How did she even begin to express her horror at the idea of her precious boy being thrust into such a public role with no choice? She’d spent her childhood and teenage years as a handy asset in her father’s politicking. She’d hated it—especially as she’d got old enough to understand his cynical use of a good photo opportunity and his focus on self-aggrandisement rather than public service.
‘I want Oliver to have the opportunity to be a child just like any other.’ Not shunted around to smile for the press when the polls looked bad or family values were a hot issue for voters.
‘Oliver will have that. You have my word.’
‘You’ve said he’s destined to become Sheikh. What if he doesn’t want to be?’
The idea of her little baby inheriting seemed impossible. Ashraf was so vital and strong. Tori’s insides squeezed at the idea of him dying. But he’d come close just last year.
‘That’s what you’re worried about?’ He shook his head and the lamplight caught indigo shadows in his inky hair. ‘Most women would be thrilled at the idea of their child inheriting riches and power.’
‘Most women don’t have a politician for a father. Power shouldn’t be an end in itself.’ She paused, weighing her words. ‘It can have a negative effect on a person and on those around them.’
Her father would say he did what he did for the public good. Tori knew he was driven instead by the need for acclaim and power. He was self-serving, and as a father...
‘You’re right. Power is an obligation.’ Ashraf studied her intently as if fascinated by a new insight.
Tori wished she had more than her nightie and a hot drink to shield her from that penetrating gaze.
Conditioned by a lifetime’s training, she found it hard to admit aloud her negative feelings about her father and his profession. But this was about Oliver. Nothing, not even the ingrained habit of old loyalty, took precedence.
‘Yet you want to tie our child to that before he’s even old enough to understand!’ She wanted to grab the now sleeping baby and tuck him close. Her fingers clamped hard around the warm mug.
Ashraf’s features tightened, the proud lines of nose and forehead growing more defined. ‘I will give Oliver the opportunity to inherit what is his right as my son. To lead the people of Za’daq is an honour as well as a responsibility. I won’t deprive him of his birthright.’
For a long, pulsing moment Ashraf’s eyes bored into hers and she felt her breath clog in her lungs. He was formidable. Daunting. Yet still she felt the fizz of attraction like effervescence in her blood.
Biased by seeing her father and his cronies at close quarters, Tori had told herself she disliked powerful men. But strength was intrinsic to Ashraf and still she was drawn, fascinated, even as her saner self warned her to keep her distance.
‘There’s always a choice, Tori. No one will force Oliver if he truly doesn’t want to become Sheikh. My brother, Karim, was heir to the throne. Yet when my father died Karim declined his inheritance. I was proclaimed Sheikh instead.’
Tori wanted to askwhyKarim had chosen not to inherit. What he was doing now. Had Ashraf wanted the throne? But the stern set of his mouth warned against questions.
‘Surely it’s not too much to give our son the opportunity to learn the ways of his forebears? To have access to both cultures—Za’daqi and Australian.’
‘I agree.’
‘You do?’ The fierce glitter in his eyes softened.
‘I told you I’d been thinking.’
She swallowed, her stomach churning at what she’d decided. But she had to follow through. It would be cowardly and selfish not to.
‘I have serious doubts about the Sheikh thing...’ Ashraf’s eyebrows rose, yet he didn’t interrupt. ‘But I’m willing to accept your suggestion.Notto marry,’ she hurried to clarify, ‘but to take Oliver to Za’daq for a visit.’
She read no change in Ashraf’s features. No smile, no lessening in the intensity of that stare. But the next breath he drew was so deep it lifted that mighty chest like a cresting ocean wave.
‘Thank you, Tori.’ He stepped close, one arm effortlessly holding Oliver, the other reaching for her.
She stumbled to her feet, feeling at a disadvantage in the low rocking chair.
Ashraf took her hand, and the hard, enveloping warmth reminded her of the physical differences between them. Differences that, to her dismay, made her body hum and soften.
Instead of shaking her hand, he lifted it. ‘You are generous as well as wise and beautiful.’
Tori blinked, and would have tugged free of his grasp except, still holding her gaze, he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. Instantly energy arced from the spot, shooting to her breasts, her pelvis, right down to her toes.
‘There’s no need to soft-soap me.’