It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

by Clare Connelly

  “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, in her own bedroom with space and privacy, she would indulge her ridiculous sense of grief and shame. But not here, not like this.

  “Chloe.”

  His voice cut through her grief, through the companionship of being with Amit, through the sun itself. Raffa strode towards them, his manner imposing, his frame larger than any man’s should be. His hair was up, and his eyes were watchful.

  She focused on Amit’s drawing. Her smile was brittle. “Aren’t these sketches good, Raffa?” She murmured, looking for something to say that was normal. That would avoid any kind of emotional conversation. Hadn’t she hoped to avoid seeing him at all? Wasn’t that why she’d had an aid deliver her note?

  Damn it, she should have left immediately.

  “Leave us a moment, Amit,” he said, softening the words with a tight smile directed at his son.

  “Yes, your highness.” Amit stood and bowed first to Raffa, then to Chloe, before disappearing into the palace.

  “You didn’t need to chase him away like that,” she said huffily.

  “I wanted to speak with you privately.”

  “Then you could have asked me to come with you – he was drawing.”

  “You are Sheikha. It is not for you to remove yourself from others.”

  Chloe didn’t have the energy to argue with such absurd logic.

  “Did you want to speak with me?” She asked.

  “I received your note.”

  “I presumed as much.”

  “You cannot go away.”

  “Why ever not?” She asked with surprise. “I’m not your prisoner, I’m your wife.”

  “And you may very well be carrying my baby. You must be kept safe. Protected.”

  “I’m going to the city, not out into the deserts on camel’s back,” she pointed out with tart acidity. “Besides, I’m not.” She cleared her throat of its aching rawness. “Pregnant, I mean.” Her fingers pulled at a blade of grass and she stared at it as though it were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. She didn’t observe the look that passed over Raffa’s face. First of surprise, and then of something much deeper and darker. Something like the unprecedented sadness that was in her heart.

  “So,” she stood slowly. “I’ll go home for a while and then come back…”

  He jerked his head, standing with her, staring at her. “It’s normal for it to take time,” he said after a moment. “It’s only been one month.”

  And emotions burst through her, emotions she refused to share with him, emotions she would indulge only when she was able to do so without spectators. Her voice was thin, but cooly contained when she spoke. “Of course it’s normal,” she agreed. “But I see no point in being at the palace right now. So unless you want to keep me here against my will, I’ll say goodbye.”

  Raffa kicked the horse’s side and leaned closer to the mane, his eyes focused on the sun waves glistening in the desert. Heat radiated from the earth beneath him but he saw only Chloe’s face as she’d been two mornings ago. Her expression so coldly contained, her chin tilted, her shoulders squared. She had been unbreakable, and yet he’d felt a vulnerability resonating from her, a pain that he understood.

  They’d made love every night for weeks.

  He’d expected success, as well.

  Was that arrogance? Foolishness? He had been so certain she would conceive easily.

  But it had only been a month – and what he’d said to her was true. He’d researched it. It could take up to a year to conceive. Heaven forbid. Elena had fallen pregnant in one night – one mistaken night had been all it took to conceive Amit. What if it did take Chloe longer? Six months? A year?

  Malik wouldn’t make it, but that no longer seemed to matter. Having set their ship on this course, he knew how right it was. The country needed a baby – a legitimate heir – no matter how long that took.

  His hair flew behind him, and from the distance, Raffa looked like a king of old. Like a warrior off to battle in this ancient land where natural strength predetermined leadership.

  He blinked and Chloe was before him once more, but not as she’d been in the garden on the morning she’d left the palace. He saw her in his arms and his bed, her face flushed, her eyes fevered. He saw her without her veneer of ice-cold distance, he saw the passions that ran through her, and he ached to see more of that.

  Suddenly, the fact she’d left the palace bothered him.

  I’m your wife, not your prisoner, she’d said. And she’d been right. But in that moment, with the midday sun beating down on his broad back, Raffa wished he had thought to imprison her after all.

  Her place was at the palace with him.

  A week in the city had restored Chloe’s equilibrium. When the helicopter touched down at the palace, she was able to step off it with a sense of calm and contentment.

  They would fall pregnant eventually, and in the meantime, she would have more of Raffa. More of his passion. Because once she was pregnant, that would be the end of this. There would be no more making love, no more sharing their bodies, kissing, tangling their limbs, stroking one another, showering together, driving each other crazy.

  Not for anything in the world would she deny herself the pleasure of conceiving a child, but the small silver lining to the fact she wasn’t pregnant was that they would continue trying.

