin on the ground. As we're chatting, there's a knock on the door.

"Come in."

Roach opens the door, and standing beside him is zain. I'm momentarily

struck dumb. zain shoots me a blazing look and stalks in, before smiling politely at Hannah.

"Hello, you must be Hannah. I'm Zain Abdullah," he says. Hannah

scrambles to her feet and holds out her hand.

"Mr. Abdullah. H-how nice to meet you," she stutters as they shake hands. "Can I

fetch you a coffee?"

"Please," he says warmly. With a quick puzzled glance at me, she scuttles out

of the office past Roach, who stands as dumbstruck as me on the threshold of my

office.

"If you'll excuse me, Roach, I'd like a word with Ms. Haider." Zain

hisses the H sibilantly . . . sarcastically.

This is why he's here . . . Oh shit.

"Of course, Mr. Abdullah. Aliya," Roach mutters, shutting the door to my office as

he departs. I recover my power of speech.

"Mr. abdullah, how nice to see you." I smile, far too sweetly.

"Ms. haider, may I sit down?"

"It's your company." I wave at the chair Hannah vacated.

"Yes, it is." He smiles wolfishly at me, the smile not reaching his eyes. His

tone is clipped. He's bristling with tension"I can feel it all around me. f**k. My

heart sinks.

"Your office is very small," he says as he sits down facing my desk.

"It suits me."

He regards me neutrally, but I know he's mad. I take a deep breath. This is

not going to be fun.

"So what can I do for you, zain?"

"I'm just looking over my assets."

"Your assets? All of them?"

"All of them. Some of them need rebranding."

"Rebranding? In what way?"

"I think you know." His voice is menacingly quiet.

"Please"don't tell me you have interrupted your day after three weeks away

to come over here and fight with me about my name." I am not a freaking asset!

He shifts and crosses his legs. "Not exactly fight. No."

"zain, I'm working."

"Looked like you were gossiping with your assistant to me."

My cheeks heat. "We were going through our schedules," I snap. "And you

haven't answered my question."

There's a knock on the door. "Come in!" I shout, too loudly.

Hannah opens the door and brings in a small tray. Milk jug, sugar bowl, coffee in a French press"she's gone all out. She places the tray on my desk.

"Thank you, Hannah," I mutter, embarrassed that I have just shouted so

loudly.

"Do you need anything else, Mr. Abdullah?" she asks all breathless. I want to roll

my eyes at her.

"No, thank you. That's all." He smiles his dazzling, panty-dropping smile at

her. She flushes and exits simpering. zain turns his attention back to me.

"Now, Ms. Haider, where were we?"

"You were rudely interrupting my work day to fight with me about my

name."

zain blinks once"surprised, I think, by the vehemence in my voice.

Deftly, he picks at an invisible piece of lint on his knee with long skilled fingers.

It's distracting. He's doing it on purpose. I narrow my eyes at him.

"I like to make the odd impromptu visit. It keeps management on their toes,

wives in their place. You know." He shrugs, his mouth set in an arrogant line.

Wives in their place! "I had no idea you could spare the time," I snap.

His eyes frost. "Why don't you want to change your name here?" he asks, his

voice deathly quiet.

"zain, do we have to discuss this now?"

"I'm here. I don't see why not."

"I have a ton of work to do, having been away for the last three weeks."

He gazes at me, his eyes cool and assessing"distant even. I marvel that he

can appear so cold after last night, after the last three weeks. Shit. He must be so

mad"really mad. When will he learn not to overreact?

"Are you ashamed of me?" he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

"No! zain, of course not." I scowl at him. "This is about me"not you."

Jeez, he's exasperating sometimes. Silly overbearing megalomaniac.

"How is this not about me?" He cocks his head to one side, genuinely perplexed, some of his detachment slipping as he stares at me with wide eyes, and I

realize that he's hurt. Holy f**k. I've hurt his feelings. Oh no . . . he's the last person I want to hurt. I have to make him see my logic. I have to explain my reasoning for my decision.

"zain, when I took this job, I'd only just met you," I say patiently, struggling to find the right words. "I didn't know you were going to buy the

company""

What can I say about that event in our brief history? His deranged reasons for

doing so"his control freakery, his stalker tendencies gone mad, given completely

free rein because he is so wealthy. I know he wants to keep me safe, but it's his

ownership of SIP that is the fundamental problem here. If he'd never interfered, I

could continue as normal and not have to face the disgruntled and whispered recriminations of my colleagues. I put my head in my hands just to break eye contact with him.

"Why is it so important to you?" I ask, desperately trying to hold on to my

fraying temper. I look up at his impassive stare, his eyes luminous, giving nothing

away, his earlier hurt now hidden. But even as I ask the question, deep down I

know the answer before he says it.

"I want everyone to know that you're mine."

"I am yours"look." I hold up my left hand, showing my wedding and engagement rings.

"It's not enough."

"Not enough that I married you?" My voice is barely a whisper.

He blinks, registering the horror on my face. Where can I go from here?

What else can I do?

"That's not what I mean," he snaps and runs a hand through his overlong hair

so that it flops onto his forehead.

"What do you mean?"

He swallows. "I want your world to begin and end with me," he says, his expression raw. His comment completely derails me. It's like he's punched me hard

in the stomach, winding and wounding me. And the vision comes to mind of a

small, frightened, copper-haired gray-eyed boy in dirty, mismatched, ill-fitting

clothes.

"It does," I say without guile, because it's the truth. "I'm just trying to establish a career, and I don't want to trade on your name. I have to do something,

zain. I can't stay imprisoned at Escala or the new house with nothing to do.

I'll go crazy. I'll suffocate. I've always worked, and I enjoy this. This is my

dream job; it's all I've ever wanted. But doing this doesn't mean I love you less.

You are the world to me." My throat swells and tears prick the back of my eyes. I

must not cry, not here. I repeat it over and over in my head. I must not cry. I must

not cry.

He stares at me, saying nothing. Then a frown crosses his face as if he's considering what I've said.

"I suffocate you?" His voice is bleak, and it's an echo of a question he's

asked me before.

"No . . . yes . . . no." This is such an exasperating conversation"not one that

I want to have now, here. I close my eyes and rub my forehead, trying to fathom

how we got to this.

"Look, we were talking about my name. I want to keep my name here because I want to put some distance between you and me . . . but only here, that's

all. You know everyone thinks I got the job because of you, when the reality is""

I stop, when his eyes widen. Oh no . . . it is because of him?

"Do you want to know why you got the job, Aliya?"

Aliya? Shit. "What? What do you mean?"

He shifts in his chair as if steeling himself. Do I want to know?

"The management here gave you Hyde's job to babysit. They didn't want the

expense of hiring a senior executive when the company was mid-sale. They had

no idea what the new owner would do with it once it passed into his ownership,

and wisely, they didn't want an expensive redundancy. So they gave you Hyde's

job to caretake until the new owner" "he pauses, and his lips twitch in an ironic

smile""namely me, took over."

Holy crap! "What are you saying?" So it was because of him. f**k! I'm

horrified.

He smiles and shakes his head at my alarm. "Relax. You've more than risen

to the challenge. You've done very well." There's the tiniest hint of pride in his

voice, and it's almost my undoing.

"Oh," I murmur incoherently, reeling from this news. I sit right back in my

chair, open-mouthed, staring at him. He shifts again.

"I don't want to suffocate you, Aliya. I don't want to put you in a gilded cage.

Well . . ." He pauses, his face darkening. "Well, the rational part of me doesn't."

He strokes his chin thoughtfully as his mind concocts some plan.

Oh, where is he going with this? zain looks up suddenly, as if he's had a

eureka moment. "So one of the reasons I'm here"apart from dealing with my errant wife," he says, narrowing his eyes, "is to discuss what I am going to do with

this company."

Errant wife! I am not errant, and I'm not an asset! I scowl at zain again

and the threat of tears subsides.

"So what are your plans?" I incline my head to one side, mirroring him, and I

can't help my sarcastic tone. His lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

Jeez"change of mood, again! How can I ever keep up with Mr. Mercurial?

"I'm renaming the company"to Abdullah Publishing."

Holy shit.

"And in a year's time, it will be yours."

My mouth drops open once more"wider this time.

"This is my wedding present to you."

I shut my mouth then open it, trying to articulate something"but there's

nothing there. My mind is blank.

"So, do I need to change the name to Haider Publishing?"

He's serious. Holy f**k.

"zain," I whisper when my brain finally reconnects with my mouth.

"You gave me a watch . . . I can't run a business."

He tilts his head to one side again and gives me a censorious frown. "I ran my

own business from the age of twenty-one."

"But you're . . . you. Control freak and whiz-kid extraordinaire. Jeez zain, you majored in economics at Harvard before you dropped out. At least you

have some idea. I sold paint and cable ties for three years on a part-time basis, for

heaven's sake. I've seen so little of the world, and I know next to nothing!" My

voice rises, growing louder and higher, as I complete my tirade.

"You're also the most well-read person I know," he counters earnestly. "You

love a good book. You couldn't leave your job while we were on our honeymoon.

You read how many manuscripts? Four?"

"Five," I whisper.

"And you wrote full reports on all of them. You're a very bright woman,

aliya. I'm sure you'll manage."

"Are you crazy?"

"Crazy for you," he whispers.

And I snort because it's the only expression my body can make. He narrows

his eyes.

"You'll be a laughing stock. Buying a company for the little woman, who has

only had a full time job for a few months of her adult life."

"Do you think I give a f**k what people think? Besides, you won't be on

your own."

I gape at him. He really has lost his marbles this time. "zain, I . . ." I put

my head in my hands"my emotions have been through a wringer. Is he crazy?

And from somewhere dark and deep inside I have the sudden, inappropriate need

to laugh. When I look up at him again, his eyes widen.

"Something amusing you, Ms. haider?"

"Yes. You."

His eyes widen further, shocked but also amused. "Laughing at your husband? That will never do. And you're biting your lip." His eyes darken . . . in that

way. Oh no"I know that look. Sultry, seductive, salacious . . . No, no, no! Not

here.

"Don't even think about it," I warn, alarm clear in my voice.

"Think about what, aliya?"

"I know that look. We're at work."

He leans forward, his eyes glued to mine, molten gray and hungry. Holy shit!

I swallow instinctively. "We're in a small, reasonably sound-proofed office with a

lockable door."

"Gross moral turpitude." I enunciate each word carefully.

"Not with your husband."

"With my boss's boss's boss," I hiss.

"You're my wife."

"zain, no. I mean it. You can f**k me seven shades of Sunday this evening. But not now. Not here!"

He blinks and narrows his eyes once more. Then unexpectedly he laughs.

"Seven shades of Sunday?" He arches an eyebrow, intrigued. "I may hold

you to that, Ms. haider."

"Oh, stop with the Ms. haider!" I snap and thump the desk, startling us both.

"For heaven's sake, zain. If it means so much to you, I'll change my name!"

His mouth pops open as he inhales sharply. And then he grins, a radiant, allteeth-showing, joyous grin. Wow . . .

"Good." He claps his hands, and all of a sudden he stands.

What now?

"Mission accomplished. Now, I have work to do. If you'll excuse me, Mrs.

Abdullah."

Gah"this man is so maddening! "But""

"But what, Mrs. Abdullah?"

I sag. "Just go."

"I intend to. I'll see you this evening. I'm looking forward to seven shades of

Sunday."

I scowl.

"Oh, and I have a stack of business-related social engagements coming up,

and I'd like you to accompany me."

I gape at him. Will you just go?

"I'll have Andrea call Hannah to put the dates in your calendar. There are

some people you need to meet. You should get Hannah to handle your schedule

from now on."

"Okay," I mumble, completely bemused, bewildered and shell-shocked.

He leans over my desk. What now? I am caught in his hypnotic gaze.

"Love doing business with you, Mrs. abdullah." He leans in closer as I sit paralyzed, and he plants a soft tender kiss on my lips. "Laters, baby," he murmurs. He

stands abruptly, winks at me, and leaves.

I lay my head on my desk, feeling like I've been run over by a freight

train"the freight train that is my beloved husband. He has to be the most frustrating, annoying, contrary man on the planet. I sit up and frantically rub my eyes.

What have I just agreed to? Okay, Aliya Abdullah running SIP"I mean, Abdullah Publishing. The man is insane. There's a knock on the door, and Hannah pokes her head

around.

"You okay?" she asks.

I just stare at her. She frowns.

"I know you don't like me doing this"but can I make you some tea?"

I nod.

"Twinings English Breakfast, weak and black?"

I nod.

"Coming right up, Aliya."

I stare blankly at my computer screen, still in shock. How can I make him

understand? E-mail!

From: aliya

Subject: NOT AN ASSET!

Date: August 22, 2011 14:23

To: zain

Mr. Abdullah

Next time you come and see me, make an appointment, so I can at least have some

prior warning of your adolescent overbearing megalomania.

Yours

Aliya Abdullah <-----please note name.

