The Sheikh’s Secret Baby

by Sharon Kendrick

  She sighed, knowing she was going to have to make an effort. She needed to get on with the father of her child, no matter what happened between the two of them. So she nodded in response to Zuhal’s unusually solicitous questions. ‘There’s nothing more we need,’ she told him. ‘Our rooms couldn’t be any more comfortable and the view over the palace gardens is breathtaking. I had no idea that you could grow so many flowers in such a hot climate.’

  ‘Fortunately, we do have access to water,’ he commented sardonically, a dismissive wave of his hand indicating he was done with horticultural small-talk. ‘And what of the nursemaids who will assist Rania? I trust they also meet with your approval, Jazz.’

  It was a statement rather than a question and Jasmine hesitated, recognising once again that negotiation was better than confrontation. ‘I have no complaints,’ she said. ‘They seem very…capable.’

  ‘They are,’ he agreed. ‘Like Rania, many of them are the daughters of the women who used to care for Kamal and I when we were young.’

  Jasmine nodded, his words reminding her that his upbringing was a million miles away from hers—a young prince surrounded by an army of servants. She realised she’d hardly ever heard him mention his own mother, not even when they’d been at their most intimate—actually, he’d barely mentioned his early years and neither had she. But back then their focus had been solely on pleasure, rather than the exchange of confidences which might have brought them closer as a couple. She met the black burn of his eyes. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that,’ she said hesitantly. ‘You know, there’s no need for a nurse to sit in the same room, watching Darius while he sleeps. I’m sure Rania and I can manage perfectly well on our own.’

  ‘But I want something more for my son than just managing,’ he bit out. ‘Darius will one day be King, and will need to get used to the presence of servants.’

  Jasmine narrowed her eyes. ‘You can’t just come out and say things like that,’ she objected, all thoughts of compromise forgotten. ‘He might want to be a bank manager, living in the English countryside.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, not that. Not ever that. He will be King of Razrastan.’

  ‘And how is that ever going to happen?’ she demanded baldly.

  His lips twisted into an odd kind of smile. ‘I think you know the answer to that, Jazz,’ he said softly. ‘Darius will be my legitimate heir—and in order for that to happen, you must become my wife.’

  A brittle silence entered the atmosphere as Jasmine stared at Zuhal with disbelieving eyes. ‘Become your wife?’ she repeated faintly.

  ‘Surely the idea doesn’t come as a complete shock to you?’ he suggested sardonically. ‘I have spoken with my closest advisors and government this very morning. They think my people will accept you, since you are the mother of my son. And, if the subject is handled with delicacy and tact, see no reason why we shouldn’t marry. In fact, they concluded that marriage is the only appropriate solution to this particular dilemma.’

  ‘Dilemma?’ she echoed, outrage beginning to bubble up inside her. ‘Is that how you see me?’

  ‘Please don’t fixate on the words I’m using but think instead about the meaning of what I’m saying, Jazz,’ he continued remorselessly. ‘I am proposing marriage. I, the Sheikh, am asking you, the commoner, to be my bride. Don’t you realise what a great compliment that is?’

  Jasmine shook her head. It didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like…

  As if Zuhal was being forced into doing something he didn’t want to do. As if he had been backed into a corner with no other way out. And wasn’t that the truth of it? He didn’t love her. He’d never loved her—so what were the chances of having a successful marriage? She thought about her own parents. About her mother’s reaction when the relationship had started to crumble and the desperate way she’d tried to cling on. I don’t want to become like my mother, Jasmine thought suddenly. And I don’t want an uncaring sheikh’s power to diminish me as a person, just because he wants to claim Darius as his rightful heir.

  ‘It’s too early to talk about marriage,’ she said, quickly getting up from the table, unwilling to be subjected to Zuhal’s look of disbelief as she gave him her answer. Resolutely, she walked over to one of the huge windows, glancing up at an indigo sky and thinking how far away the spatter of silver stars looked. ‘Way too early.’

