Their relationship was a secret…

Until she had his royal heir!

Unexpectedly inheriting the throne is shocking enough. But when an encounter with former lover Jasmine Jones is interrupted by the wail of a baby, Sheikh Zuhal also discovers he has a son! Their secret affair was intensely passionate—and dangerously overwhelming. To claim his child, Zuhal must get Jazz down the palace aisle. And he’s not above using seduction to make her his wife!

Escape with this passionate marriage of convenience!

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition by describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, and her books feature often stubborn but always to die for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Also by Sharon Kendrick

Crowned for the Prince’s Heir

A Royal Vow of Convenience

Secrets of a Billionaire’s Mistress

The Sheikh’s Bought Wife

The Pregnant Kavakos Bride

The Italian’s Christmas Secret

Di Sione’s Virgin Mistress

Bound to the Sicilian’s Bed

Crowned for the Sheikh’s Baby

The Greek’s Bought Bride

The Italian’s Christmas Housekeeper

The Bond of Billionaires miniseries

Claimed for Makarov’s Baby

The Sheikh’s Christmas Conquest

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Sheikh’s Secret Baby

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08747-6

THE SHEIKH’S SECRET BABY

© 2019 Sharon Kendrick

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for Elaine ‘Lainey’ Glasspool,

who not only has the sunniest smile,

the most Rapunzel-like hair and a spirit of joie-de-vivre which is positively inspirational, she also knows a wagonload of facts about horses.

So thanks for all the equine help, Lainey!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS THE LAST place he’d imagined her living.

Zuhal frowned. Jasmine? Here? In a tiny cottage in the middle of the English countryside, down a lane so narrow it had challenged the progress of his wide limousine? The woman who had loved the sparkle and buzz of the city, hiding herself away in some remote spot. There had to be some kind of mistake.

His frown became a flickering smile of anticipation. Not that he had given a lot of thought to her accommodation. If ever he’d stopped to think about his lusciously proportioned ex-lover—something he tried not to do, for obvious reasons—then it had usually been a predictable flashback to her soft skin. Or the tempting pertness of her breasts. Or the way she used to rain kisses all over his face so that his heart used to punch with pleasure. His groin, too.

He swallowed.

And that, of course, was the reason for his unexpected appearance today. The reason he’d decided to drop in and surprise her.

His throat dried. Why not? He liked sex and so did Jasmine. Of all his lovers, she had been the one who had really lit his fire. Sparks had flown between them from the start and it seemed a pity not to capitalise on that explosive chemistry with a little trip down memory lane. After all, it wasn’t as if either of them had entertained any unrealistic expectations. There had been no dreams to be shattered. They hadn’t asked for the impossible and had known exactly where the boundaries lay. They had conducted their affair like adults. What possible harm could it do to revisit the past and revel in a little uncomplicated bliss at a time in his life when he needed some light relief like never before?

He felt the smile die on his lips as part of him questioned the sanity of revisiting the past—and a woman—like this. Because he never went back. If you reignited an old relationship, then a woman could almost be excused for thinking it meant more to you than it really did…and no relationship ever meant more than sex to Zuhal Al Haidar.

And since Jazz was realistic enough to accept that, maybe this one time he could be excused for breaking one of his own rules, because destiny was leading him down an unwanted path—a path which had altered his whole future. Silently, he simultaneously cursed and mourned his foolish brother, but all the wishing in the world wasn’t going to bring him back, or rewrite the pages of history which had changed his own destiny. He wasn’t going to think about that. He was going to concentrate on Jasmine Jones and her soft body. To have her obliterate everything except desire and fulfilment. He was growing hard just thinking about it, because she was the sweetest lover he had ever known.

He stepped over a cracked flagstone, through which a healthy-looking weed was pushing through. It had crossed his mind that she might have replaced him in her affections during the eighteen months they’d been apart, but deep down Zuhal refused to countenance such a scenario—mainly because his ego would not allow him to.

And if she had?

If that were the case, then he would graciously bow out. He was, after all, a desert king, not a savage—even if at times Jazz Jones had possessed the ability to make him feel as primitive as it was possible for a man to feel. He would wish her well and take his pleasure elsewhere, although he couldn’t deny he would be disappointed not to revisit her enchanting curves and seeking mouth.

He pushed open the little gate, which even his untrained eye could tell needed a coat of paint, and made a mental note as he walked up the narrow path. Perhaps he would send someone out here to do just that. He lifted the loose door-knocker, which clearly had a screw missing, and frowned. Maybe even get someone to fix that for her, too.

Afterwards.

After he had enjoyed some badly needed solace.

He lifted the knocker, and as it fell heavily against the peeling paintwork he could hear the sound echoing through the tiny house.

* * *

Bringing the whirring drone of the sewing machine to a halt, Jasmine lifted her head to hear the sound of loud knocking, and she narrowed her eyes. Eyes which were tired and gritty from sewing until late last night. She rubbed them with the back of her fist, and yawned. Who was disturbing her during this quiet time when she’d got a rare opportunity to do some work? For a moment she was tempted to ignore it and stay there, neatly hemming the velvet curtains which needed to be delivered to her demanding client by next Wednesday, at the latest.

But she chided herself as she got up from her work spot in the corner of the sitting room and went to answer the unexpected summons. Surely she wasn’t being suspicious just because someone was knocking at the door? If she wasn’t careful she would become one of those sad people who became nervous at the thought of an unplanned caller. Who twitched whenever they heard a loud noise and were too scared to face the world outside. Just because she’d recently completed a radical lifestyle change and moved out of the city lock, stock and barrel didn’t mean she had to start acting like some kind of hermit! Especially since she had discovered nothing but friendliness from the locals since arriving in this quiet hamlet—a factor which had helped cushion her sudden and dramatic change in circumstances. It was probably somebody selling raffle tickets for the local spring fayre.

She pulled open the door.

It wasn’t.

It most definitely wasn’t.

Shock coursed through her like a tidal wave. She could feel the physical effects of it and fleetingly thought how much they resembled desire. The rapid increase in her pulse and the rush of blood to her face. The wobbly knees, which made her glad she was gripping the door handle for support. And most of all, that slightly out-of-body sensation, which made her think this couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t.

