The Desert King's Secret Heir Page 12

  Once she’d believed love was the reason she and Shakil had made the earth tremble on its axis. Now she realised sex and love needn’t intersect. There was something about the man she’d married, something she responded to every time, that made the sex earth-shatteringly wonderful.

  Sex, she reminded herself. Not lovemaking.

  Disappointment eddied. With herself for not completely banishing that old yearning for love. A touch was all it had taken for Idris to smash through her caution. She’d acted as if the last four years had never been!

  She opened her eyes wider, taking in the rumpled bed, the sun streaming in the arched windows and the complete absence of her husband.

  There might have been rose petals strewn on the bed but this wasn’t a hearts and flowers marriage. It was a cold-hearted convenience for the sake of their son and her husband’s reputation.

  ‘You look pensive this morning.’

  Idris strode towards the bed, damp hair slicked back, buttoning his shirt.

  Instantly Arden’s heart fluttered and her stomach gave that little quiver of anticipation she despised. No matter how often she told herself she felt nothing for Idris, her body betrayed her.

  She needed to conquer or at least control her response. If she didn’t she feared it would make her completely vulnerable.

  ‘I need more sleep.’

  Except one glance at him and it wasn’t sleep on her mind. A pulse twitched between her legs and she shifted beneath the sheets, drawing his gaze. When his eyes met hers they gleamed hot and hungry and Arden found herself wondering at his stamina. How he found the energy even to walk she didn’t know.

  ‘Then sleep. I need to farewell those guests who stayed overnight.’

  Reluctantly Arden dragged herself up against the pillows, drawing the cotton sheet around her, ignoring his raised eyebrow that reminded her he was intimately acquainted with every bare inch of her.

  ‘If you wait fifteen minutes I’ll come too.’ Arden felt imprisoned in this new world that had been foisted on her, and by last night’s proof of weakness. She didn’t want to stay here, brooding, with the bedroom walls closing in. Besides, she had to start as she meant to go on. For Dawud’s sake she’d fulfil her new royal role, as far as she could.

  ‘No need.’ His mouth widened into a smile that could only be described as smug. ‘No one expects to see you today.’

  Arden frowned. ‘Yet they expect to see you?’

  He grabbed his watch from the small table covered in condom wrappers, smiling at her as he strapped it on. The sight was ordinary yet intimate, reminding her they really were tied in marriage, husband and wife, come what may.

  ‘As a vigorous man in the prime of life I’m supposed to take a wedding night in my stride.’ His eyes flickered and Arden wondered what he was thinking.

  ‘And the bride isn’t?’

  He shrugged and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his tone. ‘A new bride might be a little...tender, and need rest.’

  ‘After a vigorous night with her new husband?’ By a miracle Arden didn’t blush. She was more than a little tender. She felt exhausted but also dangerously exhilarated, which disturbed even more.

  ‘Precisely.’ His high wattage smile rocked her back against the pillows. ‘There’d be dismay if you appeared. People would think I hadn’t done my husbandly duty.’

  His words pummelled her. It had been husbandly duty, nothing more. Except, she guessed, surveying his lazy satisfaction, pride and the masculine ability to take pleasure wherever it was offered.

  And she’d offered. She’d been as eager for Idris as he was for her. The difference was that to him she was just an available body. For her there still lingered shreds of the sentiment she’d once felt for him.

  She had to change that fast, before she fell for that old romantic daydream.

  ‘You never told me about that day in Santorini. What message you passed on.’ The words blurted out before she realised she’d formed them. Suddenly it was vital she knew the whole truth.

  ‘Sorry?’ Idris was halfway to the door but turned at her words. ‘What message?’

  ‘You said you’d arranged for someone to meet me four years ago. At the rendezvous that last day when you couldn’t meet me.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Slowly he nodded.

  ‘But you never told me what you’d instructed him to say.’

  Dark eyes bored into hers. ‘It hardly matters now. What matters is our future.’

