Shortly after that, she’d learned she was pregnant. And then the morning sickness took over and he’d left her bed. He’d wanted her to rest, to be healthy, and he’d felt as if his presence disturbed her sleep.
Adan frowned. Had he told her why he’d stopped sleeping with her? Of course she’d known why they weren’t having sex—she’d been too ill to want it anyway —but had she realized why he’d left her alone in her bed?
It bothered him to think he hadn’t. But what difference would it have made?
The psychiatrist he’d had examine her upon their arrival today could tell him nothing he didn’t already know. Isabella claimed to have no memory of her marriage or of her baby. It was an unusual case, but not impossible. In consulting Isabella’s records, the doctor had frowned and said that she had shown signs of postnatal depression, though her symptoms hadn’t been abnormal at the time.
Baby blues were common enough, he’d said, and resulted from the changing hormones in a woman’s body. Sometimes, the depression got worse and could cause hallucinations or thoughts of harming oneself or one’s baby.
Adan had been shocked. He hadn’t realized that anything could be wrong with Isabella at the time. Then the doctor suggested that she might have tried to commit suicide. Her records up to her disappearance showed no antidepressant usage. If her doctor at the time had believed she was suffering from postnatal depression, he should have prescribed medication to mitigate it.
It was possible, too, that her doctor simply hadn’t recognized the signs. And Isabella would have been more vulnerable to the effect of the hormones on her body without them.
Adan didn’t quite know what to make of all the information, but as he reached the nursery, he firmly shoved thoughts of Isabella aside. All he wanted right now was to hold his son and spend time watching his toddler antics. Adan pushed open the door and went into the suite of rooms that was overflowing with toys and games.
“Kalila,” he called, but no one answered. He went into the nursery itself, but Rafiq was not in his crib or playing on the floor.
He checked his watch. Kalila and Rafiq were usually here at this time of day. He stood for some moments, wondering, until, like a bolt of lightning, a thought shafted through him.
A terrible thought.
He’d had Isabella put as far from here as he could get her, yet these were still the family quarters and her rooms weren’t on another planet. They were simply down another corridor. He’d stationed a servant to make sure she didn’t leave her room, so it should not be possible that she’d somehow found Rafiq.
And yet he suddenly feared, with a terrible, dreadful certainty that ate a hole in his gut and sent him running down the corridors to her room, that it was possible. As he skidded to a stop at her door, the man he’d stationed there fell off his chair and began to babble, his face pressed to the floor.
Adan could hear singing. She was singing, the sound so rich and pure it wrapped around him like a warm blanket on a cold desert night. He shoved open the door, his heart beating so fast as he prayed he was wrong, that he’d got the time mixed up, that his intuition was merely superstition—
She sat on one of the low couches, her eyes closed as she found the note and held it. Kalila perched on another sofa, across from Isabella.
And Rafiq stood with his hands on Isabella’s knees, his little face turned up to hers as she sang. Adan’s world went red. Rage curled and twisted inside him like a coiling snake.
The rage he understood, but there was another feeling underpinning it. Loss?
How could he feel loss? Rafiq was his, no matter what. This was one moment, one regrettable moment, and it would not be repeated. Rafiq would not remember it. Ever.
She let the note go and opened her eyes to smile down at Rafiq. He bounced in place, laughing in delight.
Isabella finished the song and held her arms out. Rafiq stretched his up until she bent and caught him. And then she was holding him close and Adan was dying inside.
“What is going on here?” he said smoothly, despite the churning emotion inside him.
All eyes turned to him. Kalila climbed to her feet and curtseyed. He hated that she did so, but she’d always been particular about observing the forms with him. As she would be with Rafiq, as well. A mother, but not a mother.
Isabella stood. Rafiq had his arms around her neck. When he saw Adan, he crowed, “Papa! Sing, Papa!”
“Does your papa sing?” Isabella asked.
Rafiq nodded his little head.
“Put him down,” Adan growled. He thought she would argue with him, but she simply bent to set Rafiq on the floor. He held on to her neck and refused to let go.
“No want down!”
His expression was militant and Adan knew he was fighting a losing battle. Somehow he found the ability to move again. He walked over to Isabella and held his arms out.
“Come to Papa,” he said, and Rafiq stretched his arms wide. Relief flooded him. Isabella let the boy go easily enough, but he didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened oh so briefly before relinquishing his son.
He had to stand close to her to take Rafiq, and now his senses were overwhelmed with her scent. She’d showered and changed again since they’d arrived. Her hair was every bit as wild as it had been back in Hawaii, and it smelled like tropical flowers. He wanted to close his eyes and breathe her in.
Instead, he turned away. “Come, Kalila. It is time we took Rafiq for his b-a-t-h and bedtime.”
Isabella did not want them to go, and yet she knew there was nothing she could do to stop Adan from taking Rafiq away. She’d spent the past hour singing for her baby, delighting in his little smile and enthusiastic singing along with her. Nothing had cracked a memory open in her head, but she’d felt as though everything was right with the world in the short time she’d spent with her son.
She did not want it to end. She felt whole when he was near. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to.
