The Sultan's Heir

by Alexandra Sellers

  “Let go,” she said again, her voice weaker, barely a whisper.

  He willed his hand to lift from her warmth, but it only tightened on her. With almost overwhelming urgency, he wanted to pick her up and carry her back to her bed, undress her, make love to her, make her his before she could decide against him. His body leapt with the hungry need to lose himself in her.

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  He lifted his free hand to her cheek, slipping his fingers under the fall of her hair to cup her head, and bent his head to the dangerous, inevitable kiss.

  In a sudden burst of paranoia, Rosalind thought, He’s trying to use sex as a weapon. She stepped back abruptly, breaking his hold, and his lips touched only air. And the same pang of regret pierced them both.

  “What are you here for?” she demanded coldly.

  He abruptly lost patience.

  “I have seen your son, Rosalind. Why have you lied to me about so grave a matter?” he demanded fiercely.

  As the dark eyes burned accusingly into hers, Rosalind felt the hairs lift all over her body. “I have not lied to you!” she snapped. “And what is grave about it?” She was beginning to wish she had never told him the truth. What harm would it do to let the family believe that Jamshid had left an heir?

  “Shall we sit down?” he said grimly.

  “I am not going to have this conversation with you now!” Rosalind cried. For answer he simply strode over to the sofa and set his briefcase on the table. Weakly, she followed him, demanding, “Why didn’t you phone?”

  “Sit down, Rosalind,” he commanded softly, and to her own fury she could not resist the authority in his voice.

  She sat and crossed her legs, shifting uncomfortably. The thick, woven cotton shirt she used as a bathrobe was longer than lots of dresses, but she felt naked as he sat beside her.

  Rosalind opened her mouth to say she was going to get dressed first, but Najib bent forward and clicked his briefcase ominously open, and the sounds of the locks were like neat little bullets into her spine, paralysing her.

  He drew out a long, narrow piece of buff paper, a printed form neatly inscribed in black ballpoint, straightened and held it in front of her.

  Certified Copy of an Entry of Birth, she read, and though she knew exactly what it was, her eye automatically glanced over the particulars. Name—Samir Jawad… Sex—Male…

  She looked up into the eyes that were gravely watching her.

  “Well?” she said.

  “In the summer you were pregnant with Jamshid’s child. The following spring you gave birth.”

  “Did I?” It was ridiculous to expect him to believe her word against this, but she was angry with him nevertheless.

  A long, well-shaped forefinger ruthlessly underlined a column as he looked at her. “Mother—Rosalind Olivia Lewis,” he read.

  Rosalind heaved a breath and tried to get control. “This is not going to get you anywhere,” she told him. “I—”

  “Father—Jamshid Bahrami.”

  “What do you want?” she demanded in exasperated tones. “What do you care? It’s been five years! What do you care whether my son inherits Jamshid’s property or not?”

  Najib turned his head sideways to look at her. He did not answer, and she felt a shiver of real alarm. So grave a matter, he had said. But how grave could money be? If a will and an unknown heir are belatedly found, that might be very inconvenient to some, but grave?

  Why had the discovery that Jamshid had a wife brought his cousin all this way in person? The question was obvious and she should have seen it before. Why hadn’t they just sent her a solicitor’s letter informing her of the inheritance, asking if there was a child? Why did they care so desperately about it?

  “Look. Sam is—” she began, but broke off with a gasp when Najib al Makhtoum released the birth certificate and grasped her wrist.

  “Do not lie to me, Rosalind!”

  The paper floated in graceful swoops to the floor. They were still for an electric moment of staring into each other’s eyes, and again were disturbed by the nearness of that other potential behind the moment. Then Rosalind tore her hand out of his grip and stood up. Whatever thoughts she had entertained about maybe giving in were lost in her fury.

  “Don’t accuse me of lying! You know nothing about my life!”

  “I know that you registered this birth,” he said, picking up the birth certificate from the floor and dropping it into his briefcase before getting to his feet. “In doing so you swore that Jamshid was the father of your son. Now you tell me otherwise. Which of your statements am I not to say was a lie, Rosalind?”

  He had a powerful aura, and she felt overwhelmed. She strode away, into the dining area, crossed her arms and stood looking out at the grey, damp street. A Bentley cruised by below in silent luxury.

  “In this country a woman’s husband is deemed to be the father of her children,” she said, “whether he is the biological father or not. Jamshid is not Sam’s biological father.”

  He followed her to the window, his mouth tight.

  “You were pregnant and you gave birth to a child, Rosalind. There was no miscarriage. True or false?”

  She glared at him.

  “Either you lied to Jamshid and my grandfather five years ago, or you are lying to me now. There is no other possibility.”

  There was another possibility, but she could not tell him what it was. She had to forcefully resist the crazy impulse that said it would be safe to tell him the truth. Najib was the last person she could tell, and what a stupid twist of fate it was that it should be he who had come here.

  “You know nothing!” she exploded harshly.

  “A woman does not have a miscarriage and then give birth a few months later,” he said remorselessly. “Tell me the truth!”

