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

by Clare Connelly

  It was an imperceptible shift, and yet, when Chloe approached the ballroom, she felt it. She felt power course through her, and as the doors were pushed open to admit her, a hush fell.

  The room was full of dignitaries, but her eyes landed immediately on her husband, the Sheikh. He was taller than most, broader, larger than life, with his hair scraped into a bun, his ruggedly autocratic face terse as he spoke to three men she didn’t recognize. But at her arrival, the room’s silence, he turned towards the doors. Their eyes locked and the air around them supercharged with a jolt of electricity.

  It was just him and her and they could have been anywhere. Here, or in her bed, or under the stars in the desert. Time stood still, or perhaps it accelerated; Chloe couldn’t have said.

  He broke away from his group and strode towards her, and slowly, speaking began once more, filling the room, but not Chloe’s ears. She was in a void of time and space, waiting.

  She had only seconds before he arrived to rally her defenses, to remind herself that they weren’t living a fairytale, no matter how it might seem to onlookers.

  “This is a beautiful dress,” he growled, dipping his head forward, so only she could hear the words. “But I look forward to removing it later.”

  Her heart skipped a thousand beats.

  “Your highness,” she bowed a little, her eyes holding his, her smile droll.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said, more stately, but with a burning look of passion drowning out the civility of his words.

  “I was asked,” she said with a shrug. “I didn’t think not arriving was an option.”

  “You don’t want to be here?” He prompted, shooting her a sidelong glance.

  “On the contrary,” she sucked in a breath. “I’m your wife. I should be here.”

  His nod of approval showed that this echoed his own thoughts.

  “Have you seen Malik today?” She asked as they moved deeper into the room. She’d been to enough of these events to know that she wouldn’t be alone with her husband for long. A tide was already surging towards him.

  “Earlier,” he said with a nod. His eyes met hers and she felt the sadness in them.

  “He was well, I thought,” she said softly.

  “Yes.” The smile was grim. “Just weak. He could only talk for a few minutes before a coughing fit required him to rest.”

  Chloe grimaced. “It was the same for me.”

  “I cannot think he has much longer.” He spoke without shifting his expression but Chloe heard the desperation in the words and she understood.

  “It’s like watching the coming of a storm,” she said huskily. “The sky is darkening, the rain will inevitably fall, and though you may seek shelter, there’s no stopping the sky from doing what it will.”

  “Yes,” he grunted. “That’s exactly what it is. There is an … inevitability to all of this that is hard to watch.” He pulled a face. “But what else can we do?”

  “Nothing. Just be there for him. Tell him we care for him and that his country is in good hands.”

  He nodded, but his look took on a new meaning. “And deliver him with proof that our family will remain strong and unchallenged.”

  A group of dignitaries approached at that moment, and Chloe was saved from making a reply, but anxiety thickened in her throat. She would know very soon if this was the month that had led them to conceive. She didn’t feel any different, but she had no idea if she would, or if pregnancy would just sneak up on her. All the reading she’d done had indicated that women often had pregnancies that were similar to their own mother’s, but Chloe had no idea what her mother’s experiences had been.

  She moved away from her husband when the opportunity came, reaching for a glass of iced tea from a waiter, and standing back a little to watch proceedings.

  Raffa was an exceptional statesman. Despite his wild, animalistic passion and the sense that he was of the land, he was able to control a room with a single look. She found him desirable at any point, but like this?

  From the corner of the room, a movement attracted her eye. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, but perhaps it was an ancient and finely-honed survival instinct that had her shifting her gaze towards it.

  A man, almost as tall as Raffa, and with a similar complexion, moved towards him. She saw the moment Raffa recognized the man, and though her husband continued to speak, she noted the tension emanating from him, the look of contained anger.

  Fascinated, she sipped her tea and watched from beneath hooded lashes. Would the man approach Raffa? Or watch from a distance, as she was?

  Neither.

  He bypassed the group and his eyes latched to Chloe, so that she realized he intended to speak to her.

  She didn’t betray with even a flicker of her lashes that her husband had given her cause for concern; that she was letting Raffa’s reaction be her guide as to how to welcome this person – whomever he may be.

  “Your highness,” he said when he was close enough to be heard. He bowed low, and though it was obsequiousness itself, she doubted the sincerity of the gesture. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting you in person, though I have heard such flattering reports from one who knows you, perhaps, amongst the best of all.”

  “I see,” she said, arching a brow. “And you are?”

  “You may call me Goran,” he said with another bow.

  “Goran.” The name wasn’t familiar to her, but then again, Raffa had so many acquaintances, how could she remember all of them? “Are you a minister in my husband’s cabinet?” She asked, her smile pasted in place with sheer willpower alone.

  “No. We are old friends,” he said, and she knew him to be lying. She could feel the insincerity in the words in a way that made her skin crawl.

  “Well, Goran, it was a pleasure to meet you,” she said with a dose of her own insincerity.

  “You aren’t leaving already?” He prompted, lazily, but with an intensity that kicked her adrenaline up a notch. “Aren’t you curious how I know of you?”

