The Sheikh’s Secret Baby Page 14

  There was an expression on his chief aide’s face which he’d never seen before—one he couldn’t quite decipher—and Zuhal’s heart gave a lurch of foreboding as he tried to work out exactly what was going on. But then he saw a rare smile break out on Adham’s face as he rushed forward to greet the Sheikh.

  ‘Your Royal Highness!’ exclaimed the aide, not even waiting until Zuhal had leapt from his horse. ‘I have wondrous news! Your brother is returned. The King is alive!’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘WHERE THE HELL have you been?’

  Zuhal stared into the face of his brother—a brother he hardly recognised. Kamal’s face was gaunt, his eyes sunken, and his ragged clothes unlike any he would usually wear as royal regalia. He must have lost at least twenty pounds, and his black hair flowed down past his shoulders. Only his proud deportment betrayed the fact that this was no ordinary man who had been lost in the desert for months and months, but in fact a desert king.

  ‘Well?’ Zuhal’s demand rang out through the echoing Throne Room. The blonde gleam of Jasmine’s hair reminded him she was sitting in the window seat, but he barely noticed her—his only focus on the brother he had thought was dead. Utter relief at seeing his only sibling alive suddenly transformed itself into righteous anger. ‘Are you going to give me some kind of explanation about how you’ve just miraculously returned, after we’ve spent months sending search parties out for you?’

  Kamal nodded, his gaunt expression becoming tight and tense, as if he had no desire to relive what had happened to him. ‘The sandstorm came down on us suddenly and my horse and I were lost—’

  ‘That much I know,’ Zuhal interrupted impatiently. ‘And if you’d bothered letting someone know where you were going then we could have found you.’

  ‘No. You could never have found me,’ said Kamal, his voice suddenly bleak. ‘For I was swallowed up in the most inaccessible part of the desert, heavily concussed, with my leg broken.’

  ‘Oh, my brother,’ said Zuhal, his voice suddenly trembling with an emotion he did not recognise.

  ‘Were it not for the nomadic tribe from the Harijia region who found me and took me in and helped me back to health, I would surely have died.’ Kamal looked down at his hands. ‘I lived in their tents as one of them for many months and they taught me much about the land I thought I knew. I liked living there.’ He lifted his gaze to his brother. ‘For a while I thought I wanted to stay. Maybe a part of me didn’t want to come back and continue to be King.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘So what changed your mind?’ asked Zuhal slowly.

  There was silence. ‘I heard you were getting married to the Englishwoman.’ Another pause. ‘And that she had a child.’

  Noiselessly Jasmine rose to her feet and left the Throne Room, but nobody noticed her go. Of course they didn’t. Ever since they’d returned to the palace she’d felt invisible to the man she’d spent the afternoon having sex with and the reason for that was as plain as the nose on her face. The King had returned and her place here was now redundant.

  * * *

  An exhausted Kamal retired early and Jasmine spent that night in Zuhal’s bed, but his lovemaking—although satisfying—felt almost perfunctory and he resolutely refused to discuss the impact of the King’s return on their future. The following morning he had already left for his early ride when she woke and Jasmine was aware of a sharp sense of disappointment that he hadn’t taken her with him, as was usual. Had he only tolerated her accompanying him on his daily ride because he’d wanted her to marry him?

  But now there was no longer any need for him to marry her, was there?

  Jasmine found herself in a strange position. She felt alone and scared—more scared even than when she’d found herself pregnant. She didn’t want to put any more pressure on Zuhal but this sense of being in limbo wasn’t doing her any good. She needed to face up to the facts and calmly ask the Sheikh what he really wanted now that his brother had returned—perhaps when they were in bed, soft and satiated by sex. Perhaps when her arms were around his waist and he was nuzzling her neck in a way which made her shiver with something deeper than desire. Or would it be easier if they were face to face across a table, so that she wasn’t naked and vulnerable? So that she could calmly get up and leave and go and cry with dignity and in private…

  Trying to work out the best way to approach such a delicate matter, she took Darius out for an afternoon stroll, planning to sit in the palace rose garden and sing him the soft lullabies he loved. Rainbow light arced through the spray of the ornate fountains, and the blousy blooms of perfumed flowers made her feel as if she’d tumbled into a kaleidoscopic fantasy-land as she walked through the spacious gardens. She was going to miss this beautiful place, she thought, with a sudden clench of her heart.

