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Layth shook his head. “No. Though I have few relationships of value, I do value them.”
“You do?”
“Value them?”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I was asking why you have only few relationships of value.”
“Oh.” He stopped walking so that he could look down at her face properly. “I am a powerful man.” The way he said it was not boastful. “I have been raised to know that my duty is to lead my country. I have a couple of friends I value, and my parents, my uncle. Beyond that, people look at me and see only the Emir. Not the man. You, Cassandra Walton, are the first person to speak to me like an equal in a very long time.” He flicked a wisp of her fair hair from her eyes simply so that he could move closer to her. “That is valuable to me. I have almost forgotten what it is like to think about another person’s wishes and desires.”
“And you’re thinking about mine?” She whispered thickly.
“I think of you constantly. You have moved into my blood.”
Her heart turned over at his admission. It was the same for her, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She could barely bring herself to accept it, such was the terror the realisation wrought.
She flicked her gaze away from him and stared down the corridor. “Don’t say things like that, Layth.”
“It is true.”
“But it’s going to make it a lot harder if you make me feel like this.”
His eyes narrowed. “And so you are back to insisting we share a physical relationship and no more?”
“No.” She shook her head. How could she deny what was zipping amongst them. “I’m not. But I do still want this to be light. Casual.”
He shrugged, as though she hadn’t spoken. “Come.”
He hadn’t really responded to her but she shelved it for now. They had limited time and she didn’t want to waste half of it defining what they meant to each other.
At the end of the corridor, the doors opened, and he turned to the left. The room was beautiful. Parquet floors, pale grey walls and gold framed pictures in every direction. He removed his crown and placed it on a green velvet sofa then moved towards her.
But Cassie was transfixed. Her eyes had scanned the walls, taking in the mix of classic works by renowned artists, and then come to land on an enormous portrait.
Layth.
She moved towards it, her whole body charged with energy. It was set slightly off centre, a large space beside it left blank.
But the painting of Layth was so true to life that she sucked in a shuddering breath. The artist had captured his sardonic smile perfectly. He looked both regal and irreverent.
Her fingertips tingled with the urge to reach up and touch it.
“It was painted for my thirtieth birthday.”
She nodded, wondering at the cloying sense of tears in her throat. “It’s an excellent piece.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “It was completed by the most well-regarded artist in Takisabad. He has painted the royal portraits for forty years.”
“And very well.” Her eyes shifted to the empty spot and an unpalatable thought occurred to her. “He will, I presume, have the duty of painting your wife’s portrait, too?”
“Yes.”
“And your child’s.” Her voice rang with a bitterness she couldn’t suppress.
He nodded again.
“And your wife’s will hang here?”
“Yes.”