Heart still pounding, she studied the man who was standing on her doorstep—as if he might disappear in a puff of smoke if she stared at him long enough. But he stayed exactly where he was, as solid as dark marble and as vital as the mighty oak tree which towered over the nearby village green. She wanted to somehow be immune to him but how could she, when just seeing him again made her heart clench with longing and her body quiver with long-suppressed lust?

His face was angled—slashed with hard planes and contours which spoke of an aristocratic lineage, even if his proud bearing hadn’t confirmed it. With hair as black as coal and eyes a gleaming shade almost as dark, his rich gold complexion was dominated by a hawk-like nose and the most sensual lips she’d ever seen. Yet the suit he wore contradicted his identity for it was urbane and modern, as was the crisp white shirt and silken tie. But Jasmine had seen photos of him in flowing robes, which made him look as if he’d stepped straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Pale robes which had emphasised his burnished skin and hinted at a hard body which had been honed on the saddle of a horse, in one of the world’s most unforgiving desert landscapes.

Zuhal Al Haidar—sheikh and royal prince. Second son of an ancient dynasty which ruled the oil-rich country of Razrastan, where diamonds had been discovered close to its immense mountains and world-class racing horses were bred. The man to whom she had given her body and heart—although he had wanted only her body and she had pretended to be okay with that because there hadn’t been an alternative. Well, the alternative would have been to have spurned his unexpected advances and that had been something she’d found herself unable to do. There hadn’t been a day since they’d parted that she hadn’t thought about him but she’d never thought she’d see him again because he had cut her out of his life completely.

And that was the thing she needed to remember. That he hadn’t wanted her. He’d cast her aside like yesterday’s newspaper. She bit her lip as questions flooded through her mind.

Why was he here?

And then, much more crucial…

She mustn’t let him stay here.

But Jasmine wasn’t stupid. At least, not any more. She might once have acted like a complete idiot where Zuhal was concerned, but not now. She had grown up since splitting with him. She’d had to. She’d learned that you sometimes had to stop and think about what was the best thing to do in the long term, rather than what you really wanted to do. So she resisted the urge to close the door firmly in his face and instead forced a polite smile to her lips.

‘Good heavens, Zuhal,’ she said, in a voice which sounded strangely calm. ‘This is a…surprise.’

Zuhal frowned, irritation dwarfing the anticipation which was shafting through him. It wasn’t the greeting he had been expecting. Surely she should have been rapturously hurling herself into his arms by now? Even if she had decided to act out a little game-playing resistance for the sake of her pride, he still would have expected to see her eyes darkening with desire, or the parting of those rosy lips in unconscious invitation.

But no. Instead of desire he saw wariness and something else. Something he didn’t recognise. Just as he didn’t recognise the woman who stood before him. He remembered Jazz Jones as being a bit of a fashion queen. Someone who was always beautifully turned out—even if she’d made most of her clothes herself because her budget had been tight. But she had always had a definite style about her—it had been one of the things which had first drawn him to her, and presumably why the Granchester Hotel had employed her as manager in its sleek London boutique.

He remembered her honey-coloured hair swinging to her chin, not grown out and tied back into a functional plait, which hung down the back of a plain jumper, which inexplicably had some unidentifiable stain on the shoulder. Her legs weren’t on show either; their shapely curves were covered by a pair of very ugly jeans—a garment she’d never worn in his company after he’d explained his intense dislike of them.

But he told himself that her clothes didn’t matter, because he didn’t intend her to be wearing them for much longer. Nothing mattered—other than the yearning which was already heating his blood like a fever. And wasn’t it ironic that Zuhal found himself resenting this sensual power she’d always had over him, even while his body hungrily responded to it? He let his voice dip into a velvety caress as it had done so often in the past, adopting the intimate tone of two people who had once been lovers. And who would soon be lovers again. ‘Hello, Jazz.’

But there was no lessening of her wary expression. No answering smile or impulsive opening of the door to admit him to her home and her arms. No ecstatic acknowledgement that he was here, after nearly two years of not seeing each other. Instead, she nodded in recognition and once again there was a flash of something he didn’t recognise in her eyes.

‘How did you find me?’

He raised his eyebrows, because her unwelcoming attitude was something he wasn’t familiar with—and neither was her bald question, which was bordering on the insolent. Was she really planning to interrogate him as if he were a passing salesman? Did she think it acceptable to leave the future King of Razrastan standing on her doorstep?

His words became tinged with a distinct note of reprimand, which had been known to make grown men shudder. ‘Isn’t this a conversation we should be having in the comfort of your home, Jazz, even if it doesn’t strike me as very comfortable?’

She flinched. She actually flinched—before seeming to pull herself together. She was smiling now, but he could sense it was forced, as if she were pushing her mouth against the soft resistance of slowly setting concrete. He was confused. Hadn’t they parted on good terms—or as good as they could be when a man was terminating what had been a very satisfying relationship? Although Jazz had been that little bit different from his other lovers, he recalled. She alone had refused to accept the keepsake piece of jewellery he always offered his ex-lovers as a memento. To his surprise—and, yes, his annoyance too—she had carefully repackaged the emerald and diamond pendant, along with a polite note telling him she couldn’t possibly accept such a generous gift.

His mouth hardened as he looked at the peeling paint on the front door. She above all people could have done with an injection of cash.

‘I’m afraid you can’t come in,’ she was saying. ‘I’m sorry, Zuhal. It isn’t…well, it isn’t really convenient right now. Perhaps if you’d given me some warning.’

And then he understood. Of course. It was exactly as he had anticipated. Outwardly, she had accepted their break-up with dignity and a remarkable absence of begging, or tantrums. As he recalled, she hadn’t even shed a single tear when he’d ended their affair—at least, not in his presence. But Jasmine Jones wasn’t made of stone. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever met and had thrived under his expert tuition. Having awoken her body, surely he wouldn’t have expected her to return to her celibate lifestyle after he’d introduced her to the joys of sex?

He felt the slow and heavy beat of a pulse to his temple. It was hard to believe—but why wouldn’t she have replaced him in her bed with someone more suitable? Someone of her own class who might be willing or able to marry her. Perhaps he should have rung first. Or written. Given her time to prepare herself—to rid herself of her current squeeze and pretty herself up for his arrival. But since when did Zuhal Al Haidar ever have to ring ahead to make some sort of appointment?

