You had a responsibility—you were Princess al-Assad—and you abandoned my people.”

Her wrist began to throb. Tiny pinpricks flashed against her closed eyelids. “Please, release me.”

“I expect an apology.”

“You’re hurting me.”

His nostrils flared, his dark eyes flashing, but he opened his fingers, freeing her wrist. She drew her arm back to her lap and stared at her wrist, seeing the livid marks of his fingers against the paleness of her skin.

Kahlil dragged the heavy velvet drapes closed. The violet-purple fabric fell in deep inky folds, hiding them from the rest of the restaurant.

He was pulling her back into his world, forcing her to submit. She couldn’t let him. She wasn’t just his wife. She was a mother, Ben’s mother.

The tears that she’d fought so hard to contain trembled on her lashes, slipping free. She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep control.

“Do not cry,” he said roughly. “I won’t have my wife weeping in public.”

“You’ve drawn the drapes. No one can see.”

“I can see.”

Everything about him was so hard. Every word sounded harsh. She clamped her jaw shut, refusing to engage in a battle of wills with Kahlil. He was a far better debater than she. He was far better at everything than she, but that didn’t make his needs more important, his feelings more correct.

Kahlil must have accepted her silence for submission as his hard expression gentled a fraction. “If you don’t want a fight, don’t provoke me. I didn’t travel all this way to be scorned by a woman.”

Had he always been so arrogant? So damned condescending? Maybe once she’d found his machismo attractive but now it filled her with terror. Terror not just for herself, but Ben, and Ben’s future.

If Kahlil knew he had a son, he’d insist that Ben be raised in Zwar, his small oil-rich kingdom in the Middle East. Zwar was beautiful but far removed from the freedom she and Ben knew in Texas.

Abruptly Kahlil leaned forward, grasped her chin, drawing her toward him. She nearly flinched, inwardly shrinking from his touch, but steeled herself outwardly, not wanting him to know how strongly he affected her.

Yet when he stroked her lips with the pad of his thumb, her whole body shuddered, a response she couldn’t possibly hide from Kahlil.

“You’ve become quite skittish,” he drawled, clearly intrigued. “Doesn’t Stan ever touch you?”

“My relationship with Stan is none of your business.”

“A bold answer for a woman in a precarious position.”

Her lips twisted, her smile forced. She ignored the truth in this, realizing she was indeed caught, but pride overwhelmed her common sense. She couldn’t back down. “I have changed, Kahlil. I’m not the girl you married.”

“Good. Then we both have adjustments to make. I’m not the man you married, either.” He smiled without humor, his gaze never wavering from her face. “And you have changed. You’ve grown more beautiful.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m not flattering you. I’ve met a lot of women in my life, but I’ve never met another woman like you.