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Jasmine couldn’t settle to anything as she waited for Zuhal to arrive. He didn’t bother to ring the doorbell, he just let himself into the apartment—in a cruel parody of a husband returning home from work.
For a split second she almost didn’t recognise him because for once he was wearing traditional robes and she’d only ever seen him dressed that way in photos. Her heart clenched in her chest and she felt a moment of aching awareness as she acknowledged his powerful and almost primitively alpha presence in the pristine apartment. His black hair was completely covered by a white silk headdress, knotted with a circlet of scarlet. The stark lines made his hawkish profile appear more autocratic than usual, just as the flowing robes emphasised the hardness of his body, rather than disguising it with its swishing folds. Maybe it was because she was all too aware of what lay beneath—all that muscular physique honed by years of riding.
He flicked her an unfathomable look as he strode towards the sitting room and what choice did she have but to follow him? But Jasmine was aware of a new tension about him and something indefinable glittering from his black eyes.
‘Is this what you wanted all along?’ he queried silkily.
She blinked at him in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the sudden press interest, which seems to have come out of nowhere.’
‘And I’m supposed to have provoked it, is that it?’
He shrugged. ‘You were the one who wanted to walk in the park yesterday, remember?’
‘Only because I was feeling positively claustrophobic stuck in here with you!’
His eyes grew hard. ‘Did you set it all up so that we’d bump into that woman Carrie—who has clearly run straight to the newspapers about us?’
‘How could I do that when I had no idea that you were going to take a walk with me?’
Zuhal sliced the condemnatory palm of his hand through the air. ‘You could have phoned her when you were putting on your hat!’
‘Well, I didn’t!’ she flared. ‘I can’t believe you’d think me even capable of such a thing—of putting my son at risk like that. How dare you?’
Zuhal was so taken aback by the fury in her voice that he let his hand fall to his side. And the crazy thing was that all he wanted to do was to kiss her—long and hard and deep. He wanted to take her in his arms and strip them both bare and lose all this anger and these recriminations. He scowled, because now was not the time to be distracted by the lure of sex, no matter how much he ached to be inside her again. The whole situation had got completely out of hand and it was now time for him to rein it all in, using the most effective means at his disposal.
He was going to have to do what he should have done the moment he found out about his son.
‘You will have to come back to Razrastan with me,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
His mouth twisted. ‘I don’t think my statement requires any clarification.’
‘You don’t think your statement requires any clarification?’ she repeated. ‘Well, I do! What happened to keeping me here, with Darius as your insurance-policy heir, while you went out seeking a suitable bride?’
‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened,’ he gritted out. ‘My son has been discovered by the press. It hasn’t hit the newspapers yet because my lawyers currently have an injunction out—but it will, because the courts will probably throw it out on the grounds that it’s in the public interest to announce that Razrastan has a new heir. Even if they don’t you can’t keep something like this quiet for ever. Which is why the best kind of damage limitation is for you to agree to return to the guaranteed safety of my homeland.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t do that, Zuhal,’ she whispered.
Beneath his silken robes, Zuhal’s body stiffened. Was she really refusing the gift he could offer her—a place of sanctuary while he worked out some kind of future for them all, even though he didn’t yet know what that future could possibly be? She was a mass of contradictions, he conceded unwillingly—a woman who continually perplexed him. Who kept him at arm’s length with a determination which was in itself a turn-on.
Yet he found himself remembering that moment in the park when he’d touched her and had seen her whole demeanour soften. Her green eyes had blazed with something passionate and unspoken. If that woman—Carrie—had not burst in on them, might he not have taken Jazz into his arms and kissed her? Brought her back here and spent the rest of the day having sex with her, so that once again she would become his compliant lover of old, eager to agree with whatever he suggested? When, instead, she was returning his gaze with a cool confidence which was making him seethe. So how best to proceed? He couldn’t exactly drag her kicking and screaming back to Razrastan, could he? No matter how vivid that particular fantasy was turning out to be!
‘You must realise that now I have discovered the existence of my son, nothing can ever be the same, Jazz.’
‘You didn’t discover him,’ she answered. ‘You came across him by chance.’
‘However you care to define it,’ he iced out, ‘the facts remain the same. You are the mother of the Sheikh’s son and you both remaining here in England is no longer a satisfactory option. You have no experience of press harassment but I do. You will be given no space until you provide them what they want, which is a story.’
She tipped her head back, her green eyes on a collision course with his. ‘You really think I’d sell a story to the papers?’
‘Actually, no. I don’t.’ He shook his head. ‘But the story won’t go away and in the meantime rumours will abound.’
‘Rumours?’ she questioned wryly. ‘Or the truth?’
