by Jennie Lucas
So he’d heard!
“Wait!” she cried. “You don’t understand!”
Kareef came up behind her. “Afraid to be alone with me?” he said in a low voice.
She glanced back at him, and trembled at the darkness in his blue eyes. She swallowed, fighting back tears. This was hard. So much harder than she’d thought it would be!
“Is my arrangement acceptable, my king?” Umar asked Kareef with a bow of his head.
Kareef answered with a single hard nod, then looked back at Jasmine with glittering eyes.
Divorced. They were divorced. But that hadn’t changed her feelings. It didn’t keep her body from crying out for his touch. The divorce changed nothing.
“Thank you, sire.” Umar ducked inside the grandstand.
She felt Kareef’s fierce blue gaze upon her like the merciless desert sun, charring her soul, turning it to dust. He glowered, then walked past her.
Lifting her chin, she put one hand on her head, balancing her wide-brimmed hat as she followed him through the private door and up the stairs. They passed through an enclosed, air-conditioned private room with a one-way mirror overlooking the track, and finally came out into the open-air royal box.
Kareef went outside first.
When he was visible to the crowds in the stadium, forty thousand people rose to their feet, screaming his name.
He raised his hand to them.
The screaming intensified.
Coming out into the royal box behind him, Jasmine pressed her hand against her belly, holding her black handbag against her body like a shield against the roar of the crowd.
She looked at his beautiful, savage face. Saw the lines of strength and wisdom at his eyes, saw the powerful jut of his jawline. Honor was the heart of who he was.
She’d done the right thing, no matter how it killed her.
She’d set him free to be the king he was born to be.
Kareef finally sat down and she sank into the chair beside him. She was aware of him at every moment but didn’t look in his direction. Instead, she pressed her fingers against her wide-brimmed hat, blocking the sun from her eyes as she stared out at the racetrack.
Thousands of people stared back at her. Sitting beside the handsome, powerful young king, Jasmine knew she must appear to be very fortunate. Even though some of the older women whispered maliciously behind their hands, she could see their modern daughters looking at her belted, form-fitting red silk dress and handbag with envy. Looking at her expensive, pretty clothes and the handsome, powerful man beside her, they were no doubt thinking a lost reputation would be a small price to pay for such a glamorous life.
If only they knew what Jasmine really felt like on the inside. The truth was that she wished she had a spoon, so she could cut her heart out with it.
Beautiful clothes, wealth, attention and power—none of that mattered. Not when she couldn’t have the man she loved.
“Did you sleep well?” Kareef said in a low voice beside her.
“Yes,” she lied over the lump in her throat, turning away as she fought back tears. “Very well.”
The gunshot sounded the start of the race, and the horses bolted from the gates.
She felt the hot burn of Kareef’s gaze on her. Felt it by the way her neck prickled. By the way her nipples tightened and her breasts became heavy. She fanned herself with a program, sweating from a blast of heat that had nothing to do with the white desert sun above the grandstand.
In the next box over, she could see Umar sitting with his four young sons. The two-year-old baby was snuggled contentedly in the lap of the French nanny, Léa, who while not strictly pretty, had a sweet look to her plump face. She was only a few years older than Jasmine. Umar sat back in his chair until the horses pounded by their seats in a loud torrent of thundering hooves, and he rose to his feet, shouting at his horse in a mixture of cursing and praise.
The four boys were all adorable, Jasmine thought. She would soon be their stepmother. But even that thought didn’t cheer her as it used to. None of the children wanted her. They already seemed to have a mother—Léa.
As the horses neared the finish line, Umar gripped the railing, pumping his fist in the air as he watched. “Go! Go, damn you!”
Jasmine saw her mother and father sitting in a different section with her sisters, along with her sisters’ husbands and children. She hesitantly lifted her hand in greeting at her father.
Her father scowled at her in the royal box. He coldly turned his head away.
Jasmine set her shoulders. It didn’t matter, she told herself over the lump in her throat. Once she was married—if Umar still married her—her father would finally be proud of her. She would do the right thing. Even if it killed her.
She heard Umar shout with delight, heard him clap his hands. His horse had won. Ruffling the hair of one of his older sons, he rushed off to accept his prize, his children following behind with the nanny. Watching them, Jasmine felt more like an outsider than ever.
She rose to her feet and went to the front of the royal box. She watched Umar walking out onto the racetrack, waving to the crowd as he crossed the grass.
“It means nothing to you, does it,” Kareef said behind her in a low voice, “that you’ll give your body to him tonight, when you were in my bed only yesterday?”
She pretended to smile down at Umar on the racetrack as he exuberantly accepted flowers, patting his horse’s nose and shaking his jockey’s hand. “We are divorced,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. “You mean nothing to me.”
“Don’t marry him, Jasmine.” His voice was hoarse and deep. She heard him rise from his chair. “Don’t.”
She saw her fiancé waving and smiling. He lifted his two-year-old son on his shoulder, and the crowd roared their approval.
She felt Kareef come up behind her, close enough to touch. She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. The cheers of the crowd became deafening white noise, like static. Until all Jasmine could hear was the pounding of her own heart and the rush of blood in her ears.
