The Desert King's Secret Heir Read online

  This time Idris did turn. Unreadable sable eyes pinioned her to her seat. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I ask.’

  Arden sagged against the upholstery. Well, that summed up their situation. At twenty she’d spent a week with a man called Shakil and believed she’d met her soulmate, her one true love, and that she knew everything she needed to trust him utterly.

  That week had changed her life. Would have changed it even if it hadn’t left her pregnant with her precious son. For the first time in years she’d dared to hope, dared to put her trust in someone.

  But that life-altering week had clearly been something far...less for him. All those passionate words, the promise in his eyes and his touch, his desire to have her with him after Santorini...they’d meant nothing. Nothing except they were physically attracted.

  Arden kept her head up as she met his gaze. ‘Dawud is your son.’

  She waited for some reaction but saw none. Did he feel so little? She’d have sworn she’d read at least a hint of deep emotion when he looked at their little boy. But maybe it was wishful thinking because she so wanted Dawud to be loved by both his parents.

  And if he wasn’t? She’d give her son so much love and support he’d never notice the lack from his father. Except she, of all people, knew it didn’t work like that. Nothing made up for the absence of parents.

  Her lip curled. ‘I suppose you want a DNA test?’

  ‘It would be sensible, since we’re talking about the heir to a kingdom.’

  Arden’s fingers dug into the padded arms of her chair, biting hard. She told herself he was right. Of course he’d need unassailable proof Dawud was his. Yet it all boiled down to the fact he didn’t trust her word.

  It took a moment for the rest of his words to hit her. The heir to a kingdom. Did Idris intend to acknowledge his son publicly?

  Arden was torn between relief that Dawud would have access to both his father and mother and burgeoning fear at what that acknowledgement might mean for their cosy life. Did Idris envisage sharing their son, half the time in the UK and half in Zahrat? The idea of being separated from her baby plunged a dagger through her heart. Until she told herself she was getting ahead of herself.

  She looked across to see Idris again talking to Dawud in his own language, even teaching him to say something. Dawud’s smile grew and grew as he parroted the simple sounds. Despite her fears, Arden knew that, however difficult this would be for her and Idris, for Dawud, having a family was immeasurably precious.

  Misha returned and Idris stood.

  ‘Nigh’-nigh’, man.’ Dawud opened and closed his hand in his three-year-old’s version of a wave.

  In response Idris said something first in Arabic, then followed it with, ‘Goodnight.’

  Arden crossed to the bed and kissed her boy, pushing back his silky dark hair. ‘Night-night, sweetie.’

  ‘Nigh’-nigh’, Mama.’ He pressed his hand to his mouth then flung out his arm in an exuberant kiss that made her smile despite the tension dragging at her belly.

  She made herself turn away, reminded Misha to call her if Dawud had trouble settling and followed Idris from the room.

  * * *

  ‘What was that word you taught Dawud?’ Arden asked him across the table laid for two in an intimate dining room.

  She looked tired and tense but that didn’t staunch the need dragging low through his body. She hadn’t dressed up for dinner with him, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, not even any jewellery. Her only trace of make-up was a clear lipgloss and something to darken her lashes. Yet Idris struggled against the need to touch her.

  ‘Baba?’ Idris passed her a platter of slow-roasted lamb before taking some.

  ‘That’s it. What does it mean?’

  She wasn’t looking at him as she helped herself to a salad. She hadn’t looked at him directly since she’d left the bedroom. As if the sight of him offended.

  Was she blind to the fire of attraction crackling between them? Or pretending? Were her plain clothes an attempt to show she wasn’t trying to impress? Or that she disdained him?

  He didn’t know what angered him more, her pretence or that she’d had his child in secret.

  The soft lighting turned her hair to spun gold and the tantalising scent of orange blossom drifted to his nostrils. Idris felt his lower body jerk hard.