  The air was soft and drowsy with the buzz of bees and Jasmine thought she heard the drift of voices coming from the interior of the rose garden. She wondered who it might be as her sandaled feet moved silently towards the sound, until the familiar velvety caress of her lover’s voice indicated he was deep in conversation with his brother.

  She didn’t mean to eavesdrop. In fact, she was just about to turn away and go somewhere else in order to give them peace, when she heard her name mentioned. She told herself afterwards that it was only human nature to stand there for a moment or two. To want to know what was being said about her. She told herself it was a good thing she did listen—because otherwise, how would she have known the truth? Wouldn’t she just have carried on weaving impossible dreams about the future and hoping that one day Zuhal might learn to love her, if only a little?

  ‘Jazz?’ Zuhal’s voice was drawling. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Won’t she mind not being Queen—now that I’m back?’

  ‘It is not in her remit to mind.’

  ‘But she is a woman, Zuhal—and women are notoriously ambitious for their men.’

  ‘Not Jazz.’ There was a pause. ‘We don’t have that kind of relationship.’

  ‘What kind of relationship do you have, then?’

  ‘It defies definition,’ said Zuhal flippantly.

  ‘Oh?’ Kamal’s voice probed further. ‘Are you still going to marry her, now that I’m back?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  Jasmine bristled at his arrogance—his innate certainty that he was the one who called the shots—when Kamal’s next question made her heart pound violently against her breastbone.

  ‘Do you love her?’

  There was another pause, during which Jasmine could hear some unknown bird singing high from one of the treetops, and its sweet, drenching song sounded unbearably poignant.

  ‘No,’ said Zuhal, in a hard, empty voice. ‘You must realise by now that I don’t do love, Kamal.’

  She’d known that all along, but even so Jasmine was surprised by the fierce intensity of the pain which ripped through her as she registered that cold and unequivocal statement. She wanted to gasp with shock and pain—but somehow she held it back, because now was not the time. And really, she’d learned nothing new, had she? Because nothing had changed.

  Zuhal had told her he didn’t do love. He mistrusted it and didn’t want it—for reasons which were perfectly understandable. He’d told her that emphatically and now he was stating it loud and clear to his brother. Perhaps he was doing her a favour. Would she really have been content to spend her life here with him, not daring to show her feelings for fear it would make him angry, or suspicious that she had started to love him again? What kind of an example would that set to Darius?

  She was trembling as she silently turned the pram and pushed it away as fast as she dared go, knowing that there was only one solution which lay open to her—and she took the baby to Rania, before going to Zuhal’s offices to find him. Ignoring Adham’s protest, she walked straight into the Sheikh’s office without knocking to find
him talking on the phone. Something in her face must have sent out an unspoken warning because he uttered a few terse words in his native tongue before terminating the call and rising slowly to his feet.

  ‘This is unexpected,’ he said, a faint note of reproof in his deep voice.

  ‘I overheard you,’ she said.

  His brow darkened. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘In the garden, talking to your brother. I heard you say you didn’t love me.’

  He didn’t look in the slightest bit abashed. ‘But you knew that already, Jazz. I’ve never lied to you about that.’

  ‘No, I know you haven’t.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘And while part of me respects you for your honesty, I’ve realised I can’t live like that. It’s not good for our son to live like that either.’

  ‘So what do you expect me to say in response to this?’ he demanded. ‘To tell you that I didn’t mean it?’

