The Sheikh's Secret Baby

‘How did you find me?’

He raised his eyebrows, because her unwelcoming attitude was something he wasn’t familiar with—and neither was her bald question, which was bordering on the insolent. Was she really planning to interrogate him as if he were a passing salesman? Did she think it acceptable to leave the future King of Razrastan standing on her doorstep?

His words became tinged with a distinct note of reprimand, which had been known to make grown men shudder. ‘Isn’t this a conversation we should be having in the comfort of your home, Jazz, even if it doesn’t strike me as very comfortable?’

She flinched. She actually flinched—before seeming to pull herself together. She was smiling now, but he could sense it was forced, as if she were pushing her mouth against the soft resistance of slowly setting concrete. He was confused. Hadn’t they parted on good terms—or as good as they could be when a man was terminating what had been a very satisfying relationship? Although Jazz had been that little bit different from his other lovers, he recalled. She alone had refused to accept the keepsake piece of jewellery he always offered his ex-lovers as a memento. To his surprise—and, yes, his annoyance too—she had carefully repackaged the emerald and diamond pendant, along with a polite note telling him she couldn’t possibly accept such a generous gift.

His mouth hardened as he looked at the peeling paint on the front door. She above all people could have done with an injection of cash.

‘I’m afraid you can’t come in,’ she was saying. ‘I’m sorry, Zuhal. It isn’t…well, it isn’t really convenient right now. Perhaps if you’d given me some warning.’

And then he understood. Of course. It was exactly as he had anticipated. Outwardly, she had accepted their break-up with dignity and a remarkable absence of begging, or tantrums. As he recalled, she hadn’t even shed a single tear when he’d ended their affair—at least, not in his presence. But Jasmine Jones wasn’t made of stone. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever met and had thrived under his expert tuition. Having awoken her body, surely he wouldn’t have expected her to return to her celibate lifestyle after he’d introduced her to the joys of sex?

He felt the slow and heavy beat of a pulse to his temple. It was hard to believe—but why wouldn’t she have replaced him in her bed with someone more suitable? Someone of her own class who might be willing or able to marry her. Perhaps he should have rung first. Or written. Given her time to prepare herself—to rid herself of her current squeeze and pretty herself up for his arrival. But since when did Zuhal Al Haidar ever have to ring ahead to make some sort of appointment?

He attempted to sound reasonable but could do nothing about the sudden dark clench of jealousy in his gut. ‘You have another man in your life, Jazz?’

She looked genuinely taken aback—as if he had said something shocking and contemptible. ‘Of course not!’

Zuhal expelled a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. And wasn’t it crazy how swiftly jealousy could become an overwhelming sense of triumph and then hot anticipation? ‘Well, then. I have come a long way to see you.’ He smiled. ‘As I recall, when we went our separate ways we did it in the most civilised way possible. Which makes me wonder why you are so reluctant to let me in. Isn’t that the modern way, for lovers to remain friends? To sit and talk of old times, with affection?’

Jasmine felt her body stiffen, grateful her left hand was still hidden behind the partially open door. Glancing over the Sheikh’s burly shoulder, she could see the black gleam of his limousine sitting in the narrow lane, easily visible through the still-bare bushes. She supposed his driver was sitting there waiting, as people always waited for Zuhal. His bodyguards would be there, too, and there would probably be another carload of security people a little further along the lane, hidden from sight.

Hidden from sight.

Her heart contracted painfully but she tried to keep her face serene, even though the fear inside her was growing. She’d been so certain that the course she had taken had been the right one but now, as she looked into the carved perfection of Zuhal’s dark features, she felt the disconcerting flurry of doubt—along with the far more worrying pang of recognition. What should she do?

If she refused to let him in it would arouse his suspicions—she knew it would. It would arouse his interest too, because he was alpha enough to always want what was denied him. And she still had at least an hour of freedom before the matter became more urgent than academic. So why not ask him inside? Find out what he had come for and politely listen before sending him on his way, no harm done. She felt the prick of conscience as she opened the door wider and saw him register the gold ring she wore on her wedding finger, and she saw his face darken as he bent his head to accommodate the low ceiling.

‘I thought you said there wasn’t a man in your life,’ he accused as the door swung squeakily shut behind him.

‘There isn’t.’

‘So why the wedding ring?’ he demanded. ‘Are you back with your husband?’

She flushed. ‘Of course I’m not. That was never going to happen. We’re divorced, Zuhal. You knew that. I was divorced when I met you.’

‘So why the ring?’ he demanded again.

Jasmine told herself he had no right to ask her questions about her personal life and maybe she should tell him so—but that would be pointless because Zuhal had never been brought up to conform to the rules of normal behaviour. And wasn’t the truth that he did have the right to ask, even if he was unaware of it? She felt another painful twist of conscience before realising he was appraising her with a look she recognised only too well. The look which said he was hungry for her body. And that was all he ever wanted you for, she reminded herself bitterly. When the chips were down he wasn’t offering you any kind of future. He took without giving anything back and she needed to protect herself to make sure that never happened again.

He was probably married by now—married to the suitable royal bride he had always told her he would one day marry.

She needed to get rid of him.

‘I wear the ring as a deterrent,’ she said.

He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Because men are regularly beating down your door with lustful intention?’

Ignoring the sardonic tone of his query, she shook her head. ‘Hardly.’

‘It’s true that your appearance is a little drab,’ he conceded. ‘But we both know how magnificent you can look when you try.’

Jasmine gritted her teeth, telling herself not to rise to the backhanded compliment. ‘I realised I hadn’t made the best relationship choices in the past and that I needed some time on my own,’ she explained. ‘Time to get my career up and running.’

