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He hadn’t exaggerated about blending in himself, either. Was it the fact that he had removed his tie, or was it just his unusually relaxed stance rather than his regal demeanour, which made him into just a spectacularly handsome man who was taking a summer stroll with his…?

What?

How would she describe her role in the future King’s life? Not his girlfriend, that was for sure. Not even his lover—not any more. And mother of his child made it sound as if they’d been married, which of course they never had been. She bit her lip. She’d never had any status at all, really—which begged the question of why she had tolerated it so happily. Was that because her sexual awakening had been so powerful that it had rocked her world in a way which nothing else had come close to? Because she’d been so totally caught up in this new way of living and feeling—of being somebody’s lover?

Or was it because at the time she’d thought herself in love with him? Crazy, really. How could you be in love with a man who treated you as a convenience—flitting in and out of your life as the mood took him? She hadn’t really known him at all—and, as she was starting to get to know him now, she was seeing a ruthless side which he’d never shown before.

His deep voice broke into her reverie.

‘I thought the whole point of a walk in the sunshine was that it was supposed to be relaxing, but instead you’re looking as if you have all the cares of the world on your shoulders. Relax, Jazz. It’s a beautiful day.’

Jasmine blinked to find the Sheikh’s black gaze trained on her. The edges of his lips were curved into a smile and silently she reproached herself. She had to stop analysing stuff and wishing for things which were never going to happen. Why couldn’t she just live in the moment and enjoy it?

‘You’re right. It is. Gorgeous.’ Tilting her hat back, she breathed in, half closing her eyes until a vaguely familiar tinkle of music made her open them again. There was an ice-cream van in the distance, with a small queue of children forming at the front, and maybe it was the powerful collision between difficult past and difficult present which made something hard and hurtful coil itself around her heart.

‘Jazz? Is something wrong?’

Zuhal’s deep voice snapped her back to reality and she blinked at him, momentarily disconcerted. ‘Why?’

‘You’ve gone pale.’ His voice had become a silken whisper. ‘As pale as milk.’

If she’d been in the apartment she would never have told him, but high up in that expensive citadel, he would never have asked. And maybe that was another thing which being outside did. It freed you from inhibition. It allowed memories to rush back and with them came all the feelings, so that in that moment she was no longer a puzzled new mother, but a bewildered little girl again.

‘There was an ice-cream van outside my house when I was little,’ she said, her voice sounding as if it were coming from a great distance away. ‘I heard the music and went outside to listen—more to drown out the sound of my parents arguing than in any great hope of getting an ice cream.’

‘And did you get one?’

‘Actually, I did.’ She gave a quick smile, because the Sheikh’s calm question meant he was able to slip almost unnoticed into her memory. ‘My father came outside and bought me a cone—the biggest I’d ever seen. A massive thing heaped with pink and white ice-cream with one of those flaky chocolate bars sticking out of the top. I was surprised because he would never normally have done that and it made me wonder why he was there, in the middle of the day, when he should have been at work. He kissed me on top of my head and said goodbye in a funny kind of voice, and I remember watching him walk down the road just as my mother came flying out of the house.’

‘And?’ he prompted, into the silence between them, which was broken only by the far-off sound of children playing.

She shrugged. ‘My mother told me he was leaving. That he had another little girl with someone else—a new daughter he loved much more than me. She said some other stuff, too—stuff I’ve done my best to forget—and then she had a complete meltdown. Actually, so did my ice cream,’ she added flippantly as she stared at the sun-scorched grass, willing her eyes not to fill with tears. ‘Amid all the drama I’d completely forgotten about it and it fell off the cornet and lay on the pavement in a big, creamy puddle.’ It had been the end of her childhood and the beginning of a new and very different phase, where she had become the mother, and her mother, the child.

‘Jazz,’ said Zuhal softly. ‘Are you crying?’

She looked up, surprised by the sudden touch of his fingertips to her face. When had he moved close enough to touch her?

‘No,’ she answered proudly. ‘Crying is a waste of time.’

Was she imagining the gleam of understanding in his black eyes, or was it a case of just seeing what she wanted to see? A pulse began to jump at her temple as he rubbed the pad of his thumb against her chin and that simple brush of skin against hers reminded her all too vividly of the days when their bodies had lain naked together. Jasmine swallowed, praying that he would continue, knowing that if he pulled her into his arms she would not resist. Because didn’t she want that? More than anything? To feel his lips on hers and be locked in his embrace, so she could let his lovemaking melt away all her pain. Wasn’t she sick and tired of the celibate stand-off which had sprung up between them?

The air between them seemed to shift and change. She could feel the sudden tension in her body as he took another step towards her. A flash of hope and longing swept through her as his hawk-like features clicked into focus, when the unexpected sound of her own name made Jasmine jump back in alarm.

‘Jasmine! Hey, Jasmine!’

