The Sheikh’s Secret Baby Read online

  Zuhal had arrived soon afterwards, sweeping in without any of his usual coterie of aides, which meant she was now alone with him, something which was making her pulse race and her breasts to become engorged and she hated it. She hated her body’s instinctive reaction to a man who had proved how cold and heartless he could be. Who had announced his intention to take a royal bride and who regarded his firstborn son as his ‘insurance policy’. But she was trying her best not to pass judgement, because that wouldn’t benefit Darius in the long run, would it?

  She wondered if she would ever get used to living somewhere which had three bathrooms—three!—all gleaming white and flashing silver and now crammed with the same bath products she’d sold in the Granchester Hotel boutique, so she knew exactly how eye-watering their cost.

  She had chosen her own bedroom after the most cursory of glances because she had no desire to be in any room containing a bed, not with Zuhal breathing down her neck and creating the kind of flashbacks she could have happily done without. The most beautiful room of all was the nursery, which had been prepared for Darius. There was a curved crib fashioned from wood which felt satin-soft to the touch and a mobile full of planets and stars dangling from the ceiling above it. On a pristine window sill was a line of toys—fluffy bears and a soft little monkey with bright eyes. And somehow, the simple comfort of this room made Jasmine feel that the decision to move here had been the right one, if only for her son’s sake.

  She walked over to the window—away from the subtle sandalwood of Zuhal’s scent—and peered down into the park, where she could see people braving the light spring breeze and sitting on benches to eat their supermarket sandwiches. A teenage boy was doing gravity-defying things on a skateboard. Around the line of the lake, she could see the yellow blur of daffodils, all dancing and fluttering in the breeze—just like in the poem she’d learnt at school. She’d been hopeful back then—until her mother’s final meltdown about her father’s supposed sins had made schooling something she’d just had to fit in whenever she could, and attention to homework an impossible dream.

  But something about that memory made her think about the future. Her own ambitions might have tumbled along the wayside, but Darius still had a lifetime to look forward to. Shouldn’t she try to put a positive spin on everything which was happening, despite her many misgivings? To answer the Sheikh’s question with enthusiasm rather than doubt.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, as she turned back to face him.

  If he had been expecting a slightly more ringing endorsement, he made no reference to it. ‘And do you think you can be happy here?’ he persisted.

  Happy? It was a funny question. Since Darius’s birth, all Jasmine had wanted was to ensure security for him and now she’d done just that—even though she hadn’t planned it. From now on the two of them were going to be living in unbelievable splendour, while Zuhal picked up all the bills. She should have been relieved, and yet…

  How could she possibly be relieved—or relaxed—when part of her still wanted the Sheikh so badly, even though she knew it was wrong to feel that way? Her body ached whenever he was in the vicinity and she was poignantly reminded of how it had felt when he used to make love to her, and a big part of her wanted that to happen all over again. Yet he’d blithely told her he was going in search of a bride who would one day become her baby’s stepmother. Wouldn’t that kind of cold cruelty fill most people with anger instead of desire?

  Unwillingly, she began to study him—wondering if she would be able to do that objectively. But for now, at least, objectivity was a fruitless expectation. His dark grey suit flattered his broad-shouldered body to perfection, subtly showcasing all the muscular power which lay beneath. He had been born to make women look at him, with those hawkish good looks and eyes of ebony fire. She remembered the way she used to stroke her fingers through his hair—giving him the Indian head massage which one of the spa therapists at the Granchester had taught her to do. She remembered what an overdeveloped feeling of pleasure it had given her—to have the powerful and alpha Sheikh purring like a pussycat and relaxing under her rhythmical ministrations.

  With an effort she dragged her gaze away from him and glanced out of the window, where sunlight was bouncing off the fresh green leaves which were shimmering in the distance. ‘I’m going to do everything in my power to be happy,’ she said truthfully.

  ‘Good. That is the kind of positive attitude I like.’

  She shrugged as she turned to meet his eyes. ‘I’m not doing it for your benefit, Zuhal. I owe it to my son.’

  ‘Our son, Jazz. Please don’t ever forget that,’ he corrected smoothly, shooting a quick glance at his watch as the doorbell rang, its peal sounding unnaturally loud as it echoed through the spacious apartment. ‘Excellent. Right on cue. Come with me, please.’

  Jasmine blinked. Surely they weren’t expecting visitors? During several heated debates about privacy during the choosing of this apartment, she’d got the definite message that she and Zuhal weren’t going to be doing any socialising together. In fact, their relationship—such as it was—was very definitely to be kept under the radar. Which suited her just fine. She wanted to spend as little time with him as possible. No. Why not put it another way? She needed to spend as little time with him as possible, if she wanted to hang onto her sanity. ‘Come where?’ she questioned. ‘Who’s that ringing the doorbell?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  Jasmine clamped her lips shut, annoyed at his high-handedness but, her curiosity alerted, she followed him past the blissfully sleeping Darius, towards the front door.