‘The fact of our son is undeniable.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘I just need to figure out the best way to present it to my people and I can’t do that if I’m constantly worried about you being besieged by all and sundry.’
‘I don’t know,’ she hedged.
Sensing weakness, he swooped. ‘Come back to Razrastan with me, Jazz,’ he urged. ‘Which will at least give us the space to think about the future.’
Jasmine turned away, touching her tongue to her dust-dry lips, her heart pounding as she acknowledged his words. He was promising nothing—certainly not on the emotional front. He’d spoken as if she were a plant he was eager to pluck from her native soil, to transplant her in his own, but with no assurances that she could thrive there. He wanted her to go to his palace and his country—where he literally ruled the roost. She would have absolutely no power there, and very little say in matters. And all this was complicated by her feelings for him, which wouldn’t seem to go away. Because she still wanted him. Not just her body, but her heart, too. She wanted him in a way which was never going to happen and she knew that to go to his desert home would be to make herself vulnerable.
But what alternative did she have? Staying here and playing a constant cat-and-mouse game with the press? Continuing to obsess about him finding himself a suitable wife—a scenario which made her want to batter her fists against the walls of this elegant apartment which still didn’t feel like home.
Would the royal palace feel any different?
She bit her lip.
The chances were that it wouldn’t but, for her son’s sake, shouldn’t she give it a try? To see if Zuhal’s suggestion was in any way workable, even if she had no real faith in the idea?
‘Very well,’ she said slowly. ‘I will bring Darius to Razrastan and we will consider our options.’
Zuhal nodded, but there was no sense of triumph or satisfaction in his heart at having won round one of what he suspected was going to be a difficult battle. Was he going to have to make Jazz his bride in order to get her to comply with his wishes?
His mouth hardened. She was not the kind of woman he had ever imagined marrying and he did not know if his people would accept her—but Razrastan required an heir, just as it required a king.
His country had never needed him before but it seemed that, suddenly, it did now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ZUHAL WALKED INTO the lavishly appointed drawing room and suppressed a rising feeling of apprehension as he thought of what lay ahead. Forty-eight hours had passed since he’d arrived here in the palace, with the blonde Englishwoman and her son in tow. A child who was very obviously the fruit of his loins, although nobody had dared comment on that fact to his face. He’d been aware that his courtiers and staff were buzzing with questions they wouldn’t dream of asking their ruler, but he also knew that sooner or later the subject would need to be addressed.
And this morning, he had done just that. He paced the room, the silk of his robes rippling over his bare flesh. His meeting with his closest advisors had concluded there was only one satisfactory way to provide the best possible future for his son.
Zuhal’s throat constricted. His son. The small but sturdy scrap of humanity who bore his genes. He’d thought the disappearance of his elder brother had been the most seismic thing which could happen to him but he had been wrong. Becoming the unexpected ruler of this vast desert kingdom was certainly momentous but the thought of fatherhood was far more significant and he was still processing it.
His jaw tightened. During the flight here he had surreptitiously observed Darius during those moments when Jazz had been sleeping. Registering the coal-black curls and golden dark skin of the baby, he’d felt an unexpected thrill of accomplishment and pride shivering through his veins. He had managed to produce an heir to continue the powerful Al Haidar line, without even trying. And in that moment he had vowed that whatever happened between him and Jazz he would never allow her to remove Darius from the country he would one day rule.
Did she realise that?
He heard the sound of footsteps and looked up. Her footfall was soft on the marble floor and as he saw the pale gleam of her hair in the distance, he felt the instinctive jerk of his groin. He ran his gaze over her as she approached and found himself approving her unfamiliar appearance, thinking how perfect she looked in the part of would-be desert Queen. Surprisingly, she had made no resistance to the assortment of ‘appropriate’ clothes he had insisted on providing for her—as if recognising the need for the kind of high-specification wardrobe required of his fiancée. Her measurements had been dispatched to one of the palace couturiers and an array of soft silken robes in a muted spectrum of colours had been waiting on her arrival in the capital city of Dhamar. With a compliancy he hadn’t been expecting, she had also approved the exquisite garments which had been procured for the infant Prince, despite her own ambitions in that particular area. In fact, the only things she’d brought with her from England were something called a baby monitor, which she had insisted on being installed as soon as they arrived, and a soft toy monkey, with bright eyes.
‘Ah, Jazz,’ he said, as she grew close and he could not help his gaze from drinking her in, as a thirsty man might drink after a long day in the desert. She was wearing a silky gown the colour of a ripe mango, which brought out the golden lights in her unusual eyes. He could see the luscious thrust of her breasts as their curved weight pushed against the fine material and he thought longingly of the way he used to trace patterns on them with his fingertips, before taking her nipple into his mouth and teasing it until she gasped aloud. He felt the rush of lust and it was with an effort that he dragged his eyes away to meet her gaze. ‘I trust you’ve settled in well?’ he questioned benignly. ‘And that your quarters meet with your satisfaction.’