He attempted to sound reasonable but could do nothing about the sudden dark clench of jealousy in his gut. ‘You have another man in your life, Jazz?’

She looked genuinely taken aback—as if he had said something shocking and contemptible. ‘Of course not!’

Zuhal expelled a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. And wasn’t it crazy how swiftly jealousy could become an overwhelming sense of triumph and then hot anticipation? ‘Well, then. I have come a long way to see you.’ He smiled. ‘As I recall, when we went our separate ways we did it in the most civilised way possible. Which makes me wonder why you are so reluctant to let me in. Isn’t that the modern way, for lovers to remain friends? To sit and talk of old times, with affection?’

Jasmine felt her body stiffen, grateful her left hand was still hidden behind the partially open door. Glancing over the Sheikh’s burly shoulder, she could see the black gleam of his limousine sitting in the narrow lane, easily visible through the still-bare bushes. She supposed his driver was sitting there waiting, as people always waited for Zuhal. His bodyguards would be there, too, and there would probably be another carload of security people a little further along the lane, hidden from sight.

Hidden from sight.

Her heart contracted painfully but she tried to keep her face serene, even though the fear inside her was growing. She’d been so certain that the course she had taken had been the right one but now, as she looked into the carved perfection of Zuhal’s dark features, she felt the disconcerting flurry of doubt—along with the far more worrying pang of recognition. What should she do?

If she refused to let him in it would arouse his suspicions—she knew it would. It would arouse his interest too, because he was alpha enough to always want what was denied him. And she still had at least an hour of freedom before the matter became more urgent than academic. So why not ask him inside? Find out what he had come for and politely listen before sending him on his way, no harm done. She felt the prick of conscience as she opened the door wider and saw him register the gold ring she wore on her wedding finger, and she saw his face darken as he bent his head to accommodate the low ceiling.

‘I thought you said there wasn’t a man in your life,’ he accused as the door swung squeakily shut behind him.

‘There isn’t.’

‘So why the wedding ring?’ he demanded. ‘Are you back with your husband?’

She flushed. ‘Of course I’m not. That was never going to happen. We’re divorced, Zuhal. You knew that. I was divorced when I met you.’

‘So why the ring?’ he demanded again.

Jasmine told herself he had no right to ask her questions about her personal life and maybe she should tell him so—but that would be pointless because Zuhal had never been brought up to conform to the rules of normal behaviour. And wasn’t the truth that he did have the right to ask, even if he was unaware of it? She felt another painful twist of conscience before realising he was appraising her with a look she recognised only too well. The look which said he was hungry for her body. And that was all he ever wanted you for, she reminded herself bitterly. When the chips were down he wasn’t offering you any kind of future. He took without giving anything back and she needed to protect herself to make sure that never happened again.

He was probably married by now—married to the suitable royal bride he had always told her he would one day marry.

She needed to get rid of him.

‘I wear the ring as a deterrent,’ she said.

He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Because men are regularly beating down your door with lustful intention?’

Ignoring the sardonic tone of his query, she shook her head. ‘Hardly.’

‘It’s true that your appearance is a little drab,’ he conceded. ‘But we both know how magnificent you can look when you try.’

Jasmine gritted her teeth, telling herself not to rise to the backhanded compliment. ‘I realised I hadn’t made the best relationship choices in the past and that I needed some time on my own,’ she explained. ‘Time to get my career up and running.’

‘And what career might that be, Jazz?’ he questioned softly. ‘What made you stop working at the hotel boutique—I thought it paid reasonably well?’

Jasmine shrugged. She wasn’t going to tell him about her soft furnishings business, which was still in an embryo stage but gaining in popularity all the time. Or her plans for designing baby clothes, which she hoped would one day provide her with a modest living. Because none of that was any of his business. ‘London was getting too expensive and I wanted a change,’ she said. ‘And you still haven’t told me why you’re here.’

With genuine surprise, Zuhal realised that maybe he had misjudged his impact on her. Was it possible she hadn’t been as besotted by him as he’d thought—and that she wouldn’t take him into her bed without forethought or ceremony, as she’d done so often in the past? He remembered how her soft and undemanding nature had always acted like a balm on his troubled senses. How she had always been eager and hungry to see him. But now her distinct lack of interest punctured his erotic thoughts and instead he was filled with the unusual urge to confide in her. He sighed as he walked to the window and looked out at the yellow flash of the few straggly daffodils which were poking out from the overgrown grass in the tiny garden.

‘You know my brother is missing?’ he questioned, without preamble. ‘Presumed dead.’

She gasped and when he turned round her fingers were lying against her throat, as if she were starved of air. ‘Dead?’ she managed eventually. ‘No, I didn’t know that. Oh, Zuhal, I’m so sorry. I mean, I never met him—obviously—but I remember he was your only sibling.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘We kept it quiet for as long as possible, but now it’s out there in the public domain. You hadn’t heard?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t… I don’t get much chance to read the papers these days. World news is so depressing—and my TV isn’t actually working at the moment,’ she added, before biting down on the lushness of her lower lip and fixing him with a wary look. ‘What happened, or would you rather not talk about it?’

He’d thought she might take him in her arms and comfort him and wasn’t that what he wanted more than anything else? To feel the warmth of another body—the soft squeeze of flesh reminding him that he was very much alive instead of lying prone and cold somewhere in a merciless desert, while vultures hovered overhead. But she didn’t. She just stood on the other side of the small room, her green-gold eyes dark with distress, though her body language remained stiff and awkward—as if she didn’t know how to be around him.

But still he found himself talking about it, in a way he might not have done so freely with anyone else. Almost imperceptibly, his voice grew harsh. ‘Although Kamal was King of Razrastan, with all the responsibilities which came with that exalted role, my brother never lost his love of recklessness.’

‘I do remember you saying he was a bit of a daredevil,’ she offered cautiously.

He gave another heavy sigh as he nodded. ‘He was. All through his youth he embraced the most dangerous of sports and nobody could do a thing to stop him. Our father tried often enough, but our mother actively encouraged his daring behaviour. Which was why he piloted his own plane and heli-skied whenever possible. Why he deep-sea-dived and climbed the world’s most challenging mountains—and nobody could deny that he excelled at everything he put his mind to.’ He paused. ‘His coronation as King inevitably curtailed most of these activities, but he was still prone to taking off on his horse, often alone. He said it gave him time to think. To be away from the hurly-burly of palace life. And that’s what happened last year…’

‘What did?’ she prompted uneasily as his words tailed off.

