Книга - The Sultan’s Heir

The Sultan's Heir
ALEXANDRA SELLERS


Sheikh Najib blasted into Rosalind Lewis's life and staked a sultan's claim on her son!Her denial of the boy's royal lineage was met with deaf ears - and relentless kisses. When danger threatened, mother and child were whisked into Najib's exotic world, a faraway place where protection meant marriage.But with every night in the arms of her sheikh "husband,” Rosalind's secret threatened to surface. Would the truth bring a bitter end - or a heartfelt vow?









“Tell Me The Truth And I Will Love You, Rosalind. I Will Make Such Love To You—”


Her hand flew to her throat. “What?” she whispered.

Najib stroked light fingers down her bare arm. He was wounded; she had pierced his heart in the first moment she looked at him, suspicious and mistrustful though her eyes had been.

“You are a woman who enjoys physical pleasure, Rosalind. Do you think a man does not know such a thing?”

She closed her eyes and breathed to silence her noisy heart.

“How my mouth craves to kiss you, Rosalind, my hands burn with wanting to touch you. Do you not feel it? I see it in your eyes. You want my touch. Tell me that it is so. Say it!”

“Najib,” she whispered, her body streaming with feeling.

How could such passionate need as Najib felt for her coexist with the deep suspicion that she was a danger—to him, to the family, to the thing that ruled all their lives?


Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!

The ever-fabulous Ann Major offers a Cowboy Fantasy, July’s MAN OF THE MONTH. Will a fateful reunion between a Texas cowboy and his ex-flame rekindle their fiery passion? In Cherokee, Sheri WhiteFeather writes a compelling story about a Native American hero who, while searching for his Cherokee heritage, falls in love with a heroine who has turned away from hers.

The popular miniseries BACHELOR BATTALION by Maureen Child marches on with His Baby!—a marine hero returns from an assignment to discover he’s a father. The tantalizing Desire miniseries FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS continues with The Pregnant Heiress by Eileen Wilks, whose pregnant heroine falls in love with the investigator protecting her from a stalker.

Alexandra Sellers has written an enchanting trilogy, SONS OF THE DESERT: THE SULTANS, launching this month with The Sultan’s Heir. A prince must watch over the secret child heir to the kingdom along with the child’s beautiful mother. And don’t miss Bronwyn Jameson’s Desire debut—an intriguing tale involving a self-made man who’s In Bed with the Boss’s Daughter.

Treat yourself to all six of these heart-melting tales of Desire—and see inside for details on how to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest.

Enjoy!






Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire




The Sultan’s Heir

Alexandra Sellers









for

Jennifer Nauss,

heartbreaker




ALEXANDRA SELLERS


is the author of over twenty-five novels and a feline language text published in 1997 and still selling.

Born and raised in Canada, Alexandra first came to London as a drama student. Now she lives near Hampstead Heath with her husband, Nick. They share housekeeping with Monsieur, who jumped through the window one day and announced, as cats do, that he was moving in.

What she would miss most on a desert island is shared laughter.

Readers can write to Alexandra at P.O. Box 9449, London NW3 2WH, England.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue




Prologue


A heavy, humming silence hung over the ancient brick and modern steel of the bank’s safety deposit vault. Three men stood together watching as the manager himself inserted the key that allowed the slender chromium door to open. They exchanged brief glances but no word.

They were young, all around thirty, the manager supposed. There was something about them that he could not place, a sense of themselves, an authority, that was unusual in the young. They reminded him of someone, but he could not say who. Perhaps it was the curiously elusive resemblance they had to one another, some expression in the eyes that made him think their relationship might be one of blood. One had called the dead man, whose safety deposit box he was now opening for them, their cousin.

His fingers hooked into the little handle, and the bank manager drew out the long, shining drawer. “It has not been touched for five years, of course,” he said, feeling somehow that this was his moment. Perhaps it was because they were watching him with such fixed attention.

It was by no means an unusual occurrence in the aftermath of the long and devastating Kaljuk War. Other families had lost track of the safety deposit boxes of their dead loved ones, or had never known of them, until notified by the bank of an arrears on the rental. And sometimes when the bank sent out letters there was no reply at all….