She turned around to see Carrie, the nosy nanny from the toddler group who today had neither of her twin charges with her. She was wearing cut-off denim hot pants which made the most of what was obviously a spray tan, and a T-shirt bearing the legend Luscious was stretched tightly across her generous chest.

Jasmine shot a swift look at Zuhal but he wasn’t ogling the brunette stunner, unlike just about every other man in the vicinity. Instead, he was regarding Carrie with an expression of cool disdain.

‘Well, hi. Fancy seeing you here,’ said Carrie, looking him up and down, the gleam in her eye suggesting she found his disdainful expression both a turn-on and a challenge. ‘You must be Mr Jasmine?’

‘This is Zuhal,’ said Jasmine quickly, only to see the Sheikh glare at her. ‘We were just—’

‘Leaving,’ said Zuhal firmly, cupping Jasmine’s elbow with the guiding clasp of his palm.

‘Oh.’ Carrie pouted. ‘Must you? I see we’re all childless. Thank. The. Lord. Why don’t we go over to that Pimm’s tent by the bandstand? It’s a perfect day for getting sloshed in the sunshine.’

‘I don’t drink,’ said Zuhal repressively.

Jasmine thought afterwards that it was a pity Carrie took a confident step towards him because her slightly predatory action was misinterpreted as one of aggression by his phalanx of bodyguards, who immediately swarmed from behind various trees, to surround them. Carrie was blinking at them in astonishment and Jasmine noticed that one of the bodyguards was having difficulty averting his gaze from her heaving breasts.

‘Oh, wow,’ breathed Carrie softly. ‘Now I think I’m spoilt for choice!’

The next few minutes passed in a blur. Jasmine was aware of being virtually frogmarched out of the park and back to the apartment, with Zuhal’s angry words ringing in her ears. And all that softness and understanding she’d thought she’d seen in his face had vanished, replaced by a cold censure which made his eyes glint like steel.

‘I cannot believe that you associate with such people!’ he stormed, as the elevator zoomed them up towards the penthouse.

‘I don’t think she meant any harm,’ she defended. ‘She’s just…just a young woman who likes to work hard and play hard.’

‘She is a predator!’ debated Zuhal fiercely. ‘Who dresses like a tramp! And I do not want my son associating with someone like her—that is simply not going to happen. Do you understand, Jazz?’

‘What, are you planning to vet everyone I come in contact with?’

Grimly, he nodded. ‘If I need to, then yes.’

She hated the way he just breezed in and out of her life, making changes as the mood took him, before waltzing back to Razrastan again. He needed to understand that although she was living in one of his properties, she was still a free agent and she would see whoever she wanted to see. But Jasmine clamped her lips shut, telling herself there was no point in discussing it now, not when he was in this kind of mood.

Yet she felt distinctly flat when he delivered her back to the apartment. His rugged features were still dark with rage as he bid her a terse farewell before striding out of the apartment without another word.

She stood in the empty sitting room after he’d gone, looking out as the golden sunlight bounced off the bright green of the treetops, realising how unsatisfactory the situation had become. She wanted him, yes—she had never stopped wanting him, if the truth were known—but for reasons of pride and self-preservation, she was no longer prepared to settle for what little he was prepared to offer her.

CHAPTER SIX

JASMINE FIRST REALISED something was wrong when she got a call to her mobile phone from an unlisted number. Deciding it was probably a sales call, she nonetheless picked it up, mainly because it had been ages since anyone had rung her.

‘Hello?’ she said cautiously.

‘Is that Miss Jones? Miss Jasmine Jones?’ The caller’s voice was female, smoky and very confident.

‘Speaking.’

‘Just a couple of questions for you, Miss Jones. Is it true that you’re the mother of the Sheikh of Razrastan’s baby?’

Jasmine nearly dropped the phone. ‘Who is this, please?’

‘My name is Rebecca Starr from the Daily View,’ said the voice. ‘And I notice you’re not issuing a denial to my question.’

Jasmine cut the connection with shaking fingers, wondering how the smoky-voiced Rebecca Starr had got hold of her number and wondering how best to respond. She swallowed. If in doubt, do nothing—wasn’t that what people always said? She certainly wasn’t going to bother Zuhal with it—not when he had stormed out in such a bad mood yesterday after that incident in the park with Carrie and her hot pants.

The phone rang again and Jasmine snatched it up, afraid that the shrill ringtone would wake her sleeping baby.

‘Miss Jones? It’s Rebecca Starr again. Do you have any immediate plans to marry Sheikh Zuhal Al Haidar of Razrastan?’

‘Where did you get this number from?’ Jasmine demanded uselessly.

‘Because we understand there is a vacant role for a new royal Sheikha,’ continued the journalist smoothly. ‘Now that Zuhal is to be crowned King.’

With an angry squeak, Jasmine cut the connection, resisting the temptation to hurl the phone against one of the velvet cushions which were lined up neatly on the nearby sofa, knowing that if she did someone would just put them right back again. That was the trouble with having a fleet of cleaners at your disposal, she thought—there was never any mindless domestic work with which to displace your angry thoughts. No floors to clean or cobwebs to flick away from the ceiling.