Zuhal felt the inevitable sense of sorrow mounting inside him but there was bitterness, too. Because hadn’t Kamal’s actions impacted on so many people—and on him more than anyone? ‘One morning he mounted his beloved Akhal-Teke horse and rode off into the desert as the sun was rising, or so one of the stable boys told us later. By the time we realised he had ridden off unaccompanied, a fierce storm was blasting its way through the desert. Even from within the protection of the palace walls we could see the sky growing as red as blood and the wind whipping itself up into a wild frenzy.’

His voice grew unsteady for a moment before he continued. ‘They say there is no escape from the blanket of sand which results from those storms, that it infiltrates everything. You can’t see, or hear, or breathe. For a while it feels as if hell has unleashed all its demons and set them free upon the world.’ He swallowed. ‘We never found either of them—neither man nor horse—during one of the biggest search operations our country has ever mounted. Not a trace. It is inconceivable that he could have survived such an onslaught.’ There was a pause as his mouth twisted. ‘And the desert is very efficient at disposing of bodies.’

‘Oh, Zuhal,’ she whispered. ‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

He gave a brief nod of his head, dismissing her soft words of sympathy because he hadn’t come here for words. ‘We’re all sorry,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘So what will happen?’

‘Kamal cannot be officially pronounced dead for seven years, but the law states that the country cannot be without a king during that time.’ Like a boxer in the ring, Zuhal clenched his fists so that the knuckles cracked and turned deathly white beneath the olive skin. ‘And so, I have agreed to rule in his absence.’

She blinked at him as if the significance of what he had told her had only just sunk in. ‘What exactly does that…mean?’

‘It means that in seven years’ time, if Kamal has still not returned, then I will be crowned, since I am the sole surviving heir. Until that time I will be King in everything but name, and I will be known as the Sheikh Regent.’

It was the mention of the word heir which set Jasmine’s senses jangling with renewed fear. A trickle of sweat whispered down her back and settled at the base of her spine, soaking into the waistband of her jeans. Did he know? Was that why he was here today?

But no, of course he didn’t know. He wouldn’t be standing there with that bleak look on his face talking about his powerful new role if he had any inkling of the momentous thing which had happened in her life. And there were reasons he didn’t know, she reminded herself painfully. Reasons which had helped spur her desire to stop reading the papers and listening to the news.

‘And is your wife…’ Somehow her voice didn’t tremble on the word. ‘Is she happy about her position as the new ruler’s consort?’

‘My wife?’ he echoed, frowning at her uncomprehendingly. ‘I don’t have a wife, Jazz.’

‘But I thought…’ Jasmine swallowed as her perceived view of the world did a dramatic shift. ‘I thought you were seeing a princess from a neighbouring desert region, soon after we split. Zara, I think her name was.’

Zuhal nodded. ‘I was.’ His eyes narrowed as they swept over her. ‘Yes, Zara was the latest in a long line of mooted royal brides, with a pedigree almost equal to my own.’ He shrugged. ‘But she had a laugh which used to set my teeth on edge and I could not contemplate a life-long partnership with her. And back then, there was no sense of urgency. Now it is different, of course. Now I must rule my country and for that I will need a wife by my side.’

Jasmine’s heart flooded with heat and began to pound loudly with something which felt like hope, even though afterwards she would ask herself how she could have been so stupid. But for a few seconds she actually allowed herself to believe in the fantasy which still haunted her some nights when sleep stubbornly refused to come—of her desert prince returning to sweep her off her feet. ‘I still don’t understand,’ she said cautiously, ‘why you’re here.’

He lifted up the palms of his hands like a man on the point of surrender. ‘I’ll tell you exactly why I’m here, Jazz,’ he said, a hard smile flattening the edges of his sensual lips. ‘Next month my life will change beyond recognition, when I sign the papers which are currently being drawn up to officially recognise me as the Sheikh Regent. But beneath all the inevitable celebrations that the line will continue my people are grieving and uncertain, for my brother’s disappearance has unsettled them. The country needs stability and they are looking to me to provide it, for while Kamal had many commendable character traits, steadfastness was not one of them. I need a bride,’ he said, not seeming to notice that she had gasped again, or that her hands had started trembling. ‘But this time I cannot afford to be picky. I must marry someone suitable—and quickly.’

She gulped the words out breathlessly. She just couldn’t help herself. ‘Someone l-like?’

‘Someone of royal blood. Obviously.’ His black eyes crinkled with that rare flash of mischief which used to tie her up in knots. ‘Not a divorced girl from England, I’m afraid, Jazz—just in case you were getting your hopes up.’

‘I wasn’t,’ she said, furious with him, but even more furious with herself—for allowing herself that stupid little daydream which had made her heart begin to race. Hadn’t she learnt anything during the time she’d been his secret mistress? That she was as disposable as an empty baked-beans can? ‘Is that why you’re here, Zuhal?’ she demanded. ‘To talk about your marriage prospects? What were you hoping for—my advice? Perhaps you’d like me to help you vet your future bride for you?’

‘No, that’s not why I’m here. Do you want me to show you why I’m here, my beautiful Jazz?’ He had started moving across the small room until he was standing right in front of her. Until he had pulled her without warning into his powerful arms, his black eyes glittering with pain and desire and something else, as he stared down into her face. ‘I’m here because I’m empty and aching and because I know you can take that ache away.’

She should have given him a piece of her mind. Should have told him she wasn’t just something he could put down and then pick up again, as the whim took him. So why didn’t she? Was it his touch which made common sense fly out of the window, or just the yearning inside her which had never gone away? She should have realised that by aching he meant sex, but for one crazy moment Jasmine thought he was talking about his heart. So she let him tilt her chin with those strong, olive-dark fingers, just as she let his mouth travel towards hers in what felt like a slow extension of time. She had to urge herself not to rise up on tiptoe to make the kiss come sooner, but somehow she retained enough restraint to hold back. But perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea because by the time their lips touched, she felt a flash of connection so intense that she gave a little moan of joy.

