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‘Yes. But I’ve been…been…’ The words trembled on her lips and she found herself unable to say them.
‘Ambushed by paparazzi?’ he provided harshly.
She sucked in an audible breath. ‘So your spies have already got back to you, have they?’
Amid the opulent surroundings of an aircraft which was more like a flying palace, Zuhal scowled. ‘Of course they have,’ he bit out. ‘What do you think I pay my staff to do, Jazz? They are guarding my son. It’s their duty to tell me exactly what’s happening in his life at any given time and I gather someone was photographing you in the park.’ Silently, he cursed the distance between them and her stubbornness in not having let him bring up Darius in a country where people would not have access to focus their long-range lens on an innocent little prince. And then he realised that she was ringing him and that was something new. Fear c
oursed through him in a way it had never done before. ‘Has something else happened?’ he demanded as dread rippled down his spine. ‘Is Darius okay?’
‘Darius is fine, but I…’ He could hear her swallow. Could hear her try to piece her words together, even though her voice was shaking. ‘I had a phone call from a journalist.’
He froze. ‘Saying what?’
‘Asking if I was the mother. Asking if…’
‘If what, Jazz?’
He could hear the embarrassment in her voice. Or was it distaste? he wondered bitterly.
‘If I was planning to marry you.’
Zuhal closed his eyes and allowed the prolonged silence to send its noiseless scream down the international phone line before hearing her cough.
‘Zuhal? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m right here—but don’t worry, I’ll be with you very soon.’
‘With me?’ He could hear the confusion in her voice. ‘But you told me you were going back to Razrastan.’
‘I was,’ he agreed grimly. ‘But the moment I heard about the incident in the park, I had my jet made ready. I’m on my way back to London.’
‘You’re on your way back to London,’ she repeated dully. ‘And just what is that supposed to achieve?’
‘I don’t intend discussing it with you now, Jazz,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve always found the phone a particularly unsatisfactory form of communication.’
‘Which is presumably why you avoided it in the past,’ she said waspishly.
He scowled, but he wasn’t going to get into an argument with her now. Especially not about things which had happened between them in the past. It was the future which needed addressing now, he thought grimly. ‘Expect me in around three hours’ time,’ he said briefly, and cut the call.
* * *
Jasmine couldn’t settle to anything as she waited for Zuhal to arrive. He didn’t bother to ring the doorbell, he just let himself into the apartment—in a cruel parody of a husband returning home from work.
For a split second she almost didn’t recognise him because for once he was wearing traditional robes and she’d only ever seen him dressed that way in photos. Her heart clenched in her chest and she felt a moment of aching awareness as she acknowledged his powerful and almost primitively alpha presence in the pristine apartment. His black hair was completely covered by a white silk headdress, knotted with a circlet of scarlet. The stark lines made his hawkish profile appear more autocratic than usual, just as the flowing robes emphasised the hardness of his body, rather than disguising it with its swishing folds. Maybe it was because she was all too aware of what lay beneath—all that muscular physique honed by years of riding.
He flicked her an unfathomable look as he strode towards the sitting room and what choice did she have but to follow him? But Jasmine was aware of a new tension about him and something indefinable glittering from his black eyes.
‘Is this what you wanted all along?’ he queried silkily.
She blinked at him in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the sudden press interest, which seems to have come out of nowhere.’
‘And I’m supposed to have provoked it, is that it?’
He shrugged. ‘You were the one who wanted to walk in the park yesterday, remember?’
‘Only because I was feeling positively claustrophobic stuck in here with you!’
