by Penny Jordan
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 be 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.
H
e 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?’
Dazedly, Jasmine listened to his arrogant statement—and didn’t his attitude justify some of the tough decisions she’d been forced to make? She was about to tell him that it was a mistake to call what he had in mind making love and wondering if he would attempt to persuade her otherwise, when a distant sound changed everything. She moved away from him—not so quickly as to arouse suspicion—praying that Darius was only whimpering in some kind of happy little infant dream and would shortly go back to sleep.
But her prayers went unanswered. The whimper became louder. It morphed into a cry and then a protesting yell and she saw Zuhal’s face change. Watched the black eyes narrow as his gaze swept questioningly over her and she quickly stared down at the threadbare rug for fear that he might see the sudden tears welling up in her eyes. She thought about all the things she could say.
She could pretend that it was a peacock, because weren’t they supposed to sound like young babies? Or maybe that was babies younger than Darius which sounded like those squawking birds. And anyway, peacocks lived in the grounds of stately homes, didn’t they? They promenaded elegantly over manicured lawns—their magnificent blue-green plumage wouldn’t dream of gracing the scruffy little garden of a rented cottage just outside Oxford.
‘What was that, Jazz?’ Zuhal questioned ominously.
She knew then that the game was up. That she could attempt evasion to try to deflect his attention and send him on his way by pretending that the baby belonged to someone else and she was just childminding. But she couldn’t. Not really—and not just because the time frame would prove her a liar. No. No matter what had happened in the past or how little Zuhal thought of her now, she was going to have to come clean. And hadn’t she always wanted that anyway, on some subliminal level?
‘What was that, Jazz?’ he repeated, only now a note of something dangerous had been added into the mix to make his voice grow even darker.
Slowly she lifted her gaze to meet the accusation in his eyes and prepared for her whole world to change in the telling of a single sentence. ‘It’s my child. Or rather, our child,’ she said, sucking in a breath of air. ‘You have a son, Zuhal, and his name is Darius.’
Copyright © 2019 by Sharon Kendrick
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THE SHEIKH’S SECRET BABY
by Sharon Kendrick,
available March 2019 wherever
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ISBN-13: 978-1-488-05249-1
THE TRUSTING GAME
First published in 1995
This edition published in 2018
Copyright © 1995 by PENNY JORDAN
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