Czytaj książkę: «The Sheikh's Secret Baby»

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS THE LAST place he’d imagined her living.

Zuhal frowned. Jasmine? Here? In a tiny cottage in the middle of the English countryside, down a lane so narrow it had challenged the progress of his wide limousine? The woman who had loved the sparkle and buzz of the city, hiding herself away in some remote spot. There had to be some kind of mistake.

His frown became a flickering smile of anticipation. Not that he had given a lot of thought to her accommodation. If ever he’d stopped to think about his lusciously proportioned ex-lover—something he tried not to do, for obvious reasons—then it had usually been a predictable flashback to her soft skin. Or the tempting pertness of her breasts. Or the way she used to rain kisses all over his face so that his heart used to punch with pleasure. His groin, too.

He swallowed.

And that, of course, was the reason for his unexpected appearance today. The reason he’d decided to drop in and surprise her.

His throat dried. Why not? He liked sex and so did Jasmine. Of all his lovers, she had been the one who had really lit his fire. Sparks had flown between them from the start and it seemed a pity not to capitalise on that explosive chemistry with a little trip down memory lane. After all, it wasn’t as if either of them had entertained any unrealistic expectations. There had been no dreams to be shattered. They hadn’t asked for the impossible and had known exactly where the boundaries lay. They had conducted their affair like adults. What possible harm could it do to revisit the past and revel in a little uncomplicated bliss at a time in his life when he needed some light relief like never before?

He felt the smile die on his lips as part of him questioned the sanity of revisiting the past—and a woman—like this. Because he never went back. If you reignited an old relationship, then a woman could almost be excused for thinking it meant more to you than it really did…and no relationship ever meant more than sex to Zuhal Al Haidar.

And since Jazz was realistic enough to accept that, maybe this one time he could be excused for breaking one of his own rules, because destiny was leading him down an unwanted path—a path which had altered his whole future. Silently, he simultaneously cursed and mourned his foolish brother, but all the wishing in the world wasn’t going to bring him back, or rewrite the pages of history which had changed his own destiny. He wasn’t going to think about that. He was going to concentrate on Jasmine Jones and her soft body. To have her obliterate everything except desire and fulfilment. He was growing hard just thinking about it, because she was the sweetest lover he had ever known.

He stepped over a cracked flagstone, through which a healthy-looking weed was pushing through. It had crossed his mind that she might have replaced him in her affections during the eighteen months they’d been apart, but deep down Zuhal refused to countenance such a scenario—mainly because his ego would not allow him to.

And if she had?

If that were the case, then he would graciously bow out. He was, after all, a desert king, not a savage—even if at times Jazz Jones had possessed the ability to make him feel as primitive as it was possible for a man to feel. He would wish her well and take his pleasure elsewhere, although he couldn’t deny he would be disappointed not to revisit her enchanting curves and seeking mouth.

He pushed open the little gate, which even his untrained eye could tell needed a coat of paint, and made a mental note as he walked up the narrow path. Perhaps he would send someone out here to do just that. He lifted the loose door-knocker, which clearly had a screw missing, and frowned. Maybe even get someone to fix that for her, too.

Afterwards.

After he had enjoyed some badly needed solace.

He lifted the knocker, and as it fell heavily against the peeling paintwork he could hear the sound echoing through the tiny house.

* * *

Bringing the whirring drone of the sewing machine to a halt, Jasmine lifted her head to hear the sound of loud knocking, and she narrowed her eyes. Eyes which were tired and gritty from sewing until late last night. She rubbed them with the back of her fist, and yawned. Who was disturbing her during this quiet time when she’d got a rare opportunity to do some work? For a moment she was tempted to ignore it and stay there, neatly hemming the velvet curtains which needed to be delivered to her demanding client by next Wednesday, at the latest.

But she chided herself as she got up from her work spot in the corner of the sitting room and went to answer the unexpected summons. Surely she wasn’t being suspicious just because someone was knocking at the door? If she wasn’t careful she would become one of those sad people who became nervous at the thought of an unplanned caller. Who twitched whenever they heard a loud noise and were too scared to face the world outside. Just because she’d recently completed a radical lifestyle change and moved out of the city lock, stock and barrel didn’t mean she had to start acting like some kind of hermit! Especially since she had discovered nothing but friendliness from the locals since arriving in this quiet hamlet—a factor which had helped cushion her sudden and dramatic change in circumstances. It was probably somebody selling raffle tickets for the local spring fayre.

She pulled open the door.

It wasn’t.

It most definitely wasn’t.