  ‘Your attitude is more than a little insulting, Jazz,’ he said, and she could hear the scrape of his chair and the sound of his footsteps as he walked over to join her. ‘Don’t you realise that most women would be eager to become my Queen?’

  He was standing beside her—so close that they were almost touching. The warmth of his body was almost palpable and his presence was so powerful that Jasmine could scarcely breathe as raw longing clogged in her throat. ‘Maybe they don’t know you as well as I do!’ She turned her head to look at him, detecting a brief flicker of outrage in the inky blaze of his eyes. ‘I think we should take things slowly. I think, right now, that caution is probably the wisest choice.’

  He gave a low laugh, which trickled over her skin like warm honey. ‘Forgive me if I disagree,’ he murmured, ‘but I think a little recklessness might work better in our favour.’

  She saw something in his eyes which was achingly familiar, as was the sudden tension which entered his hard body. And then suddenly Jasmine was in his arms and she never knew which of them instigated it, only that it seemed as inevitable as the rising of the giant moon outside the window, which was bathing them with a strange, silvery light. The Sheikh’s mouth hovered briefly over hers and Jasmine gave a yelp as he brought it down hard to kiss her—before kissing him back with an urgent hunger which seemed to make her world spin. It felt as if she were falling. Or drowning. Drowning in a sweet, molten tide of desire.

  Last time he’d kissed her, she’d felt a certain amount of restraint for all kinds of reasons, but mainly because she’d been concealing the knowledge of her son. Now she was concealing nothing. Not a single thing. She felt naked—despite the flowing material of the robes which covered her. She could feel the shameless spring of his erection pushing hard against her belly and felt the corresponding opening of her thighs as if she were silently girding herself to accommodate him. She heard his soft laugh as he acknowledged her submission, and his arms tightened around her back.

  And Jasmine hugged him back because, oh, how she wanted this.

  Now.

  Here.

  Just like this.

  The real world retreated and all that mattered was the incredible sensation Zuhal was provoking by the tantalising whisper of a fingertip which traced its way down her spine. It was a gesture which felt almost innocent, yet how could it possibly be innocent when her nipples were hardening into tight buds which felt as if they were about to explode? He gave a low laugh of pleasure as he tilted her chin so that she was dazzled by the close-up fire of his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Jazz,’ he said softly. ‘You want me, don’t you? You want me so much, baby. You always did.’

  His mocking smile dared her to deny it, but how could she deny it when it was the truth? When she’d dreamed and fantasised about this in weak moments when her defences had been down. Gazing up into the hectic gleam of his eyes, Jasmine was aware of her almost imperceptible nod of consent and the Sheikh’s low growl of pleasure before he bent his dark head to kiss her again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HIS HUNGRY HANDS were on her breasts, her bottom and her belly as sexual heat ripped through Jasmine like a desert storm. Zuhal’s fingers were moving urgently over her as if he couldn’t wait to reacquaint himself with every inch of quivering flesh. She clung to his shoulders for support as he pulled her closer with a possessive mastery which made her feel weak with desire.

  ‘Zuhal,’ she breathed, the warmth of her breath mingling eagerly with his, the heat in her lower body starting its restless throb.

&
nbsp; He didn’t reply. Not at first. His only response was to deepen the kiss—his tongue exploring her with breathtaking intimacy. Her heart was racing like a piston as her fingers touched the unfamiliar headdress and she gave an impatient little tug to remove it. It slithered redundantly to the marble floor and suddenly his head was bare, just like in the old days. Exultantly, her fingertips explored the thick silk of his hair, before kneading at the base of his neck in a way which made him give an instinctive murmur of appreciation. Her hands moved to his biceps—powerful and supremely strong beneath his desert robes. She began to massage the rippling flesh and felt a familiar tension enter his body as he circled his hips in a way which made her intensely aware of his erection.

