by Annie West
She wondered what the law in Za’daq said about custody of a child. Especially a male child. Was Oliver the Sheikh’s heir?
It was no good. She couldn’t sit here, pretending this was some polite catch-up with an old acquaintance. The rising burble of her emotions was too unsettling.
‘Excuse me.’ Tori shot to her feet and paced shakily to the wall of glass. She sensed rather than heard him come up behind her.
‘I realise this is overwhelming.’
Tori nodded. She felt as if she’d stepped into a different reality. One where people came back from the dead and where handsome princes mingled with ordinary people.
‘Imagine how I felt when I discovered you’d survived. And that you’d had my child.’
Ashraf’s voice was low, a caress that tickled her flesh and tightened her nipples. Even after the reality of childbirth and six months of single motherhood, there was something seductively intimate about the way he spoke about her having his baby.
In the window she saw his reflection over her shoulder. His face was sombre, and it struck her for the first time that she wasn’t the only one dealing with shock.
She turned to him. ‘So where does that leave us?’
He didn’t hesitate. ‘I want to see Oliver. As soon as possible.’
Naturally. She looked at her watch. It was getting late. ‘There’s a report I have to complete today. It should only take me another hour.’
Ashraf considered her assessingly. Was he insulted because she didn’t instantly jump to do his bidding? Did royal sheikhs ever have to wait for anything?
But he merely nodded. ‘An hour, then.’
* * *
Two hours later Ashraf paced the sitting room of Tori’s small villa, battling impatience and what felt remarkably like nerves.
After sleeping on their way home from the crèche Oliver, his son, had begun to fidget as soon as they’d entered. Ashraf had been torn between the need to reach for the child and wariness because he knew nothing about babies. Except that they were tiny, fragile and totally foreign to his world.
Oliver—the more he used the name, the more he’d get used to it—made him feel too big and clumsy to be trusted with a fragile new life.
Yet none of that had prevented the immediate visceral connection he’d felt. He’d seen a tiny fist wave, caught the gleam of bright dark eyes, and felt emotion pound through his diaphragm strong as a knockout punch.
His son. His flesh and blood.
He’d missed seeing Tori grow big with his baby. He’d missed six months of his child’s life. Precious months he could never get back. He had so much to catch up on. So much to learn and experience. And to give. Ashraf would ensure Oliver had the things he’d never had. Paternal love. Tenderness. Trust. Encouragement.
Ashraf would be involved in his son’s life. In a positive way.
For a fleeting few seconds it hit him how much his own father had missed by distancing himself from his younger son. By choosing hate and distrust.
But he’d had Ashraf’s other brother, Karim. Not that the old man had loved Karim either. Ashraf doubted their father had been capable of love. But he’d taken an interest, encouraged Karim and crowed over his elder son’s successes.
A high-pitched grizzle cut into Ashraf’s thoughts like an alarm signal resonating through his body. Was something wrong with Oliver?
Fifteen minutes ago Tori had led the way to a small white and yellow room with a cot, a rocking chair and a low bookcase littered with toy animals and little books made of boards. A mat on the floor looked like a farm, with more friendly-faced animals.
Ashraf had never felt so out of place. Especially when Tori had lifted their son high and he’d seen how tiny the mite was without his covering blanket. She’d cast a harried glance at him over her shoulder and suggested he make himself comfortable in the other room while she changed Oliver.
Reluctantly Ashraf had complied. He was curious about the boy but he knew he’d have to give Tori space. He’d thrown a live grenade into her world with his appearance today. He guessed she’d battled traumatic memories since the moment she saw him.
Ashraf frowned. Was it too much to expect her to be pleased to see him? He was used to delighted women...eager women.
For his part, he’d seen her and instantly been swamped with the need for more. The attraction between them might have started as the product of mortal danger, but it was there still, stronger by the moment.
Then he recalled her breathless reaction when he’d held her hand, the tell-tale tremble and the flutter of long lashes over soft blue eyes. She might not have wanted to feel it but she’d been attracted.
