‘You know what I’m talking about. It was almost a cliché—the prince and the shop girl. In a way, I was protecting you.’
Jasmine bit her lip, because it had been much more likely he had been protecting his own precious reputation. Should she tell him how difficult it had felt to carry on serving behind the till with that bright smile pinned to her lips, when she had been missing him so much? Maybe it was the effort of that—of trying to appear normal—which had meant her first missed period had passed by without her noticing. And then when she had noticed something was amiss, she’d been unable to confide in anyone. Her parents were dead and she hadn’t dared place her trust in friends and colleagues, terrified someone might run to the press with the story. She had a cousin she was close to, but Emily lived miles away and Jasmine had never felt quite so lonely.
Even now, as she looked up into Zuhal’s flinty features, she could still remember the scary sense of isolation she’d felt as she’d realised she was pretty much on her own, with a tiny life to support. Factor in the fact that she’d been missing him so badly and you ended up with someone who had found herself in a precarious situation. ‘I tried to ring you but your number came up as unobtainable.’
He met the question in her eyes. ‘I make a point of regularly changing my phone number,’ he informed her coolly. ‘My security people tell me it’s safer that way.’
‘And, of course, it keeps troublesome ex-girlfriends at bay?’ she guessed, forcing herself to confront the bitter truth.
He shrugged. ‘Something like that,’ he conceded. ‘When did you try to contact me?’
Accurately, she was able to relay the exact month—because at that stage her pregnancy had been well established. She’d been determined to show Zuhal that she intended going ahead with the birth, with or without his approval. That she didn’t need a man—or a husband—in order to survive, because experience had taught her that marriage was by no means the magic bullet which so many women imagined it was.
Feeling on firmer footing now, she sucked in a steadying breath. ‘Eventually, I managed to get through to one of your aides. Adham, I think his name was. I told him I needed to speak to you urgently and he promised he would pass on the message to you.’
‘But I never got it,’ he said, his voice hardening.
‘So blame him.’
‘Adham is a loyal servant who would have been acting in my best interests. The palace was in uproar because of my brother’s disappearance and, of course, that impacted profoundly on my future. And not just that.’ His black eyes bored into her. ‘Do you have any idea of the amount of women who are eager to speak to me, who try to phone the palace switchboard?’
‘Strangely enough no, I don’t,’ she answered, colour rising in her cheeks so that suddenly she felt hot and uncomfortable. ‘Tallying up the numbers of your ex-lovers isn’t a pastime which has ever appealed to me.’
‘You could have told him you were pregnant!’ he accused. ‘You knew that would have ensured you got through to me straight away. Why didn’t you do that, Jazz?’
Jasmine licked her lips. Because she’d been scared. Scared of Zuhal’s influence and of the reality of confronting it for the first time. He’d always left his sheikh status at the door of the bedroom, but during that brief and fruitless phone call, she’d got an inkling of the real man behind the very sexy facade. It had taken her ages to get through to his office and during the long wait she’d realised just how powerful her former lover really was. She remembered the way his aide had spoken to her—as if she were a piece of dirt he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. And she’d been fearful that, although Zuhal obviously didn’t want her any more, he might want to claim sole custody of their baby—and he’d have the wherewithal to make it happen.
And that was something she could never allow.
‘You told me you were planning to marry a royal princess,’ she reminded him. ‘I thought that was another reason why your aide was so off with me. There were reports about your burgeoning romance in all the papers. About how two desert kingdoms were going to be united and it was going to be the greatest thing to happen in the region for decades. The Dream Desert ticket, I think the tabloids called it.’ Which had been another reason why she’d stopped reading them. ‘Wouldn’t it have completely ruined everything if some casual lover had come forward with the news that you were to become a father?’
Zuhal’s eyes narrowed as he forced himself to dismiss her persuasive words. Because weren’t these accusations and counter-accusations diverting his attention from the monumental discovery he had just made?
He had a son.
A ready-made heir.
Perhaps fate was showing him a little benevolence for once.
He looked at the woman standing in front of him. A few minutes ago he’d been kissing her and her response had indicated that if it hadn’t been for the baby’s cry, she would have allowed him to be deep inside her by now. Would she, he found himself wondering, with a brand-new disdain which had blossomed as a result of his unbelievable discovery? Had she become one of those women who would cast aside the needs of her baby in pursuit of her own carnal pleasures? And if that were the case, then wouldn’t that be easy to prove in a court of law—thereby putting him in a morally superior position and demonstrating his own suitability to bring up the child, instead of her? Surely that would be simpler all round.
He noted the trepidation flickering in the depths of her green-gold eyes as she returned his gaze, just as he noted the sudden tension which was stiffening her narrow shoulders. The silence between them was growing into something immense and uncomfortable but, unlike most people would be, Zuhal was unperturbed by it. Indeed, he often orchestrated silence when necessary, for it was a powerful tool in negotiation and never had negotiation been more vital than now.
‘How are you managing for money?’ he questioned casually.
He could see a look of faint confusion criss-cross her brow and wondered if she was disorientated
by his sudden change of subject.
‘I manage,’ she said defensively.
‘I said “how”, Jazz?’
She shrugged. ‘I sew.’
He frowned. ‘You sew?’
‘Yes. You remember. I always liked sewing. I was planning to go to fashion college when my mother got sick and I had to defer my place to look after her.’