  ‘No. I don’t expect that, Zuhal. If you must know I admire your honesty and the fact that you’ve never spun out lies or empty promises.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I just want you to arrange for me and Darius to return to England, and as soon as possible.’

  He raised his dark brows. ‘To do what?’

  She shrugged. ‘To live somewhere—not London, but close enough for you to be able to access us easily. And a house, I think—not an apartment—because I want Darius to have a garden of his own. I’d like to go back to Oxfordshire until I can find something which meets with your approval. You can even appoint your bodyguards if you wish—since I recognise that as Darius is your son we need protection. But I want to go back, Zuhal.’ Her voice suddenly became low. Urgent. ‘And as soon as possible.’

  Zuhal’s mouth hardened with anger and contempt as he acknowledged Jazz’s manipulative demands. Well, if she was hoping he would start grovelling in an attempt to persuade her to stay, then she was in for a disappointment. He didn’t argue with her, because this kind of conversation felt like one he’d had too often with women in the past—though never with Jazz, he conceded. It was emotional blackmail. She was making a statement. She was leaving.

  And she was taking their son with her.

  He kept his cold resolve through all the arrangements for their departure and maintained it as he saw her and Darius off from the airfield. But he couldn’t deny the inexplicable lurch of his heart as he saw her disappearing inside the private jet, his son’s dark curly head bobbing over her shoulder. It felt as if a dark cloud were descending on him as he recalled saying goodbye to his child, who’d naturally been too young to realise what was happening. But he had known, hadn’t he? Had known and felt guilty and resentful, all at the same time—half tempted to tell Jazz that he wouldn’t allow her to take his progeny from the country, but knowing deep down that the child needed his mother.

  The powerful engines roared but he turned away so that his back was to the plane during take-off, mainly because he’d got a damned speck of dust in his eye and infuriatingly, it was watering. On returning to the palace, he worked solidly for the rest of the day, checking his phone with unusual regularity.

  But the only thing he heard from Jazz was after she’d touched down in England and sent a miserable little text saying, I’m back. Which, of course, he had already known, because his security people had alerted him.

  He sent back an equally bald text:

  I will be in touch to discuss arrangements about Darius.

  But she didn’t reply, which infuriated him even more.

  His handover to Kamal almost complete, he decided to reward himself with some extra riding, deciding that some hard physical exercise was exactly what he needed to rid himself of this strange frustration which was burning away inside him. But for once the exertion and beauty of the desert failed to work their magic and he realised he was missing Darius more than he would ever have imagined. His mouth thinned. He would travel to Europe and see him, but he would do it in his own time and on his terms.

  Stopping in Paris en route for a long-overdue meeting, he checked himself into a sybaritically indulgent hotel with glittering views over the river Seine, for an overnight stay. He wasn’t really in the mood for socialising but unexpectedly ran into the dashing ex-polo player, Alejandro Sabato, and agreed to have dinner with him. He’d forgotten how the charismatic Argentinean attracted women like wasps buzzing towards uncovered food and several times their meal was interrupted while one of them gushingly requested a selfie with the ex-world champion. And then, much to Zuhal’s annoyance, they were papped leaving the upmarket restaurant.

  Zuhal’s eyes were gritty when he woke next morning and, although he tried ringing Jazz from his plane before he touched down in England, the call went straight to voicemail. But she didn’t bother ringing back and neither did she pick up the second call he made as his limousine—with diplomatic flag flying—sped from the airfield towards Oxfordshire.

  A house had been purchased for her, not far from where she’d lived before—but her new home was a world away from her old, rented cottage. Set like a jewel in an acre of walled garden, the detached villa had mullioned windows which glinted like diamonds in the sunshine and a soft grey front door. Two bright pots of scarlet geraniums stood on either side of the front door and the sporty little saloon he’d insisted on buying for her was parked in front of the garage. But when Zuhal lifted the shiny bronze knocker to sound out a summons through the house, nobody came to the door. He tried again with the same result and he scowled.

