The Sheikh's Secret Baby. Sharon Kendrick

      ‘Good heavens, Zuhal,’ she said, in a voice which sounded strangely calm. ‘This is a…surprise.’

      Zuhal frowned, irritation dwarfing the anticipation which was shafting through him. It wasn’t the greeting he had been expecting. Surely she should have been rapturously hurling herself into his arms by now? Even if she had decided to act out a little game-playing resistance for the sake of her pride, he still would have expected to see her eyes darkening with desire, or the parting of those rosy lips in unconscious invitation.

      But no. Instead of desire he saw wariness and something else. Something he didn’t recognise. Just as he didn’t recognise the woman who stood before him. He remembered Jazz Jones as being a bit of a fashion queen. Someone who was always beautifully turned out—even if she’d made most of her clothes herself because her budget had been tight. But she had always had a definite style about her—it had been one of the things which had first drawn him to her, and presumably why the Granchester Hotel had employed her as manager in its sleek London boutique.

      He remembered her honey-coloured hair swinging to her chin, not grown out and tied back into a functional plait, which hung down the back of a plain jumper, which inexplicably had some unidentifiable stain on the shoulder. Her legs weren’t on show either; their shapely curves were covered by a pair of very ugly jeans—a garment she’d never worn in his company after he’d explained his intense dislike of them.

      But he told himself that her clothes didn’t matter, because he didn’t intend her to be wearing them for much longer. Nothing mattered—other than the yearning which was already heating his blood like a fever. And wasn’t it ironic that Zuhal found himself resenting this sensual power she’d always had over him, even while his body hungrily responded to it? He let his voice dip into a velvety caress as it had done so often in the past, adopting the intimate tone of two people who had once been lovers. And who would soon be lovers again. ‘Hello, Jazz.’

      But there was no lessening of her wary expression. No answering smile or impulsive opening of the door to admit him to her home and her arms. No ecstatic acknowledgement that he was here, after nearly two years of not seeing each other. Instead, she nodded in recognition and once again there was a flash of something he didn’t recognise in her eyes.

      ‘How did you find me?’

      He raised his eyebrows, because her unwelcoming attitude was something he wasn’t familiar with—and neither was her bald question, which was bordering on the insolent. Was she really planning to interrogate him as if he were a passing salesman? Did she think it acceptable to leave the future King of Razrastan standing on her doorstep?

      His words became tinged with a distinct note of reprimand, which had been known to make grown men shudder. ‘Isn’t this a conversation we should be having in the comfort of your home, Jazz, even if it doesn’t strike me as very comfortable?’

      She flinched. She actually flinched—before seeming to pull herself together. She was smiling now, but he could sense it was forced, as if she were pushing her mouth against the soft resistance of slowly setting concrete. He was confused. Hadn’t they parted on good terms—or as good as they could be when a man was terminating what had been a very satisfying relationship? Although Jazz had been that little bit different from his other lovers, he recalled. She alone had refused to accept the keepsake piece of jewellery he always offered his ex-lovers as a memento. To his surprise—and, yes, his annoyance too—she had carefully repackaged the emerald and diamond pendant, along with a polite note telling him she couldn’t possibly accept such a generous gift.

      His mouth hardened as he looked at the peeling paint on the front door. She above all people could have done with an injection of cash.

      ‘I’m afraid you can’t come in,’ she was saying. ‘I’m sorry, Zuhal. It isn’t…well, it isn’t really convenient right now. Perhaps if you’d given me some warning.’

      And then he understood. Of course. It was exactly as he had anticipated. Outwardly, she had accepted their break-up with dignity and a remarkable absence of begging, or tantrums. As he recalled, she hadn’t even shed a single tear when he’d ended their affair—at least, not in his presence. But Jasmine Jones wasn’t made of stone. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever met and had thrived under his expert tuition. Having awoken her body, surely he wouldn’t have expected her to return to her celibate lifestyle after he’d introduced her to the joys of sex?

      He felt the slow and heavy beat of a pulse to his temple. It was hard to believe—but why wouldn’t she have replaced him in her bed with someone more suitable? Someone of her own class who might be willing or able to marry her. Perhaps he should have rung first. Or written. Given her time to prepare herself—to rid herself of her current squeeze and pretty herself up for his arrival. But since when did Zuhal Al Haidar ever have to ring ahead to make some sort of appointment?

      He attempted to sound reasonable but could do nothing about the sudden dark clench of jealousy in his gut. ‘You have another man in your life, Jazz?’

      She looked genuinely taken aback—as if he had said something shocking and contemptible. ‘Of course not!’

      Zuhal expelled a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. And wasn’t it crazy how swiftly jealousy could become an overwhelming sense of triumph and then hot anticipation? ‘Well, then. I have come a long way to see you.’ He smiled. ‘As I recall, when we went our separate ways we did it in the most civilised way possible. Which makes me wonder why you are so reluctant to let me in. Isn’t that the modern way, for lovers to remain friends? To sit and talk of old times, with affection?’

      Jasmine felt her body stiffen, grateful her left hand was still hidden behind the partially open door. Glancing over the Sheikh’s burly shoulder, she could see the black gleam of his limousine sitting in the narrow lane, easily visible through the still-bare bushes. She supposed his driver was sitting there waiting, as people always waited for Zuhal. His bodyguards would be there, too, and there would probably be another carload of security people a little further along the lane, hidden from sight.

       Hidden from sight.

      Her heart contracted painfully but she tried to keep her face serene, even though the fear inside her was growing. She’d been so certain that the course she had taken had been the right one but now, as she looked into the carved perfection of Zuhal’s dark features, she felt the disconcerting flurry of doubt—along with the far more worrying pang of recognition. What should she do?

      If she refused to let him in it would arouse his suspicions—she knew it would. It would arouse his interest too, because he was alpha enough to always want what was denied him. And she still had at least an hour of freedom before the matter became more urgent than academic. So why not ask him inside? Find out what he had come for and politely listen before sending him on his way, no harm done. She felt the prick of conscience as she opened the door wider and saw him register the gold ring she wore on her wedding finger, and she saw his face darken as he bent his head to accommodate the low ceiling.

      ‘I thought you said there wasn’t a man in your life,’ he accused as the door swung squeakily shut behind him.

      ‘There isn’t.’

      ‘So why the wedding ring?’ he demanded. ‘Are you back with your husband?’

      She flushed. ‘Of course I’m not. That was never going to happen. We’re divorced, Zuhal. You knew that. I was divorced when I met you.’

      ‘So why the ring?’ he demanded again.

      Jasmine told herself he had no right to ask her questions about her personal life and maybe she should tell him so—but that would be pointless because Zuhal had never been brought up to conform to the rules of normal behaviour. And wasn’t the truth that he did have the right to ask, even if he was unaware of it? She felt another painful twist of conscience before realising he was appraising her with a look she recognised only too well. The look which said he was hungry for her body. And that was all he ever wanted you for, she reminded herself bitterly. When the chips were down he wasn’t