  Oh, it matters. From his sudden stillness, she guessed it mattered very much.

  ‘Humour me. Was he going to take me to meet you in Paris or...?’

  Idris breathed deep, his chest expanding as he took his time answering.

  ‘I didn’t go to Paris. My uncle was dangerously ill so I returned here.’ He swung towards the door. But Arden wasn’t letting him off. She’d spent years wondering about that day.

  ‘So what was your message for me?’

  He paused. For the first time Arden felt Idris was at a loss. Yet this was the man who took international scandals in his stride, even the discovery of a son and a forced wedding.

  His gaze settled at a point beyond her head. ‘To give my regrets and say we couldn’t be together after all.’

  Arden told herself she wasn’t surprised, despite the chill clinging to her bones. ‘To say goodbye.’

  He nodded, his eyes briefly meeting hers. Then he exited the room.

  It was what she’d expected—that, despite her girlish dreams, he’d planned to reject her that day. She, in her innocence, had fallen in love with the handsome stranger who’d swept her off her feet. But to him she’d been a mere holiday amusement. There’d never been any question of him taking her to his home. Her grand romance had been a fantasy.

  Arden watched him leave and told herself she was grateful she’d finally unearthed the truth. What better time than now when, in the afterglow of Idris’s lovemaking, she was in danger of reading too much into their intimacy?

  He’d never wanted her as she’d wanted him. Never needed her.

  Something inside her chest crumpled but she breathed through the pain.

  It reinforced the lessons life had taught her. Those she cared about always ended up leaving her to fend for herself. First her parents. Then the foster parents who’d changed their mind about adopting her when they discovered they were expecting a child of their own.

  Then Shakil.

  Just as well she wasn’t in love with him any more. She’d moved on, even if Idris could still make her feel more than she should.

  The only person she loved, who loved her back, was her son. That, she reminded herself as she shoved the sheet aside and headed for the bathroom, was all she needed.

  At least Idris was honest about his feelings, or lack of them. She was grateful for that. He made it clear their marriage was solely to scotch scandal and provide a solid future for Dawud.

  In the bathroom she wrenched on the taps in the shower, spurning the idea of a languorous soak in the tub. The decadence of that sunken tub, and what had happened there last night, was too dangerous. She needed to ground herself. A shower, fresh clothes and time with Dawud. Then she’d apply herself to the long, daunting process of learning what was expected of a royal sheikha.

  It didn’t matter that she felt doomed to fail and completely overwhelmed. She bit back a silent scream of hurt and helplessness, refusing to let tears well. She had to find strength. She had to make this work. Dawud’s future depended on it.

  * * *

  Idris found her, not in bed but playing with their son in a private courtyard.

  He forced down disappointment. He’d returned as soon as he could, the image of her waiting for him in bed, her hair a golden cloud around bare milk-white breasts, had distracted him through
the protracted farewells, leaving him aroused and edgy. Never had the tedium of official duties weighed so heavily. He’d all but thrust the last guests through the palace portals.

  He squashed annoyance that she hadn’t waited for him, naked. He should be grateful she was a caring mother. Right? Wasn’t that what this marriage was all about?

  But as he stepped from the shadows of the portico it wasn’t their necessary marriage consuming his thoughts. It was sex, hot and urgent, with the woman who diverted him from all thoughts of duty.

  ‘Baba!’ He heard the cry as Dawud’s beaming smile caught him full-on. There was a curious thud in the region of his chest, as if his heart had missed a beat then pounded out of rhythm. Then he was crouching, arms open, as his son hurried over, his dark hair tousled into the beginnings of curls—just like Idris’s own hair if he let it grow.

  ‘Watch out, he’s wet!’

  But Idris didn’t mind. He closed his son in his embrace, ignoring the way the little wet body saturated his clothes.

  His son.

