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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 reprim
and, 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.’
