Читать книгу Modern Romance March 2019 Books 1-4 - Кэтти Уильямс, Julia James, Cathy Williams - Страница 15

‘HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS is waiting for you in the drawing room, mistress.’

Pausing in the middle of unbuckling Darius from a buggy the size of a small car, Jasmine hid her frown as she was met by a nervous-looking Rania. She’d learnt it was pointless to ask the nanny not to call her ‘mistress’, just as she’d learnt she had absolutely no control over the Sheikh’s movements in her life. That he turned up when he felt like it and, of course, could walk right in whenever he wanted to because there was always Rania or a bodyguard to let him in. And because he owned it, of course. She might be the one who was living here, but Zuhal was the one who had paid for the apartment and everything it contained. Sometimes it felt as if he owned her, too.

It wasn’t an ideal situation, because every time he arrived she had to fight an instinctive urge to touch him—and how crazy was that? Just as she had to fight the desire to stare at him and drink in all his power and his hard, masculine beauty—because remembering just how good it felt to be in his arms would do her no favours at all. He flew into London once a week on business and Jasmine tried to make herself scarce whenever he arrived to see his son, although Rania was always on hand to meekly obey his orders. Because pretending they were a happy family was nothing but a mockery of the harsh reality.

And because she didn’t want to get stuck into a doomed pattern of togetherness, which would be shattered when he found himself a royal bride.

But every time Zuhal left, she had to go through the process of eradicating him from her mind, telling herself that meaningless sex with her ex-lover was a bad idea in every respect, no matter how much her body craved it or how fierce the unspoken attraction which always seemed to sizzle between them. She’d had her chance and she’d done the right thing in turning it down. That ship had sailed.

Rania stepped forward. ‘Let me take Darius for you, mistress.’

‘Thanks, Rania—but I’ll do it. I think he’s teething because he was up for most of the night. He was a bit cranky in the clinic this morning, but the nurse said he’s coming on leaps and bounds.’

Nervously, Rania cleared her throat. ‘This is excellent news, mistress, but His Royal Highness will not enjoy being kept waiting.’

‘I’m sure he won’t,’ said Jasmine, a renewed cheerfulness washing over her, despite her lack of sleep. ‘But maybe it will do him good.’

‘You think so?’ A silken voice came filtering through the air and Jasmine felt all the little hairs on the back of her neck prickling in anticipation as Zuhal entered the hallway with noiseless stealth. She could sense his presence with every soft footstep he took towards her and it took a moment for her to compose herself so that her expression would register indifference, rather than desire. She looked up to meet his gleaming eyes as, pausing only to trace the tip of a finger over his son’s soft cheek, he turned to the Razrastanian nanny. ‘Rania, will you mind taking care of Darius so that I can speak to Jazz in private?’

‘Certainly, Your Royal Highness.’

Eagerly, Rania complied, removing Darius from his buggy with the tender efficiency which Jasmine had grown to like and trust—although she didn’t like the way the nanny always deferred to the Sheikh. She looked down at the baby’s black curls with a rush of fierce, maternal love, but her heart sank a little as Zuhal gestured for her to accompany him to the sitting room, where, outside, the spring flowers in the park had given way to the bright blooms of early summer.

‘You didn’t think to warn me that you were coming?’ she said, bending down to unnecessarily straighten a velvet cushion which the cleaner had placed at perfect right angles to the one beside it.

‘Why would I do that?’ he questioned blandly. ‘Unless you were planning to do something which you know would anger me, should I walk in on you unexpectedly. Is that the case, Jazz?’

‘Please don’t talk in riddles, because I haven’t got the energy to work them out, Zuhal,’ she said. ‘Like what?’

‘Like being here with another man,’ he accused, all blandness gone now as a cold note of steel entered his voice.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do.’ He began to pace the room, more agitated than she’d ever seen him. ‘There was a man here yesterday.’

Jasmine narrowed her eyes as memory came flooding back to her. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

‘How do you think I know?’ he demanded. ‘Because my bodyguards informed me!’

