The Sheikh’s Secret Baby Page 11

  ‘You’re saying you don’t want us to be intimate?’ he queried softly.

  Her voice was stiff as she tried to give an honest answer. ‘I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want it. I just…just don’t feel ready for it at the moment.’

  ‘Maybe that’s something you ought to think about next time you start batting those big green eyes at me,’ he observed, a little pulse hammering frantically at his temple.

  She gave an awkward nod of acknowledgement. ‘We were both responsible for what just happened, not just me. We got…carried away.’

  ‘And then some,’ he agreed drily.

  Attempting to put some space between them, Jasmine walked across the room to stand beside a marble statue of a winged creature which was half-falcon, half-goat—before turning back to face him. But he was still tempting her. She suspected that he always would. ‘I’ll try to be more circumspect in future,’ she said.

  There was a pause. ‘Even if that means resisting your own desires?’

  She met the curious question gleaming in the depths of his ebony eyes. Could she explain what was making her so cautious, without coming over as vulnerable or needy in the process? ‘Here in your lavish palace, the only thing I have is my integrity and I don’t intend to compromise it,’ she said. ‘I won’t be able to think straight if we become intimate again. I’m afraid that desire will cloud my judgement and I can’t afford to let that happen.’

  ‘These are fighting words, Jazz,’ he observed softly.

  ‘They aren’t meant to be. I don’t want to fight with you, Zuhal.’ She drew in a deep breath, praying her new-found conviction wouldn’t leave her. Praying she wouldn’t morph back into that docile Jasmine of old who had been content with the crumbs of affection the powerful Sheikh had thrown her way. ‘We’re no longer two occasional lovers who can’t keep their hands off each other. We’re parents. We have a lifetime bond through our son. We rushed into a relationship once before without really getting to know one another. This time, I think we should take things more slowly—to decide whether or not we could make a marriage work.’

  ‘And am I supposed to admire your reluctance?’ he questioned. ‘Is your elusiveness part of some complex female game of playing hard to get in order to make yourself seem more of a prize?’

  ‘I can assure you I’m not playing games, Zuhal. This is much too important for that. I have to believe that there’s a basic compatibility between us before I agree to become your wife—otherwise it’s just a recipe for disaster.’

  Zuhal shook his head, unable to believe that Jazz of all people was turning him down. A woman who had been eager to learn all he could teach her—who had been the most delightful of all his lovers. Was she holding out for what women always demanded—words of love he would not provide? Could not provide, he reminded himself bitterly. If Jasmine wanted violins and moonlight she was doomed to be disappointed.

  He looked at her. During that tantalising tumble which had just taken place on his bed, her hair had come free from its ribbon and was now tumbling down in waves of golden silk. She looked like an angel, he thought reluctantly, her long lashes shuttering the verdant beauty of her green eyes. He watched her smoothing down her robes as she struggled to catch her breath and in that moment she looked like the Jasmine he remembered—young and wild and passionate. But this Jasmine had just pushed him away in a way she would never have done before.

  For a moment he was tempted to walk over there and attempt to change her mind. Would she have the strength to resist him a second time? He suspected not as for a moment he imagined being inside her again, his length encased inside her molten tightness as he rocked them both towards that blissful goal.

  But he wasn’t going to do that. She would regret soon enough having turned him down and discover that he had no intention of chasing after her all the way to the altar. Did she really think a man in his position would ever have to grovel to a woman? His lips hardened into a smile.

  Let her come to him.

  ‘So what exactly is it you want of me, Jazz?’ he enquired casually.

  It was a question Jasmine had never thought he’d ask. She knew what she’d wanted when they’d been together before but had accepted she was never going to get it. Because you couldn’t demand love when instinct told you that love was an alien concept to a man like Zuhal. But she could discover more about the man who had always been a closed book to her when they had been casual lovers, couldn’t she?

  ‘Obviously, I’d like to learn about your country and your culture, Zuhal. But I’d also like to learn more about you.’

