Sheikhs: Rich, powerful desert kings and the women who bring them to their knees...

by Clare Connelly

  Chloe frowned, her lack of comprehension obvious.

  “I do not believe in love, Sheikha. It’s a drug, an addiction that drives people crazy.”

  Chloe thought of the rumours about Elena and winced. Was it possible the other woman had lost her mind? That Raffa’s harsh refusal to accept love, even after Elena had borne him a child; his refusal to admit to feeling love, had taken her sanity?

  Chloe could almost understand how that might feel.

  Were it not for an inner-strength forged by the irons of rejection, she too might have found her husband’s ability to ignore her too painful to bear.

  “She loved you,” Chloe said softly.

  He stepped away from her, returning to the table. When he reached for his wine, she saw his fingers weren’t quite steady and his jaw was clenched as though he was grinding his teeth together. “Yes,” he said finally, the word spoken as though it were a hoarse expletive. His eyes latched to hers and there was anger and blame in them. “She loved me.”

  “You’re angry.”

  With an effort, he schooled his face into a mask of disinterest. “I am not interested in having this discussion,” he corrected. “It serves no purpose to rehash the past.”

  “But the past is still in the present,” she said with impeccable logic. “She bore you a son and he lives within the palace walls. He is a young man now, and he needs a father to be a part of his life. How is Amit going to feel when we have a baby? When he is usurped by a child you will acknowledge?”

  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.

  Chapter Seven

  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, 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. Hi
s 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.”