Kitabı oku: «Modern Romance March 2019 Books 1-4»

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.

‘If you’re trying to get me to marry you, I can tell you right now it’s not going to happen.’ His voice took on a harsh and forbidding note. ‘Because nothing has changed, Jazz. You are still a foreign divorcee who would be totally unsuitable for the role of Queen. My people would never accept you. Which is why I must put duty first and continue my search to find a suitable bride. But that doesn’t mean that Darius can’t be my insurance policy—just in case I don’t produce another male heir.’

Her look of quiet reflection was replaced by one of incredulity. ‘Trying to get you to marry me?’ she scoffed. ‘Do you really think I’d want to marry a man who treats women like second-class citizens—who regards his little boy as nothing but an insurance policy?’

‘Fortunately, that question is destined to remain academic, since I have no intention of doing so.’ His smile was swift and dismissive. ‘Which means we must come to an alternative arrangement which will satisfy all parties.’

‘What kind of arrangement?’ Defiantly, she tilted her chin. ‘What do you want?’

There was a pause. ‘Who knows his true identity?’

‘Nobody—not even my cousin,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I couldn’t see the point of people finding out his father was a sheikh.’

He nodded. ‘Good.’

‘I didn’t do it in order to get your praise,’ she objected. ‘I did it because I wanted to be able to trust people’s true motives for getting to know us. I didn’t want us to stand out, or for Darius to be made into a talking point.’

‘If my brother had not died then things would be very different,’ he observed reflectively. ‘But he did. One day I hope to have a legitimate heir, but if that doesn’t happen, then Darius will be entitled to inherit the crown. And since you refuse to let me take him back to Razrastan, then it seems he must grow up here. With you.’

‘Well, thank heavens for that,’ she said, breathing out a sigh of relief. ‘Because I can’t think of anything worse for his welfare than being incarcerated in some gilded palace with an autocratic brute like you!’

His nostrils flared. ‘Nobody else would dare speak to me in such a way,’ he iced out.

‘That’s about the only piece of information which has given me pleasure during this entire meeting!’

‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘It is imperative Darius learns about the country he might one day rule, which is why I want him brought up in London, so he can be schooled at the Razrastanian embassy. In a city which is big, and anonymous. Where nobody is going to discover his true identity—not if you don’t tell them.’

‘But we don’t live in London, Zuhal,’ she pointed out. ‘We live in Oxfordshire.’

‘That is not a problem. You will move.’

‘I am not a pawn on a chessboard! I will not move!’

His patience seemingly exhausted, he slammed his fist down on a flimsy-looking table which shivered beneath the force and when he looked at her, Jasmine could see a fire-like determination blazing from his black eyes.

‘I will take no more of your futile arguments, Jazz—or your defiant show of so-called pride in refusing to accept my support,’ he raged. ‘Because there are some things you need to understand. And number one is that there is no way a royal prince will be brought up somewhere like this! Why, there is barely room to swing a cat!’

‘We don’t have a cat.’

‘Will you stop interrupting me?’ he raged. ‘You will need to be rehoused somewhere befitting my son’s status. Somewhere secure.’ His gaze moved with withering precision to the crack in the peeling window-frame, which was currently sending a whistle of chilly air into the small room. ‘A place which isn’t offering an open invitation for thieves and has room for the bodyguards our son needs and which I will be providing, whether you like it or not. Money is obviously not a consideration and I imagine you will quickly discover that you’ll enjoy living somewhere which is considerably different from this.’ His mouth hardened into a cynical line. ‘Most women find luxury addictive, in my experience.’

Jasmine felt a mixture of fury and pain—and his reference to the other women in his life wasn’t helping matters. He was insulting her home and lifestyle and maybe she should take him to task for that. But couldn’t part of her see the wisdom in what he said, much as she hated to admit it? The modest savings she’d accrued while working at the Granchester hadn’t lasted nearly as long as she’d expected, and her sewing only brought in enough money for them to keep their heads above water. Life was often a struggle and it was only going to get worse. She knew what it was like to be the poor kid in school. The one who was forced to sign up for free school dinners. Who lived in fear of someone commenting about the too-small hand-me-down clothes or the shoes which badly needed heeling. The last thing she wanted was for Darius to grow up like that—so how could she let pride stand in the way?

She gave a reluctant shrug. ‘I suppose what you say makes sense.’

Zuhal’s eyes narrowed. It was not the gratitude he had expected—not by any stretch of the imagination. He inclined his head with regal solemnity, but behind the formal mask he seethed at her stubbornness and thanklessness. ‘I will have my people arrange somewhere for you to live as soon as possible,’ he said coolly. ‘Just pack up the essentials and be ready to leave when you hear from my office.’