  And when they were done, she would find Raffa’s absence from her bed and her life to be a pain made bearable only by the life burgeoning within her.

  She didn’t need to let her husband know she’d returned. Her security detail communicated with his. He would have heard by now that she was on her way back. Sure enough, when she entered her suite of rooms, he was waiting.

  Her servants were behind her, but he dismissed them with a single look. He was wearing flowing white pants and a gold kaftan, and his skin
was darker than when she’d left, tanned by time in the sun, she surmised.

  “How are you?” The question wasn’t about her, she knew. It was about her health. Her ability to continue with their conception project.

  “Fine,” she confirmed with a crisp nod. “Will I see you tonight?”

  Something like anger speared through her, passing from the look in his face through her body, like tiny little darts.

  “How was the city?” He asked, ignoring her question.

  “As usual.” She said with a frown, unwrapping the bright silk scarf from around her hair and placing it on the edge of her bed. “My charity is hosting a benefit. I’ve been neglecting my organizational duties so it was good to be able to catch up.”

  “Your charity.” He frowned. “I recall you are engaged in some fundraising but I don’t remember…”

  “A children’s hospital,” she said. “I’m on the board.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I remember.” He’d received the letter notifying him of her appointment, though it had been over a year ago. He’d presumed she would run out of interest with it before now. He stood frowning for a moment.

  Chloe neatened her hair and then prompted, “So? Was there anything else you needed?”

  Raffa shook his head. “No. I’m glad you’re well.”

  She compressed her lips. It was just a statement of fact – gratitude that she would continue as his lover, until a baby was conceived. “I’m fine. Tonight?”

  Irritation was visible on his handsome face again, but he nodded. “Tonight.”

  Chloe had purposefully dressed in a simple cream slip after her evening shower. What would the purpose be in wearing anything else? Removing her clothes added to the sense that more was taking place between them than a simple transaction. While away in the city, she’d come to the conclusion that she needed to remember at all times that they were simply working together to make a baby. Passion was irrelevant. The more businesslike she could make their encounters the better.

  But when Raffa entered her room a little after eight, her heart began to thump hard and fast inside of her, and her eyes devoured him as though she had been deprived of him for months, not a week.

  “You’ve eaten?” he asked, closing the distance, his own eyes performing a leisurely inspection of her body. The slip dipped low across her breasts, and fell to mid-thigh.

  She nodded. “I’m ready.”

  He made a noise of impatience and shook his head. “What happened to wanting to get to know one another?” He asked, but his hand lifted, almost seemingly against his will, to the strap of her slip. He pushed it down possessively, so that one creamy, rounded breast was revealed to his gaze.

  “I know you,” she said hoarsely. “And you know me. At least enough for this.”

  For a second his eyes flew to hers and then they were back at her breasts. His smile was cynical, but she couldn’t have said why.

  “Have you missed me, Sheikha?” He asked, pushing the other strap downwards, so both breasts were displayed.

  “Yes,” she said honestly. Her eyes held a challenge.

  He understood. “That is a relief.” His thumb padded across her lower lip. “I haven’t been able to sleep for wanting you.”

  Hope and her heart burst through Chloe, but she repressed both. Physical desire was a given. And there was no reason to think he hadn’t indulged himself with Elena, or anyone else.

  She had no expectations from her husband. The more she reminded herself of that, the better she felt. The easier it was to keep her heart cold, to maintain an emotional distance.

  “How are you otherwise?” She asked, realizing she hadn’t observed even the most basic of courtesies since her return to the palace.

  “Is there an otherwise?” He said, lifting her easily and cradling her against his chest.

  Her heart flipped over. If she pressed her ear to his chest, she knew she would hear the strong beating of his heart. But it would be slow and steady, not like hers.

  “I guess not.”

  He placed her on the bed gently, sliding his hands over her smooth thighs, pushing her dress to her hips, revealing her naked womanhood to his eyes.

  At his enquiringly arched brow, she shrugged. “I thought I’d dispense with the preamble.”

  “I see.” He padded his thumb over the fair hair at the apex of her thighs and she shivered, her hips writhing. She wanted him more than she could say. She needed him.

  “I suggest you do likewise,” she said haughtily, so that he laughed.

  “You are asking me to be fast?”

  She bit down on her lip.

  “And that just makes me want to be very, very slow,” he said, and to elaborate, dropped his head towards her thighs, running his tongue over her most sensitive flesh until she was incandescent with pleasure.

