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Eagerly, Rania complied, removing Darius from his buggy with the tender efficiency which Jasmine had grown to like and trust—although she didn’t like the way the nanny always deferred to the Sheikh. She looked down at the baby’s black curls with a rush of fierce, maternal love, but her heart sank a little as Zuhal gestured for her to accompany him to the sitting room, where, outs
ide, the spring flowers in the park had given way to the bright blooms of early summer.
‘You didn’t think to warn me that you were coming?’ she said, bending down to unnecessarily straighten a velvet cushion which the cleaner had placed at perfect right angles to the one beside it.
‘Why would I do that?’ he questioned blandly. ‘Unless you were planning to do something which you know would anger me, should I walk in on you unexpectedly. Is that the case, Jazz?’
‘Please don’t talk in riddles, because I haven’t got the energy to work them out, Zuhal,’ she said. ‘Like what?’
‘Like being here with another man,’ he accused, all blandness gone now as a cold note of steel entered his voice.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do.’ He began to pace the room, more agitated than she’d ever seen him. ‘There was a man here yesterday.’
Jasmine narrowed her eyes as memory came flooding back to her. ‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘How do you think I know?’ he demanded. ‘Because my bodyguards informed me!’
‘So you’re having me spied on now, are you?’ she returned. ‘Bad enough you sent someone to investigate the playgroup I decided to join—as if I wasn’t capable of making a judgement about it myself—but now I discover that I’m not even allowed to invite friends back to what is supposed to be my home, without your heavies reporting back to you!’
‘Please don’t be so naive, Jazz,’ he hissed, his pacing footsteps coming to a halt as he turned round to fix her with a blistering stare. ‘My son is currently under your care and naturally my staff keep me informed if anyone unknown to them should visit the apartment. You’re lucky he wasn’t stopped at the door and sent on his way. So I will ask you…who was he?’
For a moment Jasmine was tempted to call his bluff. To tell him that the man in question was her new lover and they’d both been eagerly waiting until the baby was fast asleep so that they could jump into bed together and enjoy a wild night of passion. But there was being independent and there was being downright stupid—and no way was she going to mess with Zuhal, not when he was in this kind of mood. When a dark and dangerous anger was radiating from his powerful body in waves which were almost tangible.
Reluctantly, she shrugged. ‘He’s an Italian waiter I used to know when I was working at the Granchester.’
‘An Italian waiter?’ he repeated, as if she had just told him she’d been entertaining a mass murderer. ‘What the hell was he doing here, Jazz? Practising his silver service technique, or was he teaching you how best they like to kiss in Roma?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ she answered stiffly. ‘He’s actually been getting experience—’
‘What kind of experience?’ he shot back immediately.
‘Work experience—before he goes back to join his father’s restaurant in Lecce—not Rome,’ she completed witheringly. ‘His sister is pregnant and he knew I liked to sew, so he asked if I would design something especially for the new baby which he could take back to Italy with him. Which I have, although it’s not quite finished. Here…’ She slipped from the sitting room to one of the unused bedrooms, which she had turned into a makeshift sewing room, before returning with a tiny, hand-smocked romper suit which she waved in front of him. ‘See for yourself if you don’t believe me.’
As she held up the impossibly small garment, Zuhal felt the tight knot of tension which had been building up inside him dissolve—to be replaced by the instant rush of relief. Had he really imagined Jazz in the arms of another man? But that was the trouble. Of course he had. Many times. Because he was frustrated. Because he felt powerless. Because for once in his life here was a woman refusing to do what he wanted her to do, which was to fall into bed with him. He’d tried telling himself he could understand why she no longer wanted to be his lover and, as the mother of his son, her proud morality should please him. He told himself it was better all round if their relationship entered a new, platonic phase, yet still he couldn’t stop thinking about her—even though logic told him that her chilly refusal to resume her tenure as his lover was only feeding his desire. That same logic had convinced him that sex was the only way to get her out of his system for good—for what woman didn’t lose her allure when a man was repeatedly exposed to her?
And perhaps he was going about it the wrong way.
‘I have seen something like this before,’ he said slowly, his eyes still on the impossibly small garment.
‘Of course you have. Darius has one which is very similar—although his is a different colour. Here I’ve used boats rather than ducklings.’
He nodded. ‘It is an exquisite piece of work,’ he said, his gaze taking in the delicate blue and white embroidery.
She was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for the punchline. ‘And?’
‘And…nothing.’ He shrugged, before producing a smile. ‘You obviously have great talent.’
She shook her head in self-deprecating denial. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘No arguments, Jazz. Why not just accept the compliment in the spirit in which it was intended?’
‘Okay,’ she said cautiously. ‘I will. Thank you.’ Her cheeks a little flushed now, she regarded him warily. ‘So what can I do for you today, Zuhal? Apart from giving you a platform to demonstrate your unreasonable jealousy?’
Trying not to focus on the fecund swell of her breasts, Zuhal attempted to put his jumbled thoughts into some kind of coherent order.
‘There are a couple of things I need to discuss with you.’