  ‘Even though you’ve just turned down a method guaranteed to do exactly that?’

  ‘I didn’t find out much about you in all the time we were together, did I? And we were having plenty of sex back then.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘There are official biographies you can look at,’ he said coolly. ‘Which have always been in the public domain. We even have the authorised versions here in the palace library, which you are perfectly at liberty to read.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Oh?’

  It was the most forbidding of looks and maybe if so much hadn’t been at stake, Jasmine might have heeded its silent warning. But there was a potential marriage to consider, and it had to have the makings of a good one for her to risk putting Darius at its centre. And how could she consider marrying a man who remained little more than a stranger?

  ‘I want to hear it from you, Zuhal,’ she said. ‘From your lips, not somebody else’s.’

  She saw his face darken with frustration, irritation and then a grim kind of acceptance. ‘Very well,’ he said at last, bending to pick up the discarded headdress which she had pulled from his head. ‘You’d better speak to my diary secretary.’

  ‘Your diary secretary?’ she echoed in confusion.

  ‘Of course.’ He gave the flicker of a smile edged with undeniable triumph. ‘How else did you think I was going to find time to see you? I am King now, with many demands on my time. Speaking of which…’ he glanced at his watch ‘… I must leave you now, since I have work to do.’

  She blinked. ‘What, now?’

  His black eyes glittered. ‘There is always work to do, Jazz, no matter what the clock says. And since the evening has fallen far short of my expectations, I might as well put what remains of it to good use. I will show you back to your rooms and anything you require, just ring and one of the servants will attend to you.’

  A peremptory wave of his hand indicated she should precede him. But it did more than that—it made it very clear who was in charge.

  Jasmine opened her mouth to object before shutting it again, because what could she say? She had turned down his proposal and now he was suggesting she make an appointment to see him, in the same way he might schedule in an appointment with his dentist! And meanwhile that vast and rumpled bed was mocking her with all its unused promise.

  The bubble of the evening seemed to have burst. She walked ahead of him, hearing the soft shimmer of his robes brushing over the marble floor as he followed her. And all she could think about was the powerful perfection of his brooding body and the way it had felt when he’d held her in his arms again, as she tried to quash a deep and overwhelming sense of regret.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT SHOULD HAVE been a fairy tale. At least, that was how it might have looked to an outsider. A one-time single mother plucked from her humble abode and transplanted into a glittering, golden palace by a sheikh who was eager for her to be his bride.

  A lump rose in Jasmine’s throat. Because this was no fairy tale. This was living in a gilded prison.

  It was true she’d been meeting all kinds of new people—from royal monarchs who ruled neighbouring countries to the noblemen and women of Razrastan itself. She’d sat beneath sparkling chandeliers, wearing a fortune in diamond
s around her neck—while discussing with the American ambassador the proposed trip by the President of the United States of America!

  Those were the facts.

  The irrefutable facts.

  But facts only told you so much. They only showed you the supposedly smooth surface—not the dark undercurrents which were swirling beneath. She might be the mother of the Sheikh’s baby, and they might be polite and perfectly civil with each other in public. But in reality they’d barely spent any time alone since she had rejected Zuhal’s sexual advances, and the subject of marriage was still unresolved.

  She’d wanted to get to know him before making any firm commitment, but how was that possible when palace life seemed the enemy of intimacy? When meals were distinctly formal and featured guests Zuhal thought it prudent she meet. During course after endless course, streams of servants weaved their way in and out, bearing extravagant dishes heaped with Razrastanian specialities, whose very names dazzled her. None of the servants ever met her eyes. They seemed to look right through her. She suspected they disapproved of this Englishwoman who had entered their royal palace with an illegitimate baby in tow. Maybe they were glad there had been no official acknowledgement of her role in the Sheikh’s life.