  The fact Arden Wills got under his skin so easily made her dangerous. Idris had no intention of ceding power of any sort to anyone. Not after he’d spent years working day and night to cement his position as the youngest Sheikh in two hundred years. Too much effort had gone into stabilising his nation and building its future.

  ‘Baba means Daddy.’

  As expected, that got her attention. Her head shot up and once more he felt that jolt as their eyes met. Their kiss had been explosive. It made him wonder what a more intimate touch would be like.

  ‘You don’t even know he’s yours. Not till you get your paternity test done.’ Was that indignation? Certainly there was fire sparking in those extraordinary aquamarine eyes.

  The jangling tension inside spread, his blood pumping faster.

  Idris shrugged, adopting insouciance to hide his reaction. He wasn’t ready to admit he didn’t need a scientific test to know Dawud was his son. He couldn’t explain his certainty because it defied logic. It wasn’t wish fulfilment because, while he’d expected children with Ghizlan, he’d seen that simply as his duty.

  Yet he’d looked at the boy and felt something he couldn’t explain and had never expected. Certainty was part of it. Happiness, a bright burst of pleasure and protectiveness was another. And relief. Because the idea he’d harboured since seeing the press reports, of Arden and Hamid as lovers, had made him feel wild, out of control.

  Idris didn’t do out of control. He did planned, logical, well-executed.

  ‘You had no right.’

  ‘Pardon?’ He’d lost the thread of her conversation.

  ‘You had no right to tell him you were his father.’ Her small, lush mouth was set in a pout that would have been inviting, if not for her abrasive words.

  He didn’t bother to remind her he’d been speaking his own language, not English, and that the child hadn’t understood. But he would soon. Idris would make sure of it.

  ‘No right?’ He planted his palms on the table and saw her lean back, away from him. ‘I have every right. He’s, what, three years old? All that time you kept him from me.’

  That knowledge had battered him since the moment he’d walked into that basement sitting room and seen his son, a complete stranger yet still his son, sitting on the floor, clapping his hands. It was as if someone had scraped his heart bare, leaving it open and unprotected.

  Even when some inner voice had taunted him with the idea the boy could be Hamid’s.

  ‘Not by choice. You lied to me about who you were.’

  Idris shook his head. ‘I told you—I didn’t lie. I used an old nickname while I travelled to avoid publicity. I’d been under the microscope because of my family connections and wanted a break, to relax and be like everyone else. I had every intention of explaining who I was if you came with me to Paris.’

  It still amazed him that he’d made that offer. But he hadn’t been able to get enough of her. Arden’s unstinting warmth and zest for life, the way she’d looked at him as if he made the sun shine and the moon rise, had been irresistible.

  She didn’t look at him that way now.

  His jaw set. ‘Everything else I told you was true.’ Though he’d steered clear of his connection to royalty. ‘There was no cause to deny me my son.’ He stiffened as he fought the bubbling anger he’d repressed all day.

  He flexed his fingers, resisting the urge to reach for her. To shake her into an apology? To kiss her till she stopped hissing at him as if he were at fault, not
her?

  ‘I didn’t keep him from you!’ Arden threw her napkin on the table and shoved her seat back.

  Idris was on his feet before she was, ready to block the door, determined to have this out. He’d contained himself earlier, knowing the needs of the child had to come first. Patience was a hard won quality. One he’d mastered after assuming the throne, for implementing reform in Zahrat was a slow business. But his patience wore thin. This woman pressed all his buttons.

  ‘Then why not tell me? What did I do on Santorini that convinced you it was better to raise our son alone? How can you justify keeping him from me?’ Idris heard the harsh resonance in his voice and hauled in a deep breath. He hated revealing his feelings.

  Arden planted her hands on her hips in a provocative stance. Her round chin angled up, her eyes sparked and through her white T-shirt he saw her nipples stand out as hard little points.

  He flexed his hands again, resisting the need to reach out and touch. Abruptly he shoved his hands in his pockets.

