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Panic overtook her body in the guise of nausea. She gripped the side of the helicopter, and that had Raffa jerking his gaze to her.
“Sheikha?” He unbuckled and, uncaring for the helicopter’s stability, he crossed to Chloe, taking the seat next to hers. “What is it?”
“Motion sickness,” she lied weakly, sitting back in the seat and closing her eyes. It didn’t help. Wave after wave of dizziness made her want to be ill.
Raffa put an arm around her shoulders. “Drink this.” He handed her a bottle of water. She took it, had a sip, and then closed her eyes anew.
“Thank you.” It didn’t help; nor did his proximity.
Because everything was shifting into focus for Chloe, and the result was somewhat terrifying.
There was no ‘get out of jail free’ clause. If she didn’t conceive a baby
, she had to leave him. She couldn’t stay with Raffa when he so desperately needed an heir. And she understood now how real his need was – how pressing. What if this month failed again? And the next?
She clamped her lips together. Her forehead was beaded in sweat, and she felt perspiration pooling between her breasts. Raffa watched her the entire journey. Only once they touched down on the roof of the east wing of the palace did he remove his hand from her shoulders.
“Come,” he said, stepping out of the sliding side door to the helicopter. When she would have done the same, he shook his head, reaching for her and holding her to his waist, cradling her against his chest and staring down at her with a frown.
“You’re ill.”
“Just travel sickness,” she reassured him once more.
But his eyes lifted in a way that spoke of disbelief. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Was he hoping there was another reason? It almost made her laugh – a brittle sound that she swallowed.
“You can put me down,” she said, calm on the surface. “I’ll be fine now we’re at the palace. Go and deal with this situation.”
He frowned. “I will handle my brother…”
“After you’ve handled your wife?” She intentionally invoked that long ago night, the night when Raffa had said those words to Amit and then to Chloe.
She wasn’t angry at him, she was terrified of them – of what they were and what they’d become – but it expressed itself as anger and rage. She pushed at his chest so that he let her go, sliding her to the ground.
“Thank you,” she said, stiffly. “Please come and explain this to me later.” She turned before he could say anything, but as she stalked towards the door that would lead to the wide sweeping steps of the east wing, she heard him command a servant, “Go with Her Highness. Make sure she is comfortable and resting.”
It put Chloe in half a mind to do something foolish, like go play tennis or golf, instead of doing as he’d suggested.
But she was shaken and exhausted, mentally drained, and the heat from the day played havoc with her senses. The sun was on the wane now – somewhere out in the desert, far from the palace, the tent was there, ready for the night, the night she had imagined spending with her husband. Far from all this, far from his duties and responsibilities and the constraints of their royal marriage.
It was dusk when he appeared at her room, looking as though he’d run a marathon for three days straight. There was an utter exhaustion about him that she instantly ached to wipe clean, to fix.
But she didn’t. She stayed where she was, sitting at her desk, reading emails. Only her head shifted, turning towards him.
“Well?” She asked, cocking a brow. “What’s happened?”
“He’s gone.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck.
“Amit?”
“Goran.”
“I meant, how is Amit?”
“He’ll be fine. He didn’t want to go. He knows what his father’s like.”