She gave a flicker of a smile. ‘That’s a bit of an understatement. They’re absolutely amazing. I’ve never seen anything quite like them. Not even when I worked at the Granchester.’
Zuhal didn’t like the implication that a hotel—no matter how grand—could possibly be compared to his royal palace, but he made no comment. She would soon learn what were and were not acceptable topics of conversation, but now was not the time for a short lesson in diplomacy! He inclined his head. ‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said. ‘And now, we will feast. I trust you have some appetite tonight, Jazz—for the servants inform me that you have eaten remarkably little since our arrival.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Does that mean I’m still being spied on—despite living in your palace with practically no contact with the outside world?’
‘I prefer to think of it as looking out for your welfare,’ he corrected spikily. ‘So why don’t you sit down over there?’
The sweeping movement of his hand indicated an ornate table which had been laid up in one of the recessed windows overlooking the floodlit rose garden. On golden platters were elaborate displays of glistening fruits and savoury dishes, as well as tall decanters of iced fruit juice. Since he’d dispensed with all his servants, it meant Zuhal now found himself in the highly unusual position of having to serve her with food and drinks himself. And he thought she seemed completely oblivious to the honour he was affording her.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, perching on one of the gilt-edged chairs, before accepting the glass he was offering. ‘Mmm… Delicious,’ she added, as she sipped at the iced pomegranate juice.
He sat down opposite her and spooned some stewed aubergine onto her plate. ‘How is Darius settling in?’ he questioned.
‘Better than I thought he would,’ she said, as she lifted up her fork. ‘Even the change in climate and the fact that we’ve leapt ahead by a few hours doesn’t seem to have perturbed him. He’s just had his bath and I’ve read him a story and now he’s fast asleep. He won’t wake until morning.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Because that’s his routine.’ She hesitated for a moment, as if gauging his interest was genuine, before forging on. ‘It’s a routine I deliberately established, because I knew I’d never get time to get any sewing done otherwise. He’s broken it a few times of course and once, when he was running a temperature, he was awake all night long.’
‘And what was that like?’ he questioned, his curiosity aroused.
‘It was a nightmare,’ she admitted. ‘He screamed from dusk to daybreak. It was…’ she gave a rather helpless shrug ‘…a long night.’
‘I’m sure it was.’ He realised with a start how much she’d had to deal with. That, despite Darius being an easy child, there had been nobody else for her to turn to—and surely that must have been hard, to have done it all on her own. Unexpectedly, he felt the stir of his conscience and suddenly he found himself wanting her to relax. To lose that pinched look which was making her face seem so pale. To become more like the Jazz of old, rather than this new, wary version. With this aim in mind, he coaxed her with food and watched as she tried a thimble-sized glass of Razrastan’s famous lychee dessert wine, and it was with pleasure that he saw some of the tension leave her. ‘Is there anything else you require?’ he questioned solicitously. ‘Anything my staff can help you with?’
Jasmine tried to concentrate on his question, but it wasn’t easy. All she could think about was how frustrating it was to be within touching distance, when they hadn’t actually touched at all. And while she knew this was probably the most sensible outcome—it certainly wasn’t what her body wanted.
She couldn’t seem to stop staring at his olive-dark face, wishing she could tug off that cream headdress and tangle her fingers in the rich blackness of his hair. She could feel her breasts tightening beneath her robe and the insistent tug of desire low in her belly as she surreptitiously ran her gaze over him. Suddenly it seemed like an awfully long time since she’d had sex. Well, it was. Over eighteen months, to be precise—and increasing exposure to the father of her child was reminding her all too vividly that she was a healthy young woman with physical needs of her own.
She found herself wanting to touch him—just as she had done when he had unexpectedly reappeared in her life again and had kissed her so passionately in her run-down little Oxford cottage. Maybe even more, because being with him again reminded her just how much she had always fancied him. And it wasn’t his royal status which set her heart racing, or the fact that he was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. To her he was the man who had awoken her sexuality—the only man she had given her heart and her body to—and a woman never forgot something like that.
This was the man who used to flutter soft kisses over her belly before licking his tongue between the eager parting of her thighs. Who had brought her to orgasm that way, his hungry lips drinking in every shuddered spasm she made. The first time he’d done that she’d been incredibly nervous—self-conscious, even. But Zuhal had taught her that sex was a gift to be enjoyed and there should be no barriers between consenting lovers. He had known her body inside and out, and sometimes, when he’d been deep inside her, it had been difficult to know where he began and she ended.
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