  After a low-voiced command in his native tongue, the door was opened from the outside by a bodyguard, to reveal a woman standing there. Aged around thirty, she was dressed in what Jasmine recognised instantly as traditional Razrastanian robes and her hair was coiled on top of her head in an elaborate fretwork of black waves. She directed a kind smile towards Jasmine before bobbing a curtsey to Zuhal, who immediately indicated that she should stand at ease as he gestured for her to enter the apartment.

  ‘Jazz, I’d like you to meet Rania,’ he said. ‘She is going to be helping you look after Darius. His new nanny.’

  ‘I am very pleased to meet you, mistress,’ said Rania in perfectly modulated English. ‘And I am very much looking forward to meeting Darius.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and meet him right now?’ suggested Zuhal smoothly.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ said Jasmine quickly, still reeling from this latest development and yet another demonstration of Zuhal’s high-handedness.

  ‘I will not wake him, mistress,’ said Rania softly.

  What else could she do other than lead her to the baby? Jasmine told herself it was pitiful how hard her heart clenched as she watched the Razrastanian woman crouch down and fix her dark gaze on the sleeping Darius, as if committing every atom to memory.

  ‘The son of the Sheikh is a truly magnificent baby,’ said Rania at last, as she straightened up.

  Jasmine couldn’t fault the sentiment but her smile felt forced. She felt like a puppet. As if everyone were pulling her strings. Moving her this way, then that—leaving her with no idea of where she was or what she was doing. And all she could think of were the words Rania had spoken and which were now circling inside her head. The son of the Sheikh. The son of the Sheikh. Was the Razrastanian nanny, despite her kind smile and soft voice, planning to push Jasmine to the side-lines and edge her out of the picture, so that his royal father could assume complete dominance? She could feel her mouth growing firm with determination. Well, that was never going to happen.

  Never.

  ‘He bears such a strong resemblance to his father,’ Rania was cooing.

  Jasmine wished she could deny it. To say that, actually, the baby had her eyes or her hair—but there was no evidence of her features, or her hazel eyes or blonde locks. With his olive skin and black hair, there sure
ly couldn’t be another child on the planet who was more a mini-me of his darkly handsome father than Darius. His limbs were sturdy, his eyelashes outrageously long, and the baby clinic had already told her how tall he was going to be.

  ‘Indeed he is, Rania,’ Jasmine said, trying to regain her composure as she turned her attention to more practical matters. ‘Whereabouts…um, where will you be staying?’

  She could see Rania looking uncertainly towards Zuhal as if for guidance and the Sheikh interposed instantly.

  ‘Rania has her own apartment, which is connected to this one,’ he said, with the smooth assurance of a man who had thought of everything. ‘I don’t think you can have paid it very much attention during your first viewing.’

  Jasmine’s lips tightened. Obviously not.

  ‘I was here yesterday, putting the final touches to it,’ said Rania proudly. ‘Would you care to see it, mistress?’

  ‘I most certainly would,’ said Jasmine, shooting Zuhal a furious glance. ‘And really, there’s no need to call me mistress. Jasmine will do just fine.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please,’ said Jasmine firmly, wondering if Rania—despite all her linguistic skill—had any idea that the word mistress had a very different meaning in English. One which she definitely did not wish to be associated with her. She forced a new brightness into her voice. ‘Let’s go, shall we? I can’t wait to see where you’ll be living, Rania.’

  In silence, the three of them walked along the long corridor, until they reached a door at the far end, which Jasmine hadn’t noticed before. Or rather, it was the one thing the agent hadn’t bothered to point out during an otherwise extensive tour—perhaps if she’d been feeling a little less dazed she might have discovered it herself. The Razrastanian woman pushed open the door and gestured for them to step inside, which Jasmine did—although she noticed that Zuhal remained standing broodily on the threshold.

  Inside, was a separate and very beautiful little apartment, with a door leading to a bedroom and another to a neat kitchen. A sitting room with its own small terrace overlooked the park and on one of the walls was a framed poster of a place Jasmine instantly recognised. She felt as if someone were twisting a knife inside her as she studied the imposing building in the foreground of the picture. A golden palace with soaring towers and cobalt cupolas which glinted in the bright sunshine. Jasmine swallowed, for she knew that this was Zuhal’s home. The home he would soon share with his royal bride.

  And, for half the year—with Darius, too.

  ‘What a beautiful view you’ve got, Rania,’ she said weakly.

  Did Zuhal guess how churned up she was feeling? Was that why he stepped forward, to take her by the elbow to support her, as if she were an old lady he was helping to cross a busy road. Quickly she brushed his hand away because she didn’t want him touching her—and not just because she couldn’t trust her body’s reaction to him. Did he really think that an outward show of concern could make up for the fact that he was behaving like an overbearing brute? First, he’d announced that he intended marrying another woman—and now this!

  ‘Why don’t we let Rania get settled in?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘You can both talk baby routine later.’

  Rania nodded, quietly closing the door as she disappeared into her rooms, and Jasmine waited until she and Zuhal were back in the sitting room before she said anything. Waited until they were completely out of earshot and made sure that Darius was still asleep—and that her breathing had settled down-so her words didn’t come out in a senseless babble.