  Where the hell was she?

  His anger grew as he waited in his limousine, drumming his fingers against his knees and glancing out at the lonely lane, wondering if she was safe and wondering why he had allowed her to live this kind of existence in the English countryside. By the time she returned, a bag bulging with groceries on the bottom of the pram, he was seething, as his eyes raked over her.

  She was back to wearing jeans and a shirt, and her hair was twisted into a plait as she returned his gaze with shuttered eyes. She couldn’t have looked less like the perfumed Queen she’d been poised to become, yet something twisted deep inside him as he stared at her. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge for fear of where it would take him.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible to have one of the bodyguards do your shopping for you?’ he demanded, as he carefully helped her manoeuvre the pram into the spacious hallway of the house to avoid waking the baby. ‘Rather than struggling like this on your own?’

  ‘Not if I want to have any semblance of living a normal life,’ she responded. ‘I thought you were coming yesterday.’

  ‘I tried to ring but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘And? You could have left a message.’

  ‘I don’t like leaving messages.’

  ‘We all have to do things we don’t like, Zuhal—but it would have been common courtesy to have informed me that you weren’t going to be here when you said you were. I have to be able to rely on you. Darius is too young to know the difference right now, but in the future he needs to know that you’re going to turn up when you say you are.’

  He frowned, knowing that she had a point and realising that nobody—nobody—had ever spoken to him quite so caustically before. ‘I had business to attend to in Paris.’

  ‘So I saw in the papers.’

  His eyes narrowed as he detected a faint crack in her voice. ‘I thought you didn’t read the papers.’

  ‘I…’ She seemed a little lost for words at this and swallowed, before tilting her chin with the stubborn gesture he had grown to recognise. ‘Why are you here, Zuhal? If it’s to see Darius then perhaps you’d like to wait in the sitting room until he’s awake? If it’s to organise access arrangements, then wouldn’t it be better if it was done officially, through your office and your lawyers?’

  He studied her. ‘And that’s what you want, is it?’

  She swallowed again,
but even so when her words came out they still sounded as if she had a foreign body lodged in her throat. ‘Yes, that’s what I want.’

  Zuhal stilled as something inside him twisted. Something which felt like pain. Not the brutal kind, which came from a cut or a blow, but something much more insidious—and yet it was sharp. Crushingly sharp. He held his palm over his chest, as if that might steady the erratic beat of his heart as he looked into green-gold eyes which contained the hint of unshed tears.

  ‘Jazz?’ he said huskily, even though he wasn’t really sure what it was he was asking.

  ‘I’m not sure I can deal with this,’ she said, with a brisk shake of her head. ‘Not right now. I’m not in the mood. You told me you didn’t like drama—that you saw enough of it during your childhood to put you off it for ever—well, neither do I. I wasn’t expecting you and I’m not…prepared.’

  ‘Why do you need to be prepared for my visit?’

  She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does. It matters to me.’

  Jasmine stared at him. Was he completely stupid? Didn’t he realise that since returning she’d realised just how much he’d burrowed his way underneath her skin? That the memory of his proud hawkish features swam into her mind at pretty much every opportunity? That she missed him. She missed him more than she had any right to miss him.

  But why tell him any of that? Why should she admit her weakness—and her love—for a man who didn’t want it? That would completely disrupt the delicate balance of power which existed between them, which they needed to maintain in the future. It wasn’t as if they weren’t ever going to see each other again. Because of Darius there were bound to be lots of times over the years when they would bump into one another and she needed to ensure things stayed dignified and civilised between them. And that was never going to happen if Zuhal thought she was pining for him. Suddenly Jasmine could picture him laughing about her behind her back, perhaps when he was lying in bed with a new lover. Could imagine his drawled, cruel words as he dissected their relationship with forensic accuracy.