Deliberately, he turned his head away, the imperious wave of his hand reinforcing his intention not to respond. He told himself that she had overstepped the mark, but his determination to turn away from her stemmed from more than anger at her insubordination.
The truth was that he didn’t want to have to look at her reproachful expression, nor to anticipate where this conversation was heading—because he suspected he wouldn’t like the answer. He told himself that he was doing the only thing a man in his position could do. He was thinking of his country. Of his bloodline—one of the longest and most noble of all the desert states. He thought of his people—of the deprivations they had known. He thought of his land’s chequered and bloody history, and his mouth hardened.
He knew what he had to do because duty had been drummed into him from the moment he had been old enough to understand the meaning of the word. He knew that he needed to take a royal bride and to produce a male child, as his father had done—and his father before him. He needed to pave the way for the Al Maisan dynasty to continue into time immemorial.
In theory, such a task should have been easy. He was now thirty-six and ready for the responsibilities of fatherhood, in a way he had never been ready before. The princess of Zaminzar—Aleya was her name—was beautiful and cultured. She could speak four languages and her comely hips looked as if they could bear him many sons. She ticked many of the right boxes, as they often said in the west. Some, but not all.
Yet even though this latest attempt had failed, there would be others—and he would not feel guilty about something which Cat had always known would happen. He was the Sultan, carrying out the role expected of him, and he would not be reprimanded by his mistress!
They sat in simmering silence until the car reached his apartment and the atmosphere during the elevator ride to the penthouse was similarly tense. As soon as he’d shut the apartment door, he saw Cat kicking off her high heels and hurling them across the room before turning on him, her face contorted with anger.
‘The truth, Murat,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘I want the truth.’
For the first time Murat felt an unfamiliar wave of uncertainty about how to handle her, because Cat didn’t do angry. Cat did sweet and willing and compliant, and if she had been her usual sweet and accommodating self he might have...
Might have, what?
Was he really fooling himself that he could have talked or kissed his way out of this?
Angry himself now, he walked into the sitting room and stared out of the window at the faint sprinkle of stars which glittered above the treetops.
‘Murat?’ she said, from behind him. ‘Are you going to answer my question?’
He turned before she had a chance to compose herself and he saw on her face something which speared at his conscience like a rusty blade. Because despite everything—the unmistakable flare of hope was alive in her beautiful eyes. And didn’t they say that hope was the one thing which every human being clung to, no matter what the circumstances?
She wanted him to tell her that the interfering girlfriend of Niccolo Da Conti had been wrong. She wanted him to tell her that it had all been a mistake. That he was not seeking any woman other than her.
Except that he couldn’t.
He couldn’t lie to her.
He had always told her the truth.
He looked her squarely in the eye. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’