Читать книгу Modern Romance March 2019 Books 1-4 - Кэтти Уильямс, Julia James, Cathy Williams - Страница 17

ZUHAL WALKED INTO the lavishly appointed drawing room and suppressed a rising feeling of apprehension as he thought of what lay ahead. Forty-eight hours had passed since he’d arrived here in the palace, with the blonde Englishwoman and her son in tow. A child who was very obviously the fruit of his loins, although nobody had dared comment on that fact to his face. He’d been aware that his courtiers and staff were buzzing with questions they wouldn’t dream of asking their ruler, but he also knew that sooner or later the subject would need to be addressed.

And this morning, he had done just that. He paced the room, the silk of his robes rippling over his bare flesh. His meeting with his closest advisors had concluded there was only one satisfactory way to provide the best possible future for his son.

Zuhal’s throat constricted. His son. The small but sturdy scrap of humanity who bore his genes. He’d thought the disappearance of his elder brother had been the most seismic thing which could happen to him but he had been wrong. Becoming the unexpected ruler of this vast desert kingdom was certainly momentous but the thought of fatherhood was far more significant and he was still processing it.

His jaw tightened. During the flight here he had surreptitiously observed Darius during those moments when Jazz had been sleeping. Registering the coal-black curls and golden dark skin of the baby, he’d felt an unexpected thrill of accomplishment and pride shivering through his veins. He had managed to produce an heir to continue the powerful Al Haidar line, without even trying. And in that moment he had vowed that whatever happened between him and Jazz he would never allow her to remove Darius from the country he would one day rule.

Did she realise that?

He heard the sound of footsteps and looked up. Her footfall was soft on the marble floor and as he saw the pale gleam of her hair in the distance, he felt the instinctive jerk of his groin. He ran his gaze over her as she approached and found himself approving her unfamiliar appearance, thinking how perfect she looked in the part of would-be desert Queen. Surprisingly, she had made no resistance to the assortment of ‘appropriate’ clothes he had insisted on providing for her—as if recognising the need for the kind of high-specification wardrobe required of his fiancée. Her measurements had been dispatched to one of the palace couturiers and an array of soft silken robes in a muted spectrum of colours had been waiting on her arrival in the capital city of Dhamar. With a compliancy he hadn’t been expecting, she had also approved the exquisite garments which had been procured for the infant Prince, despite her own ambitions in that particular area. In fact, the only things she’d brought with her from England were something called a baby monitor, which she had insisted on being installed as soon as they arrived, and a soft toy monkey, with bright eyes.

‘Ah, Jazz,’ he said, as she grew close and he could not help his gaze from drinking her in, as a thirsty man might drink after a long day in the desert. She was wearing a silky gown the colour of a ripe mango, which brought out the golden lights in her unusual eyes. He could see the luscious thrust of her breasts as their curved weight pushed against the fine material and he thought longingly of the way he used to trace patterns on them with his fingertips, before taking her nipple into his mouth and teasing it until she gasped aloud. He felt the rush of lust and it was with an effort that he dragged his eyes away to meet her gaze. ‘I trust you’ve settled in well?’ he questioned benignly. ‘And that your quarters meet with your satisfaction.’

She gave a flicker of a smile. ‘That’s a bit of an understatement. They’re absolutely amazing. I’ve never seen anything quite like them. Not even when I worked at the Granchester.’

Zuhal didn’t like the implication that a hotel—no matter how grand—could possibly be compared to his royal palace, but he made no comment. She would soon learn what were and were not acceptable topics of conversation, but now was not the time for a short lesson in diplomacy! He inclined his head. ‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said. ‘And now, we will feast. I trust you have some appetite tonight, Jazz—for the servants inform me that you have eaten remarkably little since our arrival.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Does that mean I’m still being spied on—despite living in your palace with practically no contact with the outside world?’

‘I prefer to think of it as looking out for your welfare,’ he corrected spikily. ‘So why don’t you sit down over there?’

The sweeping movement of his hand indicated an ornate table which had been laid up in one of the recessed windows overlooking the floodlit rose garden. On golden platters were elaborate displays of glistening fruits and savoury dishes, as well as tall decanters of iced fruit juice. Since he’d dispensed with all his servants, it meant Zuhal now found himself in the highly unusual position of having to serve her with food and drinks himself. And he thought she seemed completely oblivious to the honour he was affording her.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, perching on one of the gilt-edged chairs, before accepting the glass he was offering. ‘Mmm… Delicious,’ she added, as she sipped at the iced pomegranate juice.