  ‘How was I supposed to contact you? Tell me that? You hid your tracks too well.’

  ‘I did not—’

  ‘No?’ She stalked forward, her face tilted up to meet his. ‘I never knew your family name.’ She ticked off a finger. ‘The one name you gave me was false.’ Another finger ticked. ‘When I found I was pregnant and contacted the hotel you said you’d booked on Santorini, they refused to confirm you’d been there, much less give me contact details.’

  Idris scowled into her angry face. Those security arrangements were normal procedure to protect the privacy of the royal family. It had never occurred that they might have kept Arden from contacting him.

  ‘I had no idea,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Sure you didn’t.’ Her lip curled and she rubbed her arms as if chilled.

  About to bite out that hiding from women wasn’t his way, Idris paused. If she had tried to contact him, how desperate must she have been when she couldn’t locate him?

  ‘When you didn’t show at the rendezvous I assumed you were happy to walk away.’ At the time, he’d had other things on his mind, like suddenly assuming the throne and responsibility for a nation.

  ‘I told you, I did go. Just a little late. At the last minute I couldn’t find my passport’ Her chin hiked up and those aquamarine eyes held his. ‘When the hotel refused to help me contact you I called the Zahrati embassy here in London.’ Her mouth twisted and Idris felt a dart of discomfort.

  ‘Do you have any idea how horrible it was, trying to locate you through official channels? All I could tell them was that your name was Shakil, you were twenty-six and spoke excellent English, that you’d studied in the US and you’d once broken your collarbone. I didn’t even have photos of you since you were so camera shy.’ Her mouth pursed, her nostrils thinning. ‘Oh, they were very polite, very kind. I think they felt sorry for me because they guessed why I needed to find you so urgently.’

  Heat washed her pale features but her gaze didn’t waver. Idris read hurt and defiance there and, if he wasn’t mistaken, remembered embarrassment.

  What had it been like to discover at twenty that she was pregnant to a stranger? To a man whose real name she didn’t even know?

  Guilt smote him. It reminded him of the blow he’d received at fourteen, learning traditional battle skills, when he’d been knocked, winded, from his horse and cracked a couple of bones.

  Except that had been a clean blow in fair combat. This felt different, tainted with shame, though he hadn’t intentionally misled her.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He paused, knowing it wasn’t enough. ‘I apologise, Arden. What you went through—it must have been devastating. I really do regret that you felt deserted.’ Idris stilled. She’d been so young. So bright and innocent. His lungs squeezed hard at the thought of her, scared and alone.

  ‘I never meant to dupe you or hurt you. I only wanted a chance to enjoy myself without attracting public attention.’ How selfish and irresponsible that sounded now. ‘As for pregnancy, I assumed the precautions we took would be enough.’ He felt his shoulders rise. ‘I was thoughtless, not even considering repercussions, and for that I apologise again. But believe me, I wasn’t trying to hide. Within a week of leaving Santorini I became Sheikh of Zahrat. It never occurred to me you couldn’t find me if you needed to.’

  Arden stared, her gaze raking as if sifting fact from the lies she’d imagined. ‘I had other things on my mind than current affairs. Even if I’d read about it I wouldn’t have made the connection between the Shakil I knew and a royal sheikh.’

  Idris nodded. How could she have known? How could either of them? It was no one’s fault, just an unfortunate series of circumstances.

  Yet that edgy feeling of guilt still lined his gut. He remembered her telling him she had no family. Her parents had died years ago.

  ‘You were okay? Through the pregnancy and birth?’ It didn’t matter what logic said. Honour dictated he should have been there to provide for her.

  Her eyes rounded. ‘As you can see, I’m fine.’

  Which didn’t answer his question. Instead it made him wonder what she hid. Had there been anyone by her side through that ordeal?

  ‘You were well looked after?’

  Her gaze hardened. ‘I looked after myself. At least I had a steady job to go back to. That supported us both.’

