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having won round one of what he suspected was going to be a difficult battle. Was he going to have to make Jazz his bride in order to get her to comply with his wishes?
His mouth hardened. She was not the kind of woman he had ever imagined marrying and he did not know if his people would accept her—but Razrastan required an heir, just as it required a king.
His country had never needed him before but it seemed that, suddenly, it did now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ZUHAL WALKED INTO the lavishly appointed drawing room and suppressed a rising feeling of apprehension as he thought of what lay ahead. Forty-eight hours had passed since he’d arrived here in the palace, with the blonde Englishwoman and her son in tow. A child who was very obviously the fruit of his loins, although nobody had dared comment on that fact to his face. He’d been aware that his courtiers and staff were buzzing with questions they wouldn’t dream of asking their ruler, but he also knew that sooner or later the subject would need to be addressed.
And this morning, he had done just that. He paced the room, the silk of his robes rippling over his bare flesh. His meeting with his closest advisors had concluded there was only one satisfactory way to provide the best possible future for his son.
Zuhal’s throat constricted. His son. The small but sturdy scrap of humanity who bore his genes. He’d thought the disappearance of his elder brother had been the most seismic thing which could happen to him but he had been wrong. Becoming the unexpected ruler of this vast desert kingdom was certainly momentous but the thought of fatherhood was far more significant and he was still processing it.
His jaw tightened. During the flight here he had surreptitiously observed Darius during those moments when Jazz had been sleeping. Registering the coal-black curls and golden dark skin of the baby, he’d felt an unexpected thrill of accomplishment and pride shivering through his veins. He had managed to produce an heir to continue the powerful Al Haidar line, without even trying. And in that moment he had vowed that whatever happened between him and Jazz he would never allow her to remove Darius from the country he would one day rule.
Did she realise that?
He heard the sound of footsteps and looked up. Her footfall was soft on the marble floor and as he saw the pale gleam of her hair in the distance, he felt the instinctive jerk of his groin. He ran his gaze over her as she approached and found himself approving her unfamiliar appearance, thinking how perfect she looked in the part of would-be desert Queen. Surprisingly, she had made no resistance to the assortment of ‘appropriate’ clothes he had insisted on providing for her—as if recognising the need for the kind of high-specification wardrobe required of his fiancée. Her measurements had been dispatched to one of the palace couturiers and an array of soft silken robes in a muted spectrum of colours had been waiting on her arrival in the capital city of Dhamar. With a compliancy he hadn’t been expecting, she had also approved the exquisite garments which had been procured for the infant Prince, despite her own ambitions in that particular area. In fact, the only things she’d brought with her from England were something called a baby monitor, which she had insisted on being installed as soon as they arrived, and a soft toy monkey, with bright eyes.
‘Ah, Jazz,’ he said, as she grew close and he could not help his gaze from drinking her in, as a thirsty man might drink after a long day in the desert. She was wearing a silky gown the colour of a ripe mango, which brought out the golden lights in her unusual eyes. He could see the luscious thrust of her breasts as their curved weight pushed against the fine material and he thought longingly of the way he used to trace patterns on them with his fingertips, before taking her nipple into his mouth and teasing it until she gasped aloud. He felt the rush of lust and it was with an effort that he dragged his eyes away to meet her gaze. ‘I trust you’ve settled in well?’ he questioned benignly. ‘And that your quarters meet with your satisfaction.’
She gave a flicker of a smile. ‘That’s a bit of an understatement. They’re absolutely amazing. I’ve never seen anything quite like them. Not even when I worked at the Granchester.’
Zuhal didn’t like the implication that a hotel—no matter how grand—could possibly be compared to his royal palace, but he made no comment. She would soon learn what were and were not acceptable topics of conversation, but now was not the time for a short lesson in diplomacy! He inclined his head. ‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said. ‘And now, we will feast. I trust you have some appetite tonight, Jazz—for the servants inform me that you have eaten remarkably little since our arrival.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Does that mean I’m still being spied on—despite living in your palace with practically no contact with the outside world?’
‘I prefer to think of it as looking out for your welfare,’ he corrected spikily. ‘So why don’t you sit down over there?’