She tried to convince herself that the press would soon lose interest if she didn’t fan the flames of their story but she still felt faintly uneasy as she went about her normal routine. When he woke from his nap, she took Darius out for a stroll in his buggy and the warm sun beat down on the bare skin of her upper arms. Trying to ignore the discreet presence of the accompanying bodyguards, she found herself hoping she wouldn’t bump into Carrie again, dreading having to bat away a stream of curious questions about Zuhal. But sooner or later she was going to have to see her, wasn’t she? And what then? She couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist and she couldn’t spend the rest of her life avoiding questions because she wasn’t sure how to answer them.

She was just rounding the path to skirt the edge of the glittering lake when she sensed movement nearby and, glancing up, saw a blinding flash. Blinking, she watched as the black blur of one of the bodyguards hurtled towards a copse of trees while three others hurried forward to surround her.

‘What’s going on?’ she questioned.

‘Paparazzi,’ one of them answered succinctly.

‘What do they want?’

‘Photos of you. And of the royal Prince. We need to leave, Miss Jones.’

‘But—’

‘Right now, Miss Jones,’ he interrupted.

Jasmine forced herself to stay positive as she was practically marched back to the apartment—because having a baby meant you couldn’t afford to indulge in introspective gloom—but she was glad when Rania stepped in to take Darius for her. And once she was on her own, reaction set in and Jasmine could do nothing to stop the jittery feelings which flooded over her. Her skin felt cold. Her hands were shaking and her heart was racing like a train. She wondered if this was how the future was going to look, with her locked away in her luxury apartment, hiding from anonymous people who took photos of her baby son without anyone’s permission.

She wanted to pace the room. To talk to someone, but mostly she wanted to talk to Zuhal—and that surprised her. Maybe it was because he was the only person who would understand. The only person who could understand, because Darius was his son too. She went into her bedroom—with its pristine bed and neatly folded nightdress on the pillow. The framed photos of Darius and the portrait study of her mother taken before disillusionment had set in were the sole signs that this room actually belonged to anyone. A single woman’s bedroom, she thought, as she scrabbled around in one of the drawers for the phone number Zuhal had given her.

With fingers which were still shaking, she keyed in the numbers and Zuhal’s almost instant pick-up brought her up with a start, because for some reason it hadn’t occurred to her that he might give her his direct line. She pulled a face at her pale reflection in the mirror.

Did she really think so little of herself?

And why wouldn’t she, when she had been cut so comprehensively from his life once before?

‘Zuhal?’

‘What’s happening?’ he demanded, his voice underpinned by something she’d never heard there before. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. But I’ve been…been…’ The words trembled on her lips and she found herself unable to say them.

‘Ambushed by paparazzi?’ he provided harshly.

She sucked in an audible breath. ‘So your spies have already got back to you, have they?’

Amid the opulent surroundings of an aircraft which was more like a flying palace, Zuhal scowled. ‘Of course they have,’ he bit out. ‘What do you think I pay my staff to do, Jazz? They are guarding my son. It’s their duty to tell me exactly what’s happening in his life at any given time and I gather someone was photographing you in the park.’ Silently, he cursed the distance between them and her stubbornness in not having let him bring up Darius in a country where people would not have access to focus their long-range lens on an innocent little prince. And then he realised that she was ringing him and that was something new. Fear coursed through him in a way it had never done before. ‘Has something else happened?’ he demanded as dread rippled down his spine. ‘Is Darius okay?’

‘Darius is fine, but I…’ He could hear her swallow. Could hear her try to piece her words together, even though her voice was shaking. ‘I had a phone call from a journalist.’

He froze. ‘Saying what?’

‘Asking if I was the mother. Asking if…’

‘If what, Jazz?’

He could hear the embarrassment in her voice. Or was it distaste? he wondered bitterly.

‘If I was planning to marry you.’

Zuhal closed his eyes and allowed the prolonged silence to send its noiseless scream down the international phone line before hearing her cough.

‘Zuhal? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m right here—but don’t worry, I’ll be with you very soon.’

‘With me?’ He could hear the confusion in her voice. ‘But you told me you were going back to Razrastan.’

‘I was,’ he agreed grimly. ‘But the moment I heard about the incident in the park, I had my jet made ready. I’m on my way back to London.’

‘You’re on your way back to London,’ she repeated dully. ‘And just what is that supposed to achieve?’

‘I don’t intend discussing it with you now, Jazz,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve always found the phone a particularly unsatisfactory form of communication.’

‘Which is presumably why you avoided it in the past,’ she said waspishly.

He scowled, but he wasn’t going to get into an argument with her now. Especially not about things which had happened between them in the past. It was the future which needed addressing now, he thought grimly. ‘Expect me in around three hours’ time,’ he said briefly, and cut the call.