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CHAPTER THREE

SHE SHOULD NEVER have fallen for the royal Sheikh—that was the thought which plagued Jasmine for the rest of the afternoon, even while she was playing peep-oh with Darius then splashing him in the bath and making him giggle in that heartbreakingly innocent way of his.

But Zuhal had been determined to seduce her, despite the fact that she had been a shop girl and he a royal prince of noble descent. Her marriage had ended and she’d been feeling a failure when the Sheikh had waltzed into the Granchester boutique and subjected her to a highly effective charm offensive. She remembered his dark gaze licking over her skin and it had felt like being bathed in sweet black molasses. Sensing an unknown danger, she had let the other, rather pushy assistant deal with him, but her reluctance to engage had only seemed to increase his desire. Had she been surprised when he had turned up the following day to subject her to some more of that lazy charm? Not really. And she would have challenged any woman with a pulse to have resisted him for long. The strict rules of the hotel concerning relationships between guests and staff meant their resulting flirtation had been conducted amid great secrecy, and afterwards she’d realised that had probably added an extra layer of piquancy.

But the tumultuous ending of her marriage had left her feeling undesirable and Zuhal had changed all that so, of course, she’d agreed to have dinner with him. The restaurant had been small and badly lit—chosen mainly for discretion, she’d suspected—and even though the implied secrecy of that had been a little disappointing, already she’d been in too deep to care. To her astonishment—but not his—she had ended up in bed with him.

It had been…bliss. No other word for it. The soft plunder of his lips. His slow undressing as he had peeled off her cheap clothes. Her first sight of him naked—all that honed and burnished flesh and the unmistakable evidence of just how much he’d wanted her. She should have been shy, or even daunted—but she had been neither. In fact, she had been wet and ready, uttering nameless pleas as he’d stroked erotic pathways over her heated skin. Even the brief pain of losing her virginity hadn’t marred her mounting enjoyment and Zuhal had confessed afterwards that it had added an extra layer of excitement to his. Orgasm had followed orgasm and he hadn’t said anything until afterwards, when she’d been lying gazing up at the ceiling in dazed disbelief as he’d circled a puckered nipple with one careless finger. Turning her flushed face towards his, he had drawled out a single word.

‘Why?’

And then she’d told him about Richard and her non-consummated marriage. About how he’d insisted on waiting until their wedding night and how flattered she had been by that seemingly old-fashioned restraint. Because she’d thought it was an essential ingredient for a happy marriage—though she had been basing her opinion on guesswork rather than experience, because she had no idea what a happy marriage was like. Because she’d blocked her eyes and ears to the reality of her own parents’ marriage for so long, hadn’t she? She’d learnt to ignore dark undercurrents and pretend they simply weren’t happening. She’d become an expert in normalising dysfunctional relationships. As if by normalising them it would make everything all right…but of course, it never did. She had been the lonely child, caught in the crossfire of two warring parents. And it had been hell. Perhaps that had been another reason why she’d agreed to become Richard’s wife. He had felt safe—a bit like a small boat discovering a calm harbour after a rocky and unpredictable voyage.

Yet when her own wedding night had come—sex just hadn’t happened. It had been embarrassing and disappointing and as time had gone on and still she’d remained a virgin, Jasmine had asked Richard whether it was something to do with her. It was then that he had broken down in tears to tell her he actually preferred men. To be honest, it had come as something of a relief to know the simple cause of their incompatibility and Jasmine had wished him well before they had separated. But it had left her wondering whether she was a bad judge of character not to have picked up on it before.

She had also wondered if Zuhal would think her less of a woman because of her unusual past. Or if her lack of experience would turn him off, but, to her pleasure and surprise, it had seemed to do the exact opposite.

‘Perfect,’ he’d murmured, while fingering her quivering flesh. ‘Just perfect.’

‘Wh-what is?’ she remembered asking dazedly.

And that was when he’d explained that being a divorcee automatically precluded her from any kind of future with him, just in case she’d been getting any ideas—something she’d denied vehemently.

But afterwards she’d wondered just how true her denial had been. She’d told him she never expected anything from their relationship other than pleasure, so how did that explain the river of tears she’d cried when they’d made love for the very last time?

She needed to remember that. Every bit of it. To remind herself of just how ruthless Zuhal could be—and just how stupidly sensitive she could be. He had all the wealth and the power while she had none, but she had something far more precious: her gorgeous little black-haired baby who was the light of her life. She wasn’t going to be unreasonable—just as long as Zuhal wasn’t. He needed to understand that, despite the huge differences between them, in their roles as parents they would be equals.