She also felt lost, she had to admit, because she didn’t automatically know what to do or say to him. Just because he was hers didn’t mean she understood him. It saddened her that she didn’t know how to be a mother, but she desperately wanted to learn.
And Adan wanted to keep her from learning. He wanted to keep Rafiq away from her. When he’d spoken and she’d looked up to see him standing there, the hatred and rage on his face was worse than anything she’d seen yet. He did not believe she had value of any kind for their son, and it hurt her at the same time as it strengthened her resolve not to give up.
But she understood why he was cautious. How could she not after meeting that precious little child? Adan’s primary goal was to protect Rafiq. She couldn’t argue with that. But she could argue that he wasn’t being fair, that she deserved a chance to be a part of her son’s life just as he deserved a chance to know his real mother.
“Adan,” she said.
She didn’t think he would stop, but when Rafiq said, “Lady sing, Papa,” Adan stopped short of the door.
“Not now, Rafi. The lady needs to rest.”
“Lady sing!” he insisted.
“No, Rafi,” Adan said—and Rafiq’s face screwed up in a frown. She knew what was coming next, even in so short a time of knowing her son. He burst into tears, his face turning red as he wailed.
Adan shot her a look over the top of Rafiq’s head that was full of loathing before he disappeared through the door. Kalila followed, and the servant reached in and shut the door behind them.
Isabella stood in the center of her lonely room, listening to Rafiq’s wails as they disappeared down the hall. She was numb. Whereas just a few moments before she’d been full of life, she now felt drained and dull.
The laughter was gone. The warmth. The love.
She pressed her fist to her mouth, chewing on the knuckles. She loved Rafiq. It had happened that quickly. Instantly. She’d fallen head over heels for her little boy.
Her poor little motherless boy.
Wh
at had she done two years ago? Why? Why had she left him in the first place?
As hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember anything about that time. It was blank, as blank as it had always been. She’d awakened and been told about the accident. Then she’d gone to her mother’s to recover. That was all she could recall.
The doctor she’d spoken with today had merely shrugged and said that the brain was a strange and sensitive organ. What had happened to her was not common, but her memory loss wasn’t completely unexpected, either. When she’d asked if she would ever remember, he’d said it was possible, though perhaps not likely.
Another hour passed before a servant brought her dinner. She ate alone, then took her coffee and went out onto the balcony that overlooked the gardens below. The sun had set recently, so the heat was finally leaching out of the air. The sky was red-tinted—almost like Hawaii, and yet not—and the Arabian Sea slid to dark purple in the glow of the sky.
Port Jahfar glittered like a jewel in the dusk. Industrial ships crowded the harbor in the distance, bringing supplies to the kingdom or taking on loads meant for other destinations. Her father had a home along the coast, much farther from here, where the turquoise water caressed the white shore. She’d loved that home growing up most of all. It was why she’d been drawn to Hawaii.
As she drank her coffee, the night darkened, the red fading away until it was only a ribbon along the horizon. And then she sensed that she was no longer alone. She knew who it was without turning to acknowledge him.
“Come to shove me off the balcony and end your troubles, Adan?” she asked.
Behind her, he blew out a breath. “No.”
She heard him move, and then he was standing beside her. He’d changed into a dark polo shirt and jeans. His head was free of the keffiyeh. She wasn’t certain what disconcerted her more—his handsome face framed in the dark cloth, or the added distraction of his hair and the shape of his head to accompany his chiseled features.
How was it possible to forget a man like this? To forget making love with him, sleeping and waking with him, eating with him, talking with him?
“He cried for over an hour,” Adan said without preamble. She could hear the emotion in his voice, the love he felt for his son. It was the only thing about him that made him redeemable to her. Adan truly loved Rafiq, and everything he did was for Rafiq’s well-being. Understanding that didn’t make it any easier, however.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, a lump rising in her throat at the thought of her baby crying.
“He refused to eat because he was so upset. Kalila finally got him to sleep.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how she did it.”
He turned to her, propping his elbow against the railing. It was a casual gesture, and yet everything about his presence was anything but casual. There was tension in the lines of his body, tension in the furrow of his brow and the intensity of his gaze.
“It’s not easy raising a child,” he continued. “They are fussy, independent, messy and a million other things you can’t imagine one tiny person could be. It’s a giant responsibility.”
“I know that, Adan.” Her heart thrummed at his nearness, at the way he stood so close to her and discussed their child. It was as if, for a moment at least, they were on the same side. As if they were two parents talking about their son.
She knew better, however.
He pushed a hand through his hair. She found herself wanting to smooth the crisp curls back into place, but she did not do so.
“He does not know you,” he said. “If you insert yourself into his life, and then decide you can’t handle the responsibility, you will hurt him because he will have grown close to you.”
She gripped the coffee cup in her fingers. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t try to be anything to him—”
“I know.” He let out a sharp breath. “Kalila told me what happened. She was taking a shortcut back to the nursery when he heard you singing.”
Her temper sharpened. “Then why are you here, if not to chastise me? I know you would be happier if I didn’t exist. But I do, Adan. And I want to know my child.”
