Читать книгу Modern Romance March 2019 Books 1-4 - Кэтти Уильямс, Julia James, Cathy Williams - Страница 20

THE SUN WAS rising in the dawn sky as Zuhal headed towards the stables next morning. He felt the tension leaching from his body—something he attributed to the amazing sex he’d had with Jazz last night, an erotic encounter which was making him grow hard just thinking about it. Because tension was an integral part of his life now, he recognised. It went hand in hand with the many new challenges facing him as monarch. Yet he found himself relishing those challenges in a way he hadn’t been anticipating, because he had never imagined he would be King. To rule had never been his destiny, but already his people were beginning to accept him, even to warm to him, and he was confident that he would be able to do his best by them.

Wasn’t that the silver lining to the dark cloud which had descended on him when Kamal had disappeared? The realisation that he no longer felt the outsider in the country of his birth?

The distant sky was a flamboyant display of flamingo-pink and orange as he swung himself into the saddle and urged his horse forward. Last night had been pivotal in all kinds of ways. He had spent the evening watching Jazz perform admirably as Queen-in-Waiting and her subsequent sexual capitulation boded well for the future. Surely now there was no further barrier stopping him from making her his bride? No reason for her to keep him dangling while she tantalisingly refused to give him her answer.

His mouth curved into a speculative smile. He remembered the way he had ripped the robes from her body and the way she had moaned as his fingers found her wet heat. Pride was all very well, but sexual satisfaction was a far more powerful motivator. Wouldn’t that fast and furious encounter encourage her to go ahead with the marriage as quickly as possible, so that they could become husband and wife?

He rode for nearly an hour and was galloping back towards the stables when, suddenly, he caught sight of the gleam of blonde hair in the distance. Jazz. He felt his groin tighten as his gaze drank her in. In the light desert breeze, the folds of her robes had moulded themselves to her delectable body and he was reminded of clasping those luscious curves before bringing them both to orgasm. Was she eager for an early replay? he thought with hungry amusement Was that why she was here? Perhaps she wanted him to tumble her onto the stable floor and take her amid all the bales of hay, rutting into her like a stallion?

‘So this time you don’t mind being seen?’ he questioned as he slowed his horse and drew up beside her.

She blinked up at him in alarm. ‘Seen?’

He jumped down onto the dusty ground. ‘Didn’t I once observe you watching me from afar? Standing in a corner of the stables and watching while I took off my clothes?’ Her answering colour told him that her shadowed presence hadn’t been a figment of his overheated imagination and, although she was now glaring at him, he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I rather liked you in the role of voyeur.’

‘I’m not worried!’ she flared back at him, her cheeks still flushed and pink.

‘So why are you here?’ he mused softly. ‘As far as I’m aware, we aren’t supposed to be meeting for another hour and I need to shower first. Unless what happened last night means you’re thinking you might like to join me? I’m quite happy for you to soap me off, my beauty. It’s far too long since we had a shower together.’

Jasmine wished he would stop making sexual allusions every time he opened his mouth because they were drawing her attention to his body, which she’d been trying very hard to forget. But how could she forget when the memory had kept her awake most of the night, as she’d recalled the way he had driven into her. Her cheeks grew hotter as she remembered her eagerness to have sex with him—backed up against one of the palace walls, of all places, with her legs wrapped tightly around his bare back as he had taken her on a quick trip to paradise. What had happened to her determination to keep things on an impartial footing until she had discovered whether she wanted to marry him? It had vanished the moment he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.

‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ she said. ‘Last night shouldn’t have happened.’

His eyes glittered. ‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Quite sure. I’m supposed to be getting to know you,’ she continued. ‘In a rather more formal way than that.’

‘As you wish. I’ve never had to beg a woman for sex before, Jazz—and I’m certainly not going to start now.’

‘It was usually the other way round, was it?’ she queried mischievously.

He gave a brief smile as they began to walk towards the stables, and Jasmine suddenly became aware of a sense of wistfulness as she breathed in a long-forgotten fragrance. ‘I love that smell,’ she said suddenly.

He turned to look at her. ‘What smell?’

‘You know. Horses. Leather. Dust. Sweat. The whole thing. Stables, I guess.’ She gave a sigh, which seemed to bubble up out of nowhere. ‘You’re very lucky to be able to ride out in the desert with no fences or houses or roads to get in the way. You must get a real sense of freedom out here—the kind you don’t really get back in England.’

He narrowed his eyes, as one of the grooms led his horse away. ‘You sound as if you know what you’re talking about.’

‘You seem surprised.’

‘Maybe I am. I thought you were the quintessential city girl. Are you telling me you can ride, Jazz?’

‘Yes, I can ride,’ she said quietly. ‘I used to love all things equestrian until the age of ten. Or did you think I’d always been poor and that riding is a rich person’s sport?’

He lifted his hand by a fraction, but the quirk of his lips indicated a signal of acknowledgement rather than command.

‘So what happened when you were ten?’ he continued curiously as they began to walk back towards the palace.

