Some sort of visitation rights? Had he taken leave of his senses? Jasmine stared at him in confusion before comprehension dawned on her and she gave a sudden laugh. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s the first rule of successful bargaining, isn’t it? You go in high, then negotiate down. You make your initial proposition so outlandish that I’m then supposed to be grateful for every little concession you make afterwards. Isn’t that right? But we aren’t talking about oil or diamonds or territory here, Zuhal, or any of the things you usually bargain for—we’re talking about a baby.’ The breath felt thick and tight in her throat. She felt as if she could hardly get the words out. ‘I’m not going to just hand him over to you and visit him! Apart from missing him more than I can imagine—I wouldn’t put it past you to veto my visa and ban me from ever entering Razrastan! How can you possibly ask such a thing and claim to have any humanity in your heart? Every child needs its mother!’
Zuhal met her furious glare. She was wrong about that, he thought bitterly. No child needed a mother. He had managed well enough without his, hadn’t he? Even though the Queen had been there physically—a glamorous and ethereal presence in the royal palace—she had never been there for him. Shamelessly devoted to his older brother, she had taken parental favouritism and elevated it to a whole new level. Many times he had thought it would be preferable growing up without her, for she used to look through him as if he were invisible. She had made him feel invisible.
‘Having a mother isn’t necessary,’ he bit out. ‘Many successful men and women have managed perfectly well without a maternal influence. You have only to examine the pages of history to realise that.’
In frustration she shook her head and a lock of buttery blonde hair fell against her flushed cheek. ‘I’m not talking about mothers who die or who for some reason can’t look after their children. I’m talking about mothers who have a choice. And I do have a choice, Zuhal. Oh, I may not have your money or power but I have something which is worth a whole lot more than any of those things, and that is love. I love Darius with all my heart and I would do anything for him. Anything. And I can tell you right now that, no matter what you say or try to do, you won’t succeed in taking him away from me!’
Zuhal’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed the passionate fervour of her words. She was daring to argue with him in a way she would never have done in the past, when her role in his life had been nothing more than his compliant mistress, whose role had been to bring him pleasure. She had become a lioness during their separation, he realised with grudging admiration, before wondering how he was going to talk her out of her convictions.
Once it would have been easy. A soft smile and seeking look would have been enough to get her to capitulate to his wishes. But back then their roles had been very different and no one would ever have described them as equals. And things had changed. She’d just told him she had no power but she was wrong. She had all the power because she had his son and it seemed he was going to have to move strategically to get what he wanted.
Taking a few moments’ respite from the unresolved thoughts which were racing around his mind, he looked around her cramped cottage, registering again how cheap it looked. For the first time it occurred to him that, despite her earlier promise to ‘rustle up’ some food, there was no evidence of this. No table lovingly set with candles or flowers. No napkin elaborately folded to resemble a fan or some other such nonsense. In short, none of the lavish attention to detail he was used to whenever he had allowed a woman to cook for him.
‘I mean what I say, Zuhal,’ she continued, her terse words falling into the uneasy silence which had fallen. ‘You’re not rubbing me out of Darius’s life and behaving as if I didn’t exist.’
Turning away from his scrutiny of the decor, he fixed her with a steady stare. ‘The alternative will not be easy,’ he warned softly.
She blinked with incomprehension. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Having a child being brought up as half-royal, half-commoner. Half-English and half-Razrastanian.’
‘Then let him be brought up as English.’
‘No way,’ he growled. ‘He needs to be aware of his royal ancestry and the responsibilities which might one day rest upon his shoulders.’
She frowned at him. ‘Surely you’re not implying that Darius could one day be King—when he is illegitimate.’
Zuhal stilled as a sudden wave of cynical possibility washed over him. Was this what she had secretly hoped for all along? he wondered. She’d accused him of going in with high stakes, but perhaps she was doing the same thing in her determination to drive a hard bargain. Perhaps the reality was that she was ambitious for herself as well as for her son. Perhaps having had a little time to think about it, she was imagining what could be hers, if she went about it in the right way. Because what woman wouldn’t want to be a queen of the desert, with jewels and palaces and unrivalled wealth? More than that, who wouldn’t want to be married to him? Many had jockeyed for that position in the past, but none had succeeded.
‘If you’re trying to get me to marry you, I can tell you right now it’s not going to happen.’ His voice took on a harsh and forbidding note. ‘Because nothing has changed, Jazz. You are still a foreign divorcee who would be totally unsuitable for the role of Queen. My people would never accept you. Which is why I must put duty first and continue my search to find a suitable bride. But that doesn’t mean that Darius can’t be my insurance policy—just in case I don’t produce another male heir.’
Her look of quiet reflection was replaced by one of incredulity. ‘Trying to get you to marry me?’ she scoffed. ‘Do you really think I’d want to marry a man who treats women like second-class citizens—who regards his little boy as nothing but an insurance policy?’
‘Fortunately, that question is destined to remain academic, since I have no intention of doing so.’ His smile was swift and dismissive. ‘Which means we must come to an alternative arrangement which will satisfy all parties.’
‘What kind of arrangement?’ Defiantly, she tilted her chin. ‘What do you want?’