‘So you’re having me spied on now, are you?’ she returned. ‘Bad enough you sent someone to investigate the playgroup I decided to join—as if I wasn’t capable of making a judgement about it myself—but now I discover that I’m not even allowed to invite friends back to what is supposed to be my home, without your heavies reporting back to you!’

‘Please don’t be so naive, Jazz,’ he hissed, his pacing footsteps coming to a halt as he turned round to fix her with a blistering stare. ‘My son is currently under your care and naturally my staff keep me informed if anyone unknown to them should visit the apartment. You’re lucky he wasn’t stopped at the door and sent on his way. So I will ask you…who was he?’

For a moment Jasmine was tempted to call his bluff. To tell him that the man in question was her new lover and they’d both been eagerly waiting until the baby was fast asleep so that they could jump into bed together and enjoy a wild night of passion. But there was being independent and there was being downright stupid—and no way was she going to mess with Zuhal, not when he was in this kind of mood. When a dark and dangerous anger was radiating from his powerful body in waves which were almost tangible.

Reluctantly, she shrugged. ‘He’s an Italian waiter I used to know when I was working at the Granchester.’

‘An Italian waiter?’ he repeated, as if she had just told him she’d been entertaining a mass murderer. ‘What the hell was he doing here, Jazz? Practising his silver service technique, or was he teaching you how best they like to kiss in Roma?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ she answered stiffly. ‘He’s actually been getting experience—’

‘What kind of experience?’ he shot back immediately.

‘Work experience—before he goes back to join his father’s restaurant in Lecce—not Rome,’ she completed witheringly. ‘His sister is pregnant and he knew I liked to sew, so he asked if I would design something especially for the new baby which he could take back to Italy with him. Which I have, although it’s not quite finished. Here…’ She slipped from the sitting room to one of the unused bedrooms, which she had turned into a makeshift sewing room, before returning with a tiny, hand-smocked romper suit which she waved in front of him. ‘See for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

As she held up the impossibly small garment, Zuhal felt the tight knot of tension which had been building up inside him dissolve—to be replaced by the instant rush of relief. Had he really imagined Jazz in the arms of another man? But that was the trouble. Of course he had. Many times. Because he was frustrated. Because he felt powerless. Because for once in his life here was a woman refusing to do what he wanted her to do, which was to fall into bed with him. He’d tried telling himself he could understand why she no longer wanted to be his lover and, as the mother of his son, her proud morality should please him. He told himself it was better all round if their relationship entered a new, platonic phase, yet still he couldn’t stop thinking about her—even though logic told him that her chilly refusal to resume her tenure as his lover was only feeding his desire. That same logic had convinced him that sex was the only way to get her out of his system for good—for what woman didn’t lose her allure when a man was repeatedly exposed to her?

And perhaps he was going about it the wrong way.

‘I have seen something like this before,’ he said slowly, his eyes still on the impossibly small garment.

‘Of course you have. Darius has one which is very similar—although his is a different colour. Here I’ve used boats rather than ducklings.’

He nodded. ‘It is an exquisite piece of work,’ he said, his gaze taking in the delicate blue and white embroidery.

She was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for the punchline. ‘And?’

‘And…nothing.’ He shrugged, before producing a smile. ‘You obviously have great talent.’

She shook her head in self-deprecating denial. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘No arguments, Jazz. Why not just accept the compliment in the spirit in which it was intended?’

‘Okay,’ she said cautiously. ‘I will. Thank you.’ Her cheeks a little flushed now, she regarded him warily. ‘So what can I do for you today, Zuhal? Apart from giving you a platform to demonstrate your unreasonable jealousy?’

Trying not to focus on the fecund swell of her breasts, Zuhal attempted to put his jumbled thoughts into some kind of coherent order.

‘There are a couple of things I need to discuss with you.’

‘That’s fine. Discuss away,’ she said. ‘But could you please do it quickly because I’m planning to take a walk in the park while the sun’s still out.’

‘But you’ve only just got back!’

‘Rania will be here while Darius has his nap, so I thought I’d have a bit of a snooze in the fresh air, because your son kept me awake for a lot of the night. Forgive me for having such an outrageous plan for my afternoon—but I wasn’t aware I had to clock in and out every time I left the apartment, although maybe that was stupid of me,’ she added sarcastically. ‘Perhaps the reason you bought the whole penthouse floor of this block was because it resembles a fortress.’

