Tariq hated it. Every instinct clamoured that this wasn’t right.
He’d told himself after the baby was born they’d resume the relationship they’d had before. Surely he’d imagined the love he’d seen in her face months earlier? For she’d shown no evidence of it since. If anything, her partiality for Roussel’s company, never enough to provoke gossip, but still marked, seemed to indicate he’d been mistaken about that.
Yet, right from that first day home from the hospital, things had gone wrong. Tariq had excused himself to let Samira rest, finding one reason after another to keep away. When he’d finally returned, timing his appearance with that of the twins and their nanny, there’d been no welcome in Samira’s eyes. She’d looked bruised with fatigue and there was an unfamiliar blankness in her expression as she’d listened to his excuses about catching up with work. As if she just didn’t care.
That had shocked him. Though they’d grown apart before the birth, he’d always felt Samira cared for him. Her indifference was a blow he couldn’t shrug off. It bothered him more than he’d thought possible.
He’d refrained from pressing her, understanding she needed time to recuperate; making excuses, knowing she must be exhausted from labour. He’d found more and more work to occupy him, giving her the space she needed.
But it wasn’t working. Something was horribly wrong.
The spark had gone out of her, the vibrant energy that was an essential part of Samira. Her eyes no longer tracked him across the room and he hadn’t seen her smile in weeks.
His belly hollowed. He missed that. Missed the way her eyes used to light up when she saw him; how she’d lower those long, lustrous eyelashes to screen her expression when she realised he’d noticed her hungry stare. How her pulse had fluttered faster when he took her hand, even when they were in a receiving line at a royal function.
Nor had he missed the way she called Layla her baby, not theirs.
Cold crept along his spine. The gap between them yawned wider each passing day. It was no longer something he could control.
She’d always wanted a child. Now she had one of her own. Was that why she shut him out?
Were he and the twins superfluous?
Tariq’s heart hammered against his ribs. The chill along his backbone turned to a glacial freeze, stiffening every muscle and seizing his lungs.
It couldn’t be. It was just weariness from the birth. The doctor had advised time and patience. Maybe a change of scenery to lift her spirits. Tariq had planned a visit to the small palace where they’d honeymooned, as soon as he could get away.
‘I’ve been thinking.’ He stepped closer and Samira half-turned her head but didn’t meet his eyes.
That epitomised all that was wrong between them. Tariq couldn’t seem to reach her any more. It wasn’t anger that ate at him but concern that maybe this was something he couldn’t put right.
Blanking out the idea, he stepped in front of Samira, willing her to look up.
‘Yes?’ Once more her gaze skated towards his face but never settled.
With infinite effort he managed not to sound gruff. ‘A change of scenery might be welcome. A little break away.’
Instantly Samira’s gaze meshed with his and he felt the impact of that stare right to the soles of his feet. At last! It was the closest they’d come to connecting since the night the baby had been born. Then she’d looked at him with such softness in her eyes, he’d felt like a god among men.
Yet now for the first time he had no inkling what she felt. The realisation pulled his flesh tight as the hairs at his nape stood on end. Never, in all the years he’d known her, had Samira been so unreadable, so blank. It was as if a light had been switched off inside her.
Fear clutched greedily at his innards. He felt like something precious had slipped away from him.
‘You must be a mind reader.’ Her voice was low and husky, as if from a tight throat. ‘I was thinking the same thing.’
‘Excellent.’
But before he could explain his plans she spoke again. ‘I need to go to Paris.’
‘Paris?’ He stiffened.
She nodded and once more her gaze slid away. He wanted to grab her by the chin and force her to look him in the eye. Then he glanced down at Layla, still feeding at her breast, and pulled himself up.
‘Yes. Next week.’
‘You want to go to Paris?’ Why there?
‘Yes.’ Her voice had that husky quality that always ignited his libido.
Perhaps he’d panicked needlessly. If Samira fancied a trip to the city women equated with romance, how could he object?