  “It makes me want to torture every single one of your pleasure points until you can barely speak. To make you weak with needing me. To make you incapable of thinking of anything other than when we will next be together.”

  “That would fall into the cruel and unusual category,” she said with great effort. Her body was trembling with desire, her mind foggy already. “When we both know once you’ve achieved your aim, there will be no ‘next time’.”

  He paused for a moment, but then, he lifted his hands to her breasts, stroking her flesh there, circling her nipples, teasing her achingly slowly.

  She held her breath, waiting for a denial, she realized. Waiting for a contradiction, a suggestion that their relationship had progressed in a way that would never be undone.

  “So let us make the most of this, then,” he muttered softly, bringing his lips to the soft flesh at the base of her throat. His breath fanned her pulse point there and she whimpered beneath him. It was a sound of pleasure, and ever so slightly of heartbreak.

  Despite her request, he did just as he’d said, tormenting her until she was almost at breaking point. Bringing her to the brink of pure white-hot pleasure before allowing sanity to seep back in, then stirring her back up anew. She was desperate for him, desperate to feel him within her, so that when he finally entered her with one hard, single thrust, she cried out and then fell apart, her body wracked with pleasure, her breasts thrust upwards as she arched her back, her fingers digging into his back, her legs wrapped around his waist.

  He held her as she climaxed, he whispered ancient words in her ear, as he had the first time they made love. The same words, she recognized, but still had no idea what they meant. And once her convulsions had subsided, he drove himself into her again and again, hard, then slowly, his eyes watching her face, his body answering every silent need of hers, and hers of his. It was an ancient dance that seemed to change every time they came together and yet they both knew the steps, they both enacted it perfectly.

  He drove her body back to fever pitch and then, as she tumbled off the edge of the cliff he’d brought her to, he chased after, releasing himself with a hoarse cry into the cool desert air.

  Passion was heavy around them, and Chloe was inexplicably exhausted, her eyes heavy, her body languid. He was inside of her and yet she felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her chest. He reached for her hand, holding it to his, palm to palm, so that his long, tanned fingers eclipsed hers by at least a knuckle.

  “You are so small,” he said, with almost a hint of wonderment in the words.

  She pulled a face. “No. You’re just big.”

  A sardonic smile curved his lips, and his eyes skimmed her face, from her hair, to her eyes, to her lips, and then back to her eyes, where they dwelled for several, silent moments. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear.

  “At my father’s funeral,” she agreed. She remembered too; how could she forget? They’d agreed to marry, and he arrived, bigger and more everything than anyone she’d ever met. Their eyes had met and her whole body had zinged with a current of recognition.

  “That was the secon
d time.”

  A frown formed on Chloe’s brow. “What do you mean? I think I’d remember if I’d met you before.”

  “You were only a child. Nine or ten. I’d come to the palace to meet with the ministry and you were in the pomegranate courtyard.”

  “I loved it there,” she said with a nod. “I still do. But I don’t remember meeting you.”

  “We didn’t speak. I simply watched you play from a distance. You were in your own world, and your hair was out, long and blonde. You looked like a fairy.”

  Chloe’s heart thumped hard in her chest. “I probably looked a mess.”

  “I don’t remember the mess,” he said with a shake of his head. “I remember the hair.” And he reached out, catching a lock of blonde between his fingertips, staring at it, transfixed, before he found her hand again, measuring their palms once more. “You were beautiful and tiny – and now you’re still both of those things.” When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple moved visibly in his throat. “How do I make sure I don’t break you?”

  She blinked her eyes, and tried to find words that would serve as a response – and she couldn’t.

  He cupped her cheek and then pulled away from her.

  “You’re tired. Sleep,” he said, lifting her and rearranging her in the bed, so that her head was on the pillows. He covered her with the blankets and the last thing she was conscious of was him standing over her, watching her. Arms crossed over his chest, his face wearing an expression she couldn’t comprehend.

  Until he spoke and finally she understood that triumph was the emotion blazing in his dark eyes. “This month we will succeed, habibte.”

  8

  AS THE MONTH WORE on, Chloe couldn’t ignore her growing sense of excitement. She often found herself staring into space, imagining their baby, counting down the days until she would know if this would be the month that would mark the beginning of their parenthood journey.

  It was strange to think of how she’d resisted the idea, at first. How she’d wanted to maintain the status quo, to keep a distance from Raffa in every way: emotionally, mentally, sexually and physically. How she’d thought she could ignore her husband and be happy – how she’d ever thought she was happy without him – and this – in her life.