And Jazz forgot everything. Forgot why he shouldn’t be there and why she shouldn’t be reacting to him like this. Why it was wrong to allow his strong hands to burrow beneath the thick-knit sweater she was wearing and to cup her breasts with luxuriant familiarity. It felt like the best place she’d been for a very long time as his mouth explored hers with a thoroughness which left her reeling, his tongue licking at her with intimate familiarity. The blood pumped through her veins like honey as she felt the drift of his fingers over her nipples—briefly flicking over the engorged buds before creeping down to her torso.

And this was heaven. Jasmine’s throat dried as he reacquainted himself with the curve of her belly and she wriggled accommodatingly as he slipped his thumb beneath the waistband of her jeans and began to tease the warm, bare skin. Did she suck her stomach in, hoping that he would move his hands further inside the thick denim to caress her where she was hot and wet and longing to be caressed, and didn’t she want that more than anything else? She could feel the hard press of his erection and instinctively her thighs parted by a fraction and she could hear his low murmur of appreciation.

He drew his lips away. ‘You’ve changed shape,’ he observed unevenly.

‘Y-yes.’ She nearly asked him whether or not he liked it—and how crazy was that?—when a sudden thought hit her like a squirt of icy water and fear began to whisper over her. Drawing in a deep breath, she looked directly into his eyes as comprehension began to dawn on her. ‘Are you here just because…because you want to have sex with me, Zuhal?’

He seemed momentarily taken aback by her question but she knew the moment she saw him shrug that her worst fear was true. Well, maybe not her worst fear…

‘You…you want some kind of physical release, is that it?’ she continued unsteadily. ‘Some easy, uncomplicated sex, before you return home in search of your suitable royal bride?’

At least he had the grace to look abashed but the look was quickly replaced by one of defiance. ‘What did you expect, Jazz?’ he murmured. ‘That I would present to my very conservative people a foreign divorcee as the woman I had chosen?’ His black gaze burned into her. ‘We both know that was always going to be a non-starter. Just as we both know that the chemistry which has always sparked between us is still there. Nothing about that has changed. I still want you so much that I could explode with it—and so do you. You come alive whenever I touch you, don’t you? Your body cries out for mine, the same way it always did. So why waste it?’ His voice dipped into a sensual caress. ‘Why not give into what we both want—and make love one last and beautiful time?’

Dazedly, Jasmine listened to his arrogant statement—and didn’t his attitude justify some of the tough decisions she’d been forced to make? She was about to tell him that it was a mistake to call what he had in mind making love and wondering if he would attempt to persuade her otherwise, when a distant sound changed everything. She moved away from him—not so quickly as to arouse suspicion—praying that Darius was only whimpering in some kind of happy little infant dream and would shortly go back to sleep.

But her prayers went unanswered. The whimper became louder. It morphed into a cry and then a protesting yell and she saw Zuhal’s face change. Watched the black eyes narrow as his gaze swept questioningly over her and she quickly stared down at the threadbare rug for fear that he might see the sudden tears welling up in her eyes. She thought about all the things she could say.

She could pretend that it was a peacock, because weren’t they supposed to sound like young babies? Or maybe that was babies younger than Darius which sounded like those squawking birds. And anyway, peacocks lived in the grounds of stately homes, didn’t they? They promenaded elegantly over manicured lawns—their magnificent blue-green plumage wouldn’t dream of gracing the scruffy little garden of a rented cottage just outside Oxford.

‘What was that, Jazz?’ Zuhal questioned ominously.

She knew then that the game was up. That she could attempt evasion to try to deflect his attention and send him on his way by pretending that the baby belonged to someone else and she was just childminding. But she couldn’t. Not really—and not just because the time frame would prove her a liar. No. No matter what had happened in the past or how little Zuhal thought of her now, she was going to have to come clean. And hadn’t she always wanted that anyway, on some subliminal level?

‘What was that, Jazz?’ he repeated, only now a note of something dangerous had been added into the mix to make his voice grow even darker.

Slowly she lifted her gaze to meet the accusation in his eyes and prepared for her whole world to change in the telling of a single sentence. ‘It’s my child. Or rather, our child,’ she said, sucking in a breath of air. ‘You have a son, Zuhal, and his name is Darius.’

CHAPTER TWO

AND THEN, AS IF by magic, Darius went back to sleep. Jasmine could hear it quite plainly in the sounds which were issuing from his baby monitor. The lessening of his cry into a gulping sob which gradually became a little coo, which was so much a feature of his daily nap. She knew he would now be peacefully asleep again and that if only her son’s timing had been a little better, Zuhal would have been none the wiser.

But Jasmine knew there was no point wishing that Darius had delayed his cry until the Sheikh had been hurried away from the premises. If Zuhal hadn’t been kissing her, then he would already have left. If she hadn’t been stupidly letting him kiss her and wanting the kind of things she should be ashamed of wanting…

And anyway—wasn’t this what she had always wanted to happen? Had tried to make happen, if she hadn’t been blocked along the way by his position and power. So don’t let guilt beat you up, she told herself fiercely, even though it was difficult not to flinch as she met the naked accusation in his black eyes. You’ve tried to do your best.

‘My son?’ he repeated incredulously.

She nodded. ‘Yes, he—’

‘Don’t you dare say another word. Just take me to see him,’ he cut over her words, his voice laced with a layer of ice she’d heard him use before—though never with her.

‘You will see him. I promise—just not yet. Let him sleep, Zuhal. Please,’ she said, with the confidence of someone who’d been bringing up a baby on her own for the last nine months and knew how cranky they could get if they were woken prematurely.

‘I won’t waken him but I want to see him.’ His autocratic command hissed through the air. ‘Take me to him, Jazz. Now.’

Her lips dry, Jasmine nodded. How had she ever thought she could oppose his wishes? She’d never managed it in the past—so why should now be any different? He had dumped her without warning—and, even though he had told her from the start that she could never have any future with him, it had still seemed to come out of the blue. But she had held it together then, just as she must hold it together now. ‘Come with me,’ she said in a low voice, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling with unease as she led the way from the room.