She laid Darius down in his crib and went through the lullaby routine she’d begun after bringing him home from the hospital. She remembered how scared she’d been, yet determined to love her little baby with all her heart. But Darius had been easy to love. An easy baby all round. He hadn’t cried incessantly at night, nor been difficult to feed. Had he somehow sensed that Jasmine had been having a tough time adapting to life as a single mum and, in some loyal baby way, had made it as simple as possible for her?

Her hair was still damp from bath-time play and she certainly hadn’t got around to changing her clothes when Jasmine heard an authoritative rap on the door. But she wasn’t planning on trying to make herself look presentable to Zuhal, was she? To slip into something glamorous so he might look at her with admiration rather than contempt. Apart from the fact that it was so long since she had dressed up for a night out, mightn’t that send out the wrong message? Zuhal had one role to play in her life and that was as a father. She bit her lip. Which meant she needed to put all thoughts of the other stuff out of her mind. The kisses and the caresses and the scarily fast way he could always make her come. The way she’d almost succumbed in his arms earlier…

Even so, she couldn’t quite block out her foreboding as she ran downstairs, because she suspected that remaining immune to Zuhal was going to be easier said than done. Heart racing, she pulled open the door to greet him, wishing his impact weren’t always so overwhelming. But it was. Every time she saw him she felt as if someone had squeezed her heart within an iron fist and wouldn’t let it go. Unlike her, Zuhal had changed his clothes—adopting the casual attire which occasionally permitted him to go as incognito as was possible when you were the possessor of such head-turning good looks. His soft black jacket meant he smelt faintly of leather, underpinned with that subtle scent of sandalwood which was so much a part of him. Dark jeans hugged the powerful length of his thighs and his jaw was shadowed with the new growth which appeared so soon after he’d shaved, reminding her of just how virile he’d always seemed to her innocent eyes.

But these were things she didn’t need reminding of. Zuhal’s allure and charisma had never been in any doubt. It was his other qualities she needed to remember right now. His ruthlessness and determination. His ability to cast something aside once he was bored with it. She needed to remind herself that she had simply been a diversion. A sexual plaything to amuse himself with before the time came to take a suitable bride.

There was no conventional greeting from him—no pleasant social niceties which other men might have felt duty-bound to make. He walked straight past her and, without warning or ceremony, slapped a Manila envelope down on the table before turning to look at her, his black eyes glittering. ‘You might want to read this before we go any further,’ he observed.

‘What is it?’ she questioned.

He hesitated—an uncharacteristic enough gesture for Jasmine to instantly be on her guard.

‘In a nutshell?’ he responded. ‘It’s a legal document which requires only your signature.’

Her crushed heart crashed against her ribcage. ‘My signature?’ she echoed.

‘That’s right.’

She blinked as she surveyed the envelope with the wariness of someone being presented with an unexploded bomb. ‘What kind of legal document?’

Unbuttoning the soft leather jacket, he subjected her to the full intensity of his ebony gaze. ‘One which will make you a very rich woman, Jazz,’ he said quietly. ‘Giving you the kind of wealth which would make creating your own fashion label a reality rather than a hopeless dream.’

‘Really?’ she said, trying to stop her voice from sounding as if she were being strangled but wanting—no, needing—to hear the full extent of his heartlessness so she could remind herself of it if ever she was stupid enough to entertain a single tender thought about him. ‘And what exactly would I have to do to get this money?’

There was a pause.

‘I think you know the answer to that. You sign over all rights to my son.’

She’d known he was going to say something on those lines but she hadn’t expected his statement to be quite so bald. It was shocking and it was unbelievable. In effect he was asking her to sell her baby! To sign over ‘all rights’ to him and make as if he hadn’t grown in her womb for nine whole months before he’d finally flopped, red-faced and bawling, into the world, after a long labour which had had her screaming with pain and gripping onto the hand of the nearest midwife, because she had birthed Darius alone.

She remembered the kick of his little heel against her distended belly during the long, hot summer of her pregnancy. The sight of his little heart fluttering frantically during the ultrasound appointments at the hospital, when she had blinked at the rapidly moving image and thought how it seemed like magic. Could he really be asking her to just give her son up, to hand him over for an inflated sum of money?

She searched his face for some sign that he might feel bad about making his brutal request, but there was no guilt or shame on his hawk-like features. Nothing other than a grim determination to get what he wanted, as befitted an all-powerful sheikh. And even though she wanted to fly across the room and rake her fingernails down that hard face while demanding to know how he dared to be so cruel and ruthless, Jasmine resisted the urge to retaliate in anything other than a calm and reasoned manner. Because drama wouldn’t serve her well. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise her if he had one of his palace doctors listening at the door recording their conversation, waiting for the first opportunity to pronounce her as hysterical and unfit to care for the baby prince. A new determination began to rise up inside her, made stronger by her fierce and protective love for her little boy. ‘You must know I could never agree to that, Zuhal,’ she said, equally quietly.