  Jasmine closed her eyes as she felt that steely column pressing into her belly, suddenly aware of everything which had happened since they’d last made love. She recognised that her body had done some amazing things during that time. It had grown and given birth to a baby—an accomplishment which seemed both unreal and marvellous. But this was different. This was hunger. Sexual hunger. A raw and primitive need which was fierce and all-consuming. It was eating her up from the inside and igniting a yearning so powerful that she felt almost unable to stand.

  Did Zuhal realise that? Was that why he drew back and stared down at her for a long moment—his eyes glittering like polished jet—before scooping her up into his arms with a moan which called out to her aching heart? When for a moment he seemed like the embodiment of all things alpha as he towered over her, dark and strong and vital as he carried her across the shiny marble floor towards an arched entrance at the far end of the vast chamber, his robes flowing like liquid silk as he walked.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she gasped, as he dipped his head to enter a narrow corridor, whose ceiling gleamed with exquisite inlaid tiles depicting erotic scenes of cavorting lovers.

  ‘Somewhere where we’ll be more comfortable.’

  She looked up into the hectic gleam of his black eyes. ‘Somewhere?’

  ‘My bedroom,’ he clarified unsteadily. ‘It is connected to your apartments through this passageway, which is unseen by anyone else and which only the King is permitted to use. But I grant you my permission to use it any time you wish, Jazz.’

  They emerged into a room which was way more magnificent than the suite which had been assigned to her and Darius, but for once Jasmine wasn’t daunted by the size or splendour of the accommodation. Exquisite furniture and several statues swam in and out of focus, but all she could see was the vast bed, which Zuhal was striding towards.

  Dimly she became aware of him impatiently brushing aside a litter of cushions before laying her down on it, his black gaze raking over her with a look of hungry speculation. Her hands were lying above her head and her legs were splayed out beneath the soft silken robes. And in that moment she felt like a sacrifice about to be offered up to the gods—a feeling which should surely have repelled the modern woman she was—yet the expression on his face spoke to some deep need inside her and she knew there was no power on earth which could have made her resist him.

  ‘Oh, Jazz,’ he groaned as he lay down beside her, his lips at her neck, his practised hand already rucking up the slippery fabric of her gown as his mouth drifted to her ear. ‘You look so beautiful lying there.’

  ‘D-do I?’

  ‘Utterly.’ he husked. ‘Do you know how much I want you?’

  ‘I think…’ She closed her eyes as he began to drift kisses over her neck. ‘I think I can just about work it out.’

  ‘Then double it,’ he growled. ‘Better still, triple it.’

  His hungry words thrilled her—they made her heart race even harder. She remembered the first time he’d taken her to bed, when her heart had swelled up with so much joy. When she’d cried—she wasn’t quite sure why—when he had taken her virginity, and he had dried away her tears with a touch which had seemed almost tender.

  And although some tiny voice in her head was telling her this was different—was urging her to employ caution—Jasmine refused to listen. Because how could she possibly be cautious when Zuhal’s fingers were at her breasts? When they were cupping each swollen mound so that the mango silk appeared bright against his burnished flesh. And now his hand was inching its way up her leg, his featherlight fingertips brushing against the silky flesh of her inner thigh so that goosebumps were flowering beneath his touch. She could feel a syrupy rush soaking her panties and Jasmine closed her eyes before opening them again. ‘Zuhal,’ she said weakly, and just saying his name out loud was making her even more excited.

  ‘Do you like that?’

  ‘You…you know I do,’ she managed to say, but only just—because now he had reached her panties and his finger was tracing a teasing path over the delicate fabric, which stretched tightly over her aching mound. Jasmine swallowed. How could she have forgotten that her body could ever feel like this?

  ‘And this?’ he questioned, almost carelessly.

  She almost shot off the bed as skilfully he targeted her quivering clitoris. ‘Oh, yes,’ she groaned. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much do you like it?’ he murmured.

  ‘A…a lot,’ she breathed.