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: zain

Subject: Seven Shades of Sunday

Date: August 22, 2011 14:34

To: aliya

My Dear Mrs. Abdullah (emphasis on My)

What can I say in my defense? I was in the neighborhood.

And no, you are not an asset, you are my beloved wife.

As ever, you make my day.

Zain xxx

CEO & Overbearing Megalomaniac, Abdullah Enterprises Holdings Inc.

He's trying to be funny, but I am in no mood to laugh. I take a deep breath and go

back to my correspondence.

zain is quiet when I climb into the car that evening.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hi," he responds, warily"as he should.

"Disrupt anyone else's work today?" I ask too sweetly.

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Only Flynn's."

Oh.

"Next time you go to see him, I'll give you a list of topics I want covered," I

hiss at him.

"You seem out of sorts, Mrs. abdullah."

I glare steadily at the backs of Ryan and Sawyer's heads in front of me.

zain shifts beside me.

"Hey," he says softly and reaches for my hand. All afternoon, when I should

have been concentrating on work, I was trying to figure out what to say to him.

But I became angrier and angrier with each passing hour. I've had enough of his

cavalier, petulant, and frankly childish behavior. I snatch my hand out of his"in a

cavalier, petulant, and childish manner.

"You're mad at me?" he whispers.

"Yes," I hiss. Folding my arms protectively across my body, I gaze out my

window. He shifts beside me once more, but I will myself not to look at him. I

don't understand why I'm so mad at him"but I am. Really f**king mad.

As soon as we pull up outside Escala, I break protocol and leap out of the car

with my briefcase. I stomp into the building, not checking to see who is following.

Ryan scuttles into the foyer behind me and dashes to the elevator to press the call

button.

"What?" I snap when I'm alongside him. His cheeks redden.

"Apologies, ma'am," he mutters.

zain comes and stands beside me to wait for the elevator, and Ryan

retreats.

"So it's not just me you're mad at?" zain murmurs dryly. I glare up at

him and see a trace of a smile on his face.

"Are you laughing at me?" I narrow my eyes.

"I wouldn't dare," he says, holding his hands up like I'm threatening him at

gunpoint. He's in his navy suit, looking crisp and clean with floppy sex-hair and a

guileless expression.

"You need a haircut," I mutter. Turning away from him, I step into the

elevator.

"Do I?" he says while brushing his hair off his forehead. He follows me in.

"Yes." I tap the code for our apartment into the keypad.

"So you're talking to me now?"

"Just."

"What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication," he asks cautiously.

I turn and gape at him.

"Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have

an inkling? I can't believe you're that obtuse."

He takes an alarmed step back. "You really are mad. I thought we had sorted

all this in your office," he murmurs, perplexed.

"zain, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That's all."

The elevator doors open and I storm out. Taylor is standing in the hallway.

He takes a step back and quickly shuts his mouth as I steam past him.

"Hi, Taylor," I mutter.

"Mrs. abdullah," he murmurs.

Dropping my briefcase in the hallway, I head into the great room. Mrs. Jones

is at the stove.

"Good evening, Mrs. Grey."

"Hi, Mrs. Jones," I mutter once more. I head straight to the fridge and pull

out a bottle of white wine. zain follows me into the kitchen and watches me

like a hawk as I take a glass down from the cupboard. He removes his jacket and

casually places it on the countertop.

"Do you want a drink?" I ask super sweetly.

"No thanks," he says, not taking his eyes off me, and I know that he's helpless. He does not know what to do with me. It's comical on one level and tragic

on another. Well, screw him! I am having trouble locating my compassionate self

since our meeting this afternoon. Slowly, he removes his tie then opens the top

button of his shirt. I pour myself a large glass of sauvignon blanc, and zain

runs a hand through his hair. When I turn around, Mrs. Jones has disappeared.

Shit! She's my human shield. I take a slug of wine. Hmm. It tastes good.

"Stop this," zain whispers. He takes the two steps between us so he's

standing in front of me. Gently he tucks my hair behind my ear and caresses my

earlobe with his fingertips, sending a shiver through me. Is this what I've missed

all day? His touch? I shake my head, causing him to release my ear and gaze up at

him.

"Talk to me," he murmurs.

"What's the point? You don't listen to me."

"Yes I do. You're one of the few people I do listen to."

I take another swig of wine.

"Is this about your name?"

"Yes and no. It's how you dealt with the fact that I disagreed with you." I

glare up at him, expecting him to be angered.

His brow furrows. "Aliya, you know I have . . . issues. It's hard for me to let

go where you're concerned. You know that."

"But I'm not a child, and I'm not an asset."

"I know." He sighs.

"Then stop treating me as though I am," I whisper, imploring him.

He brushes the back of his fingers down my cheek and runs the tip of his

thumb across my bottom lip.

"Don't be mad. You're so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child,"

he whispers, a somber reverent expression on his face. His words distract me. Like

a child. Precious like a child . . . a child would be precious to him!

"I'm neither of those things, zain. I'm your wife. If you were hurt that I

wasn't going to take your name, you should have said."

"Hurt?" He frowns deeply, and I know that he's exploring the possibility in

his mind. He straightens suddenly, still frowning, and glances quickly at his wristwatch. "The architect will be here in just under an hour. We should eat."

Oh no. I groan inwardly. He hasn't answered me, and now I have to deal with

Gia Matteo. My shitty day just got shittier. I scowl at zain.

"This discussion isn't finished," I mutter.

"What else is there to discuss?"

"You could sell the company."

zain snorts. "Sell it?"

"Yes."

"You think I'd find a buyer in today's market?"

"How much did it cost you?"

"It was relatively cheap." His tone is guarded.

"So if it folds?"

He smirks. "We'll survive. But I won't let it fold, aliya. Not while

you're there."

"And if I leave?"

"And do what?"

"I don't know. Something else."

"You've already said this is your dream job. And forgive me if I'm wrong,

but I promised before God, Reverend Walsh, and a congregation of our nearest

and dearest to cherish you, uphold your hopes and dreams, and keep you safe at

my side."

"Quoting your wedding vows to me is not playing fair."

"I've never promised to play fair where you're concerned. Besides," he adds,

"you've wielded your vows at me like a weapon before."

I scowl at him. This is true.

"aliya, if you're still angry with me, take it out on me in bed later." His

voice is suddenly low and full of sensual longing, his eyes heated.

What? Bed? How?

He smiles indulgently down at my expression. Is he expecting me to tie him

up? Holy crap! My inner goddess removes her iPod earbuds and starts listening

with rapt attention.

"Seven shades of Sunday," he whispers. "Looking forward to it."

Whoa!

"Gail!" he shouts abruptly, and four seconds later, Mrs. Jones appears. Where

was she? Taylor's office? Listening? Oh jeez.

"Mr. abdullah?"

"We'd like to eat now, please."

"Very good, sir."

zain doesn't take his eyes off me. He watches me vigilantly as if I'm

some exotic creature about to bolt. I take a sip of my wine.

"I think I'll join you in a glass," he says, sighing, and runs a hand through his

hair again.

"You're not going to finish?"

"No." I gaze down at my barely touched plate of fettuccini to avoid zains darkening expression. Before he can say anything, I stand and clear our

plates from the dining table.

"Gia will be with us shortly," I mutter. zains mouth twists in an unhappy scowl, but he says nothing.

"I'll take those, Mrs. abdullah," says Mrs. Jones as I walk into the kitchen.

"Thank you."

"You didn't like it?" she asks, concerned.

"It was fine. I'm just not hungry."

Giving me a small sympathetic smile, she turns to clear my plate and put

everything in the dishwasher.

"I'm going to make a couple of calls," zain announces, giving me an assessing look before he disappears into his study.

I let out a sigh of relief and head to our bedroom. Dinner was awkward. I'm

still mad at zain, and he doesn't seem to think he's done anything wrong.

Has he? My subconscious cocks an eyebrow at me and gazes benignly over her

half-moon glasses. Yes, he has. He's made it even more awkward for me at work.

He didn't wait to discuss this issue with me when we were in the relative privacy

of our own home. How would he feel if I came barging into his office, laying

down the law? And to cap it all, he wants to give me SIP! How the hell could I

run a company? I know next to nothing about business.

I gaze out at the Seattle skyline bathed in the pearly pink light of dusk. And

as usual, he wants to solve our differences in the bedroom . . . um . . . foyer . . .

playroom . . . TV room . . . kitchen countertop . . . Stop! It always comes back to

sex with him. Sex is his coping mechanism.

I wander into the bathroom and scowl at my reflection in the mirror. Coming

back to the real world is hard. We managed to skate over all our differences while

we were in our bubble because we were so wrapped up in each other. But now?

Briefly I am dragged back to my wedding, remembering my concerns that

day"marry in haste . . . No, I mustn't think like this. I knew he was Fifty Shades

when I married him. I just have to hang in there and try to talk this through with

him.

I squint at myself in the mirror. I look pale, and now I have that woman to

deal with.

I'm wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My inner

goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I undo two buttons, exposing a little

cleavage. I wash my face then carefully redo my makeup, applying more mascara

than usual and putting extra gloss on my lips. Bending down, I then brush my hair

vigorously from root to tip. When I stand, my hair is a chestnut haze around me

that tumbles to my breasts. I tuck it artfully behind my ears and go in search of

my pumps, rather than my flats.

When I reemerge into the great room, zain has the house plans spread

out on the dining table. He has music playing through the sound system. It stops

me in my tracks.

"Mrs. abdullah," he says warmly then looks quizzically at me.

"What's this?" I ask. The music is stunning.

"Faur's Requiem. You look different," he says, distracted.

"Oh. I've not heard it before."

"It's very calming, relaxing," he says and raises an eyebrow. "Have you done

something to your hair?"

"Brushed it," I mutter. I'm transported by the haunting voices. Abandoning

the plans on the table, he walks toward me, a slow saunter in time to the music.

"Dance with me?" he murmurs.

"To this? It's a requiem." I squeak, shocked.

"Yes." He pulls me into his arms and holds me, burying his nose in my hair

and swaying gently from side to side. He smells his heavenly self.

Oh . . . I've missed him. I wrap my arms around him and fight the urge to cry.

Why are you so infuriating?

"I hate fighting with you," he whispers.

"Well, stop being such an arse."

He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He

tightens his hold on me. "Arse?"

"Ass."

"I prefer arse."

"You should. It suits you."

He laughs once more and kisses the top of my head.

"A requiem?" I murmur a little shocked that we are dancing to it.

He shrugs. "It's just a lovely piece of music, Aliya."

Taylor coughs discreetly at the entranceway, and zain releases me.

"Miss Matteo is here," he says.

Oh joy!

"Show her in," zain says. He reaches over and clasps my hand as Miss

Gia Matteo enters the room.

Chap8

Gia Matteo is a good-looking woman"a tall, good-looking woman. She wears

her short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated

crown. She's dressed in a pale gray pantsuit; the slacks and fitted jacket hug her

lush curves. Her clothes look expensive. At the base of her throat, a solitary diamond glints, matching the single-carat studs in her ears. She is well

groomed"one of those women who grew up with money and breeding, though

her breeding seems to be lacking this evening; her pale blue blouse is undone too

far. Like mine. I flush."zain. aliya." She beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a

manicured hand to shake first zains, then my hand. It means I have to release zains hand to reciprocate. She's a fraction shorter than zain, but

then she's in killer heels.

"Gia," zain says politely. I smile coolly.

"You both look so well after your honeymoon," she says smoothly, her

brown eyes gazing at zain through long mascaraed lashes. zain puts his

arm around me, holding me close.

"We had a wonderful time, thank you." He brushes his lips against my

temple, taking me by surprise.

See . . . he's mine. Annoying"infuriating, even"but mine. I grin. Right now

I really love you, zain abdullah. I slip my hand around his waist then into his

rear pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gia gives us a thin smile.

"Have you managed to look over the plans?"

"We have," I murmur. I gaze up at zain, who grins down at me, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gia or me

squeezing his butt?

"Please," zain says. "The plans are here." He gestures toward the dining

table. Taking my hand, he leads me to it, Gia following in our wake. I finally remember my manners.

"Would you like something to drink?" I ask. "A glass of wine?"

"That would be lovely," Gia says. "Dry white if you have it."

Shit! Sauvignon blanc"that's a dry white, isn't it? Reluctantly leaving my

husband's side, I head over to the kitchen. I hear the iPod hiss as zain

switches off the music.

"Would you like some more wine, zain?" I call.

"Please, baby," he croons, grinning at me. Wow, he can be so swoonworthy

at times yet so aggravating at others.

Reaching up to open the cupboard, I'm aware his eyes are on me, and I'm

gripped by the uncanny feeling that zain and I are putting on a show, playing

a game together"but this time we're on the same side pitted against Ms. Matteo.

Does he know that she's attracted to him and is being too obvious about it? It

gives me a small rush of pleasure when I realize maybe he's trying to reassure me.