Feeling like a participant in some bizarre dream, Zuhal followed Jazz up the narrow staircase, his mind spinning with disbelief as she reached the top and gestured towards the open door of a nursery painted in sunny shades of yellow. He wanted to convince himself that she’d been lying and that it was no child of his who lay sleeping in a cot beneath the window. But as he silently crossed the room to gaze down at the infant, he knew there was absolutely no question that this was his baby. It was more than the shock of ebony hair so like his own. More than the olive skin, which was a paler version of his. It was something fundamental and almost primitive which activated a powerful surge of recognition deep within him as he gazed down at the gently parted lips of the baby boy. He saw Jazz tense as he reached down and briefly laid his forefinger against the baby’s soft cheek, before withdrawing it and turning abruptly on his heel, to walk out the way he had come. He didn’t say a word until they were back downstairs—he didn’t trust himself to speak—and even though he wanted to rage and rail at her, he kept his voice low.

‘Do you realise the constitutional significance of what you’ve done?’ he hissed.

Jasmine flinched and a part of her wished she could have given into the luxury of tears if she hadn’t recognised the need to stay strong. Constitutional significance? Was that the only thing he cared about in the light of his discovery? Of course it was. It was why he’d ended their relationship and why he had turned up here today, to use her body as he might use a stone vessel filled with water to quench his thirst. For him nothing mattered other than the needs and demands of his beloved country and everything else came second to that.

‘Did you not think to tell me, Jazz?’ he continued, still in that icy undertone of suppressed fury. ‘That the seed of my loins had borne fruit?’

Jasmine shivered as his words created a powerful image in her mind which made her heart clench with impotent longing until she forced herself to push it away and focus on what was important. ‘I did try to tell you.’

His cold expression suggested he didn’t believe her. ‘When?’

‘After we…split up.’ When he’d sweetly informed her that she was the kind of woman who made a perfect mistress, but not the kind of woman he could ever marry. ‘Not for many weeks, it’s true. I… I didn’t realise I was pregnant. At least, not straight away.’

‘Why not?’ he bit out witheringly. ‘You may have been a virgin when we met but please don’t make out you were born yesterday, Jazz. What do you mean, you didn’t realise you were pregnant? What, were you waiting for the stork to fly in through the window and surprise you?’

His words were cruel. Sarcastic. Deliberately so, it seemed. Jasmine tried to convince herself that his anger was understandable. Wouldn’t she have felt just as angry if the situation were reversed—to have discovered that she’d become a parent and have been kept in the dark about it? ‘I was all over the place,’ she admitted. ‘I was operating in a bit of a fog—on autopilot, if you like. Just getting through the day took all my energy and I felt disorientated because…well, it was weird getting used to life without you.’

Zuhal’s lips tightened but to his surprise he found he couldn’t disagree with her because he too had been disconcerted by the discovery that Jazz had left a peculiar hole in his life. He had explained it away by reminding himself that it had all been about sex—the best sex he’d ever had. Against all the odds she had captivated him—for he had never been with someone as low-born as her before. She’d been working in the boutique attached to London’s famous Granchester Hotel where he’d been staying, and on a primitive level he had initially been drawn to her pert breasts and curvy hips. By the buttery swing of her blonde hair and the way her lips curved into a sweet smile whenever she was serving customers. But although many women caught his eye and made it clear they were his for the taking, Zuhal rarely gave into his most base desires. Sometimes he took pleasure in denying himself sexual gratification because deprivation was good for the spirit and what was easily gained was easily discarded. Plus, he liked a challenge—and a challenge had certainly been presented to him when the humble shop girl had blushed as he’d spoken to her and had had difficulty meeting his gaze.

His hunger ignited, he had been pleased to discover she was divorced because divorced women were often cynical about marriage, with few of the marital ambitions of single women, which bored the hell out of him. They also possessed an earthy expertise which made them the best lovers.

But Jazz hadn’t been experienced.

He remembered his shock—and then his pleasure—when he had discovered her innocence. When she had opened those soft thighs and he had broken through the tight hymen, which had flagged up the gratifying knowledge that he was her first ever lover. He remembered the orgasm which had followed. Which had rocked him to the core of his being. And the one after, and the one after that…

With an effort he dragged his mind back to the present because none of that was relevant now. Not in the light of his discovery that she was a secretive little manipulator.

‘Talk me through what happened, Jazz,’ he bit out and could see her trying to compose herself, rubbing her hands up and down over the arms of her sweater, as if she were cold.

She swallowed. ‘When you went back to Razrastan I just carried on as normal, terrified someone at the hotel was going to discover I’d been having intimate relations with a guest.’

‘But nobody did?’ he probed.

Jasmine shook her head. ‘No. Not a soul. But then, we were very discreet, weren’t we, Zuhal? You made sure of that. I was never even permitted to stay with you in your fancy penthouse suite and we only ever went to the borrowed house of one of your rich friends, under cover of darkness.’

‘I have always tried to be discreet about my relationships—and the newspapers would have had a field day if they’d discovered I was sleeping with someone like you,’ he said coldly.

‘Someone like me?’ she echoed.

‘You know what I’m talking about. It was almost a cliché—the prince and the shop girl. In a way, I was protecting you.’

Jasmine bit her lip, because it had been much more likely he had been protecting his own precious reputation. Should she tell him how difficult it had felt to carry on serving behind the till with that bright smile pinned to her lips, when she had been missing him so much? Maybe it was the effort of that—of trying to appear normal—which had meant her first missed period had passed by without her noticing. And then when she had noticed something was amiss, she’d been unable to confide in anyone. Her parents were dead and she hadn’t dared place her trust in friends and colleagues, terrified someone might run to the press with the story. She had a cousin she was close to, but Emily lived miles away and Jasmine had never felt quite so lonely.

Even now, as she looked up into Zuhal’s flinty features, she could still remember the scary sense of isolation she’d felt as she’d realised she was pretty much on her own, with a tiny life to support. Factor in the fact that she’d been missing him so badly and you ended up with someone who had found herself in a precarious situation. ‘I tried to ring you but your number came up as unobtainable.’

He met the question in her eyes. ‘I make a point of regularly changing my phone number,’ he informed her coolly. ‘My security people tell me it’s safer that way.’

‘And, of course, it keeps troublesome ex-girlfriends at bay?’ she guessed, forcing herself to confront the bitter truth.

He shrugged. ‘Something like that,’ he conceded. ‘When did you try to contact me?’

Accurately, she was able to relay the exact month—because at that stage her pregnancy had been well established. She’d been determined to show Zuhal that she intended going ahead with the birth, with or without his approval. That she didn’t need a man—or a husband—in order to survive, because experience had taught her that marriage was by no means the magic bullet which so many women imagined it was.

