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 don
e 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 b
e 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?’
The Failed Marriage (Presents Plus) Page 18