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‘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-lookin
g 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.’
