She stood in the empty sitting room after he’d gone, looking out as the golden sunlight bounced off the bright green of the treetops, realising how unsatisfactory the situation had become. She wanted him, yes—she had never stopped wanting him, if the truth were known—but for reasons of pride and self-preservation, she was no longer prepared to settle for what little he was prepared to offer her.
CHAPTER SIX
JASMINE FIRST REALISED something was wrong when she got a call to her mobile phone from an unlisted number. Deciding it was probably a sales call, she nonetheless picked it up, mainly because it had been ages since anyone had rung her.
‘Hello?’ she said cautiously.
‘Is that Miss Jones? Miss Jasmine Jones?’ The caller’s voice was female, smoky and very confident.
‘Speaking.’
‘Just a couple of questions for you, Miss Jones. Is it true that you’re the mother of the Sheikh of Razrastan’s baby?’
Jasmine nearly dropped the phone. ‘Who is this, please?’
‘My name is Rebecca Starr from the Daily View,’ said the voice. ‘And I notice you’re not issuing a denial to my question.’
Jasmine cut the connection with shaking fingers, wondering how the smoky-voiced Rebecca Starr had got hold of her number and wondering how best to respond. She swallowed. If in doubt, do nothing—wasn’t that what people always said? She certainly wasn’t going to bother Zuhal with it—not when he had stormed out in such a bad mood yesterday after that incident in the park with Carrie and her hot pants.
The phone rang again and Jasmine snatched it up, afraid that the shrill ringtone would wake her sleeping baby.
‘Miss Jones? It’s Rebecca Starr again. Do you have any immediate plans to marry Sheikh Zuhal Al Haidar of Razrastan?’
‘Where did you get this number from?’ Jasmine demanded uselessly.
‘Because we understand there is a vacant role for a new royal Sheikha,’ continued the journalist smoothly. ‘Now that Zuhal is to be crowned King.’
With an angry squeak, Jasmine cut the connection, resisting the temptation to hurl the phone against one of the velvet cushions which were lined up neatly on the nearby sofa, knowing that if she did someone would just put them right back again. That was the trouble with having a fleet of cleaners at your disposal, she thought—there was never any mindless domestic work with which to displace your angry thoughts. No floors to clean or cobwebs to flick away from the ceiling.
She tried to convince herself that the press would soon lose interest if she didn’t fan the flames of their story but she still felt faintly uneasy as she went about her normal routine. When he woke from his nap, she took Darius out for a stroll in his buggy and the warm sun beat down on the bare skin of her upper arms. Trying to ignore the discreet presence of the accompanying bodyguards, she found herself hoping she wouldn’t bump into Carrie again, dreading having to bat away a stream of curious questions about Zuhal. But sooner or later she was going to have to see her, wasn’t she? And what then? She couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist and she couldn’t spend the rest of her life avoiding questions because she wasn’t sure how to answer them.
She was just rounding the path to skirt the edge of the glittering lake when she sensed movement nearby and, glancing up, saw a blinding flash. Blinking, she watched as the black blur of one of the bodyguards hurtled towards a copse of trees while three others hurried forward to surround her.
‘What’s going on?’ she questioned.
‘Paparazzi,’ one of them answered succinctly.
‘What do they want?’
‘Photos of you. And of the royal Prince. We need to leave, Miss Jones.’
‘But—’
‘Right now, Miss Jones,’ he interrupted.
Jasmine forced herself to stay positive as she was practically marched back to the apartment—because having a baby meant you couldn’t afford to indulge in introspective gloom—but she was glad when Rania stepped in to take Darius for her. And once she was on her own, reaction set in and Jasmine could do nothing to stop the jittery feelings which flooded over her. Her skin felt cold. Her hands were shaking and her heart was racing like a train. She wondered if this was how the future was going to look, with her locked away in her luxury apartment, hiding from anonymous people who took photos of her baby son without anyone’s permission.
She wanted to pace the room. To talk to someone, but mostly she wanted to talk to Zuhal—and that surprised her. Maybe it was because he was the only person who would understand. The only person who could understand, because Darius was his son too. She went into her bedroom—with its pristine bed and neatly folded nightdress on the pillow. The framed photos of Darius and the portrait study of her mother taken before disillusionment had set in were the sole signs that this room actually belonged to anyone. A single woman’s bedroom, she thought, as she scrabbled around in one of the drawers for the phone number Zuhal had given her.
With fingers which were still shaking, she keyed in the numbers and Zuhal’s almost instant pick-up brought her up with a start, because for some reason it hadn’t occurred to her that he might give her his direct line. She pulled a face at her pale reflection in the mirror.
Did she really think so little of herself?
And why wouldn’t she, when she had been cut so comprehensively from his life once before?
‘Zuhal?’
‘What’s happening?’ he demanded, his voice underpinned by something she’d never heard there before. ‘Are you okay?’