  What was it all about? Rosie’s skin began to creep with a dread of the unknown. There was much more here than she knew. Thank God she had not just taken the easy way out. Whatever this was, she had to keep Sam out of it.

  “I have told you the truth. I am not going to repeat myself,” she said stonily.

  “Why did you not put his father’s name on the birth certificate, then?” He did not pause for an answer. “Jamshid is the father. That is why you put his name on the birth certificate. You did not lie to my grandfather. You are lying now, and it is a foolish, dangerous lie.”

  “You know nothing about anything in my life,” she said with angry emphasis, her hands clenching on air. Furious with him, and yet knowing that there was nothing else for him to think.

  “Shall I believe that my grandfather was justified in the words he used to you in his letter, after all, Rosalind? Shall I believe that, not certain who had fathered your child, you chose to trick Jamshid into marriage?”

  Rosalind straightened, head back, staring at him, her mouth tight with fury. Her hand lifted of its own accord, and she slapped him across the cheek with a violence fuelled by five long years of bitter hurt.

  His eyes blackened as if this ignited feeling he had been keeping under precarious control. His hands closed roughly on her upper arms and he grabbed her close to ram his face down into hers. “Do not use violence with me!” he warned.

  There was silence as they stared into each other’s eyes from point-blank range. She watched in almost detached fascination the angry quiver of the thick black lashes, the expansion of his pupils, the flame of danger. She counted the pounding of her blood in her temples, heard the little ragged pants of her breathing. As if from a distance she realized that Najib al Makhtoum was not a man to cross.

  They both surfaced from the trance. He dropped his hands from her. Each turned away. Rosalind crossed her arms over her breasts, her hands involuntarily massaging her upper arms where he had gripped her.

  “Get out,” she said.

  “He is the living image of my grandfather,” Najib said, behind her. “I am sorry. I accuse you of nothing except being bitterly hurt and too angry to forgive. But this must b
e put aside for the sake of the boy. The res—”

  “Get out of my house and get out of my life!”

  Najib gave an indignant half laugh as the strange, soft possibility of deeper communication between them evaporated.

  “I cannot do that,” he said, and at his tone chills raced up her spine.

  “Why?”

  “You force my hand, and no doubt you will spend many hours regretting it. Rosalind, your son is in danger. He must go into hiding for a period. Only in this way can we protect him effectively.”

  “Danger?” She felt as though he had smashed the side of her head, sending all coherent thought flying. “Danger from what?”

  “People who will wish harm to Jamshid’s son when they learn of his existence.”

  Oh, this was much worse than she had guessed a moment ago. Rosie almost sobbed. “He is not Jamshid’s son! Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because the family resemblance is unmistakable. And because he was registered as Jamshid’s son. Even if I could believe you, there are others who will not.”

  Hot and then cold raced over her skin. “Who are these people? Who will tell them that Sam is Jamshid’s son?”

  “No one will tell them. But it will not be long before they learn.”

  “Because you’ve led them to me!” she accused hotly.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Why have you stirred this up? No one would have known about me or Sam if you—”

  He shook his head again, and overrode her. “It was easy for me to find this information. It is lying everywhere on the ground, like nuts under a tree! Others will find it no more difficult.”

  She interrupted harshly, “It’s been lying there for the past five years. Why is it only interesting now?”

  “This is precisely what cannot be explained to you.”

  “Why would they want to hurt a son of Jamshid’s?” Fear seemed to wash over her in waves. “Who are you? Who are your enemies?”

  “I have already told you more than is good for you to know,” said al Makhtoum.

  “Is it just Jamshid’s son, or is the whole family at risk? Your children, for example—are they in danger, too?”

  “I am not married. But your son is by no means alone in the danger.”

  Rosalind whispered faintly, “Is it a feud or something?”

  “I can say no more, Rosalind. In a little while you will learn more. But I tell you that you can trust me, and you must. Time is short.”

  She eyed him, chewing her lip. “And if I trusted you, what would I do?”

  “You would accompany me to East Barakat, where we can protect you and your son effectively.”

  “East Barakat.” She licked her lips. “For how long?”

  He hesitated. “A few weeks—two or three months.”

  “Three months?” she repeated in surprise. “And what then?”

  “I am not at liberty to explain to you now how the situation is likely to change. But it will change.”

  “And after that—Sam and I will be able to go back to our ordinary lives?”

  He glanced away, looked back and met her eyes again. “I hope so. I believe so. If we are successful.”

  She said furiously, “You hope so?”

  “The fault, if there is one, is not mine. Jamshid had no right to marry you as he did. Whatever happens next, your part in it was inevitable from the moment that he did so.”

  “What—” she began, but he overrode her.

  “Rosalind,” Najib said, with an urgency that silenced her. “I assure you that you can trust me. Jamshid would wish you to obey me in this.”

  She was terrified. She had no idea which way to turn. Should she trust or fear him? It had to be one or the other. There was no middle ground. But her brain lay kicking feebly, unable to function.

  “Mommy?”

  The questioning voice came from behind them, and they both whirled. Sam, tousled with sleep, sweet as a Victorian painting, stood at the doorway of his room. From one hand dangled his toy lamb.

  “Good morning, darling,” Rosalind said brightly.