  Idris had been surprised from the first at the feelings the boy evoked. They grew every day. And they made everything, the hassle of organising a royal wedding in record time, the frowning disapproval of the old guard, even the strained relations with Ghizlan’s father, fade to nothing. He was more determined than ever to secure peace, now it meant protecting his son.

  ‘Baba.’ Dawud lifted a hand to Idris’s face, tiny fingers patting at his cheek and nose.

  Idris laughed and caught Arden’s surprise. It made him realise how rarely he laughed. Until Arden and Dawud arrived he’d spent all his time working. Yet he’d enjoyed the last weeks with them, despite the enormous strain of dealing with crises.

  He greeted Dawud in Arabic and was amazed when Dawud answered in kind, lisping a little on the unfamiliar words.

  ‘He remembered what I taught him!’

  ‘He’s a quick learner.’

  Idris nodded, taken aback by the swell of pride at his boy’s cleverness. Did all fathers feel this way? His father had never doted on him, caught up instead in his schemes for personal pleasure. Idris had been closer to his tutors, including the hard men who’d taught him the ancient arts of warfare.

  ‘He likes to please you too.’

  Arden’s voice made him look up. She stood, hands clasped tight as if to stop from reaching out to grab their son. The twist of her lips told him it wasn’t simple pride she felt. Didn’t she trust him with Dawud?

  Idris had worried he’d get this fathering thing wrong with no role model to guide him. So far he seemed to be doing okay but would instinct be enough as Dawud grew?

  Yet even as the familiar doubt surfaced he noticed the way Arden’s wet blouse had turned transparent, giving him a tantalising view of luscious breasts in a lacy half cup bra. She took his breath away every time.

  Idris stood, lifting Dawud into his arms, but the boy wriggled to be let go. That was when Idris noticed the plastic toy boats floating in the shallow pools inlaid with tiny tiles of lapis lazuli, marble and gold.

  His lips quirked as he put Dawud down and watched him plump with a splash into the couple of inches of water, immediately absorbed in his game with the boats.

  ‘You don’t mind him playing here?’ Arden’s expression was guarded. ‘There’s no playground but I thought he couldn’t hurt anything here, if he’s supervised.’

  Idris thought of the painstaking, delicate work that had gone into creating the ornamental pools with their exquisite sixteenth century mosaics. They were national treasures, one of the reasons for the palace’s heritage status.

  ‘I think it’s a perfect place to play with toy boats. I wish I’d thought of it when I was young.’ When he was a kid there was no way any of his royal uncle’s entourage would dream of letting a small boy enjoy such freedoms. ‘We must see about a proper playground. Perhaps with a sandpit and a climbing frame?’

  He watched with pleasure as some of the tension bled from Arden’s stiff frame. ‘That would be perfect. Thank you.’

  That confirmed what he’d known from the first—the way to Arden’s good graces was through their son. Even after a night spent in Idris’s arms, she’d looked anything but relaxed until he started talking about plans for Dawud.

  Regret stabbed. Was that really their only connection? Their boy? It should please him that Dawud was so important to her, yet pride demanded she acknowledge his own place in her life.

  Then he saw the tension in her twined hands. Of course she wanted him. He couldn’t have asked for a more willing, generous lover. But they were strangers still. He needed to give her time to adjust to her new life.

  Idris settled himself on the warm flagstones behind their son, reaching forward to propel a tiny sailboat forward. Dawud crowed with delight, splashing his appreciation and chattering. Idris joined in, enjoying the game, heedless of the water drenching his formal robes. Dawud’s excitement, the laughter, the spray of water in the sunlight, created a sense of well-being, as if for once there weren’t a million tasks clamouring for Idris’s attention. As if this simple joy was all that mattered.

  Arden dragged a chair into the shade of an ornamental tree and sat on the other side of the pool, watching. It struck Idris that, no matter what the law said about his rights as a father, she was working hard to allow him access to his son. Not every woman would make it so easy.

  ‘It must be hard, sharing Dawud after all this time.’