Shock coursed through her like a tidal wave. She could feel the physical effects of it and fleetingly thought how much they resembled desire. The rapid increase in her pulse and the rush of blood to her face. The wobbly knees, which made her glad she was gripping the door handle for support. And most of all, that slightly out-of-body sensation, which made her think this couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t.

Heart still pounding, she studied the man who was standing on her doorstep—as if he might disappear in a puff of smoke if she stared at him long enough. But he stayed exactly where he was, as solid as dark marble and as vital as the mighty oak tree which towered over the nearby village green. She wanted to somehow be immune to him but how could she, when just seeing him again made her heart clench with longing and her body quiver with long-suppressed lust?

His face was angled—slashed with hard planes and contours which spoke of an aristocratic lineage, even if his proud bearing hadn’t confirmed it. With hair as black as coal and eyes a gleaming shade almost as dark, his rich gold complexion was dominated by a hawk-like nose and the most sensual lips she’d ever seen. Yet the suit he wore contradicted his identity for it was urbane and modern, as was the crisp white shirt and silken tie. But Jasmine had seen photos of him in flowing robes, which made him look as if he’d stepped straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Pale robes which had emphasised his burnished skin and hinted at a hard body which had been honed on the saddle of a horse, in one of the world’s most unforgiving desert landscapes.

Zuhal Al Haidar—sheikh and royal prince. Second son of an ancient dynasty which ruled the oil-rich country of Razrastan, where diamonds had been discovered close to its immense mountains and world-class racing horses were bred. The man to whom she had given her body and heart—although he had wanted only her body and she had pretended to be okay with that because there hadn’t been an alternative. Well, the alternative would have been to have spurned his unexpected advances and that had been something she’d found herself unable to do. There hadn’t been a day since they’d parted that she hadn’t thought about him but she’d never thought she’d see him again because he had cut her out of his life completely.

And that was the thing she needed to remember. That he hadn’t wanted her. He’d cast her aside like yesterday’s newspaper. She bit her lip as questions flooded through her mind.

Why was he here?

And then, much more crucial…

She mustn’t let him stay here.

But Jasmine wasn’t stupid. At least, not any more. She might once have acted like a complete idiot where Zuhal was concerned, but not now. She had grown up since splitting with him. She’d had to. She’d learned that you sometimes had to stop and think about what was the best thing to do in the long term, rather than what you really wanted to do. So she resisted the urge to close the door firmly in his face and instead forced a polite smile to her lips.

‘Good heavens, Zuhal,’ she said, in a voice which sounded strangely calm. ‘This is a…surprise.’

Zuhal frowned, irritation dwarfing the anticipation which was shafting through him. It wasn’t the greeting he had been expecting. Surely she should have been rapturously hurling herself into his arms by now? Even if she had decided to act out a little game-playing resistance for the sake of her pride, he still would have expected to see her eyes darkening with desire, or the parting of those rosy lips in unconscious invitation.

But no. Instead of desire he saw wariness and something else. Something he didn’t recognise. Just as he didn’t recognise the woman who stood before him. He remembered Jazz Jones as being a bit of a fashion queen. Someone who was always beautifully turned out—even if she’d made most of her clothes herself because her budget had been tight. But she had always had a definite style about her—it had been one of the things which had first drawn him to her, and presumably why the Granchester Hotel had employed her as manager in its sleek London boutique.

He remembered her honey-coloured hair swinging to her chin, not grown out and tied back into a functional plait, which hung down the back of a plain jumper, which inexplicably had some unidentifiable stain on the shoulder. Her legs weren’t on show either; their shapely curves were covered by a pair of very ugly jeans—a garment she’d never worn in his company after he’d explained his intense dislike of them.

But he told himself that her clothes didn’t matter, because he didn’t intend her to be wearing them for much longer. Nothing mattered—other than the yearning which was already heating his blood like a fever. And wasn’t it ironic that Zuhal found himself resenting this sensual power she’d always had over him, even while his body hungrily responded to it? He let his voice dip into a velvety caress as it had done so often in the past, adopting the intimate tone of two people who had once been lovers. And who would soon be lovers again. ‘Hello, Jazz.’

But there was no lessening of her wary expression. No answering smile or impulsive opening of the door to admit him to her home and her arms. No ecstatic acknowledgement that he was here, after nearly two years of not seeing each other. Instead, she nodded in recognition and once again there was a flash of something he didn’t recognise in her eyes.

‘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.

‘And is your wife…’ Somehow her voice didn’t tremble on the word. ‘Is she happy about her position as the new ruler’s consort?’

‘My wife?’ he echoed, frowning at her uncomprehendingly. ‘I don’t have a wife, Jazz.’