‘You don’t like living here?’ he questioned. ‘This was your favourite out of the shortlist, if you remember?’

Jasmine hesitated because usually he didn’t ask her opinion—riding roughshod over her wishes was much more his style. She knew she really ought to count her blessings now that she had security for her son and no financial worries. But despite these things, she’d quickly found London very different from Oxford—especially when you had a baby in tow. When she’d been working at the Granchester she’d had no responsibilities and her time off had been her own. But not any more. Now she was achingly aware that her baby needed pals his own age, which was why she had joined an infant playgroup—the one Zuhal had insisted on vetting.

Darius loved it when they sang songs and jangled tambourines and she’d met plenty of other young women her age. But they’d all been nannies, not mothers, which had made Jasmine feel even more of an outsider. She’d made friends with a couple of them on a very superficial level, but hadn’t dared ask them back to her home. Because if they saw all this wall-to-wall luxury, wouldn’t they inevitably start asking questions? In fact, hadn’t one of them—Carrie—already tried? Questions Jasmine couldn’t possibly answer because then it would all come tumbling out that she was the one-time mistress of a future king, and mother to his illegitimate heir.

‘It’s very comfortable,’ she said, in careful reply to the Sheikh’s drawled query. ‘But sometimes I get stir-crazy living all the way up here. I mean, I know there’s the balcony to sit on but it’s not quite the same as walking outside. Sometimes I feel…’

‘What?’ he prompted softly.

‘Oh, I don’t know…’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Trapped.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I can understand that. Very well. I will grant you your wish. We will take a walk together.’

Startled, she looked at him. ‘And how’s that supposed to work? I thought we weren’t supposed to be seen together.’

‘Nobody will notice us. We will simply be a couple out walking in the sunshine, one of many such couples. My military training taught me that I can always blend into the background if I try,’ he explained. ‘And my bodyguards have been trained to observe from the shadows.’

Blend in?

Jasmine stared at him. Was he deluded? Dominating the vast sitting room with his powerful presence, his outward appearance wasn’t so very different from the other successful businessmen who frequented this part of the capital. In his exquisitely cut charcoal suit and a silk shirt the colour of buttermilk, he was certainly dressed like your average billionaire. But he was different, no two ways about it. He was a desert sheikh and that affected the way he did things. The way he thought about things. She didn’t particularly want to go for a walk with him yet the alternative was being cooped up inside, with the four walls closing in on them and a sensory overload on both her imagination and her body, so Jasmine nodded her head.

‘Okay,’ she said.

While Zuhal spoke rapidly into his cell phone in his native tongue, she went off to get ready, checking Darius and assuring Rania she wouldn’t be long. Pausing only to pull on a pair of espadrilles and cram a straw hat over her head, she exited her bedroom to find Zuhal waiting for her in the hallway, looking at his golden wristwatch with ill-disguised irritation. He had removed his tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, offering a distracting glimpse of dark chest hair just beneath the pale silk.

Did she imagine his jaw tightening when he caught sight of the summery espadrilles whose matching pink ribbons were criss-crossed over her lower legs like a wannabe gladiator? No, she didn’t think so. She might have been innocent when she met him and been subsequently accused of naivety—but she wasn’t deluded enough to deny the unmistakable sensual charge which entered the atmosphere whenever they were alone together. It was the same sensory overload which made her itch to touch the slashed angles of his darkly handsome face, and to cover his lips with hungry kisses. A response which she tried her best to batten down, usually with remarkably little effect—like today—when the tug of heat low in her belly was inconveniently reminding her how big he used to feel when he was inside her.

But it was strange and curiously satisfying being outside with him as Jasmine realised that fresh air or daylight had never really featured in their relationship. In some ways it had been more of a vampire affair. There had been those badly lit restaurants of their early dates, and afterwards her being smuggled into a borrowed mews house for snatched nights together. But the combination of blue sky and sunshine glittering on the water of the lake was making her feel curiously carefree, in a way she hadn’t been for months. And Zuhal had been right about his bodyguards slipping into the shadows, because even when she looked very hard, she couldn’t see them.