‘And what career might that be, Jazz?’ he questioned softly. ‘What made you stop working at the hotel boutique—I thought it paid reasonably well?’

Jasmine shrugged. She wasn’t going to tell him about her soft furnishings business, which was still in an embryo stage but gaining in popularity all the time. Or her plans for designing baby clothes, which she hoped would one day provide her with a modest living. Because none of that was any of his business. ‘London was getting too expensive and I wanted a change,’ she said. ‘And you still haven’t told me why you’re here.’

With genuine surprise, Zuhal realised that maybe he had misjudged his impact on her. Was it possible she hadn’t been as besotted by him as he’d thought—and that she wouldn’t take him into her bed without forethought or ceremony, as she’d done so often in the past? He remembered how her soft and undemanding nature had always acted like a balm on his troubled senses. How she had always been eager and hungry to see him. But now her distinct lack of interest punctured his erotic thoughts and instead he was filled with the unusual urge to confide in her. He sighed as he walked to the window and looked out at the yellow flash of the few straggly daffodils which were poking out from the overgrown grass in the tiny garden.

‘You know my brother is missing?’ he questioned, without preamble. ‘Presumed dead.’

She gasped and when he turned round her fingers were lying against her throat, as if she were starved of air. ‘Dead?’ she managed eventually. ‘No, I didn’t know that. Oh, Zuhal, I’m so sorry. I mean, I never met him—obviously—but I remember he was your only sibling.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘We kept it quiet for as long as possible, but now it’s out there in the public domain. You hadn’t heard?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t… I don’t get much chance to read the papers these days. World news is so depressing—and my TV isn’t actually working at the moment,’ she added, before biting down on the lushness of her lower lip and fixing him with a wary look. ‘What happened, or would you rather not talk about it?’

He’d thought she might take him in her arms and comfort him and wasn’t that what he wanted more than anything else? To feel the warmth of another body—the soft squeeze of flesh reminding him that he was very much alive instead of lying prone and cold somewhere in a merciless desert, while vultures hovered overhead. But she didn’t. She just stood on the other side of the small room, her green-gold eyes dark with distress, though her body language remained stiff and awkward—as if she didn’t know how to be around him.

But still he found himself talking about it, in a way he might not have done so freely with anyone else. Almost imperceptibly, his voice grew harsh. ‘Although Kamal was King of Razrastan, with all the responsibilities which came with that exalted role, my brother never lost his love of recklessness.’

‘I do remember you saying he was a bit of a daredevil,’ she offered cautiously.

He gave another heavy sigh as he nodded. ‘He was. All through his youth he embraced the most dangerous of sports and nobody could do a thing to stop him. Our father tried often enough, but our mother actively encouraged his daring behaviour. Which was why he piloted his own plane and heli-skied whenever possible. Why he deep-sea-dived and climbed the world’s most challenging mountains—and nobody could deny that he excelled at everything he put his mind to.’ He paused. ‘His coronation as King inevitably curtailed most of these activities, but he was still prone to taking off on his horse, often alone. He said it gave him time to think. To be away from the hurly-burly of palace life. And that’s what happened last year…’

‘What did?’ she prompted uneasily as his words tailed off.

Zuhal felt the inevitable sense of sorrow mounting inside him but there was bitterness, too. Because hadn’t Kamal’s actions impacted on so many people—and on him more than anyone? ‘One morning he mounted his beloved Akhal-Teke horse and rode off into the desert as the sun was rising, or so one of the stable boys told us later. By the time we realised he had ridden off unaccompanied, a fierce storm was blasting its way through the desert. Even from within the protection of the palace walls we could see the sky growing as red as blood and the wind whipping itself up into a wild frenzy.’

His voice grew unsteady for a moment before he continued. ‘They say there is no escape from the blanket of sand which results from those storms, that it infiltrates everything. You can’t see, or hear, or breathe. For a while it feels as if hell has unleashed all its demons and set them free upon the world.’ He swallowed. ‘We never found either of them—neither man nor horse—during one of the biggest search operations our country has ever mounted. Not a trace. It is inconceivable that he could have survived such an onslaught.’ There was a pause as his mouth twisted. ‘And the desert is very efficient at disposing of bodies.’

‘Oh, Zuhal,’ she whispered. ‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

He gave a brief nod of his head, dismissing her soft words of sympathy because he hadn’t come here for words. ‘We’re all sorry,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘So what will happen?’

‘Kamal cannot be officially pronounced dead for seven years, but the law states that the country cannot be without a king during that time.’ Like a boxer in the ring, Zuhal clenched his fists so that the knuckles cracked and turned deathly white beneath the olive skin. ‘And so, I have agreed to rule in his absence.’

She blinked at him as if the significance of what he had told her had only just sunk in. ‘What exactly does that…mean?’

‘It means that in seven years’ time, if Kamal has still not returned, then I will be crowned, since I am the sole surviving heir. Until that time I will be King in everything but name, and I will be known as the Sheikh Regent.’

It was the mention of the word heir which set Jasmine’s senses jangling with renewed fear. A trickle of sweat whispered down her back and settled at the base of her spine, soaking into the waistband of her jeans. Did he know? Was that why he was here today?

But no, of course he didn’t know. He wouldn’t be standing there with that bleak look on his face talking about his powerful new role if he had any inkling of the momentous thing which had happened in her life. And there were reasons he didn’t know, she reminded herself painfully. Reasons which had helped spur her desire to stop reading the papers and listening to the news.