by Annie West
‘Get me the Princess on the phone.’ He spun around. ‘No. Contact her aide and ask for a meeting. I’ll come to her hotel immediately.’
Ashar didn’t move. ‘There’s more.’
‘More? How could there be more? There was nothing else. That—’ he gestured to the photo of him hauling Arden into his arms ‘—is the sum total of what happened.’
His jaw was so rigid it felt as if it might shatter. Self-contempt swamped him.
How often had he told himself he was better than his uncle, the old Sheikh, who’d frittered his time and energy on endless lovers instead of governing? Or Idris’s father, whose philandering destroyed his family and any respect he might have garnered from the people?
Idris had taken pride in devoting himself to his people, putting duty before pleasure. His planned marriage to Ghizlan was for the good of both nations. He’d modelled himself on the one completely honourable man in his family, his grandfather. The old man had been the sole exception in six generations to the rule that men in his family couldn’t love. Idris didn’t expect a miracle—to love one woman all his life like his grandfather had. But he aimed at least to be loyal to his wife. A great start he’d made on that!
‘There’s something you should see before you talk to the Princess.’
Ashar’s expression was as grave as on the day Idris had returned home to find his uncle on his deathbed.
Idris put out his hand for the tablet. ‘Show me.’
Ashar scrolled to another page, then passed it to him, half turning away as he did so.
Idris frowned. It felt almost as if Ashar was trying to give him privacy. The notion was laughable. His aide knew as many diplomatic and royal secrets as he did. More probably.
Then Idris looked down and felt the floor buckle beneath his feet.
Royal Baby Secret. Which Cousin Did Arden Seduce?
This time there were three photos. One of his cousin Hamid entering college with a briefcase in his hand. One of Idris in traditional robes, taken at some public event.
And one of Arden Wills holding a toddler in her arms.
Idris felt his eyes bulge as he took in the details. Arden’s attention was on the child throwing bread to some ducks. A child whose face was golden, in contrast with her ivory and rose features. A child with glossy black hair and dark eyes.
A child with a remarkable resemblance to Idris at that age.
Or his cousin.
Idris tried to read the words beneath the photos but they blurred into lines of swarming black ants. He blinked and ordered himself to focus, but his eyes were drawn to that telling photo. Arden smiling radiantly at a child who, Idris would bet his sword arm, belonged to the royal family of Zahrat.
Sensation bombarded him and he had to brace his feet so as not to collapse back into the leather chair.
How old was the child? He knew nothing of babies. Two? Three?
Could it be his?
Shock scattered his thoughts. He should be planning an appropriate public response, deliberating on the fallout and talking to his almost-fiancée.
Instead he stared at the photo with something like possessiveness.
He was marrying partly to secure an heir but becoming a father was a political necessity, not a heartfelt desire. His own father had been distant and Idris knew little about good father-child relationships. He’d assumed his wife would take the lead in child-rearing.
Yet, looking into the laughing face of a child that might be his, Idris was gripped by a surge of protectiveness he’d never before experienced. This could be his son or daughter. The idea slammed into him like a physical blow, stealing his breath and obliterating any illusion of disinterest.
‘Boy or girl?’
‘A boy. She named him Dawud.’ Not an English name then. There was obvious significance in that.
‘Dawud.’ An unseen cord tugged at his heart, making it thud faster.
Why hadn’t she contacted Idris? Why keep his existence a secret? Anger stirred amidst the glowing embers of softer emotion.
Unless he’s not yours.
Remember Hamid last night, his ‘someone special’. Arden was living under his roof.
Yet if Hamid was the father, why not claim the child as his own? Hamid might have inherited the family practice of sowing his wild oats, but he had a serious side. He wouldn’t shirk responsibility, especially if he cared for Arden as he seemed to.
Idris stared at the photo, trying to read the truth in the curve of the child’s chubby cheek and wide smile.
That was when he realised his hand was shaking. And the feeling snaking through his belly wasn’t mere curiosity but something perilously close to jealousy. At the thought of Hamid and Arden.
Idris dropped the tablet onto the desk and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Did he want the scandal of an illegitimate child? A child whose first, vital years he’d missed?
He’d have to be crazy.
His phone was in his hand before he realised. He called Hamid’s number and looked up, surprised, to see the sun still streaming through the high sash windows. It felt as if time had galloped since Ashar had entered the room.
No answer from Hamid, just the message bank. It took far too long for Idris to remember his cousin mentioning an early flight to an academic conference in Canada. He was probably in the air, absorbed in one of his beloved journal articles.
Idris swung around to Ashar. ‘Anything else?’
Ashar’s lips twitched in what might in another man have edged towards a smile. ‘That’s not enough?’
‘More than enough.’ Scandal in London and no doubt at home, as well as in Ghizlan’s country. A betrothal contract about to be signed, a peace treaty on the table and a child who might be his.
And, simmering beneath it all, the taste he hadn’t been able to banish from his memory. The sweet taste of Arden Wills, sabotaging his ability to concentrate.