Or maybe he's just sending a message loud and clear to this woman that he's

taken.

Mine. Yeah, bitch"mine. My inner goddess is wearing her gladiatrix outfit,

and she's taking no prisoners. Smiling to myself I collect three glasses from the

cupboard, take the opened bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and place

them all on the breakfast bar. Gia is leaning over the table while zain stands

beside her and points at something on the plans.

"I think aliya has some opinions on the glass wall, but generally we're both

pleased with the ideas you've come up with."

"Oh, I'm glad," Gia gushes, obviously relieved, and as she says it, she briefly

touches his arm in a small, flirty gesture. zain stiffens immediately but

subtly. She doesn't even seem to notice.

Leave him the f**k alone, lady. He doesn't like to be touched.

Stepping casually aside so he's out of her reach, zain turns to me.

"Thirsty here," he says.

"Coming right up." He is playing the game. She makes him uncomfortable.

Why didn't I see that before? That's why I don't like her. He's used to how women react to him. I've seen it often enough, and usually he thinks nothing of it.

Touching is something else. Well, Mrs. abdullah to the rescue.

I hastily pour the wine, gather all three glasses in my hands, and hurry back

to my knight in distress. Offering a glass to Gia, I deliberately position myself

between them. She smiles courteously as she accepts it. I hand the second to

zain, who takes it eagerly, his expression one of amused gratitude.

"Cheers," zain says to us both, but looking at me. Gia and I raise our

glasses and answer in unison. I take a welcome sip of wine.

"aliya, you have some issues with the glass wall?" Gia asks.

"Yes. I love it"don't get me wrong. But I was hoping that we could incorporate it more organically into the house. After all, I fell in love with the house as

it was, and I don't want to make any radical changes."

"I see."

"I just want the design to be sympathetic, you know . . . more in keeping with

the original house." I glance up at zain, who is gazing at me thoughtfully.

"No major renovations?" he murmurs.

"No." I shake my head to emphasize my point.

"You like it as it is?"

"Mostly, yes. I always knew it just needed some TLC."

zains eyes glow warmly.

Gia glances at the pair of us, and her cheeks pink. "Okay," she says. "I think I

get where you're coming from, Aliya. How about if we retain the glass wall, but

have it open out onto a larger deck that's in keeping with the Mediterranean style.

We have the stone terrace there already. We can put in pillars in matching stone,

widely spaced so you'll still have the view. Add a glass roof, or tile it as per the

rest of the house. It'll also make a sheltered al fresco dining and seated area."

Got to give the woman her due . . . she's good.

"Or instead of the deck, we could incorporate a wood color of your choice into the glass doors"that might help to keep the Mediterranean spirit," she

continues.

"Like the bright blue shutters in the South of France," I murmur to zain,

who is watching me intently. He takes a sip of wine and shrugs, very noncommittal. Hmm. He doesn't like that idea but he doesn't overrule me, shoot me down, or

make me feel stupid. God, this man is a mass of contradictions. His words from

yesterday come to mind: "I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you

want. It's yours." He wants me to be happy"happy in everything I do. Deep

down I think I know this. It's just"I stop myself. Don't think about our argument

now. My subconscious glares at me.

Gia is looking at zain, waiting for him to make the decision. I watch as

her pupils dilate and her glossed lips part. Her tongue darts quickly over her top

lip before she takes a sip of her wine. When I turn to zain, he's still looking

at me"not at her at all. Yes! My inner goddess fist pumps the air. I am going to

have words with Ms. Matteo.

"Aliya, what do you want to do?" zain murmurs, very clearly deferring to

me.

"I like the deck idea."

"Me, too."

I turn back to Gia. Hey, lady, look at me, not him. I'm the one making the decisions on this. "I think I'd like to see revised drawings showing the bigger deck

and pillars that are in keeping with the house."

Reluctantly, Gia drags her greedy eyes away from my husband and smiles

down at me. Does she think I'm not going to notice?

"Sure," she acquiesces pleasantly. "Any other issues?"

Other than you eye-f**king my husband? "zain wants to remodel the

master suite," I murmur.

There's a discreet cough from the entrance to the great room. We three turn

as one to find Taylor standing there.

"Taylor?" zain asks.

"I need to confer with you on an urgent matter, Mr. abdullah."

zain clasps my shoulders from behind and addresses Gia.

"Mrs. abdullah is in charge of this project. She has absolute carte blanche.

Whatever she wants, it's hers. I completely trust her instincts. She's very shrewd."

His voice alters subtly. In it I hear pride and a veiled warning"a warning to Gia?

He trusts my instincts? Oh, this man's exasperating. My instincts let him run

roughshod over my feelings this afternoon. I shake my head in frustration but I'm

grateful that he's telling Miss Provocative-And-Unfortunately-Good-At-Her-Job

just who's in charge. I caress his hand as it rests on my shoulder.

"If you'll excuse me." zain squeezes my shoulders before following

Taylor. I wonder idly what's going on.

"So . . . the master suite?" Gia asks nervously.

I gaze up at her, pausing for a moment to ensure that zain and Taylor are

out of earshot. Then calling on all my inner strength and the fact that I've been

seriously piqued for the last five hours, I let her have it.

"You're right to be nervous, Gia, because right now your work on this project

hangs in the balance. But I'm sure we'll be fine as long as you keep your hands

off my husband."

She gasps.

"Otherwise, you're fired. Understand?" I enunciate each word clearly.

She blinks rapidly, utterly stunned. She cannot believe what I've said. I cannot believe what I've just said. But I hold my ground, gazing impassively into her

widening brown eyes.

Don't back down. Don't back down! I've learned this maddening impassive

expression from zain who does impassive like no one else. I know that

renovating the abdullahs main residence is a prestigious project for Gia's architectural firm"a resplendent feather in her cap. She can't lose this commission. And

right now I don't give a hoot that she's harshad's friend.

"Aliya"Mrs. abdullah . . . I-I'm so sorry. I never"" She flushes, unsure what

else she can say.

"Let me be clear. My husband is not interested in you."

"Of course," she murmurs, the blood draining from her face.

"As I said, I just wanted to be clear."

"Mrs. Abdullah , I sincerely apologize if you think . . . I have"" She stops, still

floundering for something to say.

"Good. As long as we understand each other, we'll be fine. Now, I'll let you

know what we have in mind for the master suite, then I'd like a run down on all

the materials you intend to use. As you know, zain and I are determined that

this house should be ecologically sustainable, and I'd like to reassure him as to

where all the materials are coming from and what they are."

"Of c-course," she stutters, wide-eyed and frankly a little intimidated by me.

This is a first. My inner goddess runs around the arena, waving to the frenzied

crowd.

Gia pats her hair into place, and I realize this is a nervous gesture.

"The master suite?" she prompts anxiously, her voice a breathless whisper.

Now that I have the upper hand, I feel myself relax for the first time since my

meeting with zain this afternoon. I can do this. My inner goddess is celebrating her inner bitch.

zain joins us just as we're finishing up.

"All done?" he asks. He puts his arm around my waist and turns to Gia.

"Yes, Mr. abdullah," Gia smiles brightly, though her smile looks brittle. "I'll

have the revised plans to you in a couple of days."

"Excellent. You're happy?" he asks me directly, his eyes warm and probing. I

nod and blush for some reason that I don't understand.

"I'd better be going," Gia says again too brightly. She offers her hand to me

first this time, then to zain.

"Until next time, Gia," I murmur.

"Yes, Mrs. abdullah. Mr. abdullah."

Taylor appears at the entrance of the great room.

"Taylor will see you out." My voice is loud enough for him to hear. Patting

her hair once more, she turns on her high heels and leaves the great room, followed closely by Taylor.

"She was noticeably cooler," zain says, looking quizzically at me.

"Was she? I didn't notice." I shrug, trying to remain neutral. "What did

Taylor want?" I ask partly because I'm curious and partly because I want to

change the subject.

Frowning, zain releases me and begins to roll up the plans on the table.

"It was about Hyde."

"What about Hyde?" I whisper.

"It's nothing to worry about, Aliya." Abandoning the plans, zain draws

me into his arms. "It turns out he hasn't been in his apartment for weeks, that's

all." He kisses my hair, then releases me and finishes his task.

"So what did you decide on?" he asks, and I know it's because he doesn't

want me to pursue the Hyde line of inquiry.

"Only what you and I discussed. I think she likes you," I say quietly.

He snorts. "Did you say something to her?" he asks and I flush. How does he

know? At a loss what to say, I stare down at my fingers.

"We were Zain and Aliya when she arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Abdullah when

she left." His tone is dry.

"I may have said something," I mumble. When I peek up at him, he's regarding me warmly, and for an unguarded moment he looks . . . pleased. He drops his

gaze, shaking his head, and his expression changes.

"She's only reacting to this face." He sounds vaguely bitter, disgusted even.

Oh, Fifty, no!

"What?" He's bemused by my perplexed expression. His eyes grow wide in

alarm. "You're not jealous, are you?" he asks, horrified.

I blush and swallow, then stare down at my knotted fingers. Am I?

"aliya, she's a sexual predator. Not my type at all. How can you be jealous of

her? Of anyone? Nothing about her interests me." When I glance up, he's gaping

at me as if I've grown an additional limb. He runs a hand through his hair. "It's

only you, aliya," he says quietly. "It will only ever be you."

Oh my. Abandoning the plans once more, zain moves toward me and

clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"How can you think otherwise? Have I ever given you any indication that I

could be remotely interested in anyone else?" His eyes blaze as he stares into

mine.

"No," I whisper. "I'm being silly. It's just today . . . you . . ." All my conflicting emotions from earlier resurfaces. How can I tell him how confused I am? I've

been confounded and frustrated by his behavior this afternoon in my office. One

minute he wants me to stay at home, the next he's gifting me a company. How am

I supposed to keep up?

"What about me?"

"Oh, zain""my bottom lip trembles""I'm trying to adapt to this new

life that I had never imagined for myself. Everything is being handed to me on a

plate"the job, you, my beautiful husband, who I never . . . I never knew I'd love

this way, this hard, this fast, this . . . indelibly." I take a deep steadying breath, as

his mouth drops open.

"But you're like a freight train, and I don't want to get railroaded because the

girl you fell in love with will be crushed. And what'll be left? All that would be

left is a vacuous social x-ray, flitting from charity function to charity function." I

pause once more, struggling to find the words to convey how I feel. "And now

you want me to be a company CEO, which has never even been on my radar. I'm

bouncing between all these ideas, struggling. You want me at home. You want me

to run a company. It's so confusing." I stop, tears threatening, and I force back a

sob.

"You've got to let me make my own decisions, take my own risks, and make

my own mistakes, and let me learn from them. I need to walk before I can run,

zain, don't you see. I want some independence. That's what my name means

to me." There, that's what I wanted to say this afternoon.

"You feel railroaded?" he whispers.

I nod.

He closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair in agitation. "I just want

to give you the world, aliya, everything and anything you want. And save you

from it, too. Keep you safe. But I also want everyone to know you're mine. I panicked today when I got your e-mail. Why didn't you tell me about your name?"

I flush. He has a point.

"I only thought about it while we were on our honeymoon, and well, I didn't

want to burst the bubble, and I forgot about it. I only remembered yesterday evening. And then Jack . . . you know, it was distracting. I'm sorry, I should have told

you or discussed it with you, but I could never seem to find the right time."

zains intense gaze is unnerving. It's as if he's trying to will his way into

my skull, but he says nothing.

"Why did you panic?" I ask.

"I just don't want you to slip through my fingers."

"For heaven's sake, I'm not going anywhere. When are you going to get that

through your incredibly thick skull? I. Love. You." I wave my hand in the air like

he does sometimes to emphasize my point. "More than . . . eyesight, space, or

liberty."

His eyes widen. "A daughter's love?" He gives me an ironic smile.

"No," I laugh, despite myself. "It's the only quote that came to mind."

"Mad King Lear?"

"Dear, dear Mad King Lear." I caress his face, and he leans into my touch,

closing his eyes. "Would you change your name to zain haider so everyone

would know that you belong to me?"

zains eyes fly open, and he gazes at me as if I've just said the world is

flat. He frowns. "Belong to you?" he murmurs, testing the words.

"Mine."

"Yours," he says, repeating the words we spoke in the playroom only yesterday. "Yes, I would. If it meant that much to you."

Oh my.

"Does it mean that much to you?"

"Yes." He is unequivocal.

"Okay." I will do this for him. Give him the reassurance he still needs.

"I thought you'd already agreed to this."

"Yes I have, but now we've discussed it further, I'm happier with my

decision."

"Oh," he mutters, surprised. Then he smiles his beautiful, boyish yes-I-amreally-kinda-young smile, and he takes my breath away. Grabbing me by my

waist, he swings me around. I squeal and start to giggle, and I don't know if he's

just happy or relieved or . . . what?

"Mrs. abdullah, do you know what this means to me?"

"I do now."