She felt Kareef slowly pull off her wide-brimmed hat. The back of her neck was washed in the warmth of his breath. Her body tightened from her scalp to her breasts, and a sweet agonizing tension coiled low and deep inside her.
“Stay with me,” Kareef said in a low voice. “Not because you’re bound to me, but because it’s your free choice. Be my mistress.”
The king’s mistress.
For that kind of joy, Jasmine would have willingly sacrificed anything. Except one thing. Her gaze fell upon her family.
She squeezed her eyes closed. She’d thought she’d known pain before, but this was more than she could bear. With an intake of breath, she whirled around in his arms. Ripping the hat out of his grasp, she held it against her handbag as she backed away. “I can’t.”
“Jasmine—”
“Go back to the palace, Kareef,” she choked out. “Don’t stay for my wedding. It kills me to have you so close—don’t you see you’re killing me?”
She turned and rushed up the steps toward the air-conditioned private room, disappearing behind the door.
Kareef caught up with her almost instantly on the other side of the mirrored window. Grabbing her, he pushed her roughly against the wall. Both hat and handbag dropped hard on the floor. She struggled, but his hands wrapped around her wrists, holding her fast. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t escape. She couldn’t resist.
She braced for a savage plundering of her lips. She waited for him to crush her. Instead, he did something far worse. He lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss far more brutal than any mere force could ever be.
He kissed her…as if he loved her.
Kareef moved his hands over Jasmine’s red silk dress, savoring the feel of her curvaceous body in his arms. Relief filled him that she was back where she belonged. Desire sizzled through his veins like a drug as he tasted the exquisite sweetness of her lips.
He’d thought he’d almost lost her. He’d divorced her, as he
’d given his word of honor to do. But he still wanted her. He wanted her to choose to be with him, of her own free will. To choose him over all other men, no matter how inconvenient or difficult their love might be.
Didn’t she realize that they’d already lost too many years of their lives apart?
She belonged to him. As he belonged to her.
He cupped her breasts through her dress, stroking her shoulders, her swanlike neck. He kissed her skin, biting almost hard enough to bruise. He wanted to mark his possession, to remove any memory of another man’s claim on her. To rip that damned diamond off her left hand.
“You belong to me,” he growled. “Say it.”
Her beautiful chocolate-brown eyes gleamed and shimmered, sliding over him with the sensuality of a hot desert night. His body’s memory of making love to her so many times, so urgently, roared through him like a blaze. His hands tightened.
“I belong to you,” she whispered with an intake of breath. “But Kareef, you must know that we—”
He stopped her with a hard kiss. He felt her tremble beneath him as he stroked her body through the red silk. He wrapped his hands in her lustrous dark hair, amid chestnut streaks like woven gold in the daylight.
They belonged together. Now, he would let the whole world know it. He would no longer hide his love for Jasmine in the shadows.
His love.
Oh my God. He loved her.
He didn’t just desire Jasmine. He didn’t just wish to spend his every moment with her.
He loved her. He’d never stopped loving her. It was why he’d never once felt tempted by the endless succession of women who’d tried to throw themselves into his bed. His body, his heart, were for one woman only.
Jasmine.
Even if it cost him his crown. Even if it cost him his life. He would have them together. In the open. In the sun.
Cupping her face, he kissed her tenderly, kissing her closed eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth. A sigh escaped her lips as she swayed in his arms, turning her face toward his.
He wrapped her left hand in his own, pressing it up against his heart as he looked down at her. “I’ll tell Hajjar the wedding is off.”
Smiling, he grasped the enormous diamond ring and started to draw it off her finger.
But she closed her hand into a fist. He stared at her in exasperation.
“Jasmine,” he demanded.
Her face was blank of expression as she shook her head.
“You will be my honored mistress,” he said, his brow furrowed. “My queen in all but name. There will be no more sneaking in the shadows, no shame for your family. I will treat you as the highest lady in the land, and the whole country will follow my lead.”
“And Umar?”
“He will forgive us.”
“And you?” She slowly looked up at him. “When you take your bride, Qusay’s queen? What will become of me then?”
He set his jaw. The thought made him sick.
“Perhaps I will die a bachelor,” he growled.
“But you need an heir,” she whispered.
He shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the repressed emotion in his eyes. “My brothers’ children can inherit,” he said lightly. “Or their grandchildren. I intend to live a very long life.”
“But your brothers are not even married. What makes you think they ever will be?”
He felt brief uncertainty, which swiftly changed to anger and impatience. “They will.”
“They don’t even care enough about Qusay to live here. Do you think Rafiq would give up his billion-dollar business empire to come back from Australia and rule? And from what I’ve heard, Tahir is squandering his life away on the international party circuit—”
“People can change—”
“Are you willing to risk the throne of Qusay on that? To place that kind of burden on your younger brothers?” She shook her head desperately. “Even if they do someday have children or grandchildren…those grandchildren will know nothing of Qusay. You think our people would tolerate being ruled by someone ignorant of our languages, our customs?”
His jaw clenched as he looked away. When he looked back at her, his voice was full of agony he no longer tried to hide.
