The Sheikh’s Secret Baby

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘I’d like to discuss bringing the high chair into the dining room,’ she began, without any kind of fanfare.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I think it’s best if we make some attempt to live as a normal family, even if these surroundings are far from normal, and neither is our situation. But I think it would benefit Darius if he joined us at lunchtime. That’s all.’

  Zuhal frowned. ‘Have you forgotten that we often have international delegations with officials present during lunch?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, I haven’t forgotten. But it will do them good to see the powerful King living as other men do. It would make you seem more…approachable.’

  ‘You think I’m unapproachable?’ he demanded.

  She hesitated. ‘I think as King you’re still an unknown factor and interacting with your son will show people a softer side of you. Can you see any reason why we shouldn’t give it a trial run, Zuhal?’

  He met the determination in her eyes and felt a smile begin to build. ‘I guess not,’ he said, as grudging admiration for her sheer tenacity washed over him.

  Then followed a debate about the installation of a small sandpit—‘It’s not as if we’re short of the raw material, Zuhal!’—and before he knew it the half-hour was up. The meeting had not gone as he had hoped and yet, for some reason, he found himself whistling softly underneath his breath as he went off to his next appointment.

  Next morning she joined him at the stables and he discovered that she was a good rider who possessed a natural affinity with the horse he had chosen especially for her. At first their routes were slow and unambitious—rarely venturing too far from the palace, until Zuhal was confident that Jazz herself was at ease. He watched her walk and canter and gallop with a growing feeling of satisfaction. He observed her increasing confidence as she and the horse became better acquainted before increasing the scope of their rides by taking her a little further into the desert.

  And the stream of questions she’d implied she’d wanted the answers to had somehow failed to materialise. Maybe the sheer physicality of riding demanded all her attention, or maybe she was cleverer than he’d given her credit for by not pushing him into a corner. Her occasional queries were light—like butterflies dropping onto a blossom rather than rocks falling into a well. They seemed to encourage confidences rather than making him clam up, as had happened so often in the past whenever women had tried to delve beneath the surface. Once or twice, he found himself offering an opinion which hadn’t been asked for. Like the time he’d admitted missing the banter and friendly rivalry he’d shared with his brother. Or confessing that being a ruler was harder than he’d envisaged and perhaps he had judged Kamal too harshly—something which troubled him now. He didn’t tell her that for the first time ever he felt as if his life had true meaning. That he was no longer just the royal ‘spare’, and as ruler he found he had the power to make a difference.

  But after an entire fortnight of uneventful rides, Zuhal had decided that enough was enough. He wanted her in his arms again and her body language was sending out a silent message that she wanted him just as much. This celibate existence had gone on long enough. He would put her in a position where she couldn’t distract herself with horses or babies and this time demand she marry him!

  The ride they embarked on the following day was their most ambitious yet and for most of it he rode beside her, his headdress streaming in the wind as they tracked the golden sands in silence, the pounding of hooves and the snort of the horses the only sounds to be heard.

  ‘Look over there,’ he said after a while, slowing down to point into the distance. ‘See anything?’

  Screwing up her eyes, Jasmine noticed a tiny dot on the horizon which was growing bigger as they rode towards it, until she saw the outline of a large tent with a conical roof. Nearby was an unexpected copse of trees and a group of smaller tents. In the shade of the trees they dismounted and Zuhal tethered the horses before two male servants appeared from one of the smaller tents, bringing bowls of water for the animals to drink.

  ‘Is this what you call an oasis?’

  ‘Ten out of ten, Jazz,’ he murmured.

  He motioned for her to follow him into the cool interior of the largest tent, which stood some distance away. Dipping her head to enter, she gave an audible gasp as she gazed around the deceptively vast interior where intricate bronze lamps hung from the ceiling and silken rugs were scattered over the floor. A large day-bed of silver brocade stood beside an exquisitely carved table, on which reposed tiny glasses studded with the rainbow colours of what looked like real jewels.

  ‘Oh, Zuhal—it’s beautiful,’ she breathed, unable to conceal her wonder or her delight. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful.’

  ‘Not even at the Granchester Hotel,’ he questioned sarcastically.

  A smile played at the edges of her lips. ‘Not even there!’

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Please, sit,’ he said formally.

  A little saddle-sore after the long ride, Jasmine obeyed, sinking into the heap of cushions he was indicating, while Zuhal called out something in his own language before lowering himself down beside her.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked, as one of the servants appeared at the door of the tent, bearing a large stone jug and dispensing cool liquid into two tiny jewelled glasses.

  ‘It is my refuge,’ he said slowly, once the servant had left. ‘It was my brother’s refuge too, and our father’s before him. It is traditionally the place where kings have come to escape from the pressures of court and palace life.’

  Jasmine nodded as she took a sip of the refreshing drink. She had been treading on eggshells for days, afraid of driving him away with her curiosity and trying to establish some kind of trust between them, but something told her that now was the time to dig a little deeper. ‘What was it like?’ she asked, putting her glass down and leaning back against the soft nest of cushions.