He leans down and kisses me, his fingers moving into my hair, holding me in

place.

"It means seven shades of Sunday," he murmurs against my lips, and he runs

his nose along mine.

"You think?" I lean back to gaze at him.

"Certain promises were made. An offer extended, a deal brokered," he whispers, his eyes sparkling with wicked delight.

"Um . . ." I am still reeling, trying to follow his mood.

"You reneging on me?" he asks uncertainly, and a speculative look crosses

his face. "I have an idea," he adds.

Oh, what kinky f**kery is this?

"A really important matter to attend to," he continues, suddenly all serious

once more. "Yes, Mrs. abdullah. A matter of the gravest importance."

Hang on"he's laughing at me.

"What?" I breathe.

"I need you to cut my hair. Apparently it's overlong, and my wife doesn't

like it."

"I can't cut your hair!"

"Yes you can." zain grins and shakes his head so his overlong hair covers his eyes.

"Well, if Mrs. Jones has a pudding bowl." I giggle.

He laughs. "Okay, good point well made. I'll get Franco to do it."

No! Franco works for her? Maybe I could give him a trim. After all, I cut

Ghulam's hair for years, and he never complained.

"Come." I grab his hand. His eyes widen. I lead him all the way to our bathroom where I release him and grab the white wooden chair that stands in the

corner. I place it in front of the sink. When I look at zain, he's gazing at me

with ill-disguised amusement, thumbs tucked in the front belt loops of his pants

but his eyes are smoking hot.

"Sit." I gesture to the empty chair, trying to maintain the upper hand.

"Are you going to wash my hair?"

I nod. He arches one brow in surprise, and for a moment I think he's going to

back down. "Okay." Slowly he begins to undo each button of his white shirt, starting with the one beneath his throat. Nimble, deft fingers move to each button in

turn until his shirt hangs open.

Oh my . . . My inner goddess pauses in her celebratory jaunt around the arena.

Christian holds out a cuff with an "undo this now" gesture, and his mouth

twitches in that challenging, sexy way he has.

Oh, cufflinks. I take his proffered wrist and remove the first one, a platinum

disc with his initials engraved in a simple italic script"and then remove its

matching twin. As I finish I glance at him, and his amused expression is gone, replaced by something hotter . . . much hotter. I reach up and push his shirt off his

shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

"Ready?" I whisper.

"For whatever you want, aliya."

My eyes stray from his eyes to his lips. Parted so that he can inhale more

deeply. Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows exactly what to do with it. I find myself leaning up to kiss him.

"No," he says and places both of his hands on my shoulders. "Don't. If you

do that, I'll never get my hair cut."

Oh!"I want this," he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some inexplicable reason. It's disarming.

"Why?" I whisper.

He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. "Because it'll make me

feel cherished."

My heart practically lurches to a halt. Oh, zain . . . my Fifty. And before

I know it I've circled him in my arms, and I kiss his chest before nuzzling my

cheek into his tickly chest hair.

"Aliya. My Aliya," he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and we stand immobile, holding each other in our bathroom. Oh, how I love to be in his arms.

Even if he is an overbearing, megalomaniac arse, he's my overbearing megalomaniac arse in need of a lifetime dose of TLC. I lean back without releasing him.

"You really want me to do this?"

He nods and gives me his shy smile. I grin back at him and step out of his

embrace.

"Then sit," I repeat.

He dutifully does, sitting with his back to the sink. I take off my shoes and

kick them over to where his shirt lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. From the

shower I retrieve his Chanel shampoo. We bought it in France.

"Would sir like this?" I hold it up in both hands like I'm selling it on QVC.

"Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this . . . it smells of

you," I add in a whisper, slipping out of my television presenter mode.

"Please." He grins.

I grab a small towel off the towel warmer. Mrs. Jones sure knows how to

keep the towels super-soft.

"Lean forward," I order and zain complies. Draping the towel around his

shoulders, I then turn on the taps and fill the sink with a mix of warm water.

"Lean back." Oh, I like being in charge. zain leans back, but he's too

tall. He shifts the seat forward then tilts back the entire chair until the top rests

against the sink. Perfect distance. He tips back his head. Bold eyes gaze up at me,

and I smile. Taking one of the drinking glasses we keep on the vanity, I dip it into

the water and tip it over zains head, soaking his hair. I repeat the process,

leaning over him.

"You smell so good, Mrs. abdullah," he murmurs and closes his eyes.

As I methodically wet his hair, I freely gaze at him. Holy cow. Will I ever tire

of this? Long dark lashes fan across his cheeks; his lips part a little, creating a

small, dark diamond shape, and he inhales softly. Hmm . . . how I long to poke

my tongue"

I splash water into his eyes. Shit! "Sorry!"

He grabs the corner of the towel and laughs as he wipes the water out of his

eyes.

"Hey, I know I'm an arse, but don't drown me."

I lean down and kiss his forehead, giggling. "Don't tempt me."

He curls his hand behind my head and shifts so that he captures my lips with

his. He kisses me briefly, making a low contented sound in his throat. The noise

connects to the muscles deep in my belly. It's a very seductive sound. He releases

me and lies back obediently, gazing up at me with expectation. For a moment he

looks vulnerable, like a child. It tugs at my heart.

I squirt some shampoo into my palm and massage it into his scalp, beginning

at his temples and working over the top of his head and down the sides, circling

my fingers rhythmically. He closes his eyes again and makes that low humming

sound again.

"That feels good," he says after a moment and relaxes beneath the firm touch

of my fingers.

"Yes it does." I kiss his forehead once more.

"I like it when you scratch my scalp with your fingernails." His eyes are still

closed, but his expression one of blissful contentment"no trace of his vulnerability remains. Jeez, how much his mood has changed, and I take comfort knowing

it's me that's done this.

"Head up," I command and he obeys. Hmm"a girl could get used to this. I

rub the suds into the back of his hair, scraping my nails into his scalp.

"Back."

He leans back, and I rinse off the lather, using the glass. This time I manage

not to splash him.

"Once more?" I ask.

"Please." His eyes flutter open and his serene gaze finds mine. I grin down at

him.

"Coming right up, Mr. Abdullah ."

I turn to the sink that zain normally uses and fill it with warm water.

"For rinsing," I say when his look turns quizzical.

I repeat the process with the shampoo, listening to his even deep breaths.

Once he's all lathered up, I take another moment to appreciate the fine face of my

husband. I cannot resist him. Tenderly, I caress his cheek, and he opens his eyes,

watching me almost sleepily through his long lashes. Leaning forward I plant a

soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of

utter contentment.

Jeez. Who would have thought after our argument this afternoon he could be

this relaxed? Without sex? I lean right over him.

"Hmm," he murmurs appreciatively as my breasts brush his face. Resisting

the urge to shimmy, I pull the plug so the sudsy water drains away. His hands

move to my hips and around to my behind.

"No fondling the help," I murmur, feigning disapproval.

"Don't forget I'm deaf," he says, keeping his eyes closed, as he runs his

hands down past my behind and starts to hitch up my skirt. I swat his arm. I'm enjoying playing hairdresser. He grins, big and boyish, like I've caught him doing

something illicit that he's secretly proud of.

I reach for the glass again, but this time use the water from the neighboring

sink to carefully rinse all the shampoo from his hair. I continue to lean over him,

and he keeps his hands on my backside, thrumming his fingers back and forward,

up and down . . . back and forth . . . hmm. I wiggle. He growls low in his throat.

"There. All rinsed."

"Good," he declares. His fingers tighten on my behind, and all at once he sits

up, his soaked hair dripping all over him. He pulls me down onto his lap, his

hands moving from my behind up to the nape of my neck, then to my chin,

holding me in place. I gasp with surprise and his lips are on mine, his tongue hot

and hard in my mouth. My fingers curl around his wet hair, and drops of water

run down my arms; and as he deepens the kiss, his hair bathes my face. His hand

moves from my chin down to the top button of my blouse.

"Enough of this primping. I want to f**k you seven shades of Sunday, and

we can do it in here or in the bedroom. You decide."

zains eyes blaze, hot and full of promise, his hair dripping water onto us

both. My mouth goes dry.

"What's it to be, aliya?" he asks as he holds in his lap.

"You're wet," I respond.

He bends his head suddenly, running his dripping hair all down the front of

my blouse. I squeal and try to wriggle off him. He tightens his grip around me.

"Oh, no you don't, baby," he murmurs. When he raises his head he's grinning

salaciously at me, and I am Miss Wet Blouse 2011. My top is soaked and totally

see-through. I'm wet . . . everywhere.

"Love the view," he murmurs and leans down to run his nose around and

around one wet nipple. I squirm.

"Answer me, aliya. Here or the bedroom?"

"Here," I whisper frantically. To hell with the haircut"I'll do it later. He

smiles slowly, his lips curling into a sensuous smile full of licentious promise.

"Good choice, Mrs. abdullah," he murmurs against my lips. He releases my chin

and his hand moves to my knee. It glides smoothly up my leg, lifting my skirt and

skating over my skin, making me tingle. His lips trail soft kisses from the base of

my ear along my jaw.

"Oh, what shall I do to you?" he whispers. His fingers halt at my stocking

tops. "I like these," he says. He runs a finger underneath the top and skims it

around to my inner thigh. I gasp and squirm once more in his lap.

He groans, low in his throat. "If I'm going to f**k you seven shades of

Sunday, I want you to keep still."

"Make me," I challenge, my voice soft and breathy.

zain inhales sharply. He narrows his eyes and regards me with a hot,

hooded expression.

"Oh, Mrs. abdullah. You have only to ask." His hand moves from my stocking

tops up to my panties. "Let's divest you of these." He tugs gently and I shift to

help him. His breath hisses through his teeth as I do.

"Keep still," he grumbles.

"I'm helping," I pout, and he seizes my lower lip gently between his teeth.

"Still," he growls. He slides my panties down my legs and off. Tugging my

skirt up so that it's bunched around my hips, he moves both hands to my waist

and lifts me. He still has my panties in his hand.

"Sit. Astride me," he orders staring intently into my eyes. I shift, straddling

him, and regard him provocatively. Bring it on, Fifty!

"Mrs. abdullah," he warns "Are you goading me?" He gazes at me, amused but

aroused. It's a seductive combination.

"Yes. What are you going to do about it?"

His eyes light up with salacious delight at my challenge, and I feel his arousal

beneath me. "Clasp your hands together behind your back."

Oh! I comply obediently and, he deftly binds my wrists together with my

panties.

"My panties? Mr. abdullah, you have no shame," I admonish.

"Not where you're concerned, Mrs. abdullah, but you know that." His look is intense and hot. Putting his hands around my waist, he shifts me so I am sitting a

little further back on his lap. Water still drips down his neck and over his chest. I

want to bend forward and lick the drips off, but it's trickier now that I am

restrained.

zain caresses both of my thighs and skims his hands down to my knees.

Gently he pushes them further apart and widens his own legs, holding me in that

position. His fingers move to the buttons of my blouse.

"I don't think we need this," he says. He starts methodically undoing each

button on my clinging wet blouse, his eyes never leaving mine. They get darker

and darker as he finishes the task, taking his own sweet time about it. My pulse

quickens and my breathing shallows. I can't believe it"he's hardly touched me,

and I feel like this"hot, bothered . . . ready. I want to squirm. He leaves my damp

blouse hanging open and using both hands, he caresses my face with his fingers,

his thumb skimming across my bottom lip. Suddenly, he thrusts his thumb into

my mouth.

"Suck," he orders in a whisper, stressing the S. I close my mouth around him

and do exactly that. Oh . . . I like this game. He tastes good. What else would I

like to suck? The muscles in my belly clench at the thought. His lips part when I

scrape my teeth and bite the soft pad of his thumb.

He groans and slowly extracts his wet thumb from my mouth and trails it

down my chin, down my throat, over my sternum. He hooks it into the cup of my

bra and yanks the cup down, freeing my breast.

zains gaze never leaves mine. He's watching each reaction that his

touch elicits from me, and I'm watching him. It's hot. Consuming. Possessive. I

love it. He mirrors his actions with his other hand so both my breasts are free and,

cupping them gently, he skims each thumb over a nipple, circling slowly, teasing

and taunting each one so that they harden and distend beneath his skillful touch. I

try, I really try not to move, but my nipples are hotwired to my groin, so I moan

and throw my head back, closing my eyes and surrendering to the sweet, sweet

torture.

"Shh." zains soothing voice is at odds with the teasing, even-tempo

rhythm of his wicked fingers. "Still, baby, still." Releasing one breast, he reaches

up behind me and splays his hand around the nape of my neck. Leaning forward,

he takes my now bereft nipple into his mouth and sucks hard, his wet hair tickling

me. At the same time, his thumb stops skimming across my other elongated

nipple. Instead, he takes it between his thumb and forefinger and tugs and twists it

gently.

"Ah! zain!" I groan and buck forward on his lap. But he doesn't stop. He

continues the slow, leisurely, agonizing tease. And my body is burning as the

pleasure takes a darker turn.