“Is there no chance you could get pregnant, Jasmine?” he said hoarsely. “Not even a small chance? We could see the best fertility specialist in the world, spare no expense, do whatever it took for you to bear my child—”
“No,” she said brutally. “I’ve visited some of the top obstetricians in Manhattan. I got second and third opinions. I can never get pregnant.” A sob rose to her lips. “I won’t destroy my family by becoming your mistress.” She wiped her eyes, lifting her chin. “I deserve more than that. And so do you,” she whispered.
He grabbed her shoulders savagely.
“I’ve waited for you for thirteen years. I’m not going to lose you again.” His hands tightened on her painfully. “Even if the whole world goes down in flames for it. I’m not going to let you go.”
She looked up at him, so impossibly beautiful. Unreachable.
Behind her, the bright flowers and garish red-and-gilt of the private room seemed flat, as if covered by dark mist. Outside the mirrored window, the green grass and brown horses and colorful shirts of the jockeys seemed to fade to black as Jasmine pushed away from him coldly, kneeling to pick up her hat and purse from the carpet.
“Marry another,” she said in a low voice, not looking at him. “Be the king you were born to be.”
He stared at her. “Is it so easy for you to thrust me into the arms of another?”
She sucked in her breath. Her eyes were stricken.
“No,” she choked out. “I hate the woman you’ll marry. Whoever she might be.”
“And I’ll hate any man who has you in his bed. Even the friend who saved my life.” He looked down at her, his jaw hard. “You won’t be my mistress. So there is only one answer. You will marry me.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“Marry me. You must be my queen, Jasmine. Only you.”
Her eyes were huge. Then she seemed to shudder, blinking her eyes as if closing a door in her heart.
“It cannot be. You need an heir. If you married me—whatever you might think—you would be forced to abdicate.”
“I have the right to choose my own bride—”
“No,” she cut him off harshly. “You don’t.”
“But Jasmine…” he started, then stopped. He’d offered her everything. His kingdom. His name. He’d offered her everything he had, and she’d refused.
But he hadn’t offered her everything. There was one risk he hadn’t taken.
“But you have to marry me, Jasmine,” he said. “You have to be my wife, because I…” He took a deep breath and looked straight into her eyes. “I love you.”
Her eyes widened. He saw her tremble. Then slowly, ruthlessly, she squared her shoulders.
“Then you’re a fool,” she said evenly. “I pity you with all my heart.”
With a growl, he started toward her. “But you love me,” he said. “Tell the truth. You love me, as I love you!”
She held up her hand.
“The truth is that I want what you cannot give me.” Her voice was cold as ice, like a sharp icicle through his heart. “Marrying Umar might be my only chance to ever have children.” Her eyes narrowed as she delivered the killing blow. “You took away my chance to be a mother, Kareef,” she whispered. “You took away my chance to ever have a child.”
It was his greatest grief. His greatest fear. The guilty thought he’d whispered silently around the desert fire by night. Only this was a thousand times worse, since the accusation fell from the lips of the woman he loved.
His agonized blue eyes were focused on her. He took a single stumbling step backward, bumping a nearby silver champagne bucket on a table. It crashed to the floor in an explosion of ice. The bottle rolled against the wall, scattering ice and champagne across the carpet.
But he didn’t notice. Pain racked his body, ripping him into little pieces more completely and ruthlessly than any sandstorm.
You took away my chance to ever have a child.
Pain and grief poured through him, burning like lava.
She’d told him it had been an accident. She’d told him he was forgiven.
Lies—all lies!
Suddenly, he could not contain the rage and grief inside his own body. Savagely, he turned and smashed a hole in a nearby wall. She flinched back, gasping.
“Teach me how to feel nothing, like you,” he said in a low voice. “I’m tired of having a heart. From the moment I loved you, it has never stopped breaking.”
Walking away from her, he paused in the doorway without looking back. He didn’t want her to see his face. When he spoke, his voice was choked with grief.
“Goodbye, Jasmine,” he said, leaning his head against the door as he closed his eyes. “I wish you a life filled with every happiness.”
And he left her.
CHAPTER TEN
AN HOUR later, Jasmine looked blankly at her own image in the large gilded mirror of the late Mrs. Hajjar’s pink bedroom.
“Oh, my daughter,” her father said tenderly as he pulled the veil over her head. “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”
“So beautiful,” her plump, gray-haired mother agreed, beaming at her. “I’ll go tell them you’re ready.”
Jasmine stared at herself in the mirror. The round window behind her lit up her white veil with afternoon sunlight, leaving her face in shadow. She was having trouble breathing and could barely move, laced into a tight corset, locked into a wide hoop skirt beneath the layers of tulle.
Umar had ordered every component of this gown for her, even her underwear, from a Paris couture house six months before she’d agreed to be his bride. She looked at the mirror. The perfect gilded princess for this garish palace.
She could see the desert through the window behind her. She could almost imagine, in a far distance, a low-slung ranch house of brown wood, with trees and simply tended flowers beside a swimming pool of endless blue, and a loggia where she’d once held the man she loved, naked against her body.