  His wide eyes watching Najib with wary curiosity, he came to her side, grabbed her thigh, and continued to stare up at the stranger.

  To her surprise, Najib squatted down, to be on a level with him.

  “Hi,” he said. Sam watched the stranger for a long, grave moment, then glanced uncertainly up into his mother’s face.

  “Sam, this is Najib,” she said.

  Sam looked at him again, considering. Najib waited, allowing himself to be scrutinized.

  “Hi,” Sam said at last. Then he pulled up his lamb. “This is Lambo,” he said. Rosalind caught her breath. He never introduced his favourite stuffed animal except to people he had decided to trust.

  Najib nodded, taking it as seriously as the boy meant it. He reached out and shook a hoof. “Hi,” he said again.

  Najib put out his hand, and when the child, as if entranced, moved out from behind his mother’s leg and reached a trusting hand towards him, he clasped it with the strong, comforting masculine protectiveness that Rosalind recognized as what drew her, against her will.

  And as if hypnotized by the promise of safety and by the dark eyes so like his own, Sam stepped into the circle of Najib al Makhtoum’s arm, looking up with a yearning that pulled at Rosalind’s heart, for in that trusting gaze was reflected the need for the thing that she, with all her caring, could never give him: a father’s love.

  “Are you my friend?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m your friend,” Najib said, without hesitation. “I’m your very good friend.”

  Encouraged by this, Sam pursued, “Are you my father?”

  “Sam…” Rosalind began in embarrassment. But Najib didn’t seem at all put out by the question.

  “I don’t know,” he said. When Sam’s eyes widened, for Najib was the first man who had not answered this question with a quick, embarrassed no, he explained, “God’s will works in lots of different ways. But I do know I’m going to look after you for the next little while just the way your own father would have wanted me to. Okay?”

  Sam blinked, not quite understanding it all, but getting the intention all right, Rosalind saw. “Okay,” he said soberly, nodding as if they were fixing a pact.

  “What do you think you’re telling him?” Rosalind muttered, trying for a tone that would convey to Najib al Makhtoum exactly what she meant without scaring Sam.

  He glanced up. “The truth,” he said dryly.

  “You know perfectly well that—” she began, then, as Sam looked at her uncertainly, relaxed her tone “—the relationship he has enquired about does not exist between you and never will. And as for looking after—”

  Najib laughed, with such genuine humour that Sam broke into a huge grin and giggled with him. He hugged the boy and got to his feet.

  “Rosalind, do you tell me that life has not yet taught you how God plays with the designs of mortals? Do you not fear to tempt fate with such extreme declarations of your intentions?”

  “And how exactly would God go about turning you into Sam’s father?” she demanded.

  He eyed her with a warmth that made her cheeks hot. “We might get married,” he observed.

  Rosalind’s skin twitched all down her spine. She felt how dangerous this conversation was, for the yearning that his words raised in her. How often she had wished there were someone to share the joys and cares of Sam’s upbringing with her. “And how do you know what his father would want?” she went on, as if she hadn’t heard that.

  “I know that any father wants his child protected,” Najib said. “But Jamshid in particular, whose father was—died when he was an infant, would wish for me to love and cherish his own son as he could not.”

  It seemed as if every time he opened his mouth, he said three different things she needed to challenge, and in the attempt to decide which to attack first, she lost the chance to challenge any.

  Sam was looking
up anxiously, as if he was beginning to sense her hostility, and Rosalind bent down. “I need to talk with Najib for a little bit, Sam. Would you like to go back to bed and read Lambo a story? And then you can have your shower.”

  When Sam agreed to this she took him back to his bedroom and settled him on his pillows with a cloth picture book, his lamb in the crook of one arm.

  “Rosalind,” Najib al Makhtoum said on her return to the kitchen. “Please allow me to make arrangements for your protection, and your son’s. Time may be shorter even than we suspect.”

  His words frightened her, not least because she was torn. And it seemed that the part that wanted to believe she could trust him was getting stronger. That meant she had to be on guard not just against him, but against her own instincts.

  When she hesitated, Najib said, “Rosalind, do not risk his happiness, or your own. Let me look after you both.”

  “What will you arrange?” she asked.

  “Do you have passports?”

  “Sam is on my passport,” she said firmly. Her son was going nowhere without her.

  “Then I will arrange to fly you to East Barakat immediately. How soon can you be ready? Tomorrow?”

  She felt panic creeping through her at the speed at which he moved. “Next Saturday,” she hazarded.

  He frowned and shook his head once. “A week is too long. We must leave by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest.”

  “Friday,” Rosalind said. “I can’t be ready before Friday,” because some distant voice told her she would need thinking time.

  Five

  Rosie paced her apartment after he had gone, watching the sun spread into the morning sky.

  Your son is in danger. He must go into hiding.

  The words ricocheted around in her head. She had no way of knowing whether it was true, or a lie designed to frighten her into acquiescence. But she couldn’t afford to ignore the warning. Either she trusted Najib, or she got out of town under her own steam. She had to protect Sam, because Najib was right in one thing—anyone who was interested would come to the conclusion that Sam was Jamshid’s son.