His eyes glittered hotly in the westering light. His mouth tightened. Her gaze settled on those firm, sensual lips. They’d been so masterful against her own. The wetness flowing into her inner core at the thought shocked her. She was angry with him, and yet her body reacted to him until the tingle of desire was soon a buzz in her veins.
How could she feel this way for him? How could she be attracted to him when he infuriated her so much? Was her body remembering what her mind had forgotten?
He took a step closer, then stopped as if he realized he’d done so against his will. His voice, when he spoke, was low and determined.
“I am here, Isabella, because I have come to a decision.”
CHAPTER SIX
ADAN was taking a risk. He knew it, and yet he was now convinced it was the only solution. When he’d carried Rafiq back to the nursery, the child crying all the way because he wanted the lady to sing for him, Adan had realized that he could not undo what had been done.
Not only that, but perhaps he’d been wrong to try and keep Isabella away from Rafiq.
Not because he believed she was suddenly going to make a fabulous mother. He wouldn’t bet Rafiq’s future on that shaky hypothesis. But, his son was still so young, and he would encounter various people who would be a part of his life for a short while before they were gone again. Teachers. Friends. Even Kalila, who suffered from arthritis that would soon make taking care of Rafiq more difficult as he grew bigger and heavier.
People moved on. It happened all the time, and Adan couldn’t protect Rafiq from it.
Isabella was looking up at him, her green eyes so wary and sad at the same time. She held her saucer in her right hand, the fingers of her left hooked through the coffee cup that she hadn’t drunk from since he’d joined her.
She still smelled like tropical flowers. Tropical flowers, coffee and the spicy sweetness of the cardamom seed that flavored the brew. He wondered if she would taste sweet and spicy if he kissed her.
“What is it, Adan?” she asked, her voice as smoky and rich as the coffee. He shook thoughts of kissing her from his head.
“I’m going to give you two weeks with us.” Because he’d decided that the only way to convince her she was not cut out for motherhood was to let her spend time with Rafiq. She’d walked away before—for whatever reason—and she would do so again.
And he intended that she know it sooner rather than later.
She seemed so serene, and yet he hadn’t missed the tiny gasp that had escaped her.
“Two weeks,” he repeated firmly. “But you are not to tell him you are his mother. He does not need the confusion.”
“But I am his mother,” she said.
“That’s the deal, Isabella. Take it or leave it.”
She tilted her head. “What am I supposed to be to him, then?”
Adan shrugged. “A nanny. A caretaker. A teacher. Someone who will not be staying.”
She set the coffee down on a nearby table. The delicate china rattled as she did so, betraying her nerves.
Or maybe it was anger. He had to acknowledge that she was certainly capable of bypassing nerves and going straight for the anger.
“And what happens at the end of two weeks?”
“We’ll decide when we get there.” It was all he could say to her. Because if he told her that he hoped to be divorced from her at the end of two weeks, she would most certainly fight him.
But it’s what he expected. Two weeks for her to decide she didn’t want to be a mother after all, and she would agree to a divorce, assuming his solicitor hadn’t managed to get the job done by then. The coronation wasn’t scheduled for another two weeks anyway, because the laws of Jahfar required a minimum twenty-one-day period of mourning before a new king was officially crowned.
She bowed her head, as if she were thinking. Her arms crossed
beneath her breasts, and an arrow of heat sizzled into his groin at the way they nearly spilled over her silky tank top. When she lifted her head again, her eyes speared into him.
“You know I’m going to accept. What choice do I have? I’ll do anything to spend time with my baby. And, whether you believe it or not, I care about his welfare every bit as much as you do. I won’t tell him I’m his mother.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you.”
“It’s not for you,” she snapped. “It’s for Rafiq. Because you’re right, he doesn’t need the confusion right now. He’s too young to understand what it means, and I won’t use him as a pawn in our argument with each other. Until we settle our issues, his understanding of who is who in his life should remain the same.”
She was so different than she’d once been. The woman before him now lit up like a firecracker, blazing sparks of outrage and righteousness, whereas the woman she’d been before would have nodded meekly, accepting whatever decree he cared to make.
Like Jasmine, he thought. No. Jasmine was perfect, nothing like Isabella used to be—and nothing like her now. Jasmine would not blaze in the night. She would glow softly. She would not defy him.
But there would be no need, would there? He and Jasmine were friends. There was no reason for sparks between them.
“Very well,” he said, “tomorrow we are moving inland, to the Butterfly Palace. There are fewer people there, as well as fewer questions.”
Because it was best if her return to Jahfar wasn’t widely known. His staff knew, of course, but they were discreet and loyal. He had so little privacy anymore, but this was one area in which he meant to keep his—their—personal business confidential. He and Isabella would not play out the last days of their marriage before the public eye.
She seemed to understand, as she only nodded.
“Adan,” she said when he turned to go.
He stopped. “Yes?”
“I want to speak with my father.” She bit her lip, that lush lower lip he wanted to nibble as he thrust deep inside her body. The image of him doing just that started the telltale tingle at the base of his spine. He clamped down on his libido before he embarrassed himself. Focus.
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