No one answered him, and he slid his left arm under the box as it came free of its sheath. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, and turned to lead them out of the vault, leaving a clerk to close and turn the locks of the vault door.

He led them down the narrow passage, on a sudden impulse bypassing the doorways leading to the closets where more ordinary clients of the bank examined their safety deposit boxes, instead going up the staircase to the main floor of the bustling institution.

He headed for a door labelled Meeting Room, and with a nod instructed the young clerk to open it. “You will not be disturbed here,” he told them with a certain gravity, leading the way inside.

He placed the box on the polished wood table, then straightened and glanced at the men. Still no one had spoken. Although on the surface the three were completely calm, there was a tension in the air that was of a different order from the usual simple, excited hope that some family treasure would be found to have been saved from the devastation. He wondered what might be in the box.

The bank manager nodded as if to himself. “You will not be disturbed,” he said again.

“Thank you,” said one of the men, holding the door with polite implacability. Reluctantly, unconsciously wishing to be part of the drama he felt hovering, the bank manager bowed again and left.

Najib al Makhtoum closed the door, shutting him out, then turned to his companions. The three men stood for a moment looking at each other in silence. Strong sunlight slanted through narrow windows high along one wall, casting sharp shadows, and making visible a family resemblance between the three men that was not always so obvious. They all shared some ancestor’s broad forehead, strong cheekbones, and full mouth, but each had put his own individual stamp on his genes.

“Well, let’s hope this is it,” Ashraf said, and as if this were a signal they all three moved to pull out chairs around the table where the box lay, and settled themselves.

A hand reached out and lifted the lid to expose the long, shallow, oblong compartment. There was a collective sigh.

“Empty,” said Ashraf. “Well, it was too much to expect that—”

“But he must have—” Haroun began, and broke off as Najib interrupted, “Not empty, Ash.”

The other two drew in one simultaneous breath: two envelopes lay flat in the bottom, almost invisible in the sharp shadows.

For a moment they stared in silence.

Najib and Haroun looked from the envelopes to Ashraf, and it was he who reached in at last and reluctantly drew out the two rectangular shapes, one a large brown business envelope, the other a narrow white oblong.

“It’s a will,” said Ashraf, surprise in his voice. He looked at the brown envelope. “And a letter addressed to Grandfather.” He dropped that on the table and turned to the will, starting to unwind the red string that held the flap in place.

“What firm?” asked Najib. “Not old Ibrahim?”

Ashraf turned it over to show the looping logo of a legal firm and shook his head. “Jamal al Wakil,” he read, and glanced up. “Ever heard of him?”

The other two shook their heads, and a frown was settling on his brow as Ashraf lifted the flap and drew out the formal legal document. “Why does a man go to a stranger to draw up his will on the eve of war?” he murmured, then bent to run his eyes over the legal phrases.

“Grandfather, his mother…” he murmured, flipping to a new page, and then stopped, his eyes fixed to the page.

“What is it?” demanded the other two simultaneously.

“‘To my wi…’” Ashraf read, then looked up to meet the startled eyes of his brother and cousin. “‘To my wife.’ He was married. He must have—” He broke off and resumed reading as the other two exclaimed in amazement.

“Married! To whom?”

Ashraf read, “‘My wife, Rosalind Olivia Lewis.’ An Englishwoman. While he was in London. Has to be.” His eyes roamed further and he stiffened and raised his gaze over the edge of the paper to fix them with a warning look. “She was pregnant. They thought, a son.”

“Allah!” one whispered, for them all. The three men stared at each other. “She would have contacted the family if there was a child,” said Haroun weakly. “Especially if it was a boy.”

“Maybe not. Do you think he told her the truth before marrying her?”

“Let’s hope not.”

Ashraf was still reading. He shook his head in contradiction. “He must have told her. Listen. ‘…and to my son, I leave the al Jawadi Rose.’”

There was another silence as they took it in. “Do you think she’s got it?” Haroun whispered. “Could he have been so besotted as to leave it with her?”