Feeling on firmer footing now, she sucked in a steadying breath. ‘Eventually, I managed to get through to one of your aides. Adham, I think his name was. I told him I needed to speak to you urgently and he promised he would pass on the message to you.’

‘But I never got it,’ he said, his voice hardening.

‘So blame him.’

‘Adham is a loyal servant who would have been acting in my best interests. The palace was in uproar because of my brother’s disappearance and, of course, that impacted profoundly on my future. And not just that.’ His black eyes bored into her. ‘Do you have any idea of the amount of women who are eager to speak to me, who try to phone the palace switchboard?’

‘Strangely enough no, I don’t,’ she answered, colour rising in her cheeks so that suddenly she felt hot and uncomfortable. ‘Tallying up the numbers of your ex-lovers isn’t a pastime which has ever appealed to me.’

‘You could have told him you were pregnant!’ he accused. ‘You knew that would have ensured you got through to me straight away. Why didn’t you do that, Jazz?’

Jasmine licked her lips. Because she’d been scared. Scared of Zuhal’s influence and of the reality of confronting it for the first time. He’d always left his sheikh status at the door of the bedroom, but during that brief and fruitless phone call, she’d got an inkling of the real man behind the very sexy facade. It had taken her ages to get through to his office and during the long wait she’d realised just how powerful her former lover really was. She remembered the way his aide had spoken to her—as if she were a piece of dirt he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. And she’d been fearful that, although Zuhal obviously didn’t want her any more, he might want to claim sole custody of their baby—and he’d have the wherewithal to make it happen.

And that was something she could never allow.

‘You told me you were planning to marry a royal princess,’ she reminded him. ‘I thought that was another reason why your aide was so off with me. There were reports about your burgeoning romance in all the papers. About how two desert kingdoms were going to be united and it was going to be the greatest thing to happen in the region for decades. The Dream Desert ticket, I think the tabloids called it.’ Which had been another reason why she’d stopped reading them. ‘Wouldn’t it have completely ruined everything if some casual lover had come forward with the news that you were to become a father?’

Zuhal’s eyes narrowed as he forced himself to dismiss her persuasive words. Because weren’t these accusations and counter-accusations diverting his attention from the monumental discovery he had just made?

He had a son.

A ready-made heir.

Perhaps fate was showing him a little benevolence for once.

He looked at the woman standing in front of him. A few minutes ago he’d been kissing her and her response had indicated that if it hadn’t been for the baby’s cry, she would have allowed him to be deep inside her by now. Would she, he found himself wondering, with a brand-new disdain which had blossomed as a result of his unbelievable discovery? Had she become one of those women who would cast aside the needs of her baby in pursuit of her own carnal pleasures? And if that were the case, then wouldn’t that be easy to prove in a court of law—thereby putting him in a morally superior position and demonstrating his own suitability to bring up the child, instead of her? Surely that would be simpler all round.

He noted the trepidation flickering in the depths of her green-gold eyes as she returned his gaze, just as he noted the sudden tension which was stiffening her narrow shoulders. The silence between them was growing into something immense and uncomfortable but, unlike most people would be, Zuhal was unperturbed by it. Indeed, he often orchestrated silence when necessary, for it was a powerful tool in negotiation and never had negotiation been more vital than now.

‘How are you managing for money?’ he questioned casually.

He could see a look of faint confusion criss-cross her brow and wondered if she was disorientated by his sudden change of subject.

‘I manage,’ she said defensively.

‘I said “how”, Jazz?’

She shrugged. ‘I sew.’

He frowned. ‘You sew?’

‘Yes. You remember. I always liked sewing. I was planning to go to fashion college when my mother got sick and I had to defer my place to look after her.’

He thought back. Had she told him that? Even if she had, he suspected it would have gone in one ear and straight out of the other. He hadn’t really been interested in her past, just as he hadn’t been interested in her future, because he’d known there could never be one—not for them. The only thing which had interested him, and for a time had obsessed him, had been the magnificence of her body and the sheer sexual dynamite of their coming together.

‘That’s right,’ he prevaricated as some long-buried fact swam up from the depths of his subconscious. ‘You wanted to be a fashion designer. Is that what you’re doing now?’

She gave him the kind of look which suggested he had no idea how normal mortals lived. ‘I wish,’ she said. ‘You can’t just set yourself up as a fashion designer, Zuhal, especially when you’ve got no real qualifications. For one thing, the overheads would be prohibitive, and for another, there’s a whole heap of competition out there. You see that sewing machine over there?’ Her finger trembled a little as she pointed to it. ‘That’s what I was doing when you arrived. Mostly, I specialise in soft furnishings—cushions and curtains, that sort of thing. People always need those and Oxford isn’t far away. There are plenty of folk with deep pockets who change their decor all the time, even if there’s nothing wrong with it. Probably because they’re rich and bored and can’t think of anything better to do,’ she added.

She seemed eager to deflect his attention from the life-changing news with her mundane chatter, he thought grimly. And she would be, wouldn’t she? But her words made him consider both her income and her environment and for the first time Zuhal took proper notice of his surroundings, his lips curving with ill-concealed contempt. The furniture was of the cheapest variety, the rug threadbare and the paint on the window frames peeling. Only the curtains and cushions redeemed the place, their brightness adding an unexpected touch of jollity to the small room. Presumably her own handiwork.

His disdain turned into anger. And she was bringing up his son in a place like this! The heir to the Al Haidar dynasty was growing up in some scruffy little house on the outskirts of Oxford, with no security at the door and barely enough warmth inside. He wanted to berate her. To tell her she was unfit to care for his child, but something made him bite back his words as he sensed that hostility would be counterproductive to his cause. He looked at her faded jeans and the sweater with that ugly stain on the shoulder. Wouldn’t it be sensible to offer her an easy way out? To leave her free to live the kind of life she had been destined to live before their paths had unpredictably crossed in an upmarket London hotel.

‘We need to discuss the future,’ he said.

She looked at him warily. ‘What do you mean?’

He took a step closer and then wished he hadn’t because her unsophisticated soapy scent suddenly made his senses become keen and raw. And wasn’t it crazy that, despite his anger, he could still feel the powerful jerk of his erection pressing uncomfortably hard against the zipper of his trousers? Hadn’t she always had that power over him—and hadn’t it been that power which had made him terminate their relationship sooner than he’d intended?