He subjected her to an assessing look. ‘I had hoped you might be reasonable, Jazz.’ The tightening of his jaw was the only outward sign that he was irritated by her response. ‘But if you really think that maintaining contact across two such dramatically different cultures would benefit the child’s welfare, rather than unsettling the hell out of him—then we will have to negotiate some sort of visitation rights for you.’

Some sort of visitation rights? Had he taken leave of his senses? Jasmine stared at him in confusion before comprehension dawned on her and she gave a sudden laugh. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s the first rule of successful bargaining, isn’t it? You go in high, then negotiate down. You make your initial proposition so outlandish that I’m then supposed to be grateful for every little concession you make afterwards. Isn’t that right? But we aren’t talking about oil or diamonds or territory here, Zuhal, or any of the things you usually bargain for—we’re talking about a baby.’ The breath felt thick and tight in her throat. She felt as if she could hardly get the words out. ‘I’m not going to just hand him over to you and visit him! Apart from missing him more than I can imagine—I wouldn’t put it past you to veto my visa and ban me from ever entering Razrastan! How can you possibly ask such a thing and claim to have any humanity in your heart? Every child needs its mother!’

Zuhal met her furious glare. She was wrong about that, he thought bitterly. No child needed a mother. He had managed well enough without his, hadn’t he? Even though the Queen had been there physically—a glamorous and ethereal presence in the royal palace—she had never been there for him. Shamelessly devoted to his older brother, she had taken parental favouritism and elevated it to a whole new level. Many times he had thought it would be preferable growing up without her, for she used to look through him as if he were invisible. She had made him feel invisible.

‘Having a mother isn’t necessary,’ he bit out. ‘Many successful men and women have managed perfectly well without a maternal influence. You have only to examine the pages of history to realise that.’

In frustration she shook her head and a lock of buttery blonde hair fell against her flushed cheek. ‘I’m not talking about mothers who die or who for some reason can’t look after their children. I’m talking about mothers who have a choice. And I do have a choice, Zuhal. Oh, I may not have your money or power but I have something which is worth a whole lot more than any of those things, and that is love. I love Darius with all my heart and I would do anything for him. Anything. And I can tell you right now that, no matter what you say or try to do, you won’t succeed in taking him away from me!’

Zuhal’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed the passionate fervour of her words. She was daring to argue with him in a way she would never have done in the past, when her role in his life had been nothing more than his compliant mistress, whose role had been to bring him pleasure. She had become a lioness during their separation, he realised with grudging admiration, before wondering how he was going to talk her out of her convictions.

Once it would have been easy. A soft smile and seeking look would have been enough to get her to capitulate to his wishes. But back then their roles had been very different and no one would ever have described them as equals. And things had changed. She’d just told him she had no power but she was wrong. She had all the power because she had his son and it seemed he was going to have to move strategically to get what he wanted.

Taking a few moments’ respite from the unresolved thoughts which were racing around his mind, he looked around her cramped cottage, registering again how cheap it looked. For the first time it occurred to him that, despite her earlier promise to ‘rustle up’ some food, there was no evidence of this. No table lovingly set with candles or flowers. No napkin elaborately folded to resemble a fan or some other such nonsense. In short, none of the lavish attention to detail he was used to whenever he had allowed a woman to cook for him.

‘I mean what I say, Zuhal,’ she continued, her terse words falling into the uneasy silence which had fallen. ‘You’re not rubbing me out of Darius’s life and behaving as if I didn’t exist.’

Turning away from his scrutiny of the decor, he fixed her with a steady stare. ‘The alternative will not be easy,’ he warned softly.

She blinked with incomprehension. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Having a child being brought up as half-royal, half-commoner. Half-English and half-Razrastanian.’

‘Then let him be brought up as English.’

‘No way,’ he growled. ‘He needs to be aware of his royal ancestry and the responsibilities which might one day rest upon his shoulders.’

She frowned at him. ‘Surely you’re not implying that Darius could one day be King—when he is illegitimate.’

Zuhal stilled as a sudden wave of cynical possibility washed over him. Was this what she had secretly hoped for all along? he wondered. She’d accused him of going in with high stakes, but perhaps she was doing the same thing in her determination to drive a hard bargain. Perhaps the reality was that she was ambitious for herself as well as for her son. Perhaps having had a little time to think about it, she was imagining what could be hers, if she went about it in the right way. Because what woman wouldn’t want to be a queen of the desert, with jewels and palaces and unrivalled wealth? More than that, who wouldn’t want to be married to him? Many had jockeyed for that position in the past, but none had succeeded.