“Not so crazy, maybe,” Ash pointed out. “Maybe he thought it would be wiser than bringing it back to Parvan on the eve of war.”

Najib picked up the other envelope his cousin had drawn from the box. He lifted the flap and drew out the first thing that his fingers found—a small stiff white rectangle. He flipped it over and found himself looking into the softly smiling eyes of a woman.

“It’s her,” he said.

For an unconscious moment he sat gazing at the girl’s face. She was young and very pretty, her face rounded and soft. Looking at the face, he was mostly aware of regret—that five years had passed since the photo had been taken, and that he had not known her like this, with the bloom of sweetness on her soft cheeks…

It was obvious that the man behind the camera had been Jamshid, and that she had loved him. He wondered who she loved now.

“The child will be four years old,” Haroun said, voicing the thought all shared. “My God.”

“We have to find her. And the boy.” Ashraf took a breath. “Before anyone else does. And Haroun’s right, he might have left the Rose with her. Allah, a son of Kamil and the Rose together—what a prize. Who can we trust with this?”

Najib was still looking down at the photograph on the table, his hand resting on its edge, as though protecting the face from a draft. Abruptly he flattened his hand, drew the little piece of card to the edge of the table, scooped it up, and slipped it into his inner breast pocket.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.




One


“Mrs. Bahrami?”

Rosalind stared at the man at her door. It was a long time since anyone had called her by that name. Yet she was sure she had never met him before. He wasn’t the kind of man you forgot.

“That is not my name,” she said, in level tones. “Why didn’t the doorman ring me?”

“Perhaps I mistake,” the stranger murmured, with the air of a man who never did. His hair was raven-black above dark eyes and strongly marked eyebrows. Although he wore a tweed jacket and expensive Italian loafers, his foreignness was betrayed by the set of his mouth, the expression around his eyes, the slight accent. “I am looking for Mrs. Rosalind Bahrami.”

Rosie’s lips tightened. Behind the added years and the different features, there was an unmistakable resemblance. A wave of hostility rose in her, sharpening her senses, so that she picked up the scent of his aftershave. “You—”

“Please,” he overrode her urgently, as if sensing that she was about to deny it. “I must find her. Rosalind Lewis married my cousin Jamshid Bahrami some years ago. Are not you this Rosalind Lewis?”

Cousin. Her stomach tightened.

Najib al Makhtoum took in the long, impossibly thick, beige hair, a wave falling over hazel eyes, the slender oval of her face. Soft lips that had once been trusting were set firmly, a slightly ironic tilt at one corner expanding into a challenging half smile now as her eyebrows lifted dismissively. Angry mockery was evident in the curving eyelids too, as she gazed at him. She was not wearing a ring.

“I am,” she said flatly, giving no ground. “And it was a long time ago, and as Jamshid’s cousin, what do you care?”

He was conscious of irritation. Women did not usually treat him so dismissively.

“I must talk to you. May I come in?”

“Not on your life,” she said, with slow, implacable emphasis. “Goodbye.”

His hand prevented the door’s closing. “You seem to regard your late husband’s family…”

“With deep and abiding revulsion,” she supplied. “Take your hand away, please.”

“Miss Lewis,” he said urgently, his accent reminding her with wrenching sharpness of Jamshid. “Please let me speak to you. It is very important.”

His eyes were the colour of melted bittersweet chocolate. The full mouth showed signs that the crazily passionate nature was the same, but was tempered with self-control. If Jamshid had lived, probably his mouth would have taken on the same learned discipline by this age, but the memory of the young passionate mouth was all she would ever have.

“What’s your name?”

“I am Najib al Makhtoum,” he said, with a kind of condescending air, as if he was not used to having to introduce himself.

“And who did you say sent you?”

“I have urgent family business to discuss with you.”

“What business?”

“I represent Jamshid’s estate. I am one of his executors.”

She gazed at him, recognizing a man who would get what he wanted.

“I assure you it is to your advantage,” he pressed, frowning as if her reticence made him suspicious.

