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But he didn’t own her, and that was what she needed to remember.
He had brought her and Darius here to get them away from a curious press and work out some kind of plan for the future—even though he had given her no indication of what that plan might be. He’d made it clear about the kind of woman he expected to marry and it certainly wasn’t her—not that she’d want to marry such a cold-hearted brute in any case. Surely he wasn’t expecting her to stay here indefinitely, while they lived separate lives?
She sighed, knowing she was going to have to make an effort. She needed to get on with the father of her child, no matter what happened between the two of them. So she nodded in response to Zuhal’s unusually solicitous questions. ‘There’s nothing more we need,’ she told him. ‘Our rooms couldn’t be any more comfortable and the view over the palace gardens is breathtaking. I had no idea that you could grow so many flowers in such a hot climate.’
‘Fortunately, we do have access to water,’ he commented sardonically, a dismissive wave of his hand indicating he was done with horticultural small-talk. ‘And what of the nursemaids who will assist Rania? I trust they also meet with your approval, Jazz.’
It was a statement rather than a question and Jasmine hesitated, recognising once again that negotiation was better than confrontation. ‘I have no complaints,’ she said. ‘They seem very…capable.’
‘They are,’ he agreed. ‘Like Rania, many of them are the daughters of the women who used to care for Kamal and I when we were young.’
Jasmine nodded, his words reminding her that his upbringing was a million miles away from hers—a young prince surrounded by an army of servants. She realised she’d hardly ever heard him mention his own mother, not even when they’d been at their most intimate—actually, he’d barely mentioned his early years and neither had she. But back then their focus had been solely on pleasure, rather than the exchange of confidences which might have brought them closer as a couple. She met the black burn of his eyes. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that,’ she said hesitantly. ‘You know, there’s no need for a nurse to sit in the same room, watching Darius while he sleeps. I’m sure Rania and I can manage perfectly well on our own.’
‘But I want something more for my son than just managing,’ he bit out. ‘Darius will one day be King, and will need to get used to the presence of servants.’
Jasmine narrowed her eyes. ‘You can’t just come out and say things like that,’ she objected, all thoughts of compromise forgotten. ‘He might want to be a bank manager, living in the English countryside.’
He shook his head. ‘No, not that. Not ever that. He will be King of Razrastan.’
‘And how is that ever going to happen?’ she demanded baldly.
His lips twisted into an odd kind of smile. ‘I think you know the answer to that, Jazz,’ he said softly. ‘Darius will be my legitimate heir—and in order for that to happen, you must become my wife.’
A brittle silence entered the atmosphere as Jasmine stared at Zuhal with disbelieving eyes. ‘Become your wife?’ she repeated faintly.
‘Surely the idea doesn’t come as a complete shock to you?’ he suggested sardonically. ‘I have spoken with my closest advisors and government this very morning. They think my people will accept you, since you are the mother of my son. And, if the subject is handled with delicacy and tact, see no reason why we shouldn’t marry. In fact, they concluded that marriage is the only appropriate solution to this particular dilemma.’
‘Dilemma?’ she echoed, outrage beginning to bubble up inside her. ‘Is that how you see me?’
‘Please don’t fixate on the words I’m using but think instead about the meaning of what I’m saying, Jazz,’ he continued remorselessly. ‘I am proposing marriage. I, the Sheikh, am asking you, the commoner, to be my bride. Don’t you realise what a great compliment that is?’
Jasmine shook her head. It didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like…
As if Zuhal was being forced into doing something he didn’t want to do. As if he had been backed into a corner with no other way out. And wasn’t that the truth of it? He didn’t love her. He’d never loved her—so what were the chances of having a successful marriage? She thought about her own parents. About her mother’s reaction when the relationship had started to crumble and the desperate way she’d tried to cling on. I don’t want to become like my mother, Jasmine thought suddenly. And I don’t want an uncaring sheikh’s power to diminish me as a person, just because he wants to claim Darius as his rightful heir.
‘It’s too early to talk about marriage,’ she said, quickly getting up from the table, unwilling to be subjected to Zuhal’s look of disbelief as she gave him her answer. Resolutely, she walked over to one of the huge windows, glancing up at an indigo sky and thinking how far away the spatter of silver stars looked. ‘Way too early.’
‘Your attitude is more than a little insulting, Jazz,’ he said, and she could hear the scrape of his chair and the sound of his footsteps as he walked over to join her. ‘Don’t you realise that most women would be eager to become my Queen?’
He was standing beside her—so close that they were almost touching. The warmth of his body was almost palpable and his presence was so powerful that Jasmine could scarcely breathe as raw longing clogged in her throat. ‘Maybe they don’t know you as well as I do!’ She turned her head to look at him, detecting a brief flicker of outrage in the inky blaze of his eyes. ‘I think we should take things slowly. I think, right now, that caution is probably the wisest choice.’
He gave a low laugh, which trickled over her skin like warm honey. ‘Forgive me if I disagree,’ he murmured, ‘but I think a little recklessness might work better in our favour.’
She saw something in his eyes which was achingly familiar, as was the sudden tension which entered his hard body. And then suddenly Jasmine was in his arms and she never knew which of them instigated it, only that it seemed as inevitable as the rising of the giant moon outside the window, which was bathing them with a strange, silvery light. The Sheikh’s mouth hovered briefly over hers and Jasmine gave a yelp as he brought it down hard to kiss her—before kissing him back with an urgent hunger which seemed to make her world spin. It felt as if she were falling. Or drowning. Drowning in a sweet, molten tide of desire.
Last time he’d kissed her, she’d felt a certain amount of restraint for all kinds of reasons, but mainly because she’d been concealing the knowledge of her son. Now she was concealing nothing. Not a single thing. She felt naked—despite the flowing material of the robes which covered her. She could feel the shameless spring of his erection pushing hard against her belly and felt the corresponding opening of her thighs as if she were silently girding herself to accommodate him. She heard his soft laugh as he acknowledged her submission, and his arms tightened around her back.
And Jasmine hugged him back because, oh, how she wanted this.
Now.
Here.
Just like this.
The real world retreated and all that mattered was the incredible sensation Zuhal was provoking by the tantalising whisper of a fingertip which traced its way down her spine. It was a gesture which felt almost innocent, yet how could it possibly be innocent when her nipples were hardening into tight buds which felt as if they were about to explode? He gave a low laugh of pleasure as he tilted her chin so that she was dazzled by the close-up fire of his eyes.
‘Oh, Jazz,’ he said softly. ‘You want me, don’t you? You want me so much, baby. You always did.’