‘Get me the Princess’s suite on the line. And send a security detail to my cousin’s house.’
‘To keep the press back? They’ll already be there in droves.’
‘To observe and report back. I want to know what’s going on.’
Whether the child was his cousin’s or his own, Idris had a responsibility to protect mother and child from the notoriously intrusive paparazzi. At least till he sorted out the truth.
‘And find out what time my cousin’s flight touches down in Canada. I want to talk to him as soon as he lands. Get someone to meet the flight.’
* * *
Arden ignored the pounding on the front door, turning up the television so Dawud could hear the music of his favourite children’s programme. He sat enthralled, bouncing while he clapped his hands in time with the music.
When the reporters had descended on the house he’d cried, awakened from his nap by the hubbub of voices and the constant noise of the phone and knocking at the front door. Arden felt wobbly with frustrated outrage because even now they hadn’t left.
She’d been more than reasonable. She’d gone to the door and asked politely for some privacy. She’d given a ‘no comment’ response to their frenzy of questions and faced their clicking cameras, giving them the pictures they wanted.
But it hadn’t been enough. They’d clamoured to see Dawud. They’d even known his name. That was when anger had turned ice-cold, freezing her from the inside out.
She wouldn’t let those vultures near her precious boy. They’d mobbed her, trying to follow her into her basement flat. Terror had grabbed her as she slammed the door shut, her hands slick with sweat.
She’d turned to find Dawud watching, eyes huge and bottom lip trembling, as the noise echoed through their little home.
There had to be a way out of this. Somewhere to escape. But Hamid was overseas a
nd her friends had no more resources than she did. Certainly not enough to spirit her and Dawud away.
A shudder racked her. She needed to find somewhere safe till this died down. How she was going to do that when she was due at work tomorrow she had no idea. Would the reporters hound her at the shop, or mob Dawud’s nursery?
Probably both. Her stomach roiled and nausea stirred.
She’d known she shouldn’t have gone to that embassy reception. Not because she’d suspected for a moment she’d see Shakil... Idris as he now was. But because it was pure weakness to give in to her curiosity about his country. Look where it had got her.
It’s not your fault, it’s his. He was the one who kissed you. He was the one who wouldn’t leave.
Yet, if she were truthful, those moments in his arms had been magic, as if—
A sharp knock sounded on the front door. That was when Arden suddenly realised how quiet it had grown. As if the crowd of reporters had left.
She didn’t believe it for an instant. It was a trick to lure her out, preferably with Dawud.
Arden smiled at her son as he looked up at her, singing the simple lyrics they often sang together. She hunkered down and cuddled him, joining in.
But the rapping on the door started again. Peremptory. Unavoidable.
Kissing Dawud’s head, she got up and walked softly into the tiny entrance hall, closing the door behind her. The letter box flap opened. She hadn’t thought of that. She was just wondering what she could use to stick it closed when she heard a man’s voice. A deep, assured voice that had featured in her dreams far too often in the last four years.
‘Arden. Open the door. I’m here to help.’
Her feet glued to the floor. She was torn between the offer of help and the knowledge that this was the man who’d brought disaster crashing down on them.
And the fact that, despite a sleepless night, she was no closer to knowing if she wanted him in Dawud’s life.
As if you’ve got a choice now.
In the background she heard a rising murmur of voices, presumably from the paparazzi. Yet he didn’t speak again. Perhaps because he was used to minions running to obey his every whim. Yet she understood how much courage it took to stand there alone, with a mob of press recording his every move.
And he’d come to help.
She reached out and unlatched the door, staying behind it as she swung it open just wide enough for him to enter.
Swiftly he bolted the door then turned.
Idris. He was definitely Sheikh Idris now. There was no hint of Shakil, the laughing, passionate lover she’d known in Santorini. This man’s face was a symphony in sombre beauty, lines carving the corners of his mouth, ebony eyebrows straight and serious.
‘You’re all right? Both of you?’
Arden nodded. To her dismay her mouth crumpled. Until now she’d been buoyed by fury and indignation. But one hint of concern and she felt a great shudder pass through her. She hadn’t realised before how her anger had masked terror.
‘Arden.’ He reached out as if to take her arm then stopped. His mouth flattened and he dropped his hand.
‘We’re okay.’ Her voice was husky. She told herself she’d react this way to sympathy from anyone after facing the press onslaught. It had nothing to do with the concern in his dark eyes. Yet that look ignited a new warmth in her frozen body.
Finally her brain engaged and she frowned.
‘You shouldn’t have come. You’ve made it a hundred times worse. What were you thinking?’
His eyebrows rose in astonishment. Clearly he wasn’t used to anyone questioning his actions.
‘It can’t get any worse. Not after the photos they’ve already got.’ He folded his arms over his dark suit, for all the world like a corporate raider contemplating a run on his stocks, not a Middle Eastern potentate. Surely sheikhs wore long robes and headscarves?