He glanced at his watch. How long did it take to change a nappy? They had things to discuss. He wanted to know his son. He’d allowed her time, even permitted her to stay at work and finish off the project she was so worried about. As if he, Ashraf al Rashid, was of negligible importance.
Ashraf strode down the corridor, knocked once and stepped into the nursery.
Wide eyes brilliant as starlight met his. Then he took in the rest of the scene. Tori in the rocking chair, the baby in her arms. His throat thickened. Her blouse was undone, hanging wide open on one side. A tiny dark head nuzzled at her bare breast.
Ashraf’s gaze focused on the voluptuous curve of that breast, on his son’s tiny starfish hand patting Tori’s alabaster flesh, and heat drenched him from head to toe. The heat of arousal, fierce and primal. A surge of lust erupting with dizzying intensity.
Breastfeeding wasn’t something he’d ever thought about. If he had it wouldn’t have been in terms of eroticism. Yet, watching the woman he’d made pregnant feed his son, Ashraf had never felt such hungry possessiveness.
‘We won’t be long.’ Tori’s voice was husky as she twitched her blouse across to cover herself.
Ashraf nodded.
‘He’s almost finished.’ She looked down, her gaze softening instantaneously on her baby.
Ashraf realised that for all the experience he’d gained in the royal court, in the rigours of army life and in the deliberate hedonism of his globetrotting playboy years, he’d never come across anything as real and fundamental as this.
His son.
His woman.
There wasn’t even astonishment. Just calm acceptance. Ashraf hadn’t got as far as considering a future wife. He’d been too busy cementing his role in a country that had never expected or wanted the younger, scandalous royal son to inherit.
Besides, this wasn’t a matter of logic, but instinct.
He smiled as a glow of satisfaction spread out from his belly.
Tentatively Tori smiled back.
Ashraf felt that smile in places he couldn’t even name. He’d never seen her smile before—not properly. He wanted to see her grin, he realised. Hear her laugh. Watch her as their bodies joined and she lost herself to ecstasy. In broad daylight. Not in the murky darkness of a desperate hovel that smelled of terror and pain.
‘Ashraf...?’ She frowned.
Was she picking up on the anger that simmered in his blood at the memory of what she’d suffered? Or was she frowning from embarrassment at him seeing her feed their child?
He smoothed his expression and leaned against the doorjamb, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. Tori needed to get used to him being around.
‘It’s okay. There’s no rush. Let him feed.’
Whether it was coincidence, or the sound of his voice, Oliver chose that moment to stop feeding. Ashraf saw a glazed pink nipple before Tori quickly drew her blouse further across. A tiny head turned, dark eyes meeting his.
Ashraf crossed the room in a couple of strides. Oliver tracked the movement. Was that usual for a six-month-old? Or was his son inordinately clever? It was nonsense to think he sensed the link between them. Of course it was.
‘Wou
ld you like to hold him?’ Tori’s voice was different, as if she couldn’t catch her breath.
‘Show me how.’
She demonstrated, supporting the baby and then lifting Oliver up to her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. ‘When he’s hungry sometimes he gulps down air as well as milk. This helps.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be breastfeeding when you’re working.’
Not that he knew a thing about it. Just that he’d been rooted to the spot by the sight of Tori nursing his child.
‘I express milk for him to drink when I’m at work.’
Her cheeks grew pink and Ash stifled the urge to ask exactly what that meant. Time enough later.
‘Here.’
She lifted Oliver towards him and suddenly, looking down at the tiny form, Ashraf wasn’t so sure about holding him.
* * *
Tori read Ashraf’s uncertainty and bit back a smile. It was the first time she’d seen him anything but confident. Even facing execution he’d been resolute. And there’d been no mistaking his eagerness when he’d seen Oliver.
That had simultaneously reassured and worried her. She had yet to discover what he intended to do about their son.
