CHAPTER ONE
THE ROOM WAS FULL of guests, dripping in expensive jewels, wearing the brightly coloured fabrics this region of Ras el-Kida was known for. Dusky pinks, turquoise, purple and vibrant blue, and from the corner of the ornately decorated space, beautiful guitar music was filling the ‘golden room’ of the palace – so called because every wall was covered in gold paper, the floor was tiled in gold and the chandeliers had been cast of gold and bronze, with diamonds inlaid in the centre of each. Even without the glittering attendees, this room was spectacular, but now, it was like a living, thriving river of stars.
Every person who’d been invited seemed to be present. Except one.
Where the hell was his wife?
Sheikh Rafiq Al-Khalil’s eyes ran across the crowd, noting many familiar dignitaries and guests, the usual crowd at royal functions, and yet her royal highness was nowhere to be seen.
Impatience zipped at his gut. How long had it been since last they’d met? Several months, at least. Six? Could it be so many?
Something shifted inside of him – frustration. Six months since he’d called upon her to serve in her capacity as Sheikha and still she could not manage to arrive on time?
His lips compressed with impatience, his handsome face unknowingly stern, so that several people nearby had occasion to turn away, lest the ruler’s rage fall upon them.
He was not an unkind King, but he had great power, as had all the men who’d come before him, and there were some who feared how that power might manifest.
“Your highness.” The softly-voiced greeting, tinged with an American accent, came from behind him and he straightened his back, every fibre of his being tensing in alert of what he might see.
Six months.
Slowly, he spun around, his back straight, his broad shoulders squared, his jet-black eyes landing on his wife’s face with an air of sardonic disapproval.
He allowed his eyes to roam her face first, noting the combative set of her chin, cheeks that dimpled when she smiled – though it had been a long time since he’d seen that aimed at himself, full pink lips, shaped like cupid bows; eyes that looked as though they’d been cast from powdered bluebells and iris; hair that was the colour of the desert sands beyond the old city.
She’d dressed in a traditional Fas’r – the long, flowing robes princesses had worn for generations. Bright red with gold embellishments, it wrapped tightly around her, showing the curve of her breasts and the neatness of her stomach, but it flowed to the floor so he had to imagine how her bottom might look, and her legs, too.
“How kind of you to grace us with your presence,” he said eventually, the words cold, his smile a grim acknowledgement of civility rather than a genuine sign of welcome or affection.
“I know my duty, sir,” she said, batting her lashes in a way that made a mockery of the statement. “When you send a curt note beckoning me to the palace, heavens, I’d better come running.”
Raffa’s eyes sparked with something dangerously close to amusement. “And yet still you managed to be late.”
“Oh, don’t blow a gasket.” She rolled her eyes and then added, as a reluctant mark of deference, “Your highness.”
Now, Raffa did laugh, a short, but nonetheless melodious sound that was like sunshine on a winter’s morning.
“Not at all. I was just thinking of the disrespect you show our people with your tardiness.”
“Disrespect?” She glared at him. It was just like Raffa to insult her by implying she was anything less than devoted to this Kingdom of his. An irony indeed, given that she spent almost all her time and energy working towards its betterment. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been here almost an hour.”
“Where were you then?” He asked, his disbelief understandable. After all, not much happened within the walls of Qasr Alnujum, this ancient palace, without Raffa’s knowledge.
“With Malik,” she said softly, sweeping her eyes shut for a moment and angling her head away, so Raffa had a view of her elegant neck, her beautiful face unable to hide the grief she felt.
He knew it to be genuine. Her love and affection for his father was the one thing he knew about her – since she was a child, she’d adored Malik, and even now, when she avoided her husband like the plague, she made time for the dying King. “And how was my father?”
She swallowed; her slender neck moved visibly as she tried to bring moisture back to her mouth. But she turned to face him slowly, anguish thick in her expressive eyes. “He was… not good,” she said honestly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The question was just a husk, and, damn it all to hell, tears sparkled on her lashes.
Real tears.
He hadn’t prepared for this. Seeing Chloe cry. A thrust of guilt – misplaced – dragged down his spine.
“It would not have made any difference,” Raffa said with a shrug, coldness his defense to feeling anything for his wife. “Unless you are secretly an oncologist or healer of another description?”
Chloe slashed him with the ice in her gaze. “I know you and Malik have issues,” she said with a shake of her head. “But I believe he would take comfort from my presence.” He could tell she was about to turn away from him, to walk in a different direction.
Raffa’s pulse ratcheted up a gear and all the intentions he’d had of speaking to her privately on this matter, of cajoling her gently, fled. “There are other ways to comfort a dying King,” he said silkily,
reaching his hand out and curving his fingers around her wrist, holding her still lest she decide to flee.
“Such as?” There was barely concealed anger in the words. When had they decided to hate one another? Perhaps they were always doomed to feel it – two independent, spirited people who had been morally obligated to enter into this farce of an arranged marriage?
“The country needs an heir, Sheikha. And it rests on you to provide it.”
*
Chloe froze. The room swirled around her, people, princes, princesses, so much joy, and her ears were ringing with her husband’s pronouncement.
“An heir?” She whispered the words, so he was obliged to lean closer in order to hear.