Again, she was shaking her head, the long plait swinging like a blonde pendulum, and Zuhal was suddenly filled with an urgent desire to see her newly long hair spread out over his pillow.

‘Actually, I would prefer to have some choice in our new home,’ she said.

He opened his mouth as if to object, before closing it again. ‘Very well,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘I will have a shortlist drawn up for you to consider. And you’ll need a new wardrobe—not just for the baby, but for you.’

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I don’t want your charity, Zuhal. I never did. I’ll wear what I always wear and make my own clothes.’

‘You will do no such thing,’ he contradicted icily. ‘Because you are no longer a shop-worker living in hotel accommodation, or a single mother struggling to get by. You will be living in an expensive part of the city and it will naturally arouse suspicion if you look out of place—which, given your current appearance, wouldn’t be difficult.’

Jasmine might have objected if his words hadn’t been painfully true. She’d always tried to keep herself looking nice but it wasn’t as easy as it had been in the past. Darius took up a lot of her waking hours and there simply wasn’t the time to make new outfits for herself. Or the money. She tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. It was why she’d stopped going to the hairdresser—why she’d let her trademark bob grow out.

She chewed her lip. It would be awful if she refused Zuhal’s charity—because that was essentially what it was—and then got mistaken for a cleaner or a nanny when she was stepping into the elevator in her smart new London home. Because she knew how money worked. She’d worked at the Granchester long enough to recognise that rich people were only really comfortable with people like themselves. Who looked like them and spoke like them. And she didn’t. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Not in her cheap jeans and a thrift shop sweater from which no amount of washing could shift the stubborn stain of regurgitated carrot purée which sat on the shoulder like a faded epaulet.

And then something else occurred to her. ‘What about you?’ she questioned.

He had been gathering up the Manila envelope which he had dumped on the table on his arrival but he looked up when she spoke, his black eyes watchful. ‘What about me?’

‘Where will you be living?’

He shrugged. ‘I shall make sure I have a base in London close enough to see my son, but for the rest of the time I shall be in Razrastan, preparing for my future. For the formal signing of government papers to allow me to rule until…’ his voice faltered slightly ‘…until my brother can be legally declared dead.’

She nodded, forcing herself to remember the human tragedy which lay at the heart of all this. ‘Of course,’ she said, sympathy softening her voice despite his harshness towards her.

There was a pause. He seemed to hesitate. ‘And of course, I have another important matter to consider.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘My marriage,’ he stated coolly.

Jasmine started, her heart jolting as if someone had just pulsed an electric shock right through it. ‘Your marriage?’

He nodded. ‘I still need someone by my side to help me rule my country—and as soon as possible. Which is why I must find a suitable candidate. I just wanted to warn you in advance, in case the press start speculating.’ His gaze seared over her like a dark laser. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Jazz. That the discovery of my son and heir is a complicating factor in my matrimonial plans, but I don’t anticipate any problems.’ He smiled. ‘My future wife will need to be a very understanding woman, for that is one of my requirements. And during access visits, she will love our son and treat him as her own. I will make sure of that.’

Jasmine prayed her face wouldn’t betray her feelings. Had he really said he knew what she was thinking? He didn’t have a clue. The hurt. The anger. The shame. The fear. She told herself she didn’t care what Zuhal did with his life or who he took as his wife. But she did. Of course she did. She wanted to rail against the thought of another woman becoming stepmother to Darius, but there wasn’t a lot she could do about it. It was a fact of modern life. She’d had a stepmother herself, hadn’t she?

And look how that had turned out. Her father’s much younger wife had resented all evidence that he’d been married before. She hadn’t even allowed Jasmine to play with her baby stepsister—though that had actually worked in everyone’s favour, because Jasmine’s mother had been hysterical at the thought her daughter might prefer her new ‘blended’ family.

Painful memories of the past dissolved and Jasmine met the ebony ice of Zuhal’s stare. She wished she could tell him to go to hell and that she had no intention of letting him move her into an apartment in a strange city, no matter how luxurious it happened to be. But she couldn’t do that, because she recognised that Zuhal wanted the best for his son and maybe anonymous London was a better option than a rural little village. But that didn’t mean that she had to roll over like a puppy dog and accept whatever he was prepared to throw her way, did it? Which meant she didn’t have to entertain him for a second longer than she needed to. This man who was impervious to her pain.

‘Would you like to look in on Darius before you leave?’ she questioned in a calm voice, slightly mollified by his look of bemusement.

‘Leave?’ He frowned. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be cooking me supper?’

Her expression didn’t change. ‘There’s nothing on the go, I’m afraid. But even if there was, I seem to have lost my appetite. And quite frankly, you’re the last person I feel like sharing a meal with right now, Zuhal.’