Now she read consternation in his bold features as well as...hunger? Her amusement died. Why should their son be any less of a wonder to Ashraf than he was to her? Gently she placed the baby in his arms, holding on longer than necessary while he grew familiar with Oliver’s weight.
‘Gah,’ Oliver said, looking up into the dark, serious face above him. ‘Gah-gah.’
‘Hello to you too, Oliver Ashal.’
Ashraf’s voice held a rough gravelly note that made her insides flutter. When he switched to husky Arabic Tori sank back in the rocker, spellbound by both the lilting sound and the sight of the two males staring into each other’s faces.
Ashraf stood stiffly, as if wary of dropping his burden. But gradually he shifted Oliver into a more comfortable hold and Tori’s chest squeezed at the contrast between the powerful man and the tiny child. The sight of them tugged at some primitive maternal instinct.
But there was more. Something to do with her feelings for Ashraf. Something that had been there from the start and which, remarkably, was growing stronger.
Tori looked away and focused on doing up her bra and shirt. There was a lot to discuss. Ashraf’s appearance from the dead changed so much.
She glanced towards him, her busy hands stilling. Ashraf had Oliver tucked close, as if he’d held him since the day he was born, and the smile he gave his son made Tori’s heart wobble. It was radiant.
It made her voice what she’d avoided till now. ‘What do you want, Ashraf?’
‘Want?’
‘From me—us?’
‘To be a father to my son.’
‘It will take some planning since we live in Australia.’ Caution told her not to push this now. But she was on tenterhooks. She needed to know his expectations.
Dark eyes meshed with hers. ‘But you don’t need to. You could live in Za’daq. Marry me and give our son the life he deserves.’
CHAPTER FIVE
ASHRAF LAY ON his back, staring through the gloom at the bedroom ceiling, and berated himself for his impatience. Being Sheikh often meant holding his tongue and waiting for the right moment to act, persuading people to accept his plans rather than forcing them to follow. Especially since in Za’daq his reputation as both a profligate playboy and his father’s all but ignored son meant he battled prejudice and mistrust.
He was used to that. Was used to exerting patience as well as an iron will that stopped his father’s old cronies from undermining him too blatantly.
But when Tori had asked what he wanted he hadn’t been his usual composed self. He’d been holding his child in his arms for the first time, had felt the uprush of an emotion that nothing had prepared him for. In that moment he’d wanted never to let Oliver go. To ensure his life was better than Ashraf’s had been.
Plus there’d been the sight of Tori in her plain white blouse, the buttons done up askew in her haste, tendrils of moonlight-pale hair drifting loose to frame her beguiling face. His heart had whacked his ribs in a rhythm of need, want and determination.
He’d realised his error in the split second it had taken her expression to close at the idea of marriage and Za’daq.
Now, here he lay, sleepless, seeking the winning argument to overcome her doubts and persuade her to accept what he offered. What was clearly best for their son.
Tori’s refusal was a salutary lesson against complacency. He was accustomed to eager women, not women regarding him with suspicion. She probably thought marriage to a sheikh meant she’d be walled up in an old-fashioned harem.
His mouth rucked up at one side. The idea had some appeal. Tori available at his beck and call, reclining with an inviting smile on silk sheets... Heat threaded through his veins and gathered in his groin.
He shifted restlessly. Right now he could be lying in a king-sized bed in the exclusive suite that took up the top floor of Perth’s most prestigious hotel. Instead he lay on the carpeted floor of Oliver’s room.
Ashraf grunted and rolled onto his side. It was his fault for not treading carefully. For spooking Tori with his abrupt announcement. They’d discussed the matter through the dinner he’d had delivered to her home, and afterwards. But despite her attempt to appear calm he’d read her tension, and the fear he’d done his best to diffuse.
Finally, seeing tiredness in her slumping shoulders, he’d insisted she sleep. But he hadn’t been able to leave for his luxury accommodation. It was too soon. He’d just found Oliver, and Tori, and something inside had screeched a protest at the idea of leaving them.