Jasmine tried to avert her gaze from the thrust of his thighs against his jodhpurs, but it wasn’t easy—particularly when she thought of her fingers roving over their hair-roughened power last night and the memory of what lay at their apex. She cleared her throat. ‘It was a continuation of the fallen-ice-cream episode,’ she said.

‘The fallen ice cream?’ he repeated blankly.

‘You remember. I told you about it in London. When my father left home.’ She gave an impatient shake of her shoulders. ‘Weren’t you listening?’

‘Yes, of course I was listening. Forgive me. I am feeling a little distracted. You can’t blame me for that, in view of what happened between us last night.’ With what looked like an effort, he dragged his gaze from her torso to her face. ‘So what happened—after your father left home?’

He had stopped walking and was looking at her, waiting for her answer.

‘We had to sell the house and the car,’ she explained. ‘And my pony was the first thing to go, obviously.’

‘Why?’

Jasmine felt a flicker of irritation at his incomprehension. Did he really lack the imagination to work it out for himself, or was he just incapable of putting himself into the shoes of a normal person? She stared down at her feet, aware of a fine layer of dust from the yard which was now covering her toes and wishing she’d worn something more substantial than beaded flip-flops.

She lifted her gaze to his. ‘Because as well as making his much younger secretary pregnant and causing a scandal at work, my father had also been living beyond his means—and once it was discovered, everything started to tumble down. The banks needed to be paid and there was no money to pay them. It meant my mum was left with very little. In fact, with almost nothing. We had to start renting a tiny apartment.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘And Mum had to go back out to work—but the only work she could get was cleaning. Overnight she went from being a middle-class wife to what she called a “skivvy” and she never got over it, really. She got ill soon after that. Perhaps the two things were related.’

Zuhal met the sombre expression clouding her green-gold eyes. It must have been tough, he acknowledged, as they resumed their step and the soaring blue cupolas of the palace swam into view. Maybe everyone’s childhood was tough, he concluded grimly as several servants spotted him and lowered their gazes in natural deference. Or maybe it was family life itself which created all the problems. He thought about his own parents. About the so-called ‘love’ which had corrupted the atmosphere with so much poison. His mouth twisted. Who needed it? Surely mutual tolerance and good sex were a better long-term bet than all the chaos wreaked by love?

He observed the glint of sunlight on Jazz’s pale hair and imagined her as a horse-mad young girl. He could picture her in a smart jacket, her hair in a net and a crop in her hand. A bright rosette pinned to her pony as she leaned forward to pat the forelock. It must have hurt to have lost all that, he realised with a sudden flash of insight, which wasn’t usually his thing. Because although he didn’t have quite the same affinity with horses as his brother did—had done—he corrected painfully, he still valued his daily ride above most things.

‘Would you like to ride out with me tomorrow morning?’ he said as she began to move away from him.

She turned back and he could see the uncertainty on her face. ‘I haven’t been on a horse for years,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if I can still do it.’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

‘I don’t know, Zuhal.’

‘Is that a yes?’ he prompted softly, and suddenly it mattered. It mattered a lot.

There was a pause and then she nodded, her blonde ponytail shimmering like the tail of a horse in the early-morning haze as her green eyes met his. ‘It’s a yes. And thank you. But there’s no way I’ll be able to keep up with you. Give me the most gentle horse in your stable and I’ll be happy just trotting around the yard.’

‘You will do no such thing,’ he vowed. ‘You can have my undivided teaching skills, if you like.’ He felt the flicker of a pulse at his temple and the more insistent one which was throbbing deep in his groin. ‘And don’t they say it all comes rushing back, the moment you’re back in the saddle?’

‘I guess they do,’ she said and the smile she gave him lingered long after he had watched her retreating into the palace.

He spent longer in the shower than usual—mainly because his newly ignited sexual hunger refused to be doused, even by the prolonged jets of icy water over his heated skin. He found himself bemused and intrigued by her determination to ignore what had happened last night. Unless her prudishness was all for show and she was planning to seduce him during their ten o’clock appointment in the Damask Room. Yes, that could work. That could work very well. He felt the flicker of a pulse at his temple and ordered Adham to ensure that he was not disturbed for the duration of the meeting, telling him it was possible it might run over.

But his anticipation was dampened the moment Jazz was shown into the room and he saw a new light of purpose glinting from her green-gold eyes. She was wearing a demure cream gown which covered her from head to ankle and his heart sank. Sinking down gracefully into one of the soft chairs, she pressed her knees together and he couldn’t help contrasting her demure image with the wildcat lover who had greedily met his urgent thrusts last night.

‘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?

There was an expression on his chief aide’s face which he’d never seen before—one he couldn’t quite decipher—and Zuhal’s heart gave a lurch of foreboding as he tried to work out exactly what was going on. But then he saw a rare smile break out on Adham’s face as he rushed forward to greet the Sheikh.

‘Your Royal Highness!’ exclaimed the aide, not even waiting until Zuhal had leapt from his horse. ‘I have wondrous news! Your brother is returned. The King is alive!’