"zain, please," I whimper.

"Hmm," he hums low in his chest. "I want you to come like this." My nipple

gets a brief respite as his words caress my skin, and it's like he's calling to a deep,

dark part of my psyche that only he knows. When he resumes with his teeth this

time, the pleasure is almost intolerable. Moaning loudly, I writhe on his lap, trying

to find some precious friction against his pants. I pull uselessly against my restraining panties, itching to touch him, but I'm lost"lost in this treacherous

sensation.

"Please," I whisper, pleading, and pleasure flies through my body, from my

neck, right down to my legs, to my toes, tightening all in its wake.

"You have such beautiful breasts, aliya." He groans. "One day I'll f**k them."

What the hell does that mean? Opening my eyes, I gape down at him as he

suckles me, my skin singing under his touch. I no longer feel my sodden blouse,

his wet hair . . . nothing except the burn. And it burns deliciously hot and low,

deep inside me, and all thought evaporates as my body tightens and clenches . . .

ready, reaching . . . pining for release. And he doesn't stop"teasing, pulling,

driving me wild. I want . . . I want . . .

"Let go," he breathes"and I do, loudly, my orgasm convulsing through my

body, and he stops his sweet torture and wraps his arms around me, clutching me

to him as my body spirals down from my climax. When I open my eyes, he is gazing down at me where I rest against his chest.

"God, I love to watch you come, aliya." His voice is full of wonder.

"That was . . ." Words fail me.

"I know." He leans forward and kisses me, his hand still at the nape of my

neck, holding me just so, angling my head so he can kiss me deeply"with love,

with reverence.

I am lost in his kiss.

He pulls away to draw breath, his eyes the color of a tropical storm.

"Now I'm going to f**k you, hard," he murmurs.

Holy cow. Grabbing me around the waist, he lifts me from his thighs down to

the edge of his knees and reaches with his right hand for the button on the waistband of his navy pants. He runs the fingers of his left hand up and down my thigh,

stopping at my stocking tops each time. He's watching me intently. We're face to

face and I'm helpless, trussed up in my bra and by my panties, and this has to be

one of the most intimate times we've had"me sitting on his lap, staring into his

beautiful gray eyes. It makes me feel wanton, but also so connected to him"I am

not embarrassed or shy. This is zain, my husband, my lover, my overbearing

megalomaniac, my Fifty"the love of my life. He reaches for his zipper, and my

mouth goes dry as his erection springs free.

He smirks. "You like?" he whispers.

"Hmm," I murmur appreciatively. He wraps his hand around himself and

moves it up and down . . . Oh my. I gaze up at him through my lashes. f**k, he's

so sexy.

"You're biting your lip, Mrs. abdullah."

"That's because I'm hungry."

"Hungry?" His mouth opens in surprise, and his eyes widen a fraction.

"Hmm . . ." I agree and lick my lips.

He gives me his enigmatic smile and bites his lower lip as he continues to

stroke himself. Why is the sight of my husband pleasuring himself such a turn-on?

"I see. You should have eaten your dinner." His tone is mocking and censorious at once. "But maybe I can oblige." He puts his hands on my waist. "Stand,"

he says softly, and I know what he's going to do. I get to my feet, my legs no

longer shaking.

"Kneel."

I do as I'm told and kneel down on the cool tiled floor of the bathroom. He

slides forward on the seat of the chair.

"Kiss me," he utters holding his erection. I glance up at him, and he runs his

tongue over his top teeth. It's arousing, very arousing, to see his desire, his naked

desire for me and my mouth. Leaning forward, my eyes on his, I kiss the tip of his

erection. I watch him inhale sharply and clench his teeth. zain cups the side

of my head, and I run my tongue over the tip, tasting the small bead of dew on the

end. Hmm . . . he tastes good. His mouth drops open further as he gasps and I

pounce, pulling him into my mouth and sucking hard.

"Ah"" The air hisses through his teeth, and he flexes his hips forward,

thrusting into my mouth. But I don't stop. Sheathing my teeth behind my lips, I

push down and then pull up on him. He moves both hands so that he fully cups

my head, burying his fingers in my hair and slowly eases himself in and out of my

mouth, his breathing quickening, growing harsher. I twirl my tongue around his

tip and push down again in perfect counterpoint to him.

"Jesus, Aliya." He sighs and screws his eyes tightly. He's lost and it's heady,

his response to me. Me. My inner goddess could light up Escala, she's so thrilled.

And very slowly I draw my lips back, so it's just my teeth.

"Ah!" zain stops moving. Leaning forward he grabs me and pulls me up

onto his lap.

"Enough!" he growls. Reaching behind me, he frees my hands with one tug

on my panties. I flex my wrists and stare from under my lashes into scorching

eyes that gaze back at me with love and longing and lust. And I realize it's me

that wants to f**k him seven shades of Sunday. I want him badly. I want to watch

him come apart beneath me. I grab his erection and scoot over him. Placing my

other hand on his shoulder, very gently and slowly, I ease myself onto him. He

makes a guttural, feral noise deep in his throat and, reaching up, pulls off my

blouse letting it fall to the floor. His hands move to my hips.

"Still," he rasps, his hands digging into my flesh. "Please, let me savor this.

Savor you."

I stop. Oh my . . . he feels so good inside me. He caresses my face, his eyes

wide and wild, his lips parted as he breathes. He flexes beneath me and I moan,

closing my eyes.

"This is my favorite place," he whispers. "Inside you. Inside my wife."

Oh f**k. zain. I cannot hold back. My fingers glide into his wet hair, my

lips seek his, and I start to move. Up and down on my toes, savoring him, savoring me. He groans loudly, and his hands are in my hair and around my back, and

his tongue invades my mouth greedily, taking all that I willingly give. After all

our arguing today, my frustration with him, his with me"we still have this. We

will always have this. I love him so much, it's almost overwhelming. His hands

move to my backside and he controls me, moving me up and down, again and

again, at his pace"his hot, slick tempo.

"Ah," I groan helplessly into his mouth as I'm carried away.

"Yes. Yes, aliya," he hisses, and I rain kisses on his face, his chin, his jaw, his

neck. "Baby," he breathes, capturing my mouth once more.

"Oh, zain, I love you. I will always love you." I'm breathless, wanting

him to know, wanting him to be sure of me after our battle of wills today.

He moans loudly and wraps his arms around me tightly as he climaxes with a

mournful sob, and it's enough"enough to push me over the brink once more. I

clutch my arms around his head and let go, and I come around him, tears springing to my eyes because I love him so.

"Hey," he whispers, tipping my chin back and gazing at me with quiet concern.

"Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?"

"No," I mutter reassuringly. He smoothes my hair off my face, wipes away a

lone tear with this thumb and tenderly kisses my lips. He is still inside me. He

shifts, and I wince as he pulls out of me.

"What's wrong, Aliya? Tell me."

I sniff. "It's just . . . it's just sometimes I'm overwhelmed by how much I

love you," I whisper.

After a beat, he smiles his special shy smile"reserved for me, I think. "You

have the same effect on me," he whispers, and kisses me once more. I smile, and

inside my joy unfurls and stretches lazily.

"Do I?"

He smirks. "You know you do."

"Sometimes I know. Not all the time."

"Back at you, Mrs. abdullah," he whispers.

I grin and gently place feather-light kisses over his chest. I nuzzle his chest

hair. zain caresses my hair and runs a hand down my back. He unclasps my

bra and pulls the strap down one arm. I shift, and he tugs the strap down the other

arm and drops my bra on the floor.

"Hmm. Skin on skin," he murmurs appreciatively and folds me in his arms

again. He kisses my shoulder and runs his nose up to my ear. "You smell like

heaven, Mrs. abdullah."

"So do you, Mr. abdullah." I nuzzle him again and inhale his zain smell,

which is now mixed with the heady scent of sex. I could stay wrapped in his arms

like this, sated and happy, forever. It's just what I need after a full day of back-towork, arguing, and bitch slapping. This is where I want to be, and in spite of his

control freakery, his megalomania, this is where I belong. zain buries his

nose in my hair and inhales deeply. I let out a contented sigh, and I feel his smile.

And we sit, arms clasped around each other, saying nothing.

Eventually reality intrudes.

"It's late," zain says, his fingers methodically stroking my back.

"Your hair still needs cutting."

He chuckles. "That it does, Mrs. abdullah. Do you have the energy to finish the

job you started?"

"For you, Mr. abdullah, anything." I kiss his chest once more and reluctantly

stand.

"Don't go." Grabbing my hips, he turns me around. He straightens then undoes my skirt, letting it drop to the floor. He holds his hand out to me. I take it and

step out of my skirt. Now I am dressed solely in stockings and garter belt.

"You are a mighty fine sight, Mrs. abdullah." He sits back in the chair and

crosses his arms, giving me a full and frank appraisal.

I hold out my hands and twirl for him.

"God, I'm a lucky son of a bitch," he says admiringly.

"Yes, you are."

He grins. "Put my shirt on and you can cut my hair. Like this, you'll distract

me, and we'll never get to bed."

I can't help my answering smile. Knowing that he's watching my every

move, I sashay over to where we left my shoes and his shirt. Bending slowly, I

reach down, pick up his shirt, smell it"hmm"then shrug it on.

zains eyes are round. He's redone his fly and is watching me intently.

"That's quite a floor show, Mrs. abdullah."

"Do we have any scissors?" I ask innocently, batting my eyelashes.

"My study," he croaks.

"I'll go search." Leaving him, I walk into our bedroom and grab my comb

from the dressing table before heading to his study. As I enter the main corridor, I

notice the door to Taylor's office is open. Mrs. Jones is standing just beyond the

door. I stop, rooted to the spot.

Taylor is running his fingers down her face and smiling sweetly at her. Then

he leans down and kisses her.

Holy shit! Taylor and Mrs. Jones? I gape in astonishment"I mean, I

thought . . . well, I kind of suspected. But obviously they are together! I flush,

feeling like a voyeur, and manage to get my feet to move. I scamper across the

great room and into zains study. Switching on the light, I walk to his desk.

Taylor and Mrs. Jones . . . Wow! I'm reeling. I always thought Mrs. Jones was

older than Taylor. Oh, I have to get my head around this. I open the top drawer

and am immediately distracted when I find a gun. zain has a gun!

A revolver. Holy f**k! I had no idea zain owned a gun. I take it out, slip

the release and check the cylinder. It's fully loaded, but light . . . too light. It must

be carbon fiber. What does zain want with a gun? Jeez, I hope he knows how

to use it. ghulams perpetual warnings about handguns run quickly through my mind.

His army training was never lost. These will kill you, aliya. You need to know what

you're doing when you're handling a firearm. I put the gun back and find the scissors. Retrieving them quickly, I bolt back to zain, my head buzzing. Taylor

and Mrs. Jones . . . the revolver . . .

At the entrance to the great room, I run into Taylor.

"Mrs. abdullah, excuse me." His face reddens as he quickly takes in my attire.

"Um, Taylor, hi . . . um. I'm cutting zains hair!" I blurt out, embarrassed. Taylor is as mortified as I am. He opens his mouth to say something then

closes it quickly and stands aside.

"After you, ma'am," he says formally. I think I'm the color of my old Audi,

the submissive special. Jeez. Could this be more embarrassing?

"Thank you," I mutter and dash down the hallway. Crap! Will I ever get used

to the fact that we're not alone? I dash into the bathroom, breathless.

"What's wrong?" zain is standing in front of the mirror, holding my

shoes. All of my scattered clothes are now neatly piled beside the sink.

"I just ran into Taylor."

"Oh." zain frowns. "Dressed like that."

Oh shit! "That's not Taylor's fault."

zains frown deepens. "No. But still."

"I'm dressed."

"Barely."

"I don't know who was more embarrassed, me or him." I try my distraction

technique. "Did you know he and Gail are . . . well, together?"

zain laughs. "Yes, of course I knew."

"And you never told me?"

"I thought you knew, too."

"No."

"Aliya, they're adults. They live under the same roof. Both unattached. Both

attractive."

I flush, feeling foolish for not having noticed.

"Well, if you put it like that . . . I just thought Gail was older than Taylor."

"She is, but not by much." He gazes at me, perplexed. "Some men like older

women"" He stops abruptly and his eyes widen.

I scowl at him. "I know that," I snap.

zain looks contrite. He smiles fondly at me. Yes! My distraction technique successful! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me"but at what cost? Now

the unmentionable Mrs. Robinson is looming over us.

"That reminds me," he says, brightly.

"What?" I mutter petulantly. Grabbing the chair, I turn it to face the mirror

above the sinks. "Sit," I order. zain regards me with indulgent amusement,

but does as he's told and sits back down in the chair. I start to comb through his

now merely damp hair.

"I was thinking we could convert the rooms over the garages for them at the

new place," zain continues. "Make it a home. Then maybe Taylor's daughter

could stay with him more often." He watches me carefully in the mirror.