  And none of these functions offered any opportunity for private conversation with Zuhal because he was always sitting at the far end of the table, looking impossibly aloof and regal. Why, the physical distance between them was so great, that just getting him to hear her meant she almost had to shout. Just as there had been no shared moments of parenting with him. It seemed he made time to see his son only when he was certain Jasmine wasn’t around and she wondered if he was punishing her for refusing his proposal, by deliberately keeping his distance. On more than one occasion, she had emerged from her dressing room, her hair still damp from the shower, to see the silky shimmer of the Sheikh’s pale robes disappearing through the tall, arched doorway.

  Sometimes she would wake early when the baby was still asleep and the palace all but silent. Once, unable to get back to sleep, she had gone to the stable complex, just as Zuhal was dismounting from his horse after his morning ride. Hidden away in the shadows, he hadn’t seen her, but Jasmine had watched as he’d peeled a silk shirt from his torso. Like a woman hypnotised, she had observed his slow striptease with a racing heart which had threatened to burst out of her chest. With hungry eyes she’d drunk in the gleam of his burnished skin and bronzed definition of his powerful physique. There wasn’t an inch of surplus flesh on his hard body and his washboard abs were glistening like the cover shot of a fitness magazine. She’d found herself wanting to run over and to slowly slide her way down over his body. To lick her tongue over his chest, revelling in the taste of each salty bead of sweat, knowing they were all a part of him. And then to unzip his jodhpurs and feel his proud length springing free, first against her fingers and then into the moist and waiting cavern of her lips.

  She began to question if she’d been too hasty. If she had driven him away with her proud stance, which had masked her fears about getting intimate with him again. Yet how was she ever going to find out whether they were compatible if they were never alone? When the days were ticking away, bringing closer the formal signing of the papers which would make Zuhal the official ruler of Razrastan. She hadn’t actually ruled out marriage, had she? She’d just told him she wanted to get to know him better before she committed. So maybe it was time for action instead of all these fractured thoughts. Maybe she should take Zuhal at his word and book herself an appointment to see him, since he obviously had no intention of backing down himself.

  Which was how one sun-dappled morning she found herself in Zuhal’s offices in the south-west corner of the palace, which overlooked a sylvan courtyard of trees. At its centre was a cool pond, in which red-gold fish swam—giving the place a curiously peaceful feel. Inside, it was completely different—a modern hive of activity hiding behind the ancient doors. Assistants tapped feverishly at the keyboards of sleek computers and rows of clocks indicated different time zones from around the world. She was asked to wait in an anteroom, before being shown into an inner sanctum for a meeting with Zuhal’s chief aide—a shuttered-faced man in traditional Razrastanian robes, who looked up from his desk as she was ushered in.

  ‘Miss Jones,’ he said smoothly, rising to his feet to greet her. ‘My name is Adham. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  Jasmine recognised his voice instantly. She would never forget it, not in a million years. A chill rippled down her spine. This was the same aide who had blocked her attempt to tell Zuhal she was pregnant all those months ago. Was that why his face was so unfriendly when he looked at her? Why she detected a glimmer of darkness in his expression as she entered his plush office? Or was he just more open about expressing what she suspected most of the palace staff really felt about her? Quashing down her instinctive apprehension, Jasmine composed her face into a look of polite enquiry. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Jones,’ he said, his forced smile seeming to contradict his benign words. ‘What can I do for you this morning?’

  Jasmine felt the sudden pounding of her heart, recognising that this was the moment. She was here to try to deepen her relationship with the father of her child and to address seriously the possibility of being a future queen. So maybe it was time to start acting like one. To show Adham that she was no longer some inconvenient lover he could dismiss as if she didn’t matter, but part of Zuhal’s life, whether he liked it or not.

  Adopting the wide smile which had always been super-effective when dealing with tricky customers at the Granchester boutique, she gestured towards the sunlit garden outside. ‘It is an exceptionally beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ she observed, with diplomatic politeness.

  ‘Indeed. The weather in Razrastan is especially temperate at this time of year,’ Adham answered, the faint elevation of his eyebrows silently urging her to get to the point.