“Uh-huh.” The look she gave him left him in no doubt of what she thought of her chances of hearing something to her advantage from him. “Half an hour,” Rosalind capitulated flatly, falling back. She pushed aside a child’s bright green wheeled dinosaur with her foot and held the door open.

“Half an hour to the representative of your dead husband’s family,” he remarked without expression, stepping inside.

“Which is exactly thirty minutes more than they ever gave me.”

He took that with a frowning look. “You made an attempt at contact, then?”

She looked at him, not answering. The skin on her back shivered, and she had a sudden understanding of how animals felt when confronting danger. If she were a cat, probably she would look twice her normal size now, her fur standing out in all directions.

But she didn’t suppose that that would scare him off. He looked like a man who thrived on challenge.

“Over there,” she said, closing the door and lifting a hand to direct him. She watched as he moved ahead of her into the sitting room and towards the sofas at the far end of the long, elegant room. Jamshid had been shorter, a little slimmer. His cousin’s frame was powerful, his shoulders broad, strong bones under a firm musculature.

In the bright sitting room Najib glanced around at the resolutely European decor. A beautiful sheaf of white flowers graced the centre of a square black coffee table, with half a dozen little onyx and crystal ornaments. Around it were sofas and chairs, with decorative touches that combined to give the room a soft, expensive sophistication.

Only a couple of pieces gave evidence that she had ever been married to a Parvani—an extremely beautiful silk Bagestani prayer rug in front of a cabinet and an antique miniature of the Parvan royal palace in Shahr-i Bozorg, painted on a narrow strip of ivory in a delicate inlaid frame, hanging on one wall in elegant isolation.

“Sit down, Mr. al Makhtoum,” she invited, without pretending to any social warmth. She crossed to a corner of the sofa kitty-corner to the chair she indicated to him. It was only when he set it on the black table that she noticed he was carrying a briefcase.

Rosie was barefoot, wearing soft blue cotton leggings and a long blue shirt. The briefcase suddenly made her feel vulnerable. Unconsciously she drew one bent leg under her, lightly clasped her bare ankle, her gold bracelet watch tumbling down over her wrist, and sat sideways on the sofa, facing him. Her other arm rested on the sofa back and supported her cheek as she gazed at him.

“What can your family possibly want with me after all this time?” Rosalind demanded, curious if not really caring, but a little nervous, too, as he snapped the case open.

“First,” Najib al Makhtoum began, “may I confirm a few facts? You are Rosalind Olivia Lewis, and five years ago you married Jamshid Bahrami, a citizen of Parvan who was at that time a postgraduate student at the School of Eastern and Asian Studies here in London?”

“We’ve been over that,” she said. “What else?”

“You subsequently gave birth to his child?”

She went very still, watching him.

“I am sorry to say we learned only recently about your marriage and that you were pregnant when my cousin died,” he said helpfully.

“Did you?” Rosalind said, with cool, unconcerned disbelief.

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Was there any reason, Miss Lewis, why you did not let the family know of the marriage and your pregnancy after Jamshid’s death?”

She lowered her head and looked at him under her brows. “I might as easily ask you why Jamshid apparently told no one about me before going off to war,” she returned bitterly. “He left here promising to get his grandfather’s approval, saying that his family would send for me if war was declared, that I would go to family in the Barakat Emirates and have the baby there…. Well, I guess he never did it. If it wasn’t significant to him, why should it have been to me?”

“There is no doubt that he should—”

“In fact, though, as I am sure you know,” she went on over him, “I did write a letter to Jamshid’s grandfather, shortly after hearing that my husband had been killed.”

She was surprised by the wary look that entered his eyes, but couldn’t guess what it meant. “My grandfather died within a year after—” he began, and she interrupted,

“I’m sorry to hear it. I always imagined that one day I would tell him to his face what I thought of him.”

“Are you sure my grandfather received this letter?”

She dropped her chin, staring down at the peach-coloured fabric that covered the sofa under her thigh, and felt the old anguish stab her, heart and womb.