He sat down opposite her and spooned some stewed aubergine onto her plate. ‘How is Darius settling in?’ he questioned.

‘Better than I thought he would,’ she said, as she lifted up her fork. ‘Even the change in climate and the fact that we’ve leapt ahead by a few hours doesn’t seem to have perturbed him. He’s just had his bath and I’ve read him a story and now he’s fast asleep. He won’t wake until morning.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Because that’s his routine.’ She hesitated for a moment, as if gauging his interest was genuine, before forging on. ‘It’s a routine I deliberately established, because I knew I’d never get time to get any sewing done otherwise. He’s broken it a few times of course and once, when he was running a temperature, he was awake all night long.’

‘And what was that like?’ he questioned, his curiosity aroused.

‘It was a nightmare,’ she admitted. ‘He screamed from dusk to daybreak. It was…’ she gave a rather helpless shrug ‘…a long night.’

‘I’m sure it was.’ He realised with a start how much she’d had to deal with. That, despite Darius being an easy child, there had been nobody else for her to turn to—and surely that must have been hard, to have done it all on her own. Unexpectedly, he felt the stir of his conscience and suddenly he found himself wanting her to relax. To lose that pinched look which was making her face seem so pale. To become more like the Jazz of old, rather than this new, wary version. With this aim in mind, he coaxed her with food and watched as she tried a thimble-sized glass of Razrastan’s famous lychee dessert wine, and it was with pleasure that he saw some of the tension leave her. ‘Is there anything else you require?’ he questioned solicitously. ‘Anything my staff can help you with?’

Jasmine tried to concentrate on his question, but it wasn’t easy. All she could think about was how frustrating it was to be within touching distance, when they hadn’t actually touched at all. And while she knew this was probably the most sensible outcome—it certainly wasn’t what her body wanted.

She couldn’t seem to stop staring at his olive-dark face, wishing she could tug off that cream headdress and tangle her fingers in the rich blackness of his hair. She could feel her breasts tightening beneath her robe and the insistent tug of desire low in her belly as she surreptitiously ran her gaze over him. Suddenly it seemed like an awfully long time since she’d had sex. Well, it was. Over eighteen months, to be precise—and increasing exposure to the father of her child was reminding her all too vividly that she was a healthy young woman with physical needs of her own.

She found herself wanting to touch him—just as she had done when he had unexpectedly reappeared in her life again and had kissed her so passionately in her run-down little Oxford cottage. Maybe even more, because being with him again reminded her just how much she had always fancied him. And it wasn’t his royal status which set her heart racing, or the fact that he was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. To her he was the man who had awoken her sexuality—the only man she had given her heart and her body to—and a woman never forgot something like that.

This was the man who used to flutter soft kisses over her belly before licking his tongue between the eager parting of her thighs. Who had brought her to orgasm that way, his hungry lips drinking in every shuddered spasm she made. The first time he’d done that she’d been incredibly nervous—self-conscious, even. But Zuhal had taught her that sex was a gift to be enjoyed and there should be no barriers between consenting lovers. He had known her body inside and out, and sometimes, when he’d been deep inside her, it had been difficult to know where he began and she ended.

But she hadn’t been thinking about that when she’d reluctantly agreed to come to Razrastan. She’d been thinking about her son. And now all her guilt about Darius not having had a father figure had been replaced by the fear that she’d walked into some sort of gilded trap. From the moment she’d entered the palace, the glittering walls seemed to enclose her with all their heavily guarded splendour. She’d looked around the vast and ornate citadel, slightly dazed to realise that Zuhal owned everything as far as the eye could see.

But he didn’t own her, and that was what she needed to remember.

He had brought her and Darius here to get them away from a curious press and work out some kind of plan for the future—even though he had given her no indication of what that plan might be. He’d made it clear about the kind of woman he expected to marry and it certainly wasn’t her—not that she’d want to marry such a cold-hearted brute in any case. Surely he wasn’t expecting her to stay here indefinitely, while they lived separate lives?

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.