The sweeping movement of his hand indicated an ornate table which had been laid up in one of the recessed windows overlooking the floodlit rose garden. On golden platters were elaborate displays of glistening fruits and savoury dishes, as well as tall decanters of iced fruit juice. Since he’d dispensed with all his servants, it meant Zuhal now found himself in the highly unusual position of having to serve her with food and drinks himself. And he thought she seemed completely oblivious to the honour he was affording her.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, perching on one of the gilt-edged chairs, before accepting the glass he was offering. ‘Mmm… Delicious,’ she added, as she sipped at the iced pomegranate juice.
He sat down opposite her and spooned some stewed aubergine onto her plate. ‘How is Darius settling in?’ he questioned.
‘Better than I thought he would,’ she said, as she lifted up her fork. ‘Even the change in climate and the fact that we’ve leapt ahead by a few hours doesn’t seem to have perturbed him. He’s just had his bath and I’ve read him a story and now he’s fast asleep. He won’t wake until morning.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Because that’s his routine.’ She hesitated for a moment, as if gauging his interest was genuine, before forging on. ‘It’s a routine I deliberately established, because I knew I’d never get time to get any sewing done otherwise. He’s broken it a few times of course and once, when he was running a temperature, he was awake all night long.’
‘And what was that like?’ he questioned, his curiosity aroused.
‘It was a nightmare,’ she admitted. ‘He screamed from dusk to daybreak. It was…’ she gave a rather helpless shrug ‘…a long night.’
‘I’m sure it was.’ He realised with a start how much she’d had to deal with. That, despite Darius being an easy child, there had been nobody else for her to turn to—and surely that must have been hard, to have done it all on her own. Unexpectedly, he felt the stir of his conscience and suddenly he found himself wanting her to relax. To lose that pinched look which was making her face seem so pale. To become more like the Jazz of old, rather than this new, wary version. With this aim in mind, he coaxed her with food and watched as she tried a thimble-sized glass of Razrastan’s famous lychee dessert wine, and it was with pleasure that he saw some of the tension leave her. ‘Is there anything else you require?’ he questioned solicitously. ‘Anything my staff can help you with?’
Jasmine tried to concentrate on his question, but it wasn’t easy. All she could think about was how frustrating it was to be within touching distance, when they hadn’t actually touched at all. And while she knew this was probably the most sensible outcome—it certainly wasn’t what her body wanted.
She couldn’t seem to stop staring at his olive-dark face, wishing she could tug off that cream headdress and tangle her fingers in the rich blackness of his hair. She could feel her breasts tightening beneath her robe and the insistent tug of desire low in her belly as she surreptitiously ran her gaze over him. Suddenly it seemed like an awfully long time since she’d had sex. Well, it was. Over eighteen
months, to be precise—and increasing exposure to the father of her child was reminding her all too vividly that she was a healthy young woman with physical needs of her own.
She found herself wanting to touch him—just as she had done when he had unexpectedly reappeared in her life again and had kissed her so passionately in her run-down little Oxford cottage. Maybe even more, because being with him again reminded her just how much she had always fancied him. And it wasn’t his royal status which set her heart racing, or the fact that he was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. To her he was the man who had awoken her sexuality—the only man she had given her heart and her body to—and a woman never forgot something like that.
This was the man who used to flutter soft kisses over her belly before licking his tongue between the eager parting of her thighs. Who had brought her to orgasm that way, his hungry lips drinking in every shuddered spasm she made. The first time he’d done that she’d been incredibly nervous—self-conscious, even. But Zuhal had taught her that sex was a gift to be enjoyed and there should be no barriers between consenting lovers. He had known her body inside and out, and sometimes, when he’d been deep inside her, it had been difficult to know where he began and she ended.
But she hadn’t been thinking about that when she’d reluctantly agreed to come to Razrastan. She’d been thinking about her son. And now all her guilt about Darius not having had a father figure had been replaced by the fear that she’d walked into some sort of gilded trap. From the moment she’d entered the palace, the glittering walls seemed to enclose her with all their heavily guarded splendour. She’d looked around the vast and ornate citadel, slightly dazed to realise that Zuhal owned everything as far as the eye could see.