‘What do you think I mean, Jazz?’ he demanded. ‘Did you think I would be content to be granted a brief look at my son before shrugging my shoulders and walking away? That I would be prepared to say goodbye to a child who has been kept a stranger to me until now?’

She swallowed. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘You say that with remarkably little conviction!’ he accused.

‘Because it’s all happened so quickly! I wasn’t expecting you to just turn up like this, Zuhal. It’s difficult to know what to think.’

‘At least we are agreed on something,’ he said. ‘Though I think that, of the two of us, I have received by far the greater surprise today. I need a little time to assess the situation properly and work out where we must go from here. Decisions made in the heat of the moment will benefit no one, least of all my son.’

‘You mean…’ Her green-gold eyes looked hopeful. ‘You mean you’ll go back to Razrastan and contact me when you’ve had a chance to mull it over?’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Go back to Razrastan? Are you really that naïve, Jazz? Do you think that, having found my child, I will now exit myself from his life?’ Ruthlessly, he found himself taking pleasure from her lip-biting response to his words. And why shouldn’t he enjoy her distress? She hadn’t given his feelings a second thought when she’d kept his progeny hidden from him, had she? ‘I will return later to take you to dinner. Somewhere neutral away from here, where we can consider our options. I will have one of my people book somewhere suitable.’

‘No. I can’t. That isn’t going to work,’ she protested. ‘I’m not leaving Darius while I go out for dinner with you!’

‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Do you think I’m going to have him spirited away while you’re out?’

She met his gaze with a fierce challenge on her face—a look he had never seen her use before. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you.’

He inclined his head in unwilling admiration. ‘You are wise indeed not to underestimate my determination,’ he conceded. ‘But you still haven’t explained your refusal to dine with me.’

‘Because I don’t have a local babysitter, not yet,’ she babbled. ‘And I’m not leaving Darius with a stranger!’

His lips twisted. ‘You think I would compromise childcare, Jazz? He is a royal Prince of Razrastan—and he will be cared for by the finest professional money can buy.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ he verified incredulously.

‘I’m not leaving him with a stranger,’ she repeated stubbornly.

A pulse flickered at his temple as he trained his gaze on the minuscule kitchen which could just be glimpsed over her shoulder. ‘You expect me to eat dinner here?’

‘I don’t particularly care whether you eat or not, since food is the last thing on my mind,’ she returned. ‘But since you are determined to have this meeting, I dare say I can rustle up something for supper.’

There was a moment of tense silence before, slowly, he nodded his head. ‘Very well. I will return at eight.’ He paused. ‘In the meantime, my bodyguards will be stationed around the property, so if you’re contemplating making some dramatic break for freedom, I urge you think again.’

Jasmine stared at him, feeling as if she was being backed into a corner. Was that how he intended her to feel? As if he had all the power and she had none? Because that was true, wasn’t it? She looked at him. ‘Bodyguards?’ she echoed. ‘Are you out of your mind? We’ve been living here perfectly safely for the last six months. This is rural Oxfordshire. We don’t need bodyguards.’

‘On the contrary, you most certainly do. You may have lived that way in the past, Jazz, but those days are over. This child has pure Al Haidar blood pulsing through his veins and will be treated accordingly.’ He slanted her a warning look. ‘I will see you later. Just make sure you are ready to receive me.’

His final request was like a throwback to the past and she wondered how she was supposed to do that. Was he hinting that he’d like her to be waiting for him wearing some tiny scrap of silk-satin lingerie the way she’d done in the past—showing as much flesh as possible without actually being naked? She studied his hard face. Unlikely. At this precise moment, his expression betrayed nothing but contempt. His bearing was both regal and imperious as he turned and walked out of the front door, closing it softly behind him. Jasmine could hear the purr of a powerful car engine as it started to move and now that the shock of seeing him again had begun to wear off, she began to tremble.

Unwanted tears stung her eyes, but she brushed them away as she tried to centre herself and make sense of what had just happened and to wonder how it had all come to this.

She heard Darius beginning to wake again and determination flooded through her in a hot rush as she recognised that she needed to have her wits about her when dealing with a man as powerful as Zuhal.

But most of all she needed to be strong.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE SHOULD NEVER have fallen for the royal Sheikh—that was the thought which plagued Jasmine for the rest of the afternoon, even while she was playing peep-oh with Darius then splashing him in the bath and making him giggle in that heartbreakingly innocent way of his.

But Zuhal had been determined to seduce her, despite the fact that she had been a shop girl and he a royal prince of noble descent. Her marriage had ended and she’d been feeling a failure when the Sheikh had waltzed into the Granchester boutique and subjected her to a highly effective charm offensive. She remembered his dark gaze licking over her skin and it had felt like being bathed in sweet black molasses. Sensing an unknown danger, she had let the other, rather pushy assistant deal with him, but her reluctance to engage had only seemed to increase his desire. Had she been surprised when he had turned up the following day to subject her to some more of that lazy charm? Not really. And she would have challenged any woman with a pulse to have resisted him for long. The strict rules of the hotel concerning relationships between guests and staff meant their resulting flirtation had been conducted amid great secrecy, and afterwards she’d realised that had probably added an extra layer of piquancy.

But the tumultuous ending of her marriage had left her feeling undesirable and Zuhal had changed all that so, of course, she’d agreed to have dinner with him. The restaurant had been small and badly lit—chosen mainly for discretion, she’d suspected—and even though the implied secrecy of that had been a little disappointing, already she’d been in too deep to care. To her astonishment—but not his—she had ended up in bed with him.

It had been…bliss. No other word for it. The soft plunder of his lips. His slow undressing as he had peeled off her cheap clothes. Her first sight of him naked—all that honed and burnished flesh and the unmistakable evidence of just how much he’d wanted her. She should have been shy, or even daunted—but she had been neither. In fact, she had been wet and ready, uttering nameless pleas as he’d stroked erotic pathways over her heated skin. Even the brief pain of losing her virginity hadn’t marred her mounting enjoyment and Zuhal had confessed afterwards that it had added an extra layer of excitement to his. Orgasm had followed orgasm and he hadn’t said anything until afterwards, when she’d been lying gazing up at the ceiling in dazed disbelief as he’d circled a puckered nipple with one careless finger. Turning her flushed face towards his, he had drawled out a single word.

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