“Oh, yes,” she said, lifting her head again. “Oh, yes, Mr. al Makhtoum, your grandfather received it, as I think you know. I think you know that he wrote back a charming little note telling me that I was not married to Jamshid, that I was no more than an opportunistic foreign gold digger who could have no way of knowing which of my many lovers was the father of her child, that I should reflect that to receive money for sex would make me a prostitute, and that I would rot for what I was trying to put over on the grieving family of a war hero.

“It was pretty comprehensive,” she said, opening her eyes at him. “So what has Jamshid’s family now got to add to that?”




Two


It stopped him cold. Najib al Makhtoum looked away, heaved a long, slow breath, shook his head, met her eyes again.

“No,” he assured her. His voice was quiet, masking his deep exasperation. Why on earth had the old man—? But it was no use asking that question now. “No, I knew of no such letter. No one did, save my grandfather. Is that indeed what was said to you?”

“Well, it may not be word for word,” Rosalind allowed. “You would hardly expect it after five years, though at the time I felt the message had been gouged into me permanently with a dull knife. I suppose Jamshid was lying to me from beginning to end, I suppose to him a Western marriage wasn’t worth a thought, but I believed him. I loved him and I believed he loved me and I was pregnant with his child, and to learn so brutally that he hadn’t even bothered to mention me to his grandfather was—”

She broke off and told herself to calm down. Railing at Jamshid’s cousin would do nothing. And she still didn’t know why he was here.

“I am very sorry,” al Makhtoum murmured at last. “I apologize on behalf of my grandfather—of all Jamshid’s family. The rest of us knew nothing. As I said, we learned of your existence only recently. My grandfather most unfortunately kept your letter secret. It can have been known to none but himself.”

She didn’t know whether to believe him, but what did it matter? It only underlined the fact that Jamshid had been faithless.

“Well, now perhaps you understand why I am not interested in anything your family might have to say to me. In fact, I’d rather not have you sitting on my sofa. So—”

He lifted a hand. “Miss Lewis, I understand your anger. But please let me—”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand, because you don’t know anything about me or my life, or what effect that letter had. No explanation is necessary, Mr. al Makhtoum. Nothing you could say now would change history. What was it Jamshid used to say? Makhtoub. It’s written. It’s over.”

“It is not over,” said Najib al Makhtoum softly, but with such complete conviction that Rosalind’s heart kicked.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

He coughed. “As you know, Jamshid died in the early days of the Kaljuk War. We believed that he died intestate, but his will has recently come to light. He left most of his substantial personal property to you and the child.”

Rosalind’s mouth opened in silent astonishment. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again.

“What?” she whispered.

“I have a copy of his will, if you would like to read it.”

“Jamshid named me in his will?”

“You are the major beneficiary.”

She was swamped by a mixture of feelings she thought might drown her. “I don’t—you—why wasn’t I told of this five years ago?”

“We knew nothing of the will until ten days ago.”

“How could you possibly not know Jamshid had left a will for five years?”

She sat staring at him, her head forward, her eyes gone dark and fixed on him. He felt the pulse of his masculine ego and was suddenly, powerfully aware of the intensity of her femininity, and understood why Jamshid had married her in spite of everything, even knowing how ferociously their grandfather would object.

“He did not go to the family lawyer, doubtless because he had not yet found a way to tell our grandfather of your marriage,” Najib al Makhtoum explained. “He went to a lawyer with no connections to…our family. We have learned that the man was killed and his offices destroyed by a bomb, shortly after Jamshid’s own death.”

She had a sudden sharp memory of reading of the bombing raids. How she had wept for the destruction of his country.

She shook her head, fighting back the burning in her eyes.

“Jamshid had put a copy of the will and documents pertaining to your marriage in a safety deposit box we also knew nothing of. The bank sent a routine notice recently when the account that paid for the box went into arrears. Undoubtedly Jamshid had left a key with this same lawyer, expecting the box to be opened immediately in the event of his death.”

Rosie pressed her lips together and looked down, her thick beige hair falling forward to provide a partial curtain against his eyes. She sat in silence, absorbing it. A trembling, broken smile pulled at her mouth, and there was no trace now of the bitterness that showed as cynicism. She suddenly looked younger, innocent and trusting. He thought that he was now seeing the girl in the photograph. The girl Jamshid had fallen in love with.

