AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘It defies definition,’ said Zuhal flippantly.
‘Oh?’ Kamal’s voice probed further. ‘Are you still going to marry her, now that I’m back?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
Jasmine bristled at his arrogance—his innate certainty that he was the one who called the shots—when Kamal’s next question made her heart pound violently against her breastbone.
‘Do you love her?’
There was another pause, during which Jasmine could hear some unknown bird singing high from one of the treetops, and its sweet, drenching song sounded unbearably poignant.
‘No,’ said Zuhal, in a hard, empty voice. ‘You must realise by now that I don’t do love, Kamal.’
She’d known that all along, but even so Jasmine was surprised by the fierce intensity of the pain which ripped through her as she registered that cold and unequivocal statement. She wanted to gasp with shock and pain—but somehow she held it back, because now was not the time. And really, she’d learned nothing new, had she? Because nothing had changed.
Zuhal had told her he didn’t do love. He mistrusted it and didn’t want it—for reasons which were perfectly understandable. He’d told her that emphatically and now he was stating it loud and clear to his brother. Perhaps he was doing her a favour. Would she really have been content to spend her life here with him, not daring to show her feelings for fear it would make him angry, or suspicious that she had started to love him again? What kind of an example would that set to Darius?
She was trembling as she silently turned the pram and pushed it away as fast as she dared go, knowing that there was only one solution which lay open to her—and she took the baby to Rania, before going to Zuhal’s offices to find him. Ignoring Adham’s protest, she walked straight into the Sheikh’s office without knocking to find
him talking on the phone. Something in her face must have sent out an unspoken warning because he uttered a few terse words in his native tongue before terminating the call and rising slowly to his feet.
‘This is unexpected,’ he said, a faint note of reproof in his deep voice.
‘I overheard you,’ she said.
His brow darkened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘In the garden, talking to your brother. I heard you say you didn’t love me.’
He didn’t look in the slightest bit abashed. ‘But you knew that already, Jazz. I’ve never lied to you about that.’
‘No, I know you haven’t.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘And while part of me respects you for your honesty, I’ve realised I can’t live like that. It’s not good for our son to live like that either.’
‘So what do you expect me to say in response to this?’ he demanded. ‘To tell you that I didn’t mean it?’
‘No. I don’t expect that, Zuhal. If you must know I admire your honesty and the fact that you’ve never spun out lies or empty promises.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I just want you to arrange for me and Darius to return to England, and as soon as possible.’
He raised his dark brows. ‘To do what?’
She shrugged. ‘To live somewhere—not London, but close enough for you to be able to access us easily. And a house, I think—not an apartment—because I want Darius to have a garden of his own. I’d like to go back to Oxfordshire until I can find something which meets with your approval. You can even appoint your bodyguards if you wish—since I recognise that as Darius is your son we need protection. But I want to go back, Zuhal.’ Her voice suddenly became low. Urgent. ‘And as soon as possible.’
Zuhal’s mouth hardened with anger and contempt as he acknowledged Jazz’s manipulative demands. Well, if she was hoping he would start grovelling in an attempt to persuade her to stay, then she was in for a disappointment. He didn’t argue with her, because this kind of conversation felt like one he’d had too often with women in the past—though never with Jazz, he conceded. It was emotional blackmail. She was making a statement. She was leaving.
And she was taking their son with her.
He kept his cold resolve through all the arrangements for their departure and maintained it as he saw her and Darius off from the airfield. But he couldn’t deny the inexplicable lurch of his heart as he saw her disappearing inside the private jet, his son’s dark curly head bobbing over her shoulder. It felt as if a dark cloud were descending on him as he recalled saying goodbye to his child, who’d naturally been too young to realise what was happening. But he had known, hadn’t he? Had known and felt guilty and resentful, all at the same time—half tempted to tell Jazz that he wouldn’t allow her to take his progeny from the country, but knowing deep down that the child needed his mother.
The powerful engines roared but he turned away so that his back was to the plane during take-off, mainly because he’d got a damned speck of dust in his eye and infuriatingly, it was watering. On returning to the palace, he worked solidly for the rest of the day, checking his phone with unusual regularity.
But the only thing he heard from Jazz was after she’d touched down in England and sent a miserable little text saying, I’m back. Which, of course, he had already known, because his security people had alerted him.
He sent back an equally bald text:
I will be in touch to discuss arrangements about Darius.
But she didn’t reply, which infuriated him even more.
His handover to Kamal almost complete, he decided to reward himself with some extra riding, deciding that some hard physical exercise was exactly what he needed to rid himself of this strange frustration which was burning away inside him. But for once the exertion and beauty of the desert failed to work their magic and he realised he was missing Darius more than he would ever have imagined. His mouth thinned. He would travel to Europe and see him, but he would do it in his own time and on his terms.