  “Your highness,” a more familiar voice called her attention and she looked to her left to see a man she’d met a handful of times striding towards her. His warm smile was reserved purely for her.

  “Kalim,” she said, remembering his name at the last moment.

  He bowed towards her. “I beg your pardon for interrupting,” he said, “but the Sheikh has asked me to introduce you to his Infrastructure minister.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, sending what she hoped passed muster as an apologetic smile towards Goran. “He mentioned that to me also. It was a pleasure meeting you, sir.”

  Goran said nothing, but as she walked away with Kalim, she felt the other man’s eyes on her the whole time.

  “You are best avoiding him at future events,” Kalim said, placing a hand on the small of Chloe’s back and steering her towards one set of glass doors that opened onto a small balcony. There were dozens of them in a row, lining this side of the ballroom, and there was just enough space for the two of them and the two pot plants that lined each side of the door.

  “I wouldn’t plan to seek him out,” Chloe said honestly. “Who is he?”

  A look of recalcitrance passed Kalim’s face. “Someone the Sheikh knows but doesn’t trust.”

  “I see. And why is that?”

  “For that, you would need to speak to me.”

  Raffa stood at the door, his look one of anger, though Chloe was certain it wasn’t directed at her. It was barely restrained, a wave of emotion emanating from him, as though he couldn’t contain it.

  Kalim apparently understood. He bowed without speaking and slipped past Raffa, through the doors, returning to the party. Raffa took his space on the balcony, shutting the glass doors behind himself.

  “You are not to speak to him.”

  Chloe’s skin prickled and though his direction was something she had already decided, and something Kalim had also suggested, she bristled at the tone of Raffa’s words and tilted her chin with
a burst of her own anger. “You cannot tell me who I may and may not associate with,” she warned. “I’m not yours to control.”

  “Oh, aren’t you?” He demanded, closing the gap between them and placing a hand on either side of the balcony behind her, effectively trapping her between him and the hip-height wall.

  “You will not speak to him.”

  “And if I do?” She insisted, defiantly.

  His eyes swept shut and a muscle jerked in his jaw.

  “I will lock you in a tower and throw away the key,” he said darkly.

  She knew it was an idle threat, a joke, even, but Chloe’s hackles rose. “How dare you say that? Who is he? What is he to you? How can a simple conversation have made you so angry?”

  “Because you are my wife,” he said darkly, as though it explained everything.

  “Yeah.” She agreed. “And that means I have just as much right and duty and obligation to speak to your guests at these parties.”

  “No more parties,” he said, shaking his head. “I won’t have men like Goran think they can come to you and---,”

  “And what?” She demanded, interrupting him, and lifting her hands to his chest to push him away. But he was like steel, impenetrable and unmoving. “And talk to me?” Her laugh was a harsh, angry sound. “Move out of my way. I’m going back inside.”

  “Like hell you are.” He shook his head, his eyes holding hers, beseeching, lost, and then he kissed her. He kissed her desperately, pleadingly, achingly. He kissed her with all the passion that flowed through them.

  She pushed at his chest but he kissed her harder and then his hands lifted from the balustrade, pressing against her back, running along the silky fabric.

  “You are no one else’s to look at. No one else’s to touch,” he said into her mouth, and she whimpered, because he was right. Until her dying day she would be his; all his.

  His kiss lit fires in her blood and the hands that had sought to push him away now wrapped around his waist, holding him close, holding him to her as though he were her lifeline.

  “I hated seeing him with you,” Raffa said, all anger gone, just desperate passion in its place. He dropped his head to her décolletage and nipped at her flesh there, and his hands found the zip of her dress, lowering it just enough to reveal more of her creamy cleavage to his hungry eyes.

  “It was only a moment,” she said, the words halting.

  “It was a moment too long.”

  “Then why is he here? Why did you invite him?”

  “I… he has a standing invitation,” Raffa grunted, and his mouth nuzzled her breast, pushing the fabric low enough that he could take a nipple in his mouth.

  Chloe didn’t want to think about Goran any longer. She tilted her head back, abandoning herself to this wave. Her eyes sought the stars of heaven but they were blanketed by thick clouds, for once, and the sky was black.

  “I want to rip this dress from you,” he warned.

  “I think that might cause rather more than Goran to look at me.”

  He lifted his head and it was as though he was just, in that moment, recalling where they were. “Go back to your room, Sheikha, and wait for me there.”

  10

  “HE’S GONE.” KALIM PASSED a glass of scotch to Raffa, who held it in the palm of his hand.

  “Did you know he was coming?”

  “No one did. Last I heard, he was in Kithati province.”

  “That was my information also.”

  “I suppose he’s under no obligation to inform you --,”

  “You think not?” Raffa’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re wrong. This is my kingdom, my palace, and he has no place here.”

  Kalim sighed heavily. “What you mean to say is she’s your wife, and he has no place talking to her.”

  Raffa grimaced.

  “Her Highness is not another Elena. She is married to you, for one.”

  “And Elena loved me,” Raffa said with a grim frown. “He targeted her for that reason, just as I have no doubt he would target Chloe if he had half the opportunity.”