There was a pause. ‘Who knows his true identity?’
‘Nobody—not even my cousin,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I couldn’t see the point of people finding out his father was a sheikh.’
He nodded. ‘Good.’
‘I didn’t do it in order to get your praise,’ she objected. ‘I did it because I wanted to be able to trust people’s true motives for getting to know us. I didn’t want us to stand out, or for Darius to be made into a talking point.’
‘If my brother had not died then things would be very different,’ he observed reflectively. ‘But he did. One day I hope to have a legitimate heir, but if that doesn’t happen, then Darius will be entitled to inherit the crown. And since you refuse to let me take him back to Razrastan, then it seems he must grow up here. With you.’
‘Well, thank heavens for that,’ she said, breathing out a sigh of relief. ‘Because I can’t think of anything worse for his welfare than being incarcerated in some gilded palace with an autocratic brute like you!’
His nostrils flared. ‘Nobody else would dare speak to me in such a way,’ he iced out.
‘That’s about the only piece of information which has given me pleasure during this entire meeting!’
‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘It is imperative Darius learns about the country he might one day rule, which is why I want him brought up in London, so he can be schooled at the Razrastanian embassy. In a city which is big, and anonymous. Where nobody is going to discover his true identity—not if you don’t tell them.’
‘But we don’t live in London, Zuhal,’ she pointed out. ‘We live in Oxfordshire.’
‘That is not a problem. You will move.’
‘I am not a pawn on a chessboard! I will not move!’
His patience seemingly exhausted, he slammed his fist down on a flimsy-lookin
g table which shivered beneath the force and when he looked at her, Jasmine could see a fire-like determination blazing from his black eyes.
‘I will take no more of your futile arguments, Jazz—or your defiant show of so-called pride in refusing to accept my support,’ he raged. ‘Because there are some things you need to understand. And number one is that there is no way a royal prince will be brought up somewhere like this! Why, there is barely room to swing a cat!’
‘We don’t have a cat.’
‘Will you stop interrupting me?’ he raged. ‘You will need to be rehoused somewhere befitting my son’s status. Somewhere secure.’ His gaze moved with withering precision to the crack in the peeling window-frame, which was currently sending a whistle of chilly air into the small room. ‘A place which isn’t offering an open invitation for thieves and has room for the bodyguards our son needs and which I will be providing, whether you like it or not. Money is obviously not a consideration and I imagine you will quickly discover that you’ll enjoy living somewhere which is considerably different from this.’ His mouth hardened into a cynical line. ‘Most women find luxury addictive, in my experience.’
Jasmine felt a mixture of fury and pain—and his reference to the other women in his life wasn’t helping matters. He was insulting her home and lifestyle and maybe she should take him to task for that. But couldn’t part of her see the wisdom in what he said, much as she hated to admit it? The modest savings she’d accrued while working at the Granchester hadn’t lasted nearly as long as she’d expected, and her sewing only brought in enough money for them to keep their heads above water. Life was often a struggle and it was only going to get worse. She knew what it was like to be the poor kid in school. The one who was forced to sign up for free school dinners. Who lived in fear of someone commenting about the too-small hand-me-down clothes or the shoes which badly needed heeling. The last thing she wanted was for Darius to grow up like that—so how could she let pride stand in the way?
She gave a reluctant shrug. ‘I suppose what you say makes sense.’
Zuhal’s eyes narrowed. It was not the gratitude he had expected—not by any stretch of the imagination. He inclined his head with regal solemnity, but behind the formal mask he seethed at her stubbornness and thanklessness. ‘I will have my people arrange somewhere for you to live as soon as possible,’ he said coolly. ‘Just pack up the essentials and be ready to leave when you hear from my office.’
Again, she was shaking her head, the long plait swinging like a blonde pendulum, and Zuhal was suddenly filled with an urgent desire to see her newly long hair spread out over his pillow.
‘Actually, I would prefer to have some choice in our new home,’ she said.
He opened his mouth as if to object, before closing it again. ‘Very well,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘I will have a shortlist drawn up for you to consider. And you’ll need a new wardrobe—not just for the baby, but for you.’
She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I don’t want your charity, Zuhal. I never did. I’ll wear what I always wear and make my own clothes.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ he contradicted icily. ‘Because you are no longer a shop-worker living in hotel accommodation, or a single mother struggling to get by. You will be living in an expensive part of the city and it will naturally arouse suspicion if you look out of place—which, given your current appearance, wouldn’t be difficult.’
Jasmine might have objected if his words hadn’t been painfully true. She’d always tried to keep herself looking nice but it wasn’t as easy as it had been in the past. Darius took up a lot of her waking hours and there simply wasn’t the time to make new outfits for herself. Or the money. She tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. It was why she’d stopped going to the hairdresser—why she’d let her trademark bob grow out.
She chewed her lip. It would be awful if she refused Zuhal’s charity—because that was essentially what it was—and then got mistaken for a cleaner or a nanny when she was stepping into the elevator in her smart new London home. Because she knew how money worked. She’d worked at the Granchester long enough to recognise that rich people were only really comfortable with people like themselves. Who looked like them and spoke like them. And she didn’t. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Not in her cheap jeans and a thrift shop sweater from which no amount of washing could shift the stubborn stain of regurgitated carrot purée which sat on the shoulder like a faded epaulet.