“I see,” she whispered again. “That was…” She shook her head, raised her eyes and gazed at the ceiling. Swallowed. “I wish I’d known this five years ago.”

“It was not Jamshid’s fault that you did not. No one could have foreseen such a tragic coincidence.”

Rosalind was shaken to the soul. Five years of her life rewritten in a few minutes. Her eyes burned as the hurt she didn’t know she still carried flamed through her. So he had not abandoned her. His love had not been a lie.

Najib cleared his throat. “In the box also was a letter of explanation to my grandfather.”

“What did he say?” she asked hoarsely, her gaze on him again.

“I have it here. Would you like to read it?” He reached into his case again, drew out a letter and handed it to her. “I believe you read Parvani? He mentions the fact in the letter.”

Her hand shook as she accepted it. The writing swam behind her tears, and Rosalind blinked hard as she read the last words she would ever hear from Jamshid.

“Grandfather, I am ashamed not to have found a way to tell you and the family about my marriage, which took place in England….

“I know that it was your design that I should marry a woman of our own blood, but Rosalind will delight you when you meet her. She is a woman to rise to any demand that fate makes of her, and will be a fine mother to our child, which to my great joy she carries. We think it a son. If it should be God’s will that I do not return from this war alive, and that you learn of my marriage through this letter, I trust…”

Tears choked her. She could read no further. Rosalind dropped the letter and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, I wish I had known, I wish I had known!” she cried again. “I thought he betrayed me, I thought…”

She bit her lip and fought for calm.

“He loved me.” Her voice cracked. “He did love me.”

The stranger with Jamshid’s eyes moved and was sitting beside her. “Yes,” he murmured comfortingly. “Yes, he must have loved you very much.”

“Why didn’t he tell his grandfather about me?”

“My grandfather was a man who had suffered great reverses in his life, and for his favourite to have married an Englishwoman was—” He broke off. “For now, comfort yourself with the knowledge that your husband’s last thoughts, before going to war, were of you. You and the child.”

His deep, gentle voice tore away the last thread of her control. A cry ripped her throat, and when she felt his arms going around her it seemed natural and right. He was Jamshid’s cousin. Rosalind rested her head against the rough tweed of his jacket and wept as the mixture of grief and the deep hurt of betrayal shuddered through her and was at last released.

Najib stroked the long, smooth, honey-brown hair, and thought what a tragedy it was that she had been made to doubt his cousin’s love. But there was good reason why Jamshid had not told their grandfather of the marriage….

He remembered the terrible uproar that had ensued when Jamshid came home determined to go to war at the side of Prince Kavian. As one of the prince’s Cup Companions, as a man raised all his life in his mother’s country, Jamshid had insisted, he must do his duty to that country in its time of need. His grandfather had shouted, had threatened, had told him of his higher duty to his own family, to his father’s country and his fate….

The storm of the old man’s fury had raged over their heads for weeks, all through the buildup to the first, inevitable Kaljuk invasion, while the urgent diplomatic attempts, one after the other, fell on waste ground. Jamshid had stood resolute through it all, but it had certainly not been the moment to raise the matter of his marriage to an Englishwoman, which his grandfather would have opposed with the utmost bitterness. That might have killed the old man.

So Jamshid, his grandfather’s favourite and named heir, had gone off to battle with the old man’s curse ringing in his ears, and a few weeks later they had carried his lifeless body back across the threshold, broken, bruised and thin, in early promise of what horrors the war would bring to Parvan. His grandfather had been knocked to his knees by the blow. He never recovered. The change in him had shaken them all. That tower of strength reduced to rubble in an hour.

Rosalind’s letter and its revelations must have seemed the final horror to a mind finally driven beyond its limits. Perhaps, in the human way, the old man had turned on her as a way to ward off his own deep guilt. To curse a man going into battle was a terrible thing….

It was a tragedy that he had succumbed to such emotions at such a time. If Rosalind had been taken into the family then, she and Jamshid’s child would already be under their protection. But thank God fate had revealed her existence at a time when they could still take steps. Najib thought that it would be his job to protect her now, and his arm tightened around her, making him conscious of the train of his thoughts, so that he deliberately released her.

