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“You need to have the right stones, to start with. Smooth, like this. Not too big or they’ll sink. Here. Feel it.” He extended his hand, palm-side up, with one of the pebbles in it. She took it, running her fingers over the edges.
“See what I mean?”
She nodded. “It’s smooth.”
“Yes.” He reached for another one. “You need to imagine the water is a plane, with nothing beneath. You want to throw the rock so that it lands square on the water’s surface, and the tension bounces it to the next spot.”
“That sounds almost impossible.”
“Watch.” He lifted his hand and then, with the action of someone who’s done something many times, he expertly cast the stone onto the water. It did just as he’d said, bouncing four times before thudding into the water and sinking from view.
“That’s impressive,” she said truthfully.
“Not really. The Sheikh once made a pebble skin all the way across the stream. I counted ten jumps.”
“Ten?” She lifted her brows. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “He’s had a lot longer to practice.” The words rung with such arrogant pride, so like Raffa, that Chloe had to stifle a laugh.
“Let me try.” She fingered the rock once more, the tip of her tongue poking out of her lips as she recalled Amit’s throwing motion. She drew her arm backwards, eyed the water carefully, and then released the rock.
It sank immediately, and she laughed, turning to face Amit. A reluctant smile was on his own lips.
“That was pathetic, your highness,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. “But no worse than my first dozen or so attempts.”
Her gaze jerked to his. “You know who I am?”
“Of course. You’re the Sheikh’s wife.”
“Why do you call him that?” She asked slowly.
“It’s his title.”
“But you’re… surely you, of all people, could be excused from such formality?”
“Why should I be?” He asked, turning his attention back to the pile of stones to his right side, with all the appearance of calm. But Chloe had the advantage, for she knew his father, and had become adept at reading Raffa’s expressions and understanding their meaning. She knew then that the boy was dissembling. He didn’t know she knew who he was, and he was trying to protect her.
It was on the tip of her tongue to disabuse him of that notion when it occurred to her that forcing him to admit his parentage to his step-mother might make him even more uncomfortable. She had no interest in doing any such thing, and so she allowed the fiction to pass. There’d be time to address it with her husband.
“It doesn’t matter,” she demurred simply. “Show me another one. Otherwise, how will I know that first wasn’t a fluke?”
“A fluke?” He shook his head. “It was no such thing. See?” And he skimmed another rock perfectly.
She stayed with him almost an hour, mostly in contented silence. But the desert winds of Ras El Kida were unusual, and she had not Amit’s skill in reading them. He paused when his pile of stones was only half-empty, and turned to her.
“We must leave now.”
“Why?” She’d been having a better time than she’d imagined possible, within the grounds of the ancient palace.
“A sandstorm. Can’t you smell it?”
She shook her head and breathed in, tasting only the freshness of the tree-filled air.
“It’s the clay,” he said, shaking his head and standing, before lowering his hands for her grip. He helped her up, then put a hand in the small of her back. Again, she was reminded of Raffa, of that confidence that must surely have been innate. “This way.” He guided her through the forest, a different way to that which had brought her to him. His path was more direct, though steeper, so she slipped once and had to break her fall by grabbing the branches of a tree. It cut her hand though so she had a small amount of blood in her palm.
“Are you okay?” Amit asked with obvious consternation.
“I’m fine.”