  Jasmine did exactly that. ‘I’d like to see the Sheikh, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Miss Jones. His Royal Highness is busy at the moment. I’m sure you are well aware of the demands on his time at this key stage in the country’s future,’ he said, his tone smooth and pleasant, although the icy gleam of his eyes suggested a certain insincerity. ‘In fact, he is on the phone to the Sheikh of Maraban, as we speak.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean right now,’ said Jasmine quickly. ‘Obviously, he’s tied up most of the time. I appreciate that. I just wondered if you could make an appointment for me to see him.’

  A flicker of incredulity passed over the shuttered features. ‘An appointment, Miss Jones?’

  ‘If you would. Zuhal did say we should coordinate our diaries in order to make time for one other.’

  ‘His Royal Highness mentioned nothing to me.’

  ‘Does Zuhal run everything past you, then, Adham?’ questioned Jasmine innocently.

  It was the first time in her life that she’d ever pulled rank—not that she’d ever had any rank to pull before now—and to her astonishment it worked. As if realising that this time she wouldn’t be thwarted, the aide reluctantly bent his head to study the leather-bound diary in front of him before returning his shuttered gaze to hers. ‘Very well. I believe I can fit you in, if you are prepared to be flexible. Shall we say tomorrow morning at ten o’clock? His Royal Highness has a window of thirty minutes he can allot to you, after his morning ride.’

  Thirty minutes! Not even an hour alone with the man who had asked her to marry him! And just around the time when Darius would be having his post-breakfast playtime, which wasn’t what you’d call convenient. But if this was the best she could hope for, then she was going to grab it with both hands. ‘Perfect,’ she said brightly.

  The aide consulted some sort of grid chart in front of him. ‘If you would like to make your way to the Damask Room at the allotted time, His Royal H
ighness will join you there.

  Jasmine nodded. ‘Thank you, Adham.’

  Despite the somewhat lukewarm response she’d received, Jasmine felt a fizz of excitement as she returned to her suite, where Darius was waiting with Rania. The baby gurgled with pleasure as she held out her arms to him and her mind was buzzing as she wondered how to make the most of her time alone with Zuhal tomorrow.

  Was that being super-needy?

  No, she told herself, as she waved a noisy rattle in front of the baby’s nose. Not needy at all. It was being grown-up and sensible. Accepting that she wasn’t dealing with just any man. She closed her eyes with pleasure as Darius wrapped his chubby little arms around her neck and snuggled up close. Zuhal was a man who would soon be King and she needed to make allowances for that.

  But that night, during a pre-dinner drinks reception for a cluster of visiting Argentinean diplomats, she looked up to find the Sheikh’s eyes fixed on hers more often than usual. The expression in their ebony depths was one she couldn’t decipher, but it was enough to set her heart racing as she walked forward to meet the line of guests.

  She had decided to treat these functions in the same way she used to regard shopping evenings at the Granchester boutique, trying to put people at their ease—and for the most part this made them bearable. Yet tonight it felt different. Or maybe it was just she who felt different. She’d broken the deadlock and from tomorrow, she would start learning more about the Sheikh whose narrowed gaze was currently sweeping over her like a dark spotlight. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that in public. Making her dress feel as if it had suddenly become two sizes too small. Making her brow break out into tiny little beads of sweat beneath her carefully coiffed hair.

  As usual, she and Zuhal left the reception at exactly the same time but tonight, instead of going to his own suite, he insisted on accompanying her to Darius’s room where he remained while she checked on him, before dismissing Rania for the night. The main reception room of her private suite seemed very large and echoing as she shut the door to the nursery and turned to Zuhal, realising that, for the first time in a long time, they were completely alone. She swallowed. She could detect the subtle yet very masculine scent of sandalwood radiating from his powerful body, making her uncomfortably aware of his raw virility as she regarded him with cautious question in her eyes.