"Why doesn't she stay here?"

"Taylor's never asked me."

"Perhaps you should offer. But we'd have to behave ourselves."

zains brow furrows. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Perhaps that's why Taylor hasn't asked. Have you met her?"

"Yes. She's a sweet thing. Shy. Very pretty. I pay for her schooling."

Oh! I stop combing and stare at him in the mirror.

"I had no idea."

He shrugs. "Seemed the least I could do. Also, it means he won't quit."

"I'm sure he likes working for you."

zain stares at me blankly then shrugs. "I don't know."

"I think he's very fond of you, zain." I resume combing and glance at

him. His eyes don't leave mine.

"You think?"

"Yes. I do."

He snorts a dismissive yet content sound as if he's secretly pleased that his

staff may like him.

"Good. Will you talk to Gia about the rooms over the garage?"

"Yes, of course." I don't feel the same irritation I did before at the mention of

her name. My subconscious nods sagely at me. Yes . . . we done good today. My

inner goddess gloats. Now she'll leave my husband alone and not make him

uncomfortable.

I am ready to cut zains hair. "You sure about this? Your last chance to

bail."

"Do your worst, Mrs. abdullah. I don't have to look at me, you do."

I grin. "zain, I could look at you all day."

He shakes his head exasperated. "It's just a pretty face, baby."

"And behind it is a very pretty man." I kiss his temple. "My man."

He grins shyly.

Lifting the first lock, I comb it upward and snare it between my index and

middle finger. I put the comb in my mouth, take the scissors and make the first

snip, cutting an inch off the length. zain closes his eyes and sits like a statue,

sighing contentedly as I continue. Occasionally he opens his eyes, and I catch him

watching me intently. He doesn't touch me while I work, and I'm grateful. His

touch is . . . distracting.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm done.

"Finished." I'm pleased with the result. He looks as hot as ever, his hair still

floppy and sexy . . . just a bit shorter.

zain gazes at himself in the mirror, looking pleasantly surprised. He

grins. "Great job, Mrs. abdullah." He turns his head from side to side and snakes his

arm around me. Pulling me to him, he kisses and nuzzles my belly.

"Thank you," he says.

"My pleasure." I bend and kiss him briefly.

"It's late. Bed." He gives my behind a playful slap.

"Ah! I should clean up in here." There is hair all over the floor.

zain frowns, as if the thought would never have occurred to him. "Okay,

I'll get the broom," he says wryly. "I don't want you embarrassing the staff with

your lack of appropriate attire."

"Do you know where the broom is?" I ask innocently.

This stops zain in his tracks. "Um . . . no."

I laugh. "I'll go."

As I climb into bed and wait for zain to join me, I reflect on how differently

this day could have ended. I was so mad at him earlier, and he with me. How am I

going to deal with this running-a-company nonsense? I have no desire to run my

own company. I am not him. I need to head this off at the pass. Perhaps I should

have a safe word for when he's being overbearing and domineering, for when he's

being an arse. I giggle. Perhaps the safe word should be arse. I find the thought

very appealing.

"What?" he says as he climbs into bed beside me wearing only his pajama

pants.

"Nothing. Just an idea."

"What idea?" He stretches out beside me.

Here goes nothing. "zain, I don't think I want to run a company."

He props himself up on his elbow and gazes down at me. "Why do you say

that?"

"Because it's not something that has ever appealed to me."

"You're more than capable, aliya."

"I like to read books, zain. Running a company will take me away from

that."

"You could be the creative head."

I frown.

"You see," he continues, "running a successful company is all about embracing the talent of the individuals you have at your disposal. If that's where your

talents and your interests lie, then you structure the company to enable that. Don't

dismiss it out of hand, aliya. You're a very capable woman. I think you could

do anything you wanted if you put your mind to it."

Whoa! How can he possibly know that I'd be any good at this?

"I'm also worried it will take up too much of my time."

zain frowns.

"Time I could devote to you." I deploy my secret weapon.

His gaze darkens. "I know what you're doing," he murmurs, amused.

Damn it!

"What?" I feign innocence.

"You're trying to distract me from the issue at hand. You always do that. Just

don't dismiss the idea, Aliya. Think about it. That's all I ask." He leans down and

kisses me chastely, then skims his thumb down my cheek. This argument is going

to run and run. I smile up at him"and something he said earlier today pops unbidden into my mind.

"Can I ask you something?" My voice is soft, tentative.

"Of course."

"Earlier today you said if I was angry with you, I should take it out on you in

bed. What did you mean?"

He stills. "What did you think I meant?"

Holy shit! I should just say it. "That you wanted me to tie you up."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Um . . . no. That's not what I meant at

all."

"Oh." I'm surprised by my slight twinge of disappointment.

"You want to tie me up?" he asks, obviously reading my expression correctly. He sounds shocked. I blush.

"Well . . ."

"Aliya, I"" he stops, and something dark crosses his face.

"zain," I whisper, alarmed. I move so that I am lying on my side,

propped up on my elbow like him. I caress his face. His eyes are large and fearful.

He shakes his head sadly.

Shit! "zain, stop. It doesn't matter. I thought that's what you meant."

He takes my hand and places it on his pounding heart. f**k! What is it?

"aliya, I don't know how I'd feel about you touching me if I were restrained."

My scalp prickles. It's like he's confessing something deep and dark.

"This is still too new." His voice is low and raw.

f**k. It was just a question, and I realize that he's come a long way, but he

still has a long way to go. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. Anxiety grips my heart. I lean

over and he freezes, but I plant a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.

"zain, I got the wrong idea. Please don't worry about it. Please don't

think about it." I kiss him. He closes his eyes, groans and reciprocates, pushing

me down into the mattress, his hands clasping my chin. And soon we're lost . . .

lost in each other again.

Chap10

My heart is pounding and blood thrums loudly in my eardrums; the alcohol flowing through my system, amplifying the sound.

"Is he"" I gasp, unable to finish the sentence and gazing wide-eyed and terrified at Ryan. I can't even look at the prone figure on the floor.

"No, ma'am. Just knocked out cold."

Relief floods through me. Oh, thank God.

"And you?" I ask, gazing at Ryan. I realize I don't know his first name. He's

panting as if he's run a marathon. He wipes the corner of his mouth, removing the

trace of blood, and a faint bruise is forming on his cheek."He put up one hell of a fight, but I'm okay, Mrs. abdullah." He smiles reassuringly. If I knew him better, I'd say he looked a little smug.

"And Gail? Mrs. Jones?" Oh no . . . is she okay? Has she been harmed?

"I'm here, aliya." Glancing behind me, she's in a nightdress and robe, her hair

loose, her face ashen and her eyes wide"like mine, I imagine.

"Ryan woke me. Insisted I come in here." She points behind her into Taylor's

office. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

I nod briskly and realize she's probably just come out of the panic room built

adjoining Taylor's office. Who knew we'd need it so soon? zain had insisted

on its installation shortly after our engagement"and I had rolled my eyes. Now,

seeing Gail standing in the doorway, I'm grateful for his foresight.

A creak from the door to the foyer distracts me. It's hanging off its hinges.

What the hell happened to that?

"Was he alone?" I ask Ryan.

"Yes, ma'am. You wouldn't be standing here if he wasn't, I can assure you."

Ryan sounds vaguely affronted.

"How did he get in?" I ask, ignoring his tone.

"Through the service elevator. He's got quite a pair, ma'am."

I stare down at Jack's slumped figure. He's wearing a uniform of sorts"coveralls, I think.

"When?"

"About ten minutes ago. I caught him on the security monitor. He was wearing gloves . . . kinda strange in August. I recognized him and decided to give him

access. That way I knew we'd have him. You weren't here and Gail was safe, so I

figured it was now or never." Ryan looks very pleased with himself once more,

and Sawyer scowls at him in disapproval.

Gloves? The thought distracts me, and I glance once more at Jack. Yes, he's

wearing brown leather gloves. Creepy.

"What now?" I try to dismiss the ramifications from my mind.

"We need to secure him," Ryan replies.

"Secure him?"

"In case he wakes." Ryan glances at Sawyer.

"What do you need?" asks Mrs. Jones, stepping forward. She's recovered her

composure.

"Something to restrain him"cord or rope," Ryan replies.

Cable ties. I flush as memories of the previous night invade my mind. Reflexively, I rub my wrists and glance quickly down at them. No, no bruising. Good.

"I have something. Cable ties. Will they do?"

All eyes turn to me.

"Yes, ma'am. Perfect," Sawyer says, serious and straight-faced. I want the

floor to swallow me up, but I turn and head for our bedroom. Sometimes you just

have to brazen things out. Perhaps it's the combination of fear and alcohol making

me audacious.

When I return, Mrs. Jones is surveying the mess in the foyer and Miss

Prescott has joined the security team. I hand the ties to Sawyer, who slowly, and

with unnecessary care, ties Hyde's hands behind his back. Mrs. Jones disappears

into the kitchen and returns with a first aid kit. She takes Ryan's arm, leads him

into the doorway of the great room, and starts tending to the cut above his eye. He

flinches as she dabs it with an antiseptic wipe. Then I notice the Glock on the

floor with a silencer attached. Holy shit! Jack was armed? Bile rises in my throat

and I fight it down.

"Don't touch, Mrs. abdullah," says Prescott when I bend to pick it up. Sawyer

emerges from Taylor's office wearing latex gloves.

"I'll take care of that, Mrs. abdullah," he says.

"It's his?" I ask.

"Yes ma'am," says Ryan, wincing once more from Mrs. Jones's ministrations. Holy crap. Ryan fought an armed man in my home. I shudder at the

thought. Sawyer bends and gingerly picks up the Glock.

"Should you be doing that?" I ask.

"Mr. abdullah would expect it ma'am." Sawyer slides the gun into a zip-lock bag

then squats to pat down Jack. He pauses and partially pulls a roll of duct tape from

the man's pocket. Sawyer blanches and pushes the tape back into Hyde's pocket.

Duct tape? My mind idly registers as I watch the proceedings with fascination and an odd detachment. Then bile rises to my throat again as I realize the implications. Rapidly, I dismiss them from my head. Don't go there, aliya!

"Should we call the police?" I mutter, trying to hide my fear. I want Hyde out

of my home, sooner rather than later.

Ryan and Sawyer glance at each other.

"I think we should call the police," I say rather more forcefully, wondering

what's going on between Ryan and Sawyer.

"I've just tried Taylor, and he's not answering his cell. Maybe he's asleep."

Sawyer checks his watch. "It's one forty-five in the morning on the East Coast."

Oh no.

"Have you called zain?" I whisper.

"No, ma'am."

"Were you calling Taylor for instructions?"

Sawyer looks momentarily embarrassed. "Yes, ma'am."

Part of me bristles. This man"I glance down at Hyde again"has invaded

my home, and he needs to be removed by the police. But looking at the four of

them, into their anxious eyes, I decide I must be missing something so I decide to

call zain. My scalp prickles. I know he's mad at me"really, really mad at

me"and I falter at the thought of what he'll say. And how he'll stress because

he's not here and can't be here until tomorrow evening. I know I've worried him

enough this evening. Perhaps I shouldn't call him. And then it occurs to me. Shit.

What if I'd been here? I pale at the thought. Thank heavens I was out. Maybe I

won't be in so much trouble after all.

"Is he okay?" I ask, pointing at Jack.

"He'll have an aching skull when he wakes," Ryan says, gazing down at Jack

with contempt. "But we need paramedics here to make sure."

I reach into my purse and pull out my BlackBerry, and before I can give too

much thought to the extent of zain's anger, I dial his number. It goes straight

to voice mail. He must have switched it off because he's so mad. I cannot think

what to say. Turning away, I walk down the hallway a little, away from everyone.

"Hi. It's me. Please don't be mad. We've had an incident at the apartment.

But it's under control, so don't worry. No one is hurt. Call me." I hang up.

"Call the police." I tell Sawyer. He nods, takes out his cell, and makes the

call.

Officer Skinner is deep in conversation with Ryan at the dining room table. Officer Walker is with Sawyer in Taylor's office. I don't know where Prescott is,

perhaps in Taylor's office. Detective Clark is barking questions at me as we sit on

the couch in the great room. He's tall, dark and would be good looking if it wasn't

for his permanent scowl. I suspect he's been woken and dragged from his warm

bed because the home of one of Seattle's most influential and wealthy businessmen has been breached.

"He used to be your boss?" Clark asks tersely.

"Yes."

I am tired"beyond tired"and I want to go to bed. I still haven't heard from

zain. On the plus side, the paramedics have removed Hyde. Mrs. Jones hands

Detective Clark and me each a cup of tea.

"Thanks." Clark turns to me. "And where is Mr. abdullah?"

"New York. On business. He'll be back tomorrow evening, I mean this evening." It's after midnight.

"Hyde is known to us," Detective Clark murmurs. "I'll need you to come

down to the station to make a statement. But that can wait. It's late and there are a

couple of reporters camped out on the sidewalk. Do you mind if I look around?"