So he’d suggested sleeping on the sofa and Tori had eventually agreed, perhaps because she’d realised she hadn’t a hope of shifting him. Apparently Oliver was teething—something Ashraf hadn’t even known was a thing—and Tori had admitted broken sleep was taking its toll.
Another reason for him to remain. Tori’s refusal to accept the logic of his plan was a nuisance, but seeing her exhausted had made him protective.
As soon as she’d checked on Oliver and gone to her own room Ashraf had taken the bedding she’d put on the too-short sofa and spread it on the floor beside the cot. He’d slept in worse places on army manoeuvres. Besides, this might remind him to think before he spoke.
A cry sounded from the cot and Ashraf shot to his feet. Flicking on the lamp, he peered down to find Oliver’s face screwed up and turning red.
Ashraf slipped his hand beneath his squirming son and lifted him to his chest. The baby felt almost familiar this time, his nestling warmth both comforting and a reminder of how scarily fragile he was.
Ashraf inhaled the smell of talc and baby that in a few short hours had become so satisfying. He stilled his thoughts, focusing on the moment. On the wonder of his child, flesh of his flesh. The promise of a fulfilling long life ahead. A life Ashraf was determined to share.
A couple of hours earlier he’d persuaded Oliver back to sleep with gentle words, rocking and a pain-relieving gel rubbed onto his gums. This time he suspected Oliver wouldn’t be so easily settled.
Ashraf paced the room, gentling the fractious baby, murmuring soothing words in his own tongue. He wanted to win Tori a little more sleep. The sight of the smudges of tiredness beneath her eyes had made him feel wrong-footed, steaming in and demanding she upend her life to move to Za’daq.
Except that Tori marrying him, creating a family for Oliver and allowing their child to grow up in the country he’d one day rule, was the most important thing. Ashraf’s experience as an unwanted child, ostracised by his own father, made him determined to ensure Oliver belonged. That he was accepted and given every opportunity to shine.
He’d do whatever it took to persuade Tori, for Oliver’s sake.
* * *
Tori opened the door and felt her jaw drop. She’d been barely thinking as she’d pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed, blearily acting on instinct when she’d heard Oliver cry. Now she was fully awake, and staring.
Ash... Ashraf...filled the room, tall, athletically built and almost naked. His wide shoulders and bare back gleamed, a symphony of muscle overlaid with burnished satin skin. Tori’s throat closed as her gaze tracked his spine, moved down long, powerful legs, then up to navy underwear that clung to rounded buttocks. Near his feet lay the pillow and bedding she’d put on the sofa.
He’d slept on Oliver’s floor.
The idea stunned her as much as the sight of Ashraf, overwhelmingly virile and masculine, in her private space.
Then there was the way he rocked from side to side, cradling Oliver against his shoulder. Ashraf’s voice was a soft, deep hum as he sang a lullaby in a language she didn’t understand. It didn’t seem to be working on Oliver, who still fretted. But it worked on her. Tori swayed and reached for the doorjamb to prop herself up, her insides turning to mush at the combination of supercharged sexy male and breath-stealing tenderness.
For a dangerous moment she let herself imagine what it would be like if they were a real family—not as Ashraf suggested, for convenience, but because they loved—
No. She wasn’t going there. She’d got this far as a single mother and knew she could manage it. Dreams were all well and good but she couldn’t confuse them with reality.
‘I think you’d better give him to me.’
Ashraf swung round and Tori was hit by another pulse of—okay, she’d admit it—arousal. He was a truly magnificent man, and the sight of her little son secure against that broad bare chest sent emotion curvetting through her.
Tori blamed overactive hormones. And weariness. But then she read Ashraf’s expression and thoughts of herself faded. In those strong features and glittering eyes was a reflection of her own feelings when she surveyed Oliver. Wonder, love and protectiveness.
