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‘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 the
re 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.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘SO.’ ZUHAL’S DEEP voice was clipped and matter-of-fact. ‘What do you think of your new home?’
Jasmine wasn’t sure what to think. She was still whirling from the speed with which her move to London had happened, and, with Darius now fast asleep in his luxury new baby seat, this was the first chance she’d had to get her bearings since arriving in the city that morning. To get used to her new accommodation. Home, Zuhal had called it—yet it didn’t feel a bit like home.
She glanced around the sitting room—trying to get used to a room the size of a football pitch, with its stunning views over the bright green treetops of Hyde Park. It was the place she’d liked best out of the shortlist of properties the Sheikh’s office had drawn up, mainly because it was the only one which didn’t make her feel as if she was hemmed in by other buildings. This high up the traffic was just a distant hum—like bees—so it almost felt as if you were in the country rather than in the middle of a city. Jasmine had seen the apartment when it had been empty and cavernous—but in the interim, it had been completely and luxuriously furnished by an unknown hand.
She would have liked some say in the furniture herself and although she couldn’t fault the decor, it had a distinctly impersonal feel to it—as if some top-end designer had simply thrown a lot of money at it. Giant velvet sofas were coloured in shades echoing the soft hues of the silken rugs which adorned the gleaming wooden floors. Vibrant oil paintings hung on the pale walls and a bronze sculpture of a horse’s head was silhouetted against one of the tall windows. There were even glossy unread magazines artistically placed on one of several coffee tables and coloured glass vases full of fragrant roses. It looked like a set from a film—a room designed in a single day—not built up with memories, bit by bit, like a normal home. But whoever had said any of this would be normal? It wasn’t normal to have been whisked here by darkened limousine, was it? Nor to have been followed by a fleet of bodyguards who, as far as she knew, were still lurking outside with those suspicious-looking lumps beneath their loose jackets.
Zuhal had arrived soon afterwards, sweeping in without any of his usual coterie of aides, which meant she was now alone with him, something which was making her pulse race and her breasts to become engorged and she hated it. She hated her body’s instinctive reaction to a man who had proved how cold and heartless he could be. Who had announced his intention to take a royal bride and who regarded his firstborn son as his ‘insurance policy’. But she was trying her best not to pass judgement, because that wouldn’t benefit Darius in the long run, would it?
She wondered if she would ever get used to living somewhere which had three bathrooms—three!—all gleaming white and flashing silver and now crammed with the same bath products she’d sold in the Granchester Hotel boutique, so she knew exactly how eye-watering their cost.
She had chosen her own bedroom after the most cursory of glances because she had no desire to be in any room containing a bed, not with Zuhal breathing down her neck and creating the kind of flashbacks she could have happily done without. The most beautiful room of all was the nursery, which had been prepared for Darius. There was a curved crib fashioned from wood which felt satin-soft to the touch and a mobile full of planets and stars dangling from the ceiling above it. On a pristine window sill was a line of toys—fluffy bears and a soft little monkey with bright eyes. And somehow, the simple comfort of this room made Jasmine feel that the decision to move here had been the right one, if only for her son’s sake.
She walked over to the window—away from the subtle sandalwood of Zuhal’s scent—and peered down into the park, where she could see people braving the light spring breeze and sitting on benches to eat their supermarket sandwiches. A teenage boy was doing gravity-defying things on a skateboard. Around the line of the lake, she could see the yellow blur of daffodils, all dancing and fluttering in the breeze—just like in the poem she’d learnt at school. She’d been hopeful back then—until her mother’s final meltdown about her father’s supposed sins had made schooling something she’d just had to fit in whenever she could, and attention to homework an impossible dream.
But something about that memory made her think about the future. Her own ambitions might have tumbled along the wayside, but Darius still had a lifetime to look forward to. Shouldn’t she try to put a positive spin on everything which was happening, despite her many misgivings? To answer the Sheikh’s question with enthusiasm rather than doubt.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, as she turned back to face him.
If he had been expecting a slightly more ringing endorsement, he made no reference to it. ‘And do you think you can be happy here?’ he persisted.
Happy? It was a funny question. Since Darius’s birth, all Jasmine had wanted was to ensure security for him and now she’d done just that—even though she hadn’t planned it. From now on the two of them were going to be living in unbelievable splendour, while Zuhal picked up all the bills. She should have been relieved, and yet…
How could she possibly be relieved—or relaxed—when part of her still wanted the Sheikh so badly, even though she knew it was wrong to feel that way? Her body ached whenever he was in the vicinity and she was poignantly reminded of how it had felt when he used to make love to her, and a big part of her wanted that to happen all over again. Yet he’d blithely told her he was going in search of a bride who would one day become her baby’s stepmother. Wouldn’t that kind of cold cruelty fill most people with anger instead of desire?
Unwillingly, she began to study him—wondering if she would be able to do that objectively. But for now, at least, objectivity was a fruitless expectation. His dark grey suit flattered his broad-shouldered body to perfection, subtly showcasing all the muscular power which lay beneath. He had been born to make women look at him, with those hawkish good looks and eyes of ebony fire. She remembered the way she used to stroke her fingers through his hair—giving him the Indian head massage which one of the spa therapists at the Granchester had taught her to do. She remembered what an overdeveloped feeling of pleasure it had given her—to have the powerful and alpha Sheikh purring like a pussycat and relaxing under her rhythmical ministrations.
With an effort she dragged her gaze away from him and glanced out of the window, where sunlight was bouncing off the fresh green leaves which were shimmering in the distance. ‘I’m going to do everything in my power to be happy,’ she said truthfully.
‘Good. That is the kind of positive attitude I like.’
She shrugged as she turned to meet his eyes. ‘I’m not doing it for your benefit, Zuhal. I owe it to my son.’
‘Our son, Jazz. Please don’t ever forget that,’ he corrected smoothly, shooting a quick glance at his watch as the doorbell rang, its peal sounding unnaturally loud as it echoed through the spacious apartment. ‘Excellent. Right on cue. Come with me, please.’
