The Sheikh's Secret Baby. Sharon Kendrick

he would one day marry.

       She needed to get rid of him.

      ‘I wear the ring as a deterrent,’ she said.

      He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Because men are regularly beating down your door with lustful intention?’

      Ignoring the sardonic tone of his query, she shook her head. ‘Hardly.’

      ‘It’s true that your appearance is a little drab,’ he conceded. ‘But we both know how magnificent you can look when you try.’

      Jasmine gritted her teeth, telling herself not to rise to the backhanded compliment. ‘I realised I hadn’t made the best relationship choices in the past and that I needed some time on my own,’ she explained. ‘Time to get my career up and running.’

      ‘And what career might that be, Jazz?’ he questioned softly. ‘What made you stop working at the hotel boutique—I thought it paid reasonably well?’

      Jasmine shrugged. She wasn’t going to tell him about her soft furnishings business, which was still in an embryo stage but gaining in popularity all the time. Or her plans for designing baby clothes, which she hoped would one day provide her with a modest living. Because none of that was any of his business. ‘London was getting too expensive and I wanted a change,’ she said. ‘And you still haven’t told me why you’re here.’

      With genuine surprise, Zuhal realised that maybe he had misjudged his impact on her. Was it possible she hadn’t been as besotted by him as he’d thought—and that she wouldn’t take him into her bed without forethought or ceremony, as she’d done so often in the past? He remembered how her soft and undemanding nature had always acted like a balm on his troubled senses. How she had always been eager and hungry to see him. But now her distinct lack of interest punctured his erotic thoughts and instead he was filled with the unusual urge to confide in her. He sighed as he walked to the window and looked out at the yellow flash of the few straggly daffodils which were poking out from the overgrown grass in the tiny garden.

      ‘You know my brother is missing?’ he questioned, without preamble. ‘Presumed dead.’

      She gasped and when he turned round her fingers were lying against her throat, as if she were starved of air. ‘Dead?’ she managed eventually. ‘No, I didn’t know that. Oh, Zuhal, I’m so sorry. I mean, I never met him—obviously—but I remember he was your only sibling.’

      He narrowed his eyes. ‘We kept it quiet for as long as possible, but now it’s out there in the public domain. You hadn’t heard?’

      She shook her head. ‘I don’t… I don’t get much chance to read the papers these days. World news is so depressing—and my TV isn’t actually working at the moment,’ she added, before biting down on the lushness of her lower lip and fixing him with a wary look. ‘What happened, or would you rather not talk about it?’

      He’d thought she might take him in her arms and comfort him and wasn’t that what he wanted more than anything else? To feel the warmth of another body—the soft squeeze of flesh reminding him that he was very much alive instead of lying prone and cold somewhere in a merciless desert, while vultures hovered overhead. But she didn’t. She just stood on the other side of the small room, her green-gold eyes dark with distress, though her body language remained stiff and awkward—as if she didn’t know how to be around him.

      But still he found himself talking about it, in a way he might not have done so freely with anyone else. Almost imperceptibly, his voice grew harsh. ‘Although Kamal was King of Razrastan, with all the responsibilities which came with that exalted role, my brother never lost his love of recklessness.’

      ‘I do remember you saying he was a bit of a daredevil,’ she offered cautiously.

      He gave another heavy sigh as he nodded. ‘He was. All through his youth he embraced the most dangerous of sports and nobody could do a thing to stop him. Our father tried often enough, but our mother actively encouraged his daring behaviour. Which was why he piloted his own plane and heli-skied whenever possible. Why he deep-sea-dived and climbed the world’s most challenging mountains—and nobody could deny that he excelled at everything he put his mind to.’ He paused. ‘His coronation as King inevitably curtailed most of these activities, but he was still prone to taking off on his horse, often alone. He said it gave him time to think. To be away from the hurly-burly of palace life. And that’s what happened last year…’

      ‘What did?’ she prompted uneasily as his words tailed off.

      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