A muscle jerked in Raffa’s cheek and he spun away, striding to the edge of the parapet, propping his elbows against the wall there, and staring out at the crisp night sky. The moon was splitting the clouds like a beam, and it caused the sand to shimmer like diamonds beneath them.
“Amit is my son,” he said after several beats. “But he will never be Sheikh. He knows this. He understands my need for a legitimate heir.”
Chloe let the words sink in, her mind trying to digest the ramifications of this. “You’ve told him about me, about us?”
“He was at our wedding.”
She shook her head, moving to stand behind him. “I mean that we’re trying to conceive a baby.”
Raffa spun around to face her, his strong, sharp face staring down at her. “As you say, he is growing into a young man. He will no doubt have guessed at the reason for your installation at the palace.”
“God, he must be seriously messed up.”
“On the contrary. He takes after his mother,” he said with a smile that made Chloe’s heart thump painfully in her chest. For there was love in that smile. Love and affection and sweet reminiscences that were utterly distinct from anything her husband had ever shown her.
She had lived her whole life in the shadows of others. Her mother, her father, her brother. And now, her husband’s child’s mother! She couldn’t have said where Elena was, but suddenly, the idea that she might be in the palace, that her husband might still be involved with her, filled Chloe with an icy numbness.
“Eat something, Chloe. If you’re to carry the royal heir, you need to look after yourself.”
And that was what this all boiled down to. Raffa needed an heir, and she was his wife. She was the only one who could provide him with the legitimate child he required. Whatever passion hummed between them, whatever power she had to drive him wild, was contained to a very limited set of circumstances.
She returned the table and did as he said, but the food had lost its flavor and the stars their shimmer.
7
IT WASN’T EVEN TWO weeks later that Chloe awoke to discover she wasn’t pregnant. Despite having shared her husband’s bed every night for three weeks, no baby had found its way into her belly.
Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how desperate she was to conceive. How much she’d wanted that baby. How despite the fact it had only been weeks, she’d begun to hope beyond hope that there was a child growing inside of her. That she’d begun to think of it as real and tangible and true.
She’d been wrong.
“Aysha,” she murmured, after her shower. “I’d like to go to the city.”
“Yes, your highness,” Aysha had bowed low, but when she’d lifted her head, there was empathy in her gaze.
Chloe didn’t hold it for long.
She took a piece of paper from the bureau and scrawled a note to Raffa:
I’m going away for a week or so. Chloe.
It seemed appropriately business-like. Since their night under the stars, they had barely spoken beyond the perfunctory civilities. In bed, he had set fire to her body, burning her blood with passion and needs that controlled her utterly, and she knew that raging desire was mutual. She knew he felt it too. Only he controlled it so much better than she ever could. No matter how tempestuous their coming together, he never stayed the night. He never held her afterwards.
It was lovemaking with a purpose, and the purpose had failed.
Yes, that was what was itching her skin. It wasn’t just disappointment – it was an overwhelming sense of failure. Why hadn’t her body done what it was meant to? Why?
“Would you have this delivered to my husband, please, Aysha?” She murmured, not waiting to hear the response.
Her maids would take care of packing, and yet Chloe itched to have something to do, something to distract her.
“I’ll go for a walk,” she said with a nod, to no one in particular. “We’ll leave in an hour.”
She moved with her head bent, through the palace and down a set of marble steps until she emerged into one of the gardens that surrounded the building. A fragrant vine scrambled over the wall on this side, and palm trees spiked towards the blue sky, surrounded at their base with pretty, vibrant flowers. She walked slowly towards one of the garden beds and plucked a blossom from it, lifting it to her nose.
“They’re poisonous, you know.”
She startled, looking around for the source of the voice. Amit sat on the grass nearby, a large white pad in his lap and a pencil in his hand.
She liked Amit, but the reminder of her husband’s virility when she was coming to terms with her own failure to fall pregnant made it difficult to smile with any authenticity.
“Are they?”
She went towards him slowly.
“They were planted as a reminder that looks can be deceiving.” He gestured with his hands to the spiky palms. “That sharpness and strength can be hiding behind all that pink.”
“You know a lot about it.”
“I like gardens,” he said.
“And rock skimming?” When she reached his side, she saw that he’d been sketching the flowers, and that they were truly excellent representations. “You’re very talented.”
“Rock skimming is not so hard,” he assured her. “I’ll show you again some time.”
Now she smiled more naturally. “I meant the drawing. But thank you.”
“Oh.” He looked down at the page with a frown. “Something’s missing.”
She sat on the grass beside him, and ridiculously, the simple act of being close to another human sent emotions crashing through her. She felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes and blinked to clear them. She would not cry! And not in front of Amit – or anyone! Perhaps when she was alone, back in the city,
