Bride Behind The Desert Veil (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Marchetti Dynasty, Book 3) by Abby Green (pride and prejudice read .TXT) 📗

He looked like a remote stranger. She could scarcely believe he was the same man who had led her into that tent at the oasis and fed her, before laying her down and showing her that she wasn’t a freak. That she had capacity to feel such pleasure that—

‘The press release has generated some interest. You should expect intense attention from the press when we arrive. Just stick close to me.’

Liyah’s thoughts scattered. Sharif was looking at her and his face was cast in shadow, making the lines leaner and harsher. His eyes glittered. She gulped. No doubt he thought she was used to the paparazzi, because he believed she’d been courting their attention over the last two summers in Europe.

‘Okay.’

Flashing lights in her peripheral vision made Liyah turn her head. She could see they were approaching an impressive building, with red-carpeted steps leading up to an ornate entrance. Men in tuxedoes and women in shimmering gowns were making their way into the building.

‘Where is this?’

‘It’s the Metropolitan Museum.’

Liyah sucked in a breath. She’d heard of the famous building. Suddenly she felt very unprepared. ‘What exactly is this event?’

‘It’s an annual gala to raise funds for a range of charities.’

The car was pulling to a stop at the bottom of the steps now. Liyah wanted to slide down to the floor of the car and avoid the masses of paparazzi lined up along each side, and the glamorous crowd. This was far removed from anything she’d ever experienced before. In terms of royalty, the Mansours were definitely country bumpkins.

But Sharif was already out of the car, leaving a blast of icy air in his wake. And then her door was opening and he was holding out a hand.

Liyah had a flashback to when he’d held his hand out to her at the oasis. This couldn’t be more different...

She forced it out of her mind, took a deep breath, and let him help her from the car to join him at the bottom of the steps.

Immediately it seemed as if everyone—the guests arriving and walking up the steps, the paparazzi, the myriad men and women in black suits with headsets, ushering the guests towards the entrance—turned as one to look at Sharif and Liyah.

Liyah was barely aware of Sharif’s hand wrapping tightly around hers. Or his frowning look as he took in her face. Or his words. ‘Just stay by my side.’

They started to move forward, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea to let them pass. There was a strange hush, and then all hell seemed to break loose.

‘Sharif! Sharif! Let us meet your new wife!’

‘Princess Aaliyah—over here!’

‘Please, Princess, look over here. Who are you wearing?’

‘Marchetti! Now that all of you are settling down, does this mean you’re taking your eye off the ball? Losing your edge?’

Sharif stopped so abruptly that Liyah stumbled at his side. He turned to the bank of photographers to see where that last question had come from. She could feel the tension in his form.

He addressed the faceless people behind the flashing lights. ‘The Marchetti Group is only getting stronger. I can assure you of that.’

And then he was tugging Liyah to his side and all but carrying her as they made their way up the rest of the steps.

As they reached the main doors, a golden glow emanated from inside a large marble foyer. More stairs led up to another level. Flaming lanterns lit their way and exotic fresh flowers scented the air. Uniformed staff expertly divested Liyah of her overcoat, so that by the time they reached the top she looked like every other woman in her glittering gown and jewels. It was opulent, and decadent, and so glamorous that she was afraid to breathe in case she made it disappear, or ruined it in some way.

Sharif held out his arm. She looked at it stupidly for a moment, before realising he wasn’t holding her hand any more. She stepped forward and put her arm through his. She could feel the steely strength of his muscles against her, under his clothes. His heat. She tried to numb herself against the effect, but it was hard not to give in to the urge to cleave to his side.

And even more so when they walked into a room that was bathed in the golden light of hundreds of chandeliers. Ornate flower arrangements made up the centrepieces of round tables. People milled about chatting, networking. Soft, easy jazz came from a band near the top of the room.

They hadn’t moved but a few feet forward before Sharif was stopped by someone. He introduced her to every person who approached them, and Liyah’s face started to ache from forcing a smile. She gave up trying to remember names. They weren’t really interested in her though—they only wanted Sharif.

He despatched all the sycophants with ruthless efficiency, indulging in no kind of small talk. Charming he was not...and yet that didn’t stop people flocking to him. No, what he was, was something far more compelling...

It was somewhat comforting for Liyah to realise that she didn’t feel as out of place or conspicuous as she usually did. Not with Sharif by her side. He eclipsed everything around him. Nevertheless, she wasn’t unaware of the sly looks she received—mainly from other women—and the whispers as they passed by. But she held her head up and pretended not to notice.

Eventually they reached their table, which was at the top of the room, and Liyah sat down gratefully.

‘Okay?’

She looked at Sharif as he spoke, taking his seat beside her. She realised she must have made a face. ‘High heels aren’t really my thing.’

He frowned at her, and she immediately realised that what she’d said would be at odds with the woman he thought she was. But before she could say anything else the music came to a stop and the people hushed.

Speeches were made as they were served plates of food that looked more like art installations. Liyah sipped at sparkling wine