He hadn’t exaggerated about blending in himself, either. Was it the fact that he had removed his tie, or was it just his unusually relaxed stance rather than his regal demeanour, which made him into just a spectacularly handsome man who was taking a summer stroll with his…?

What?

How would she describe her role in the future King’s life? Not his girlfriend, that was for sure. Not even his lover—not any more. And mother of his child made it sound as if they’d been married, which of course they never had been. She bit her lip. She’d never had any status at all, really—which begged the question of why she had tolerated it so happily. Was that because her sexual awakening had been so powerful that it had rocked her world in a way which nothing else had come close to? Because she’d been so totally caught up in this new way of living and feeling—of being somebody’s lover?

Or was it because at the time she’d thought herself in love with him? Crazy, really. How could you be in love with a man who treated you as a convenience—flitting in and out of your life as the mood took him? She hadn’t really known him at all—and, as she was starting to get to know him now, she was seeing a ruthless side which he’d never shown before.

His deep voice broke into her reverie.

‘I thought the whole point of a walk in the sunshine was that it was supposed to be relaxing, but instead you’re looking as if you have all the cares of the world on your shoulders. Relax, Jazz. It’s a beautiful day.’

Jasmine blinked to find the Sheikh’s black gaze trained on her. The edges of his lips were curved into a smile and silently she reproached herself. She had to stop analysing stuff and wishing for things which were never going to happen. Why couldn’t she just live in the moment and enjoy it?

‘You’re right. It is. Gorgeous.’ Tilting her hat back, she breathed in, half closing her eyes until a vaguely familiar tinkle of music made her open them again. There was an ice-cream van in the distance, with a small queue of children forming at the front, and maybe it was the powerful collision between difficult past and difficult present which made something hard and hurtful coil itself around her heart.

‘Jazz? Is something wrong?’

Zuhal’s deep voice snapped her back to reality and she blinked at him, momentarily disconcerted. ‘Why?’

‘You’ve gone pale.’ His voice had become a silken whisper. ‘As pale as milk.’

If she’d been in the apartment she would never have told him, but high up in that expensive citadel, he would never have asked. And maybe that was another thing which being outside did. It freed you from inhibition. It allowed memories to rush back and with them came all the feelings, so that in that moment she was no longer a puzzled new mother, but a bewildered little girl again.

‘There was an ice-cream van outside my house when I was little,’ she said, her voice sounding as if it were coming from a great distance away. ‘I heard the music and went outside to listen—more to drown out the sound of my parents arguing than in any great hope of getting an ice cream.’

‘And did you get one?’

‘Actually, I did.’ She gave a quick smile, because the Sheikh’s calm question meant he was able to slip almost unnoticed into her memory. ‘My father came outside and bought me a cone—the biggest I’d ever seen. A massive thing heaped with pink and white ice-cream with one of those flaky chocolate bars sticking out of the top. I was surprised because he would never normally have done that and it made me wonder why he was there, in the middle of the day, when he should have been at work. He kissed me on top of my head and said goodbye in a funny kind of voice, and I remember watching him walk down the road just as my mother came flying out of the house.’

‘And?’ he prompted, into the silence between them, which was broken only by the far-off sound of children playing.

She shrugged. ‘My mother told me he was leaving. That he had another little girl with someone else—a new daughter he loved much more than me. She said some other stuff, too—stuff I’ve done my best to forget—and then she had a complete meltdown. Actually, so did my ice cream,’ she added flippantly as she stared at the sun-scorched grass, willing her eyes not to fill with tears. ‘Amid all the drama I’d completely forgotten about it and it fell off the cornet and lay on the pavement in a big, creamy puddle.’ It had been the end of her childhood and the beginning of a new and very different phase, where she had become the mother, and her mother, the child.

‘Jazz,’ said Zuhal softly. ‘Are you crying?’

She looked up, surprised by the sudden touch of his fingertips to her face. When had he moved close enough to touch her?

