His own suite of rooms was unlike anything she could have imagined before arriving at the palace. Through the thick, carved timber doors there was an atrium with a waterfall that Raffa had explained, on their wedding night, was naturally occurring. The palace had been built against a mountain range and this room had historically been the Sheikh’s.
The waterfall dropped into a pool – ‘my predecessors liked to watch their concubines swim,’ he’d said, with something in his eyes that had made it hard for Chloe to tell if he was joking. Teasing her, mocking her innocence. Trying to shock her?
It had worked.
She’d jerked her attention away from the waterfall sharply then, and she did so now. Bougainvillea had been trained to grow over the ceiling, and night-flowering jasmine intertwined with it, creating a heady fragrance and a stunning tangle of purple and white flowers.
Through the atrium, the suite was in stark contrast to such wild beauty. Everything in Raffa’s rooms was the finest money could buy. From the enormous bed in his room, to the polished marble dining table that was set with gold cutlery and crystal glasses, to the cinema sized screen that sat against one side of his living area. It was sumptuous, decadent and not even remotely what Chloe found the most remarkable thing in the room.
No, that honour was reserved for her husband.
He stood in the centre of the space, his robe removed so that he wore only a pair of loose pants, low on his waist. His feet were bare and the long, dark hair he’d worn in a messy bun at the event was down now, falling over his shoulders in thick, tumbling waves. His chest was bare, and her gaze couldn’t help but fall to it, taking in the muscular ridging, the hard lines, the hair that ran down his navel and into the waistband of his pants.
“Like what you see?” He enquired sardonically.
She blinked, grateful then for the years of practice she’d had in concealing her thoughts and feelings; grateful for the father, brother, mother who had all taught her to hide her inner-most feelings at all times.
“You wanted to talk,” she reminded him crisply, moving deeper into the room, towards the bar, where she poured herself a mineral water and scooped some pomegranate seeds from a small golden bucket.
“No. I want to sleep with you. You want to talk.”
Chloe’s fingers fumbled the ice tongs but she was calm when she met his eyes. “Oh, come on, Raffa. Don’t make it sound as though you want this. You want an heir. Sex you already have, surely, with any number of willing women?”
His eyes narrowed and something dark crossed his expression. “Careful, sheikha. That sounds a lot like you are questioning my integrity.”
“How? By stating a fact?”
“You think I have been sleeping with other women?”
She was on dangerous ground and yet she couldn’t retreat. “I haven’t thought about it at all,” she lied. “But, if I had to answer that, I would say, of course. This isn’t a real marriage, you’re…”
“Yes?” He prompted with a dangerous edge to the words.
“Well, you’re you. All virile and masculine and no doubt used to regularly being…”
An eyebrow lifted up, and embarrassment flicked at the edges of Chloe’s mind, making it impossible for her to finish the sentence.
“I am a married man,” he said with a shrug. “I am not interested in breaking the vows we made to one another.”
She had thought the ground was tilting beneath her moments ago, but now, it fairly shook! Was he actually saying that he’d been celibate this past year? That the virile and masculine specimen of royalty and hotness had gone without a partner – because of her? Because of their marriage?
“Fine,” she said, as though this revelation hadn’t made her pulse fire. “But if this is just about assuaging Malik’s worries, then why not simply tell him we’re trying for a baby? Surely that will do the same thing?”
Raffa’s eyes narrowed. “I hope, Chloe, that we can provide him with more than the thought of an heir, before he leaves this earth. His condition is worsening, but I have no reason to think he won’t survive long enough to meet his grandson.”
“Or granddaughter,” she pointed out, sipping her water, holding it tightly in one hand to hide the way her fingers were trembling.
“Or granddaughter,” The sheikh conceded with a nod. “The gender does not matter. The constitution will recognize either as my heir.”
Chloe tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. “You already have a son, do you not?”
It was the first time she’d played that card, the first time she’d spoken about the secret child, Amit, who was not so secret after all. Everybody knew of him. The twelve-year-old who was the product of a youthful indiscretion – rumoured to have been a love affair that was strictly forbidden by Raffa’s father.
“Leave Amit out of it. We are talking about my heir,” he recovered quickly, taking a step towards her, so that she fought an impulse to step backwards.
“Aren’t they one in the same thing?”
“He’s not my legitimate heir,” Raffa said with a shrug. “You are my bride. Only you can provide Qad’r with the child it requires.”
“You’re to be the King. Surely you can change the rules of succession?”
“Of course you would think ancient rules should be set aside when they become inconvenient. How very American of you.”
She ignored his condemnation. “I should think you find it inconvenient as well.”
His nostrils flared. “Amit will not inherit the throne, and he knows this. It has never entered his head that he would. He wouldn’t want the job, even if it were offered,” Raffa remarked with an affectionate smile.
A throb of jealousy robbed Chloe of breath. Raffa loved his son – that was natural. Why did that hurt? Why did