  ‘You let me vet the apartment!’ she accused him hotly. ‘But you didn’t think to give me the opportunity of telling you whether or not I liked the woman you have employed to help take care of our son?’

  ‘Everyone likes Rania,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not the point!’ Dangerously close to yelling, Jasmine sucked in a deep, unsteady breath. ‘And what’s more—you know it! So don’t give me that I don’t know what you’re talking about look and expect me to be taken in by it!’

  Zuhal found himself taken aback by her rage and, in another situation, might almost have been amused by it—because didn’t such passion always change into something much more agreeable when it was transferred to the bedroom? But that was never going to happen, judging by the way Jazz was glaring at him—with emerald fire spitting from her eyes.

  Undeterred, he loosened his tie a fraction. ‘He is a desert prince, Jazz,’ he said. ‘And having a nanny is a given for all royal children. He will be looked after by someone who speaks my language and who knows the myths and legends of my country. He will grow up bilingual, which is essential for a boy who might one day be King.’

  ‘But I’ve only ever looked after him myself. I told you before—I’ve never left him with a stranger.’

  ‘Rania is the daughter of my own nanny at the palace—my favourite, as it happens. She speaks perfect English and received her training at one of the finest establishments in England, one which provides childcare for your own royal family, just in case you’re interested.’

  ‘Not particularly. And that isn’t the point. You should have asked me first.’

  His patience was beginning to wear thin but Zuhal bit back the impatient retort which was on the tip of his tongue, telling himself to go easy on her. To treat her with impartiality as they negotiated their way through these tricky new waters. But how was such impartiality possible when his mind and his body had been in constant conflict, since he’d walked up the weed-strewn path of her little cottage less than a fortnight ago? When every night since he had been plagued by memories of her soft breasts and curvy hips. By the disturbing recall of the way she used to wriggle over his body like some kind of sexy eel, mounting him with a yelp of exultant pleasure as she rode them both to fulfilment. And then afterwards run her fingers through his hair, digging their firm tips into his scalp and massaging away the tension, so that he’d been left feeling almost boneless with pleasure.

  The other day he’d kissed her and the kiss they’d shared had been as potent as any he could remember. Was that because it had been abruptly cut short and not allowed to proceed to its natural conclusion? Was that why his subsequent sense of frustration had been more pronounced than any he could remember? Zuhal acknowledged the hard jerk of his groin, feeling as if his body was somehow taunting him.

  There were a million reasons why he shouldn’t want her, even if you discounted her basic unsuitability. She had deceived him. Had tried to keep their child a secret from him. Why, even when Darius had cried out, when he had still been ignorant of his identity, Zuhal had seen the distress clouding her pale face—and then her deliberate manipulation as she had sought to distract him.

  If she could have got him out of her cottage without disclosing he was a father, then she would have done, he reminded himself grimly.

  But even that knowledge did not lessen her allure, or stop him from wishing he could carry her into one of those conveniently empty bedrooms to slake his hunger for her, once and for all. And then maybe rid her memory from his mind for ever.

  He sighed. Compromise wasn’t something he was often called upon to use, but maybe he should make an exception in this case. Slowly he inclined his head, determined to acknowledge her concerns. ‘If, for any reason, Rania proves unsatisfactory…’ he saw her visibly brighten ‘…any sensible reason,’ he added swiftly, ‘then we can use someone else. Do you think I would do anything to threaten or disrupt the life of my son, Jazz?’

  ‘Now you’re making me sound unreasonable.’

  ‘That was not my intention. Darius needs someone in his life other than his parents,’ he said. ‘Someone to trust and feel safe with. Surely you must see that?’

  She was nodding her head now, as if determined to match his own mood of compromise with one of her own. Smoothing her dress down with fingers he noticed weren’t quite steady, she met his eyes wi
th a rare expression of complicity. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ She shrugged. ‘Especially since he doesn’t have any grandparents.’

  Zuhal’s mouth hardened, but he was unable to manufacture any sorrow that this was the case, for he had grown up without knowing his own grandparents, which might have helped dissolve some of the tensions which had existed in the palace. But he had survived, hadn’t he? Deliberately, he focussed his gaze on Jazz because that was infinitely more pleasurable than thinking about the toxic environment in which he had been raised.

  In just a fortnight the chill weather had turned into something more usual for this time of year and her simple cotton dress was sprigged with blossom—she had clearly made it herself—with her soft pink cardigan a shade lighter than the tiny flowers. She looked young, vibrant and utterly desirable and Zuhal was filled with a powerful desire to touch her. To crush his lips down on hers and to slide his fingers beneath her floaty skirt and touch her where she was warm and sticky. His throat thickened. Yet despite the undeniable allure of her appearance, she looked like a student on her way to lectures, not a young woman who now occupied one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in London.

  ‘I thought I told you to buy yourself some new clothes,’ he observed.

  ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with them. But your clothes are not appropriate for your new position in life, Jazz,’ he said softly. ‘We both know that.’

  She gave a quick nod of her head, as if she was preparing to say something difficult. ‘And how exactly would you define that position, Zuhal—that’s something we haven’t discussed, have we?’