‘But now they’ve seen you here they’ll think—’
‘They already know.’ His tone was so grim it made the tiny hairs at her nape stand up. ‘In fact—’ he paused, his voice dropping to a silky, dangerous note that made her think of an unexploded bomb ‘—some would say they know more than I do.’
Arden wanted to say the press didn’t know anything. They assumed. But it was splitting hairs.
‘Couldn’t you have sent someone instead?’ She crossed her arms tight across her chest, where her heart catapulted like a mad thing against her ribs. Grateful as she was for assistance, she refused to feel guilty about what had happened. This wasn’t down to her. He was the one who’d attracted press attention. She was a nonentity.
‘I did send someone. But they reported you were surrounded. Your phone is switched off and I assumed that if a stranger knocked on your door, claiming to represent me, you’d think it was a ruse to get you out to face the cameras.’ Ebony eyes held hers, challenging.
Reluctantly Arden nodded. He was right. She’d never have opened the door to anyone she didn’t know.
‘I had to come. There was no other choice.’
How did he sound so calm when they were in this mess? Arden couldn’t begin to imagine how she and Dawud could go back to their normal, anonymous lives. She wanted to rant, to point the finger of blame at him, but what would that achieve? She had to protect Dawud. There was no time for the luxury of hysteria.
Besides, despite her fine words, she hadn’t been forced into that telltale kiss.
Shame filled her. She’d clung to his broad-shouldered frame, losing herself in his sensuality, in the pull of an attraction that was as powerful as it had always been.
Despite the way he’d abandoned her years ago.
Despite the fact he had a fiancée.
Arden hated herself for that. She should be immune to him now. Her stomach dropped and she stepped away, her back colliding with the wall. Determination filled her. She would not fall under his spell again.
‘What?’ His voice was sharp.
‘Your fiancée.’ The word rasped out, rough-edged.
‘Not my fiancée.’
‘But Hamid said—’
‘Hamid doesn’t know everything.’ That twist of his mobile mouth looked cruel. As if the words he held back would flay someone alive.
Slivers of ice pricked her all over.
In that instant he morphed from saviour to threat.
She’d been almost relieved to see him but suddenly, as if scales fell from her eyes, she saw him not as the man she’d once loved, or as Hamid’s cousin and a potential safe harbour in this press storm, but as an absolute monarch, accustomed to getting whatever he wanted.
Arden licked her lips. ‘What do you want?’
Her gaze flicked to the closed sitting room door before she could stop herself. He noticed. Of course he noticed. How could he not hear the muffled children’s ditty and guess who was in there?
The fact he hadn’t even turned his head towards the other room only scared her more.
Thinking he’d washed his hands of her once their affair was over, even covering his tracks with a false name, she’d believed herself a sole parent in every sense. But Idris was here now, and she realised in dawning horror that she had no idea how he felt about a child. A male child. A child he might consider his heir. A child he might try to take.
Terror dug razored claws into her belly and her stomach cramped so hard she doubled up, gasping. Surely he didn’t plan to steal her baby!
‘Arden? What is it?’ This time he did reach out, long fingers branding her upper arm and sending flames licking through her.
‘Don’t touch me!’ It was a hoarse whisper, the best she could do. But it was enough. He reared back as if scalded.
She straightened, forcing herself to stand tall, jutting her chin to lessen the distance between them.
‘Tell me what you want.’
Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life, letting Dawud’s father into her home? A father who had the power, physically and financially, to take her baby away?
‘Tell me!’ Heat glazed her eyes. If he thought he was taking Dawud from her, he understood nothing about a mother’s love.
Something she couldn’t decipher glowed in those narrowed eyes. ‘I want to get you and your son to safety, where you won’t be bothered by the press. Then, we need to talk.’
Her stomach did that roller coaster dip again. Talk didn’t sound at all appealing.
But she was out of choices. She and Dawud couldn’t stay holed up, hoping the press would leave. They had to go out some time. Idris was her only lifeline. No one else could get them away from the press. She had to trust him, for now at least.
‘Pack what the pair of you will need for a couple of days. There’s a car outside to take you away and one of my men will be posted nearby to make sure none of the paparazzi break in here to get more fodder for a story.’
Arden’s jaw dropped. She hadn’t thought of that. Of some stranger pawing through their belongings, sullying their home.
‘Don’t worry. It won’t happen. I won’t let it.’
Arden snapped her mouth closed, reeling at his absolute conviction. Never in her life had she been able to rely on anyone. Every time she’d begun to trust she’d been let down. Her parents, foster parents, even Hamid, pretending there was more to their friendship than existed.
There was something inherently appealing about Idris’s assurance. Just as well she knew better than to depend on him. But, for the moment, she and Dawud needed help.
‘Give me ten minutes.’ She started down the hall then stopped, hesitating outside the sitting room door.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll wait here.’ It was as if he read her mind, her worry about Dawud.
She hesitated, unable to dismiss the thought of him simply striding in, picking up Dawud and carrying him out of the door.
‘You are both safe with me.’ That deep voice mesmerised—so grave, so measured. She badly wanted to trust him. He took a single step nearer. ‘You have my word, Arden.’