"Of course not," I offer, relieved his questioning is finished. I shudder at the

thought of the photographers outside. Well, they won't be a problem until tomorrow. I remind myself to call Mom and ghulam just in case they hear anything and

worry.

"Mrs. abdullah, may I suggest you go to bed?" Mrs. Jones says, her voice warm

and full of concern.

Looking into her warm, kind eyes, I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to

cry. She reaches over and rubs my shoulder.

"We're safe now," she murmurs. "This will all look better in the morning

once you've had some sleep. And Mr. abdullah will be back tomorrow evening."

I glance nervously up at her, keeping my tears at bay. zain is going to be

so mad.

"Can I get you anything before you go to bed?" she asks.

I realize how hungry I am. "I'd love something to eat."

She smiles broadly. "Sandwich and some milk?"

I nod with gratitude, and she heads into the kitchen. Ryan is still with Officer

Skinner. In the foyer Detective Clark is examining the mess outside the elevator.

He looks thoughtful, despite his scowl. And suddenly I feel homesick"homesick

for zain. Holding my head in my hands, I wish fervently that he were here.

He'd know what to do. What an evening. I want to crawl into his lap, have him

hold me and tell me that he loves me, even though I don't do as I'm told"but that

won't be possible until this evening. Inwardly I roll my eyes . . . Why didn't he

tell me about the increased security for everyone? What exactly is on Jack's computer? He's so frustrating but right now, I just don't care. I want my husband. I

miss him.

"Here you are, aliya dear." Mrs. Jones interrupts my inner turmoil. When I

glance up at her, she hands me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her eyes twinkling. I haven't had one of these for years. I smile shyly and dig in.

When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up on zains side, dressed in his Tshirt. Both his pillow and his T-shirt smell of him, and as I drift off I silently wish

him safe passage home . . . and a good mood.

I wake with a start. It's light and my head is aching, throbbing at my temples. Oh

no. I hope I don't have a hangover. Cautiously, I open my eyes and notice the

bedroom chair has moved, and zain is sitting in it. He's wearing his tux, and

the end of his bowtie is peeping out of the breast pocket. I wonder if I'm dreaming. His left arm is draped over the chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tumbler of amber liquid. Brandy? Whiskey? I have no idea. One long leg is crossed at

the ankle over his knee. He's wearing black socks and dress shoes. His right elbow rests on the arm of the chair, his hand up to his chin, and he's slowly running

his index finger rhythmically back and forth over his lower lip. In the early morning light, his eyes burn with grave intensity but his general expression is completely unreadable.

My heart almost stops. He's here. How did he get here? He must have left

New York last night. How long has he been here watching me sleep?

"Hi," I whisper.

He regards me coolly, and my heart stutters once more. Oh no. He moves his

long fingers away from his mouth, tosses back the remainder of his drink, and

places the glass on the bedside table. I half expect him to kiss me, but he doesn't.

He sits back, continuing to regard me, his expression impassive.

"Hello," he says finally, his voice hushed. And I know he's still mad. Really

mad.

"You're back."

"It would appear so."

Slowly I pull myself up into a sitting position, not taking my eyes off him.

My mouth is dry. "How long have you been sitting there watching me sleep?"

"Long enough."

"You're still mad." I can hardly speak the words.

He gazes at me, as if considering his response. "Mad," he says as if testing

the word, weighing up its nuances, its meaning. "No, aliya. I am way, way beyond

mad."

Holy crap. I try to swallow, but it's hard with a dry mouth.

"Far beyond mad . . . that doesn't sound good."

He gazes at me, completely impassive, and doesn't respond. A stark silence

stretches between us. I reach over to my glass of water and take a welcome sip,

trying to bring my erratic heart rate under control.

"Ryan caught Jack." I try a different tack, and I place my glass beside his on

the bedside table.

"I know," he says icily.

Of course, he knows. "Are you going to be monosyllabic for long?"

His eyebrows move fractionally registering his surprise as if he hadn't expected this question. "Yes," he says finally.

Oh . . . okay. What to do? Defense"the best form of attack. "I'm sorry I

stayed out."

"Are you?"

"No," I mutter after a pause, because it's true.

"Why say it then?"

"Because I don't want you to be mad at me."

He sighs heavily as if he's been holding this tension for a thousand hours and

runs his hand through his hair. He looks beautiful. Mad, but beautiful. I drink him

in"zains back"angry, but in one piece.

"I think Detective Clark wants to talk to you."

"I'm sure he does."

"Christian, please . . ."

"Please what?"

"Don't be so cold."

His eyebrows rise in surprise once more. "aliya, cold is not what I'm

feeling at the moment. I'm burning. Burning with rage. I don't know how to deal

with these""he waves his hand searching for the word""feelings." His tone is

bitter.

Oh shit. His honesty disarms me. All I want to do is crawl into his lap. It's all

I've wanted to do since I came home last night. To hell with this. I move, taking

him by surprise and climbing awkwardly into his lap, where I curl up. He doesn't

push me away, which is what I'd feared. After a beat, he folds his arms around me

and buries his nose in my hair. He smells of whiskey. Jeez, how much did he

drink? He smells of bodywash, too. He smells of zain. I wrap my arms

around his neck and nuzzle his throat, and he sighs once more, deeply this time.

"Oh, Mrs. abdullah. What am I going to do with you?" He kisses the top of my

head. I close my eyes, relishing the contact with him.

"How much have you had to drink?"

He stills. "Why?"

"You don't normally drink hard liquor."

"This is my second glass. I've had a trying night, aliya. Give a man a

break."

I smile. "If you insist, Mr. abdullah," I breathe into his neck. "You smell heavenly. I slept on your side of the bed because your pillow smells of you."

He nuzzles my hair. "Did you now? I wondered why you were on this side.

I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

His hand rhythmically strokes my back.

"And I'm mad at you," I whisper.

He pauses. "And what, pray, have I done to deserve your ire?"

"I'll tell you later when you're no longer burning with rage." I kiss his throat.

He closes his eyes and leans into my kiss but makes no move to kiss me back. His

arms tighten around me, squeezing me.

"When I think of what might have happened . . ." His voice is barely a whisper. Broken, raw.

"I'm okay."

"Oh, aliya." It's almost a sob.

"I'm okay. We're all okay. A bit shaken. But Gail is fine. Ryan is fine. And

Jack is gone."

He shakes his head. "No thanks to you," he mutters.

What? I lean back, and glare at him. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want to argue about it right now, aliya ."

I blink. Well, maybe I do, but I decide against it. At least he's talking to me. I

nestle into him once more. His fingers move to my hair and start playing with it.

"I want to punish you," he whispers. "Really beat the shit out of you," he

adds.

My heart leaps into my mouth. f**k. "I know," I whisper as my scalp

prickles.

"Maybe I will."

"I hope not."

He hugs me tighter. "Aliya, Aliya, Aliya. You'd try the patience of a saint."

"I could accuse you of many things, Mr. Abdullah , but being a saint isn't one of

them."

Finally I am blessed with his reluctant chuckle. "Fair point well made as ever,

Mrs. abdullah." He kisses my forehead and shifts.

"Back to bed. You had a late night, too." He moves quickly, picking me up

and depositing me back on the bed.

"Lie down with me?"

"No. I have things to do." He reaches down and collects the glass. "Go back

to sleep. I'll wake you in a couple of hours."

"Are you still mad at me?"

"Yes."

"I'll go back to sleep, then."

"Good." He pulls the duvet over me and kisses my forehead once more.

"Sleep."

And because I'm so groggy from the night before, relieved that he's back,

and emotionally fatigued by our early-morning encounter, I do exactly as I'm

told. As I drift off, I'm curious though grateful, given the nasty taste in my mouth,

to know why he hasn't deployed his usual coping mechanism and leapt on me to

have his wicked way.

"There's some orange juice for you here," zain says, and my eyes flutter

open again. I have had the most restful two hours of sleep I can remember, and I

wake refreshed, my head no longer throbbing. The orange juice is a welcome

sight"as is my husband. He's in his sweats. And I'm momentarily zapped back

to the Heathman Hotel and the first time I ever woke up with him. His gray tank

top is damp with his sweat. Either he's been working out in the basement gym or

he's been for a run, but he shouldn't look this good after a workout.

"I'm going to take a shower," he murmurs and disappears to the bathroom. I

frown. He's still distant. He's either distracted by all that's happened, or still mad,

or . . . what? I sit up and reach for the orange juice, drinking it down too quickly.

It's delicious, ice cold, and it makes my mouth a much better place. I clamber out

of bed, anxious to close the distance"real and metaphysical"between my husband and me. I glance quickly at the alarm. It's eight o'clock. I strip off zains T-shirt and follow him into the bathroom. He's in the shower, washing his

hair, and I don't hesitate. I slip in behind him, and he stiffens the moment I wrap

my arms around him"my front to his wet, muscular back. I ignore his reaction,

holding him tightly, and press my cheek flat against him, closing my eyes. After a

moment, he shifts so we are both under the cascade of hot water and carries on

washing his hair. I let the water wash over me as I cradle the man I love. I think of

all the times he's f**ked me and all the times he's made love to me in here. I

frown. He's never been this quiet. Turning my head, I start to trail kisses across

his back. His body stiffens again.

"Aliya," he warns.

"Hmm."

My hands travel slowly down over his taut stomach to his belly. He places

both his hands on mine and brings them to an abrupt halt. He shakes his head.

"Don't," he warns.

I release him, immediately. He's saying no? My mind goes into free fall"has

this ever happened before? My subconscious shakes her head, her lips pursed. She

glares at me over her half-moon glasses, wearing her you've-really-f**ked-up-this-time look. I feel like I've been slapped, hard. Rejected. And a lifetime of insecurity spawns the ugly thought he doesn't want me anymore. I gasp as the pain

sears through me. zain turns, and I'm relieved to see he's not completely oblivious to my charms. Grasping my chin, he tilts my head back, and I find myself

gazing into his wary, beautiful eyes.

"I'm still f**king mad at you," he says, his voice quiet and serious. Shit!

Leaning down, he rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I reach up and

caress his face.

"Don't be mad at me, please. I think you're overreacting," I whisper.

He straightens, blanching. My hand falls free to my side.

"Overreacting?" he snarls. "Some f**king lunatic gets into my apartment to

kidnap my wife, and you think I'm overreacting!" The restrained menace in his

voice is frightening, and his eyes blaze as he stares at me as if I'm the f**king

lunatic.

"No . . . um, that's not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me

staying out."

He closes his eyes once more as if in pain and shakes his head.

"zain, I wasn't here." I try to appease and reassure him.

"I know," he whispers opening his eyes. "And all because you can't follow a

simple, f**king request." His tone is bitter and it's my turn to blanch. "I don't

want to discuss this now, in the shower. I am still f**king mad at you, aliya.

You're making me question my judgment." He turns and promptly leaves the

shower, grabbing a towel on the way and stalking out of the bathroom, leaving me

bereft and chilled under the hot water.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Then the significance of what he's just said dawns on me. Kidnap? f**k.

Jack wanted to kidnap me? I recall the duct tape and not wanting to think too

deeply about why Jack had that. Does zain have more information? Hurriedly I wash myself, then shampoo and rinse my hair. I want to know. I need to

know. I am not going to let him keep me in the dark about this.

zains not in the bedroom when I come out. Jeez, he dresses quickly. I

do the same, throwing on my favorite plum dress and black sandals, and I'm conscious that I've chosen this outfit because zain likes it. I vigorously towel-dry

my hair, then braid it and wind it into a bun. Fitting diamond studs into my ears, I

dash to the bathroom to apply a little mascara and glance at myself in the mirror.

I'm pale. Jeez, I'm always pale. I take a deep steadying breath. I need to face the

consequences of my rash decision to actually enjoy myself with my friend. I sigh,

knowing that zain won't see it that way.

zain is nowhere to be seen in the great room. Mrs. Jones is busying herself in the kitchen.

"Good morning, aliya," she says sweetly.

"Morning," I smile broadly at her. I am Ana again!

"Tea?"

"Please."

"Anything to eat?"

"Please. I'd like an omelet this morning."

"With mushrooms and spinach?"

"And cheese."

"Coming up."

"Where's zain?"

"Mr. abdullahs in his study."

"Has he had breakfast?" I glance at the two places set on the breakfast bar.

"No, ma'am."

"Thanks."

zain is on the phone, dressed in a white shirt with no tie, looking like

every part the relaxed CEO. How deceptive appearances can be. Perhaps he's not

going into the office after all. He glances up when I appear in the doorway but

shakes his head at me, indicating that I am not welcome. Shit . . . I turn and

wander dejectedly back to the breakfast bar. Taylor appears, snappily dressed in a

somber suit, looking like he's had eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

"Morning, Taylor," I murmur, trying to gauge his mood and see if he'll offer

me any visual cues about what has been going on.