  ‘What?’ he queried obliquely.

  ‘Growing up in a palace.’

  ‘You’ve experienced something of that yourself,’ he answered carelessly. ‘You will have noted the presence of servants. Of days which are governed by form and by structure. Of the innate need for formality—despite your single-handed mission to disrupt that formality by having our son eat his lunch with us.’

  Jazz felt an inner glow because it was the first time he’d ever said our son. ‘You can’t deny that he’s been very well behaved!’ she defended.

  ‘No, I cannot deny that,’ he agreed gravely.

  There was a pause before, encouraged by his relaxed demeanour, she asked a little more. ‘So how did being a royal impact on your family, when you were a child?’

  He shrugged. ‘I never knew anything different. My blood is blue on both sides. My father came from a long line of desert kings and my mother was a princess from the neighbouring country of Israqan.’

  Her voice was cautious. ‘So was it an arranged marriage?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. It was not,’ he answered repressively. ‘If it had been there might have been a chance it might have worked. As it was, they met at the Razrastanian embassy in New York and fell in love.’

  Jasmine registered the unmistakable contempt which had coloured those last three words. ‘And was that so bad?’

  ‘It was disastrous,’ he said, his lips twisting with derision. ‘Experience has taught me that love is nothing but an illusion which justifies desire and such…passion cannot possibly be sustained. At first it is an explosion—but explosions inevitably destroy whatever is around them. And then there is drama. Endless drama—with scenes and fights and tears. How I hate drama,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘And is that what happened—to your parents?’

  ‘That is exactly what happened.’ His black eyes glittered. ‘It quickly burnt itself out
and all that was left were two people who were essentially incompatible and who hated one another.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she offered, pausing for a moment before asking, ‘So how did they deal with it?’

  Again, he shrugged. ‘My father sought comfort elsewhere and my mother threw all her energies into preparing my brother for his accession to the throne, in order to make him the finest ruler this land has ever known.’

  ‘Did she indulge him?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘You could say that.’ He took a last mouthful of juice before putting the jewelled beaker down. ‘He grew up feeling he was capable of anything. That he was indestructible.’

  ‘And where did you come in all this?’ she questioned suddenly. ‘Where did you fit in, Zuhal?’

  Zuhal’s eyes narrowed. Perceptive of her. But also perhaps a little too close to the bone. He prepared to bat away her question with flippancy before something stopped him and he frowned as he became aware that he had never admitted this to anyone. He’d never really been in a position to before, because he hadn’t seen the point in confiding in any of his lovers, knowing that to do so would have been a potential security breach.

  Yet suddenly the desire to connect was stronger than his innate desire to conceal. Was that because, as his potential wife, Jazz needed to know what kind of man he really was—so she didn’t foster any unrealistic fantasies which could never be met? ‘I didn’t fit in anywhere,’ he grated. ‘Not then. I was the forgotten son. The invisible son. There’s no need to look so shocked, Jazz. Don’t they say every mother has her favourite? Well, it wasn’t me. But I was well fed and well cared for and that was enough.’ He saw the pain in her eyes and reached out to tilt her chin with his finger. ‘Have I told you enough for one day? Don’t you find the discussion of dysfunction a little…tedious? Surely you can think of a more pleasurable way of passing the time other than talking about a past which is lost to us for ever?’

  The air between them thrummed. The breath left her lungs. Glancing up into the inky gleam of his eyes, Jasmine felt an erratic quickening of her pulse. She wanted to know more but she sensed that now was not the time, just as she sensed that Zuhal needed her now in a way he hadn’t needed her before.

  ‘I can think of several things,’ she said huskily. ‘It depends which one you’re referring to.’

  ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’ He sprung to his feet to close the tent flaps, so that the interior instantly grew dim and mysterious. Now the cavernous space was lit only by the silvery brocade of the day-bed, the silky colours of the rugs and the bright sheen of metal lamps as he returned to join her on the floor and pulled her into his arms again. ‘This,’ he breathed. ‘I’m talking about this.’

  Jasmine knew he was going to kiss her but underpinning her desire was an overwhelming rush of emotion as he put his arms around her, as she thought about the little boy who nobody had wanted. But then he sank her into the soft cushions and her thoughts were forgotten as their mouths met in a hard and hungry kiss which left them gasping for oxygen.

  His fingers were unsteady as he unbuttoned her shirt and tugged it from her shoulders, so that she was lying there in just her jodhpurs, riding boots and a black lacy bra. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured.

  ‘Do you—?’

  ‘No. No more words, Jazz,’ he said, with a shake of his head as he bent to pull off her riding boots. The jodhpurs were next to go, each movement a sensual torture as he slowly stroked them down her thighs, his fingers whispering tantalisingly over the black lace wisp of her panties. She gasped as he unclipped her straining bra, so that her breasts spilled out—one nipple finding itself positioned perfectly for his waiting lips to suck on.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped.

  ‘I thought I said no words.’

  ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

  His eyes swept over her, as he swiftly removed his own clothes before taking her hand in his. ‘Is this what you want?’ he questioned, directing her fingertips to his groin. ‘I think it is. It’s certainly what I want.’

  And Jasmine needed no further guidance as she wrapped her trembling fingers around his mighty shaft, enjoying the sound of his murmured pleasure as she began to slide them up and down the silken skin. Lying down beside her, he kissed her until she was quivering—touching every inch of her with a taunting skill, until she was making strangled little pleas. At last he positioned himself over her and she could feel the heaviness of his body and the hard brush of his erection between her thighs. And then he gave one hard, long thrust, to tunnel up deep inside her—and as he did so, another rush of emotion threatened to overwhelm her. Closing her eyes, Jasmine sank her lips against his sweat-sheened shoulder. Because this wasn’t some wham-bam bout up against the wall. This was heart-stoppingly intimate and terrifying in its implications. And only Zuhal could make her feel like this. Respond like this.

  ‘Zuhal,’ she said brokenly, but maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he was so intent on giving her pleasure that he was oblivious to her turbulent feelings—or maybe he just preferred to ignore them. And then everything was forgotten as her body began to spasm helplessly around him.

  She was dimly aware of the choked cry he gave as her back arched and the spurting rush as he filled her with his seed. When the world came back into focus at last, it was for her to find his dark head resting on her breast, one bent arm around her neck, his breath warm against her damp skin. And wasn’t it infuriating how stupidly mushy she felt? Wasn’t she in danger of falling for him all over again, despite his emotional distance and his obvious mistrust of anything to do with love? But then something occurred to her—something which drove all these thoughts clean from her mind.

  ‘That’s the second time we’ve omitted to use any protection,’ she said.

  He stirred and yawned. ‘Doing it with you as nature intended just seems to come naturally to me,’ he admitted. ‘Do you mind?’

  Jasmine hesitated, aware that something had shifted and changed between them. Say it, she urged herself. Don’t expect him to guess what you’re thinking and then be angry when he gets it wrong. ‘I think it’s better if we decide if and when to have another baby,’ she said carefully. ‘Rather than just leaving it to chance.’

  ‘Do you want another baby, Jazz?’

  There was a long segment of silence. ‘If we’re to be married, then yes, I think I do,’ she answered eventually.

  ‘You mean the marriage you’ve been dragging your feet about?’

  She didn’t deny his accusation, just shifted her weight a little as she looked up into his eyes. ‘Because up until now, we’ve seemed more like strangers than anything else.’

  His black gaze burned into her. ‘But now we’re no longer “strangers”—you’re happy for it to go ahead?’

  Happy? It seemed a strange word to use in the circumstances. It felt a long time since she’d experienced that particular emotion. When she’d found herself alone and pregnant, it had been independence which Jasmine had strived for and, against all the odds, she had achieved it. Even though it had been a bit of a struggle, she had forged a decent life for herself and Darius. She had been her own woman—in charge of her own destiny—and she recognised that her growing feelings for Zuhal threatened to destabilise everything she had achieved.

  She met the dark gleam of his eyes. Yet today he had shown a chink in his armour and a vulnerability she hadn’t expected. He’d described the awful atmosphere in the palace when he’d been growing up. He’d described how his parents had made a mockery of love and how he despised and mistrusted the word and all it stood for as a consequence. She got that. But she could show him by example that it didn’t need to be like that, couldn’t she? She loved Darius and maybe Zuhal would come to realise that love wasn’t always a dirty word. And if that happened, then couldn’t they learn to love each other—or was that a wish too far?

  ‘Yes,’
she said gravely. ‘I am. And I’m prepared to give our marriage my very best shot.’

  ‘Good.’ He inclined his dark head. ‘Then it is agreed. We will wed as soon as possible. We will become husband and wife and have shared goals for a stable future, not just for the monarchy, but for Darius—and for any brothers and sisters he may have.’

  She thought how business-like they both sounded—as if they were dealing with a business merger rather than a relationship. But his mouth was soft as he reached out for her and most of her misgivings melted away beneath the sensual onslaught of another heady kiss.

  She kissed him back with a fervour which matched his own and his face was tight as he lifted her up and brought her down onto his aching shaft, groaning as she began to ride him. And suddenly it was all happening so fast. Indecently fast. She felt that first sweet clench which began to dominate her world as she began to come, aware that he was watching her closely. His fingers were tight on her breasts as her back arched and she threw her head back with a fierce shout which was quickly echoed by his own.

  Afterwards they lay there very quietly, and it was with a beat of something which felt like hope for the future that Jasmine agreed to Zuhal’s suggestion that they head back to the palace. With a sense of torpor, they dressed and drank some juice before going back outside, where the rested horses seemed infected by their laziness, making the return ride slow and leisurely.

  Zuhal wasn’t quite sure at which point he noticed that something was different. Was it the barely perceptible flash from one of the palace windows, as if someone was looking out for them, which made his body grow tense? Or was it just the sight of three of his aides waiting for them in the stable yard—Adham among them, which was highly unusual?