  “Elena was nineteen,” Kalim said gently. “And you were away in the army. Chloe is different altogether. She’s confident and feisty. Besides, she didn’t like him at all.”

  “No. I suppose she has that in her favour.” So why was he so ropable? Why was he so angry? Because he’d never recovered from the shocks of the past – and he wasn’t going to let Chloe fall victim to the same ancient grudge.

  Raffa tossed the scotch back in one go and surveyed the remaining guests. Perhaps fifty lingered. “You can finish things up here?”

  “Yes.” A glint sparked in Kalim’s eye. “Go to your wife, Raffa, for God’s sake. You’ve looked at your watch every few minutes since she left – I can tell your mind has been elsewhere.”

  He knew he shouldn’t be angry. And he sure as hell shouldn’t be angry with her! Chloe had done nothing wrong – as always, she’d been impeccable, behaving with just the degree of appropriateness that her position demanded. Every blink showed him Goran, speaking with his wife. Goran leaning in closer to Chloe. Goran looking at Chloe as though he wanted to strip her naked.

  Goran, that bastard.

  By the time he reached Chloe’s room, all he knew was that he needed to remind her that he was her lover, her husband, her only. That he needed to wipe any memory of any man, any temptation that another man might offer, from her mind.

  She was still wearing the damned dress when he swept into the room, and the startled look on her face showed that she hadn’t been expecting him. Not yet, at least.

  He wasn’t angry with her, and yet the possessive heat firing through his body seemed to make little distinction. The thought of Goran touching her, of Goran doing to Chloe what he’d done to Elena – Raffa shuddered from the depths of his soul.

  “Come here.” He spoke the words coldly, with all the arrogance many had accused him of. “Now.”

  Her eyes flew wide and he felt the hint of defiance in her gaze. Good. He hoped she’d argue with him; he was spoiling for a fight.

  “Is there something wrong with your legs?” She asked without moving.

  And while he might generally admire her spark, a guttural growl escaped from his chest. A primal sound of possession and impatience. This was not the time for it.

  “Here.” He pointed to the floor at his feet, and perhaps there was something in his tone that conveyed his emotionally messed-up state to her, because she did as he said, though her look was one of incredulity.

  “Here, sir?” She asked, mocking him, and he both hated and loved that.

  “You are my wife,” he said, to himself, more than anything.

  “Right now you’re treating me like chattel,” she interrupted. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re my wife,” he repeated, louder, more insistently. “And I am the only man you are to talk to.”

  “Oh my God. You can’t be serious?”

  “You have discarded your servants; I know you have ordered them not to attend events with you, not to attend to you while you explore the palace. Do you have any idea what kind of gossip that opens you up to?”

  He hadn’t held any objection to her managing her staff as she saw fit, until that moment. Now, he wanted her to be chaperoned at all times.

  “I’m your wife,” she reminded him. “Not your prisoner, no matter what you might think. And I’m also perfectly capable of having a conversation with a man, might I even say ten different men, without doing a single thing to break our wedding vows.”

  His eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. The worst thing she could do was provide a perfectly rational argument when he felt so damned irrational.

  “Turn around.” A muscle jerked in his jaw as he ground his teeth together.

  “No.” Her eyes sparked with his. “You’re being ridiculous.” She turned away and stormed off at the same time, huffing as she crossed the room towards the windows. “You have history with this Goran guy, obviously. An
d I’m sorry for that. But you asked me to come to the ball. You got talking to ministers and left me on my own. You sent me this dress and you invited all the guests. All I did was turn up, wear this, and be polite to a man who, frankly, gave me the creeps. So? What’s your problem?”

  “My problem,” he said with a quietness that was far more dangerous than if he roared the palace down, “Is that I cannot look at you without imagining him touching you and all I can think of is making love to you until you promise me you will never let that happen.”

  She gasped, the fierce, desperate plea in his words spearing straight into her heart, making her quiver.

  “I didn’t say more than ten words to him,” she whispered.

  But Raffa strode across the room, and as he approached, she sucked in a harsh breath yet it still didn’t reach her lungs.

  “You are mine,” he said simply, and his lips crushed to hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth, his body hard against hers.

  “Say you are mine,” he grunted, his fingers reaching around and finding the zip to her dress.

  He needed to hear the words; he needed to hear her say that his possession of her was absolute.

  “He is no one to me,” she murmured into his mouth, but that wasn’t enough.

  With a growl, he spun her around, impatient, his fingers pulling the zip of her dress all the way down so she wore only a lace thong.

  “Tell me you want this,” he said desperately, the words graveled, as his hands ran over her body, finding her naked breasts and palming them, feeling their weight, staring at her beauty as though he’d never before seen a woman’s naked form. “Tell me you want me.”

  “You know I do,” she muttered, but there was anger in her eyes, anger at the admission, anger at his dominance over her. She tilted her head back, and he saw the way she was quivering, he knew what he was doing to her, but it still wasn’t enough. He needed her to beg him again and again, he needed to know beyond any doubt that her world began and ended with him.

  Why? Why did he care? He had never been so driven by an animalistic urge to make a woman his in every fundamental way, but now, on this night, ancient forces were pushing him to claim her.