  ‘Then let’s see if we can do something you like even more, shall we? Any ideas, Jazz?’

  ‘I’ll… I’ll leave those to you,’ she gasped. ‘You were always the one with the ideas.’

  Pushing aside the damp fabric, he began to thrum his finger against her moist flesh and Jazz began to quiver as his hand took on that slick rhythm she hadn’t felt for so long. Already she felt crazily close to coming, knowing that if she let him continue she would succumb to the intense orgasm which was building up inside her. And wasn’t that what she wanted? Wasn’t that all she wanted? A quick, physical release to satisfy her aching body—with no danger of compromising her heart. Fractionally she lifted her hips and squirmed, her silent invitation to continue with his ministrations all too obvious. But Zuhal obviously had other ideas. Pulling his hand away and allowing it to rest indolently against the springy curls of her pubic hair, he pressed his lips into her ear.

  ‘No,’ he breathed hotly. ‘Not like that. Not the first time. I want to feel myself inside you again, Jazz. Deep inside you, where I belong.’

  His erotic words rocked her. They set up an answering clamour in her body which made her long to accommodate him. But even as her trembling thighs were spreading open to welcome him, that cautious voice of earlier was louder now, and less easy to ignore. It was reminding her that his words weren’t true. That this wasn’t the first time. Far from it. She was countless episodes and almost two years away from that initial deflowering, which had taken him by surprise. She was no longer the virgin divorcee he had rapturously introduced to sex. Nor was she the idealistic innocent who believed that just because a man groaned out heartfelt words of desire when he was orgasming inside you, it meant any more than just physical satisfaction. With Zuhal it had only ever been about physical satisfaction. But now there was something else he wanted even more badly. His baby son. Was that what this was all about? Softening her with seduction while he plotted to take what he saw as rightfully his?

  Did he think that if she had sex with him now she would instantly agree to marriage?

  Because that had been part of the trouble before—she’d allowed passion to sweep her away, so that she wasn’t really thinking straight. Was that why she had tolerated her very part-time role as his mistress and been content to live in the shadows of his life? Maybe that was what amazing sex did to you…it robbed you of your strength and logic—and she needed both those things like never before. For her son’s sake, but also for her own.

  Her thoughts blurred as he slipped a finger inside her panties and she knew that if she didn’t stop him soon, she would be past the point of making a rational decision…

  Wriggling free of his intimate caress, she somehow managed to scra
mble off the day-bed, steeling herself against the sight of Zuhal still lying there in his rumpled robes, two high lines of colour flushed across his autocratic cheekbones, his black eyes burning with an expression she couldn’t quite work out.

  ‘Was it something I said?’ he questioned mockingly.

  Flattening her fingers against her heaving breasts, Jasmine struggled to get her breath back. ‘That…that wasn’t supposed to happen!’

  ‘No?’ He raised his black brows. ‘So just what did you think was going to happen when I carried you in here, Jazz? Did you think we were going to have a discussion about world politics, or that I was about to start regaling you with stories of Razrastanian history?’

  She realised that although outwardly he appeared cool and in control, his sarcastic words were underpinned with unmistakable irritation as he folded his arms behind his head to cushion it. She couldn’t blame him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Distractedly, she shook her head. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

  There was a pause as his black eyes bored into her. ‘Why don’t you want to have sex with me, Jazz?’

  She could feel the burn of her cheeks. She shouldn’t have allowed him to bring her in here, putting herself in a situation she couldn’t handle. Because wasn’t the truth that she wanted to go right back over there and have him touch her with all that sweet unerring accuracy again? Didn’t she long to feel him inside her—deep inside her—as he himself had groaned out a few minutes ago?

  But a few moments of pleasure weren’t powerful enough to make her forget why she was here. He’d offered her marriage but she was still unsure of what her answer was going to be. Because surely she could only accept if she felt equipped enough to cope with a loveless union. The last thing she needed was to be blinded by desire. ‘Because sex will just complicate things. Surely you can see that.’