Modern Romance March 2019 Books 1-4

She took a step closer, like a boxer squaring up to an opponent in the ring.

‘Do you really think I’m going to hang around here, waiting for one of your rare visits—ready to drop everything when you deign to show your face-and then simply fall into bed with you?’

‘How dare you speak to me this way?’

‘While in the meantime,’ she continued remorselessly, ‘you’re out there courting every eligible princess the desert region has to offer in order to find yourself a suitable bride?’

‘That’s a very extreme way of looking at it,’ he bit out.

‘It’s the truth, Zuhal,’ she said. ‘What other way is there to look at it?’

He glowered at her. ‘I have been completely straight with you, Jazz. Perhaps you would do me the honour of returning the favour. And if you don’t want to be my lover, then how do you intend spending your time?’

Jasmine sucked in a deep breath, knowing she needed to be strong. Or at least she needed to

appear

 strong. Zuhal didn’t have to know she wanted intimacy just as much as he did—the difference being that for her it spelt emotional danger. ‘You are planning to live your life as you see fit, Zuhal,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’m going to do exactly the same. I’m going to be the best mother I can, and to accommodate your wishes where Darius is concerned. But I’m also going to live my own life. I plan to make friends and forge a future for myself.’

‘With a man?’ he shot out instantly.

Jasmine couldn’t deny the pleasure she got from the dark look of jealousy which crossed his features and made his shadowed jaw clench. And although the thought of being anywhere near any man other than Zuhal made her feel violently sick, he didn’t have to know that.

‘Who knows what I will do? I’m young and free and single,’ she said, with a carelessness she hoped didn’t sound faked. ‘And this is England, Zuhal. Where men and women are equal.’

He gave an angry snort, a pulse flickering wildly at his temple as he walked away without another word, and Jasmine was surprised that the loud slamming of the front door hadn’t woken the baby.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘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