is every reason!” he thundered, the fine edge of his temper bared at last. “You will cease being so selfish, Isabella. You will do this for Rafiq, if for no other reason.”
Isabella hugged herself as a river of ice water poured down her spine. She was tired and confused and ready for this to be over. “I’m sorry you think I’m being selfish, but I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know you. And I don’t know who Rafiq is, either.”
Adan’s eyes were so cold in his handsome face. Like black ice as he gazed at her with unconcealed contempt. He was angrier than she’d yet seen him.
He pronounced the next words very precisely, each one carefully measured, each one like a blow to her subconscious as the full effect landed on her with the force of a sandstorm whipping through a purple Jahfaran sky.
“Rafiq is our son.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE interior of Adan’s private jet was sumptuous, but Isabella hardly noticed. She’d been in shock since the moment he’d told her they had a child. It had felt as if someone was slicing into her heart with a rusty knife. How could she have given birth to a child and not know it?
It was surreal.
But as much as her mind kept telling her that everything he said was impossible, her heart whispered doubts. Her heart said that something had happened to her two years ago, and that a car wreck didn’t explain it nearly as well as she would like.
She’d gone with him then. She’d let him take her back to her condo where she’d packed a suitcase and called the landlord to tell him she would be gone for a couple of weeks. Adan had stood by impassively, not saying a word as she’d readied herself. He’d looked around the small living space as if it were completely foreign to him. As if he were horrified she would live there.
Which, she supposed, he probably was. He was a prince of Jahfar. Princes did not live in studios that weren’t much bigger than a large shoebox.
They’d ridden to the airport in silence, then boarded the sleek Boeing business jet and taken off shortly thereafter. Now they were somewhere high over the Pacific Ocean, and Isabella sat in a large reclining leather chair and stared out the window at nothing but blackness. On a small table in front of her was an untouched glass of papaya juice. She shivered involuntarily. She’d put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and grabbed a light jacket, but still she was cold.
“Would you like a blanket, ma’am?” one of the flight attendants asked.
“Thank you, yes,” Isabella replied. Her voice sounded scratchy, distant, as if she weren’t accustomed to using it. The attendant returned with the blanket and a pillow. Isabella wrapped herself in the plush fabric. This wasn’t one of those cheap excuses for a blanket used on major airlines these days. It was thick and soft and smelled like spice.
A few moments later, Adan sank into the chair across from her. She hadn’t seen him since shortly after they’d gotten airborne. He’d said he had business to attend to and had disappeared into his private office. Now, he clutched a sheaf of papers. His gaze was disturbing. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the kiss they’d shared in Ka Nui’s, or simply because he caused something to tighten inside her every time he looked at her.
Or maybe it was because he despised her.
“You haven’t touched your drink,” he said.
“I’m not thirsty.” She dropped her gaze, conscious suddenly that she was still wearing heavy stage makeup. She hadn’t thought to wash her face in the rush to grab her suitcase and change clothes. He hadn’t rushed her, but she’d felt as if she had to hurry. As if the answers were thousands of miles away and she needed to get there as soon as possible.
“I thought you might like to see these,” he said, holding out the papers.
She took them cautiously, not really certain she did want to see them, but knowing she had no choice but to look. For herself. For her sanity. Not because he was forcing her to, but because she needed to know.
Her heart began to thrum.
She looked at the first sheet. It was an article from Al-Arab Jahfar.
Prince Weds Daughter of Prominent Businessman.
There was a photo of her and Adan. He was so handsome in his traditional clothing, with a ceremonial dagger at his waist. He looked solemn, as if he were performing a duty.
Which he no doubt had been. We met a week before the wedding …
She was smiling, but she didn’t look happy. Her dress was a beaded silk abaya in a deep saffron color. She wore the sheerest hijab, the fabric filmy and beautiful where it skimmed her hair.
She glanced up, saw Adan watching her closely. He was sprawled in his chair like a potentate, one elbow propped on the armrest, his index finger sliding absently back and forth over his bottom lip. His dark eyes gave nothing away.
Isabella slid the article to the bottom of the pile. The next one sent her heart into her throat.
It was a birth announcement. Rafiq ibn Adan Al Dhakir, born April fourth.
Tears pressed against the backs of her eyes. She wanted to sob. She bit her lip, hard, to stop the tears from coming. She wanted to shove the papers at him and tell him to take them away, but gritted her teeth and told herself she would do this. She would look at them and she would survive it.
Because everything she’d known, everything she’d believed—about herself, about her parents—was shattered and lying broken at her feet. She wasn’t who she thought she was.
She was this woman, this Princess Isabella Al Dhakir, who had a baby and a husband. Who should have had a perfect life, but who was sitting here broken and alone.
She uncovered the next article with trembling fingers.
This one proclaimed her missing. From her father’s house, where she’d gone to visit after the birth of her child. Evidence suggested she’d walked into the desert. A sandstorm had stopped the rescue effort for three days. When it resumed, there was no trace of her.
She thought of her father’s house at the edge of the wilds of Jahfar. He loved to tame nature. He had a pool, fountains and grass on the edge of the hottest, starkest land imaginable.
And she had willingly walked alone into that desert?
The fourth article made the numbness creep over her again. It was small, a quarter sheet, the words stark against the white background.
Dead …
She quickly flipped to the next page. A marriage contract, spelling out everything her father and Adan had agreed to. She didn’t read it. She didn’t need to.
She closed her eyes and dropped the papers on the table between them, then clasped her hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see them shaking. She was his wife. The mother of his child.
And she couldn’t remember any of it. Isabella tried so hard to conjure up an image of a baby in her arms, but she couldn’t do it.
What was wrong with her? How could a mother forget her own baby? She turned her head away on the seat back and dug her fingernails into her palms. She would not cry. She could not cry in front of him. She couldn’t be weak.
“Do you still wish to deny the truth?” Adan asked.
She shook her head, unable to speak for fear she would lose control.
“Why did you do it, Isabella? Why did you leave your baby son? Did you not think of him even once?”
It took her several moments to answer.
“I don’t remember doing it,” she forced out, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t remember anything about that … that night. In the newspaper.”
She