And then something else occurred to her. ‘What about you?’ she questioned.
He had been gathering up the Manila envelope which he had dumped on the table on his arrival but he looked up when she spoke, his black eyes watchful. ‘What about me?’
‘Where will you be living?’
He shrugged. ‘I shall make sure I have a base in London close enough to see my son, but for the rest of the time I shall be in Razrastan, preparing for my future. For the formal signing of government papers to allow me to rule until…’ his voice faltered slightly ‘…until my brother can be legally declared dead.’
She nodded, forcing herself to remember the human tragedy which lay at the heart of all this. ‘Of course,’ she said, sympathy softening her voice despite his harshness towards her.
There was a pause. He seemed to hesitate. ‘And of course, I have another important matter to consider.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘My marriage,’ he stated coolly.
Jasmine started, her heart jolting as if someone had just pulsed an electric shock right through it. ‘Your marriage?’
He nodded. ‘I still need someone by my side to help me rule my country—and as soon as possible. Which is why I must find a suitable candidate. I just wanted to warn you in advance, in case the press start speculating.’ His gaze seared over her like a dark laser. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Jazz. That the discovery of my son and heir is a complicating factor in my matrimonial plans, but I don’t anticipate any problems.’ He smiled. ‘My future wife will need to be a very understanding woman, for that is one of my requirements. And during access visits, she will love our son and treat him as her own. I will make sure of that.’
Jasmine prayed her face wouldn’t betray her feelings. Had he really said he knew what she was thinking? He didn’t have a clue. The hurt. The anger. The shame. The fear. She told herself she didn’t care what Zuhal did with his life or who he took as his wife. But she did. Of course she did. She wanted to rail against the thought of another woman becoming stepmother to Darius, but there wasn’t a lot she could do about it. It was a fact of modern life. She’d had a stepmother herself, hadn’t she?
And look how that had turned out. Her father’s much younger wife had resented all evidence that he’d been married before. She hadn’t even allowed Jasmine to play with her baby stepsister—though that had actually worked in everyone’s favour, because Jasmine’s mother had been hysterical at the thought her daughter might prefer her new ‘blended’ family.
Painful memories of the past dissolved and Jasmine met the ebony ice of Zuhal’s stare. She wished she could tell him to go to hell and that she had no intention of letting him move her into an apartment in a strange city, no matter how luxurious it happened to be. But she couldn’t do that, because she recognised that Zuhal wanted the best for his son and maybe anonymous London was a better option than a rural little village. But that didn’t mean that she had to roll over like a puppy dog and accept whatever he was prepared to throw her way, did it? Which meant she didn’t have to entertain him for a second longer than she needed to. This man who was impervious to her pain.
‘Would you like to look in on Darius before you leave?’ she questioned in a calm voice, slightly mollified by his look of bemusement.
‘Leave?’ He frowned. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be cooking me supper?’
Her expression didn’t change. ‘There’s nothing on the go, I’m afraid. But even if the
re was, I seem to have lost my appetite. And quite frankly, you’re the last person I feel like sharing a meal with right now, Zuhal.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘SO.’ ZUHAL’S DEEP voice was clipped and matter-of-fact. ‘What do you think of your new home?’
Jasmine wasn’t sure what to think. She was still whirling from the speed with which her move to London had happened, and, with Darius now fast asleep in his luxury new baby seat, this was the first chance she’d had to get her bearings since arriving in the city that morning. To get used to her new accommodation. Home, Zuhal had called it—yet it didn’t feel a bit like home.
She glanced around the sitting room—trying to get used to a room the size of a football pitch, with its stunning views over the bright green treetops of Hyde Park. It was the place she’d liked best out of the shortlist of properties the Sheikh’s office had drawn up, mainly because it was the only one which didn’t make her feel as if she was hemmed in by other buildings. This high up the traffic was just a distant hum—like bees—so it almost felt as if you were in the country rather than in the middle of a city. Jasmine had seen the apartment when it had been empty and cavernous—but in the interim, it had been completely and luxuriously furnished by an unknown hand.
She would have liked some say in the furniture herself and although she couldn’t fault the decor, it had a distinctly impersonal feel to it—as if some top-end designer had simply thrown a lot of money at it. Giant velvet sofas were coloured in shades echoing the soft hues of the silken rugs which adorned the gleaming wooden floors. Vibrant oil paintings hung on the pale walls and a bronze sculpture of a horse’s head was silhouetted against one of the tall windows. There were even glossy unread magazines artistically placed on one of several coffee tables and coloured glass vases full of fragrant roses. It looked like a set from a film—a room designed in a single day—not built up with memories, bit by bit, like a normal home. But whoever had said any of this would be normal? It wasn’t normal to have been whisked here by darkened limousine, was it? Nor to have been followed by a fleet of bodyguards who, as far as she knew, were still lurking outside with those suspicious-looking lumps beneath their loose jackets.
The Sheikh’s Secret Baby Page 5