‘No,’ she answered proudly. ‘Crying is a waste of time.’

Was she imagining the gleam of understanding in his black eyes, or was it a case of just seeing what she wanted to see? A pulse began to jump at her temple as he rubbed the pad of his thumb against her chin and that simple brush of skin against hers reminded her all too vividly of the days when their bodies had lain naked together. Jasmine swallowed, praying that he would continue, knowing that if he pulled her into his arms she would not resist. Because didn’t she want that? More than anything? To feel his lips on hers and be locked in his embrace, so she could let his lovemaking melt away all her pain. Wasn’t she sick and tired of the celibate stand-off which had sprung up between them?

The air between them seemed to shift and change. She could feel the sudden tension in her body as he took another step towards her. A flash of hope and longing swept through her as his hawk-like features clicked into focus, when the unexpected sound of her own name made Jasmine jump back in alarm.

‘Jasmine! Hey, Jasmine!’

She turned around to see Carrie, the nosy nanny from the toddler group who today had neither of her twin charges with her. She was wearing cut-off denim hot pants which made the most of what was obviously a spray tan, and a T-shirt bearing the legend Luscious was stretched tightly across her generous chest.

Jasmine shot a swift look at Zuhal but he wasn’t ogling the brunette stunner, unlike just about every other man in the vicinity. Instead, he was regarding Carrie with an expression of cool disdain.

‘Well, hi. Fancy seeing you here,’ said Carrie, looking him up and down, the gleam in her eye suggesting she found his disdainful expression both a turn-on and a challenge. ‘You must be Mr Jasmine?’

‘This is Zuhal,’ said Jasmine quickly, only to see the Sheikh glare at her. ‘We were just—’

‘Leaving,’ said Zuhal firmly, cupping Jasmine’s elbow with the guiding clasp of his palm.

‘Oh.’ Carrie pouted. ‘Must you? I see we’re all childless. Thank. The. Lord. Why don’t we go over to that Pimm’s tent by the bandstand? It’s a perfect day for getting sloshed in the sunshine.’

‘I don’t drink,’ said Zuhal repressively.

Jasmine thought afterwards that it was a pity Carrie took a confident step towards him because her slightly predatory action was misinterpreted as one of aggression by his phalanx of bodyguards, who immediately swarmed from behind various trees, to surround them. Carrie was blinking at them in astonishment and Jasmine noticed that one of the bodyguards was having difficulty averting his gaze from her heaving breasts.

‘Oh, wow,’ breathed Carrie softly. ‘Now I think I’m spoilt for choice!’

The next few minutes passed in a blur. Jasmine was aware of being virtually frogmarched out of the park and back to the apartment, with Zuhal’s angry words ringing in her ears. And all that softness and understanding she’d thought she’d seen in his face had vanished, replaced by a cold censure which made his eyes glint like steel.

‘I cannot believe that you associate with such people!’ he stormed, as the elevator zoomed them up towards the penthouse.

‘I don’t think she meant any harm,’ she defended. ‘She’s just…just a young woman who likes to work hard and play hard.’

‘She is a predator!’ debated Zuhal fiercely. ‘Who dresses like a tramp! And I do not want my son associating with someone like her—that is simply not going to happen. Do you understand, Jazz?’

‘What, are you planning to vet everyone I come in contact with?’

Grimly, he nodded. ‘If I need to, then yes.’

She hated the way he just breezed in and out of her life, making changes as the mood took him, before waltzing back to Razrastan again. He needed to understand that although she was living in one of his properties, she was still a free agent and she would see whoever she wanted to see. But Jasmine clamped her lips shut, telling herself there was no point in discussing it now, not when he was in this kind of mood.

Yet she felt distinctly flat when he delivered her back to the apartment. His rugged features were still dark with rage as he bid her a terse farewell before striding out of the apartment without another word.

She stood in the empty sitting room after he’d gone, looking out as the golden sunlight bounced off the bright green of the treetops, realising how unsatisfactory the situation had become. She wanted him, yes—she had never stopped wanting him, if the truth were known—but for reasons of pride and self-preservation, she was no longer prepared to settle for what little he was prepared to offer her.