  Her eyes widened, their pale depths glittering in surprise. ‘I...’ She shrugged. ‘It takes a little getting used to. In the past I was the only one he’d run to. Me and his nursery teacher.’

  ‘Not Hamid?’

  The question was a mistake. Arden tensed and the easy atmosphere fractured.

  ‘Hamid was always kind to Dawud but he never got down on the ground to play with him.’

  Her words pleased Idris. It was petty to compare the relationship he’d begun to build with his son against his cousin’s. Yet he couldn’t fully excise that sliver of jealousy over the time Hamid had spent with Arden and Dawud in London.

  ‘Hamid was a friend. He never acted like Dawud’s father—’

  ‘And he wasn’t your lover?’ Snaking distrust wound through him.

  ‘I’ve said it before and won’t say it again. You’ll have to take my word for it.’ Her chin lifted and her eyes flashed and Idris had never wanted her more.

  Her stare might spit fire but, aware of their son playing between them, she kept her voice low. It struck him that his hunger for her wasn’t purely physical. There was something about the way she protected Dawud that got to him at a level every bit as primal as sex.

  The mother of his son. A woman who’d do anything for their boy, even marry a stranger in a strange land.

  Pride throbbed through Idris. Pride and admiration. And, as ever, that undertow of desire.

  ‘I apologise, Arden. I should have taken your word from the first.’ Despite the remnants of jealousy, he believed her. What did she have to gain by lying? Even Hamid had made it clear they hadn’t been lovers. Idris had to conquer this dog-in-the-manger jealousy. It was completely out of character.

  Arden provoked emotions that were unique—both positive and negative. He wanted to understand why. Understand her.

  ‘Why did you call him Dawud? A name from my country, not yours?’ She’d believed he’d abandoned her, so it was odd she’d given their son a name that linked him to Idris’s homeland.

  She lifted her shoulders, her gaze veering away. ‘I went to an exhibition of beautiful antique artefacts from Zahrat and discovered one of your rulers had been King Dawud. I liked the name and wanted our boy to have some connection to your country. To own a link to his father’s heritage as well as mine.’

  ‘That’s very generous, given what you thought of me.
’ Idris frowned. ‘It surprised me.’ And it was one of the reasons he’d thought Hamid her lover.

  ‘Wouldn’t you have accepted him with an English name?’

  Idris stared her down till her cheeks flushed pink. Surely she couldn’t believe he’d ever deny his son? ‘I would have accepted him no matter what. But it makes it easier for our people when he has a name they recognise.’

  Again that little shrug. ‘It’s close enough to the English name David if he wanted to change it later. But I thought he’d appreciate some link to his father’s culture.’

  ‘That’s why you began learning Arabic? To teach our boy?’ Idris should have made the connection. Now it struck him how significant her actions had been. Even believing herself deserted, Arden had tried to build a bridge between their son and a cultural inheritance to which she was an outsider. Idris leaned closer, fascinated by such generosity of spirit.

  ‘I wanted Dawud to feel he belonged, to feel a sense of connection, even if he never knew his father. I believe it’s vital for a child.’

  The way she spoke, the determined glint in her eyes, suggested this wasn’t just about Dawud. Idris raked his memory for what he knew of Arden’s history. All he knew was that she had no family. But maybe that explained her fierce purpose in giving Dawud links to his paternal as well as maternal cultures.

  He was about to ask when Dawud set up a grizzling cry. Instantly Arden was on her feet.

  ‘It’s past nap time. I’d better dry him off and let him rest.’

  ‘I’ll carry him.’ Idris scooped up Dawud and tucked him close. Despite the wetness and the jarring kick of one small heel against his ribs, he enjoyed holding his boy.

  They walked together into Dawud’s room where Idris reluctantly handed him over. The interlude of intimate communication was over. He should return to his office. It might be their honeymoon but securing peace took precedence, especially now he had a family as well as a nation to protect.