Stopping in Paris en route for a long-overdue meeting, he checked himself into a sybaritically indulgent hotel with glittering views over the river Seine, for an overnight stay. He wasn’t really in the mood for socialising but unexpectedly ran into the dashing ex-polo player, Alejandro Sabato, and agreed to have dinner with him. He’d forgotten how the charismatic Argentinean attracted women like wasps buzzing towards uncovered food and several times their meal was interrupted while one of them gushingly requested a selfie with the ex-world champion. And then, much to Zuhal’s annoyance, they were papped leaving the upmarket restaurant.
Zuhal’s eyes were gritty when he woke next morning and, although he tried ringing Jazz from his plane before he touched down in England, the call went straight to voicemail. But she didn’t bother ringing back and neither did she pick up the second call he made as his limousine—with diplomatic flag flying—sped from the airfield towards Oxfordshire.
A house had been purchased for her, not far from where she’d lived before—but her new home was a world away from her old, rented cottage. Set like a jewel in an acre of walled garden, the detached villa had mullioned windows which glinted like diamonds in the sunshine and a soft grey front door. Two bright pots of scarlet geraniums stood on either side of the front door and the sporty little saloon he’d insisted on buying for her was parked in front of the garage. But when Zuhal lifted the shiny bronze knocker to sound out a summons through the house, nobody came to the door. He tried again with the same result and he scowled.
Where the hell was she?
His anger grew as he waited in his limousine, drumming his fingers against his knees and glancing out at the lonely lane, wondering if she was safe and wondering why he had allowed her to live this kind of existence in the English countryside. By the time she returned, a bag bulging with groceries on the bottom of the pram, he was seething, as his eyes raked over her.
She was back to wearing jeans and a shirt, and her hair was twisted into a plait as she returned his gaze with shuttered eyes. She couldn’t have looked less like the perfumed Queen she’d been poised to become, yet something twisted deep inside him as he stared at her. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge for fear of where it would take him.
‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible to have one of the bodyguards do your shopping for you?’ he demanded, as he carefully helped her manoeuvre the pram into the spacious hallway of the house to avoid waking the baby. ‘Rather than struggling like this on your own?’
‘Not if I want to have any semblance of living a normal life,’ she responded. ‘I thought you were coming yesterday.’
‘I tried to ring but you didn’t pick up.’
‘And? You could have left a message.’
‘I don’t like leaving messages.’
‘We all have to do things we don’t like, Zuhal—but it would have been common courtesy to have informed me that you weren’t going to be here when you said you were. I have to be able to rely on you. Darius is too young to know the difference right now, but in the future he needs to know that you’re going to turn up when you say you are.’
He frowned, knowing that she had a point and realising that nobody—nobody—had ever spoken to him quite so caustically before. ‘I had business to attend to in Paris.’
‘So I saw in the papers.’
His eyes narrowed as he detected a faint crack in her voice. ‘I thought you didn’t read the papers.’
‘I…’ She seemed a little lost for words at this and swallowed, before tilting her chin with the stubborn gesture he had grown to recognise. ‘Why are you here, Zuhal? If it’s to see Darius then perhaps you’d like to wait in the sitting room until he’s awake? If it’s to organise access arrangements, then wouldn’t it be better if it was done officially, through your office and your lawyers?’
He studied her. ‘And that’s what you want, is it?’
She swallowed again,
but even so when her words came out they still sounded as if she had a foreign body lodged in her throat. ‘Yes, that’s what I want.’
Zuhal stilled as something inside him twisted. Something which felt like pain. Not the brutal kind, which came from a cut or a blow, but something much more insidious—and yet it was sharp. Crushingly sharp. He held his palm over his chest, as if that might steady the erratic beat of his heart as he looked into green-gold eyes which contained the hint of unshed tears.
‘Jazz?’ he said huskily, even though he wasn’t really sure what it was he was asking.
‘I’m not sure I can deal with this,’ she said, with a brisk shake of her head. ‘Not right now. I’m not in the mood. You told me you didn’t like drama—that you saw enough of it during your childhood to put you off it for ever—well, neither do I. I wasn’t expecting you and I’m not…prepared.’
‘Why do you need to be prepared for my visit?’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. It matters to me.’
Jasmine stared at him. Was he completely stupid? Didn’t he realise that since returning she’d realised just how much he’d burrowed his way underneath her skin? That the memory of his proud hawkish features swam into her mind at pretty much every opportunity? That she missed him. She missed him more than she had any right to miss him.
But why tell him any of that? Why should she admit her weakness—and her love—for a man who didn’t want it? That would completely disrupt the delicate balance of power which existed between them, which they needed to maintain in the future. It wasn’t as if they weren’t ever going to see each other again. Because of Darius there were bound to be lots of times over the years when they would bump into one another and she needed to ensure things stayed dignified and civilised between them. And that was never going to happen if Zuhal thought she was pining for him. Suddenly Jasmine could picture him laughing about her behind her back, perhaps when he was lying in bed with a new lover. Could imagine his drawled, cruel words as he dissected their relationship with forensic accuracy.
Jazz? Oh, she’s nobody special. Just the mother of my child. There’s nothing between us. The pregnancy was a mistake. Does she love me? She could even imagine his arrogant smile. Yeah. I guess she does.
Well, she wasn’t going to give him that pleasure. Pointedly, she looked at her watch. ‘So which is it to be, Zuhal? Either way, I need to get on, so you must excuse me. I’ve got someone coming over to look at some of my baby designs.’
Zuhal frowned and still he felt a burst of dark restlessness as something occurred to him. He remembered one morning when he’d found Jazz in the nursery, just before Kamal had returned. She’d been sitting on the floor flicking a balloon in front of their gurgling son, while dappled sunlight from the rose garden had streamed in on them both. She’d looked up at him and smiled, with a look of simple joy in her eyes, and he had smiled back. His heart pounded as he remembered going off to his office, whistling softly beneath his breath. He thought about the hard morning rides he’d taken since she’d gone, which had failed to work their magic, mainly because she hadn’t been there to talk to. The space at the lunch table, which seemed so bare without her. The high chair which had been put away, as if Darius had never even been there.