  Idris felt her stare like a slap, knowing it was what she didn’t say that damned him. He knew next to nothing about childbirth but even he understood women needed support and rest, not just during delivery but after. How soon had she been forced back to work?

  ‘I don’t shirk my responsibilities,’ Idris said slowly, watching the flash of fire in her eyes. ‘If I’d known I would have helped, as I intend to help you now.’

  The girl he’d known had been sweet, affectionate and easy-going whereas the woman before him was complicated, feisty and obstinate. Yet her passion and her determination to keep him at a distance only made his hunger for her more acute.

  It was inexplicable.

  ‘Good. I always wanted Dawud to know his father. It’s important for a child to have a positive relationship with both parents.’ She crossed her arms and surveyed him as if considering whether he measured up to her high standards.

  Idris paced forward, closing the gap between them.. ‘I agree. Which is why we’ll marry as soon as possible.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ARDEN STARED UP into dark velvet eyes that glowed in a way she didn’t like at all.

  It made her think of how he’d hemmed her in against her front door and wrapped his big hand around the base of her skull, holding her captive as he kissed her senseless. And how she’d let him.

  Of the heat that shimmered through her every time their eyes met, as if the smallest spark would ignite a conflagration she couldn’t douse.

  Of the way she’d melted at his touch, his kiss, even his voice.

  She didn’t want to melt. She wanted to cling to fury at his desertion, believing he’d deliberately dumped her. But, despite her anger and fear, Arden found herself believing the regret in his eyes, the honesty in his voice, the steadfastness in his body language. He hadn’t intentionally left her high and dry. He’d sent someone to meet her and she hadn’t been there.

  An ache opened up in the pit of her belly. The fact it was random circumstance not deliberate intent that had kept them apart somehow seemed almost worse. And now this!

  ‘Marry?’ Her voice stretched and splintered.

  ‘Of course. It’s the logical solution.’

  ‘Solution? I’m not a problem to be solved!’ Easier to let anger hide her curious disappointment.

  After all this time did she still pine for the fantasy she’d once harboured? Of him saying he loved her and wanted to spend his life with her?

  Sur
ely she was stronger than that.

  Arden pushed by him to pace the room, passing the exquisitely polished dining table with its crystal glasses, silverware and fine porcelain.

  A table fit for a king. A king who’d planned to marry a princess. If anything was needed to highlight the differences between them that was it.

  ‘What about your fiancée?’ She swung to face him. Even from the far side of the room he was too close.

  ‘I was never engaged. The betrothal wasn’t finalised.’

  Something in his voice told her he glossed over a difficult situation. Or maybe it was the hard line of his jaw. She could only guess at the diplomatic furore caused by those press reports.

  ‘You don’t just call off a royal marriage.’

  ‘You expect me to wed Princess Ghizlan when I’ve discovered you’re the mother of my son?’ He grew before her eyes, his face taking on an implacable expression that made her think uneasily of his desert warrior heritage.

  ‘I’ve been the mother of your son for years.’ She folded her arms. ‘We’ve survived quite well without you.’

  It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words spilled out. The gleam in his eyes turned positively dangerous.

  ‘I’ve been robbed of three years of my son’s life.’ He spoke quietly yet the lethal precision of those words sent her nerves into jangling alarm. ‘I won’t be robbed of more.’

  ‘I didn’t rob you of anything!’ Her voice was overloud.

  ‘Perhaps not.’ She opened her mouth to speak again but the thoughtful, patient man who’d put Dawud’s needs first all day had disappeared, replaced by a forbidding figure whose aggressive stance spoke of steely resolve. ‘But the fact remains he’s mine.’

  ‘And mine!’ Arden shot forward a step.

  ‘Precisely. You said yourself it’s best if a child has a positive relationship with both parents. Marriage will ensure that.’

  ‘Marriage isn’t required.’ Arden stifled hollow laughter that she was rejecting him. Once the idea of marrying this man would have been a fantasy come true.