"Good morning, Mrs. abdullah," he replies, and I hear the sympathy in those four

words. I smile compassionately back at him, knowing he had to endure an angry,

frustrated zain returning to Seattle way ahead of schedule.

"How was the flight?" I dare to ask.

"Long, Mrs. abdullah." His brevity speaks volumes. "May I ask how you are?"

he adds, his tone softening.

"I'm good."

He nods. "If you'll excuse me." He heads toward zains study. Hmm.

Taylor's allowed in, but not me.

"Here you go." Mrs. Jones places my breakfast in front of me. My appetite

has vanished, but I eat anyway, not wishing to offend her.

By the time I've finished what I can of my breakfast, zain has still not

emerged from his study. Is he avoiding me?

"Thanks, Mrs. Jones," I murmur, sliding off the bar stool and making my way

to the bathroom to clean my teeth. As I brush them, I'm reminded of zains

sulk over the wedding vows. He holed up in his study then, too. Is that what this

is? Him sulking? I shudder as I recall his subsequent nightmare. Will that happen

again? We really need to talk. I need to know about Jack and about the increased

security for the abdullah's"all the details that have been kept from me, but not from

yasmin. Obviously harshad talks to her.

I glance at my watch. It's eight fifty"I'm late for work. I finish brushing my

teeth, apply a little lip gloss, grab my lightweight black jacket, and head back to

the great room. I am relieved to see zain there, eating his breakfast.

"You're going?" he says when he sees me.

"To work? Yes, of course." Bravely, I walk toward him and rest my hands on

the edge of the breakfast bar. He gazes at me blankly.

"zain, we've hardly been back a week. I have to go to work."

"But"" He stops, and rakes his hand through his hair. Mrs. Jones walks

quietly out of the room. Discreet, Gail, discreet.

"I know we have a great deal to talk about. Perhaps if you've calmed down,

we can do it this evening."

His mouth pops open with dismay. "Calmed down?" His voice is eerily soft.

I flush. "You know what I mean."

"No, aliya, I don't know what you mean."

"I don't want a fight. I was coming to ask you if I could take my car."

"No. You can't," he snaps.

"Okay." I acquiesce immediately.

He blinks. He was obviously expecting a fight. "Prescott will accompany

you." His tone is slightly less belligerent.

Dammit, not Prescott. I want to pout and protest but decide against it. Surely

now Jack has been caught we can cut back on our security.

I remember my mom's "words of wisdom" talk the day before my wedding.

Ana, honey, you really have to choose your battles. It'll be the same with your

kids when you have them. Well, at least he's letting me go to work.

"Okay," I mutter. And because I don't want to leave him like this with so

much unresolved and so much tension between us, I step tentatively toward him.

He stiffens, his eyes widening, and for a moment he looks so vulnerable it pulls at

some deep, dark place in my heart. Oh, zain, I'm so sorry. I kiss him

chastely on the side of his mouth. He closes his eyes as if relishing my touch.

"Don't hate me," I whisper.

He grabs my hand. "I don't hate you."

"You haven't kissed me," I whisper.

He eyes me suspiciously. "I know," he mutters.

I'm desperate to ask him why, but I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

Abruptly he stands and grabs my face between his hands, and in a flash his lips

are hard on mine. I gasp with surprise, inadvertently granting his tongue access.

He takes full advantage, invading my mouth, claiming me, and just as I'm beginning to respond he releases me, his breathing quickening.

"Taylor will take you and Prescott to SIP," he says, his eyes flaring with

need. "Taylor!" he calls. I flush, trying to recover some composure.

"Sir." Taylor is standing in the doorway.

"Tell Prescott Mrs. abdullah is going to work. Can you drive them, please?"

"Certainly." Turning on his heel, Taylor disappears.

"If you could try to stay out of trouble today, I would appreciate it," zain

mutters.

"I'll see what I can do." I smile sweetly. A reluctant half smile tugs at zains lips, but he doesn't give in to it.

"I'll see you later, then," he says coolly.

"Laters," I whisper.

Prescott and I take the service elevator down to the basement garage in order

to avoid the media outside. Jack's arrest and the fact he was apprehended in our

apartment are now public knowledge. As I settle into the Audi, I wonder if there

will be more paparazzi waiting at SIP like the day our engagement was

announced.

We drive a while in silence until I remember to call first ghulam and then my

mom to reassure them that zain and I are safe. Mercifully, both calls are

short, and I hang up just as we arrive outside SIP. As I feared, there's a small

crowd of reporters and photographers lying in wait. They turn as one, looking expectantly at the Audi.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Mrs. abdullah?" Taylor asks. Part of me just

wants to go home, but that means spending the day with Mr. Burning Rage. I

hope that with a little time, he will gain some perspective. Jack is in police custody, so Fifty should be happy, but he's not. Part of me understands why; too

much of this is out of his control including me, but I don't have time to think

about this now.

"Take me around to the delivery entrance, please, Taylor."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's one o'clock and I've managed to immerse myself in work all morning.

There's a knock and Elizabeth pops her head around the door.

"Can I have a moment?" she asks brightly.

"Sure," I mutter, surprised at her unscheduled visit.

She enters and sits down, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. "I

just wanted to check you're okay. Roach asked me to pay you a visit," she adds

hurriedly as her face reddens. "I mean with all that went on last night."

Jack Hyde's arrest is all over the newspapers, but no one seems to have made

the connection yet with the fire at AEH.

"I'm fine," I answer, trying not to think too deeply about how I feel. Jack

wanted to harm me. Well, that's not news. He's tried before. It's zain I'm

more concerned about.

I glance quickly at my e-mail. There's still nothing from him. I don't know if

I were to send him an e-mail, whether I'd just be provoking Mr. Burning Rage

further.

"Good," Elizabeth answers, and her smile actually touches her eyes for a

change. "If there's anything I can do"anything you need"let me know."

"Will do."

Elizabeth stands. "I know how busy you are, aliya. I'll let you get back to it."

"Um . . . thanks."

That has to have been the briefest most pointless meeting in the Western

Hemisphere today. Why did Roach send her here? Perhaps he's worried, given

I'm his boss's wife. I shake off the dark thoughts and reach for my BlackBerry in

the hope that there might be a message from zain. As I do, my work e-mail

pings.

From: zain

Subject: Statement

Date: August 26, 2011 13:04

To: aliya

Aliya

Detective Clark will be visiting your office today at 3 pm to take your statement.

I have insisted that he should come to you, as I don't want you going to the police

station.

Zain

CEO, Abdullah Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I gaze at his e-mail for a full five minutes, trying to think of a light and witty

response to lift his mood. I draw a complete blank, and opt for brevity instead.

From: aliya

Subject: Statement

Date: August 26, 2011 13:12

To: zain

Okay.

A x

Aliya Abdullah

Commissioning Editor, SIP

I stare at the screen for another five minutes, anxious for his response but

there's nothing. zain is not in the mood to play today.

I sit back. Can I blame him? My poor Fifty was probably frantic, back in the

early hours of this morning. Then a thought occurs to me. He was in his tux when

I woke this morning. What time did he decide to come back from New York? He

normally leaves functions between ten and eleven. Last night at that hour, I was

still at large with yasmin.

Did zain come home because I was out or because of the Jack incident?

If he left because I was out having a good time, he would have had no idea about

Jack, about the police, nothing"until he landed in Seattle. It's suddenly very important to me to find out. If zain came back merely because I was out, then

he was overreacting. My subconscious sucks her teeth, wearing her harpy face.

Okay, I'm glad he's back, so maybe it's irrelevant. But still"zain must have

had one hell of a shock when he landed. No wonder he's so confused today. His

earlier words come back to me. "I am still f**king mad at you, aliya. You're

making me question my judgment."

I have to know"did he come back because of Cocktailgate or because of the

f**king lunatic?

From: aliya

Subject: Your Flight

Date: August 26, 2011 13:24

To: zain

What time did you decide to come back to Seattle yesterday?

Aliya

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: zain

Subject: Your flight

Date: August 26, 2011 13:26

To: aliya

Why?

Zain

CEO, Abdullah Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: aliya

Subject: Your Flight

Date: August 26, 2011 13:29

To: zain

Call it curiosity.

Aliya

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: zain

Subject: Your flight

Date: August 26, 2011 13:32

To: aliya

Curiosity killed the cat.

Zain

CEO, Abdullah Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: aliya

Subject: Huh?

Date: August 26, 2011 13:35

To: zain

What is that oblique reference to? Another threat?

You know where I am going with this, don't you?

Did you decide to return because I went out for a drink with my friend after you

asked me not to, or did you return because a madman was in your apartment?

Aliya Abdullah

Commissioning Editor, SIP

I stare at my screen. There's no response. I glance at the clock on my computer. One forty-five and still no response.

From: aliya

Subject: Here's the thing . . .

Date: August 26, 2011 13:56

To: zain

I will take your silence as an admission that you did indeed return to Seattle because I CHANGED MY MIND. I am an adult female and went for a drink with my

friend. I did not understand the security ramifications of CHANGING MY MIND

because YOU NEVER TELL ME ANYTHING. I found out from yasmin that security

has, in fact, been stepped up for all the Abdullah's, not just us. I think you generally

overreact where my safety is concerned, and I understand why, but you're like the

boy crying wolf.

I never have a clue about what is a real concern or merely something that is perceived as a concern by you. I had two of the security detail with me. I thought both

yasmin and I would be safe. Fact is, we were safer in that bar than at the apartment.

Had I been FULLY INFORMED of the situation, I would have taken a different

course of action.

I understand your concerns are something to do with material that was on Jack's

computer here"or so yasmin believes. Do you know how annoying it is to find out my

best friend knows more about what's going on with you than I do? And I am your

WIFE. So are you going to tell me? Or will you continue to treat me like a child,

guaranteeing that I continue to behave like one?

You are not the only one who is f**king pissed. Okay?

Aliya

Commissioning Editor, SIP

I hit send. There"stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Abdullah. I take a deep

breath. I have worked myself up into quite a rage. Here was I feeling sorry and

guilty for behaving badly. Well, no longer.

From: zain

Subject: Here's the thing . . .

Date: August 26, 2011 13:59

To: aliya

As ever, Mrs. abdullah, you are forthright and challenging in e-mail.

Perhaps we can discuss this when you get home to OUR apartment.

You should watch your language. I am still f**king pissed, too.

Zain

CEO, Abdullah Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Watch my language! I scowl at my computer, realizing this is getting me

nowhere. I don't respond, but pick up a manuscript recently received from a

promising new author and begin to read.

My meeting with Detective Clark is uneventful. He is less growly than the night

before, maybe because he's managed some sleep. Or maybe he just prefers working during the day.

"Thank you for your statement, Mrs. abdullah."

"You're welcome, detective. Is Hyde in police custody yet?"

"Yes ma'am. He was released from hospital earlier this morning. With what

he's charged with, he should be with us for a while." He smiles, his dark eyes

crinkling in the corner.

"Good. This has been an anxious time for my husband and me."

"I spoke at length with Mr. abdullah this morning. He's very relieved. Interesting

man, your husband."

You have no idea.

"Yes, I think so." I offer him a polite smile, and he knows he's being

dismissed.

"If you think of anything, you can call me. Here's my card." He wrestles a

card out of his wallet and hands it to me.

"Thank you, detective. I'll do that."

"Good day to you, Mrs. abdullah."

"Good day."

As he leaves, I wonder exactly what Hyde has been charged with. No doubt

zain won't tell me. I purse my lips.

We ride in silence to Escala. Sawyer is driving this time, Prescott at his side, and

my heart grows heavier and heavier as we head back. I know zain and I are

going to have an almighty fight, and I don't know if I have the energy.

As I ride in the elevator from the garage with Prescott beside me, I try to marshal my thoughts. What do I want to say? I think I said it all in my e-mail. Perhaps

he'll give me some answers. I hope so. I can't help my nerves. My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty. I don't want to fight. But sometimes he's so difficult, and I need to stand my ground.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the foyer, and it's once more neat

and tidy. The table is upright and a new vase is in place with a gorgeous array of

pale pink and white peonies. I quickly check the paintings as we wander

through"the Madonnas all look to be intact. The broken foyer door is fixed and

operational once more, and Prescott kindly opens it for me. She's been so quiet

today. I think I prefer her this way.

I drop my briefcase in the hall and head into the great room. I stop. Holy f**k.

"Good evening, Mrs. abdullah," zain says softly. He's standing by the piano, dressed in a tight black T-shirt, and jeans . . . those jeans"the ones he wore

in the playroom. Oh my. They are over washed pale-blue denim, snug, ripped at

the knee and hot. He saunters over to me, his feet bare, the top button of the jeans

undone, his smoldering eyes never leaving mine.

"Good to have you home. I've been waiting for you."

I love their email conversations ...

I mean I read of them finally I am commenting I love you updating thus here or else would have missed this book

hatts off to update 10 part together.
love all part.
thanks for pm.