Rania nodded, quietly closing the door as she disappeared into her rooms, and Jasmine waited until she and Zuhal were back in the sitting room before she said anything. Waited until they were completely out of earshot and made sure that Darius was still asleep—and that her breathing had settled down-so her words didn’t come out in a senseless babble.
‘You let me vet the apartment!’ she accused him hotly. ‘But you didn’t think to give me the opportunity of telling you whether or not I liked the woman you have employed to help take care of our son?’
‘Everyone likes Rania,’ he said.
‘That’s not the point!’ Dangerously close to yelling, Jasmine sucked in a deep, unsteady breath. ‘And what’s more—you know it! So don’t give me that I don’t know what you’re talking about look and expect me to be taken in by it!’
Zuhal found himself taken aback by her rage and, in another situation, might almost have been amused by it—because didn’t such passion always change into something much more agreeable when it was transferred to the bedroom? But that was never going to happen, judging by the way Jazz was glaring at him—with emerald fire spitting from her eyes.
Undeterred, he loosened his tie a fraction. ‘He is a desert prince, Jazz,’ he said. ‘And having a nanny is a given for all royal children. He will be looked after by someone who speaks my language and who knows the myths and legends of my country. He will grow up bilingual, which is essential for a boy who might one day be King.’
‘But I’ve only ever looked after him myself. I told you before—I’ve never left him with a stranger.’
‘Rania is the daughter of my own nanny at the palace—my favourite, as it happens. She speaks perfect English and received her training at one of the finest establishments in England, one which provides childcare for your own royal family, just in case you’re interested.’
‘Not particularly. And that isn’t the point. You should have asked me first.’
His patience was beginning to wear thin but Zuhal bit back the impatient retort which was on the tip of his tongue, telling himself to go easy on her. To treat her with impartiality as they negotiated their way through these tricky new waters. But how was such impartiality possible when his mind and his body had been in constant conflict, since he’d walked up the weed-strewn path of her little cottage less than a fortnight ago? When every night since he had been plagued by memories of her soft breasts and curvy hips. By the disturbing recall of the way she used to wriggle over his body like some kind of sexy eel, mounting him with a yelp of exultant pleasure as she rode them both to fulfilment. And then afterwards run her fingers through his hair, digging their firm tips into his scalp and massaging away the tension, so that he’d been left feeling almost boneless with pleasure.
The other day he’d kissed her and the kiss they’d shared had been as potent as any he could remember. Was that because it had been abruptly cut short and not allowed to proceed to its natural conclusion? Was that why his subsequent sense of frustration had been more pronounced than any he could remember? Zuhal acknowledged the hard jerk of his groin, feeling as if his body was somehow taunting him.
There were a million reasons why he shouldn’t want her, even if you discounted her basic unsuitability. She had deceived him. Had tried to keep their child a secret from him. Why, even when Darius had cried out, when he had still been ignorant of his identity, Zuhal had seen the distress clouding her pale face—and then her deliberate manipulation as she had sought to distract him.
If she could have got him out of her cottage without disclosing he was a father, then she would have done, he reminded himself grimly.
But even that knowledge did not lessen her allure, or stop him from wishing he could carry her into one of those conveniently empty bedrooms to slake his hunger for her, once and for all. And then maybe rid her memory from his mind for ever.
He sighed. Compromise wasn’t something he was often called upon to use, but maybe he should make an exception in this case. Slowly he inclined his head, determined to acknowledge her concerns. ‘If, for any reason, Rania proves unsatisfactory…’ he saw her visibly brighten ‘…any sensible reason,’ he added swiftly, ‘then we can use someone else. Do you think I would do anything to threaten or disrupt the life of my son, Jazz?’
‘Now you’re making me sound unreasonable.’
‘That was not my intention. Darius needs someone in his life other than his parents,’ he said. ‘Someone to trust and feel safe with. Surely you must see that?’
She was nodding her head now, as if determined to match his own mood of compromise with one of her own. Smoothing her dress down with fingers he noticed weren’t quite steady, she met his eyes wi
th a rare expression of complicity. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ She shrugged. ‘Especially since he doesn’t have any grandparents.’
Zuhal’s mouth hardened, but he was unable to manufacture any sorrow that this was the case, for he had grown up without knowing his own grandparents, which might have helped dissolve some of the tensions which had existed in the palace. But he had survived, hadn’t he? Deliberately, he focussed his gaze on Jazz because that was infinitely more pleasurable than thinking about the toxic environment in which he had been raised.
In just a fortnight the chill weather had turned into something more usual for this time of year and her simple cotton dress was sprigged with blossom—she had clearly made it herself—with her soft pink cardigan a shade lighter than the tiny flowers. She looked young, vibrant and utterly desirable and Zuhal was filled with a powerful desire to touch her. To crush his lips down on hers and to slide his fingers beneath her floaty skirt and touch her where she was warm and sticky. His throat thickened. Yet despite the undeniable allure of her appearance, she looked like a student on her way to lectures, not a young woman who now occupied one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in London.
‘I thought I told you to buy yourself some new clothes,’ he observed.
‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with them. But your clothes are not appropriate for your new position in life, Jazz,’ he said softly. ‘We both know that.’
She gave a quick nod of her head, as if she was preparing to say something difficult. ‘And how exactly would you define that position, Zuhal—that’s something we haven’t discussed, have we?’
Zuhal tensed. Was this an invitation to be completely frank with her? To reach a new understanding which they could both enjoy to the max? What was it the English sometimes said? To make hay while the sun shines. He felt his pulse quicken. Her eyes were no longer flashing green fire, obscuring the golden lights which usually glinted there. But in place of the anger he could detect a distinct smokiness—and Zuhal had known enough women to recognise what that meant. Hadn’t she made it obvious when he’d walked in here today and looked at him with desire in her eyes? When he had observed the instinctive hardening of her nipples beneath the cheap cotton of her dress.
‘That’s up to you, Jazz,’ he said silkily. ‘The decision is yours.’
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘You’re being very…oblique. I’m still not quite sure what you mean.’
‘Then let me state my words plainly, so there can be no misunderstanding.’ He paused, aware that his throat had dried, so that it resembled the dust of his beloved desert homeland. ‘When we kissed the other day, there was no doubt that the passion which burns between us was as strong as before. I looked at you and I wanted you. I still do, despite your determination to keep my son from me and your subsequent defiant behaviour. But I am willing to overlook your stubbornness, because you were the best lover I’ve ever had.’ He glittered her a smile. ‘And I am eager to taste such pleasures with you again.’
She nodded her head solemnly, as if she was giving his words careful thought before responding to them. ‘You’re saying you want us to take up where we left off last time, is that it?’