Rosalind wiped her eyes and cheeks with her fingers, snatched a tissue from the box on the table. She sat up, snuffling, blew her nose, wiped her tears.

“Thanks for the shoulder,” she muttered.

“I am sorry to have offered it five years late.”

Rosalind shook her head and pulled her still-trembling mouth into a half smile. “Well. What now?”

“I should tell you the contents of his will before anything else, I think.”

“All right.”

Najib al Makhtoum returned to his own seat, where he drew the will from his case, flipped over a few pages, and began softly, “Jamshid left you his flat in Paris and another in New York outright. In addition, there is a lifetime interest in the villa in East Barakat to be held by you until your death, in trust for the child. Another property, in trust until the child reaches twenty-one years of age. Certain valuables and some investments intended to provide an income for you.” He outlined them briefly, and then said, “The provisions are slightly altered in the case of a daughter, to protect her property on her marriage.”

He rested the document on his knees. “Fortunately, none of the real estate or property has been sold in the intervening years. A lump sum payment of the accumulated income is, naturally, due to you immediately.”

Rosalind stared at him, her astonishment increasing with every word of this recital. He passed her a list of figures, and she looked at the total he indicated with sheer disbelief.

“Did Jamshid really own all that?”

He looked at her, wondering if her astonishment was genuine. If he really had told her nothing, Jamshid must have been crazy, Najib reflected. But looking at Rosalind, he could see plenty of reason for madness.

“His father died when he was an infant. He came into his personal inheritance at the age of twenty-one. I have taken the liberty of bringing you one of the jewels that forms a part of your inheritance.”

He reached into the case, and brought out a small wine-coloured velvet bag. Rosalind watched in silent stupefaction as Najib al Makhtoum expertly pulled open the drawstring and shook out onto his palm a ring. He picked it up between thumb and forefinger, glanced at it, and held it out to her.

It was a diamond as big as all outdoors, in an old-fashioned setting between two pyramided clusters of rubies. It took Rosalind’s breath away. It glowed with a rich inner fire, as if it had been worn by a deeply feminine woman and her aura still surrounded it.

“It belonged to our great-grandmother,” Najib explained. “She was famed for her beauty, and was a woman of great charm.” He looked at Rosalind and thought that he had never met a woman with such feminine impact. Family legend said Mawiyah had been such a woman.

Rosalind stared at the ring. “I don’t—are you sure?” she asked stupidly, and, with something like impatience, for she was now a wealthy woman and this ring was no more than a token, he took the ring from her again and picked up her hand.

“Put it on,” he said, slipping it onto her ring finger and down over the knuckle, and for a moment reality seemed to flicker, and they realized that it was her left hand. They both blinked and then ignored the fact that unconsciously he had performed the age-old ritual that bound men and women together for life.

They spoke simultaneously, in cool voices. “It’s very lovely,” Rosalind said, and Najib said, “It’s only one of several very fine pieces that are now yours.”

She shook her head dumbly. “He never said a word about this. Not a word.”

But then, Jamshid had always been reticent about his background. They had dated for months before she even learned that he held the rank of Cup Companion to Prince Kavian.

In ancient times, the cup had meant the winecup. The companions were the men with whom the Prince caroused and forgot world affairs. But in modern times the position was much more than an honourary one. The Companions now were like a government cabinet.

It was a very prestigious appointment, but Rosalind had somehow not been all that surprised to learn of Jamshid’s position. Maybe it was Jamshid’s own bearing, or maybe it was that Prince Kavian had always treated his “bodyguards” with the respect of an equal.

Cup Companions to the Crown Prince normally came from the nobility. But Rosalind had certainly assumed, if she thought of it at all, that, like so many other Parvanis, the family’s wealth had all gone towards defending the little kingdom from the Kaljuk invaders during the destructive three-year war.

“But wasn’t everything lost in the war?” she murmured stupidly.

“The family holdings in Parvan were turned over to the royal house for the war effort,” he informed her. “Much was destroyed. Jamshid had the foresight not to leave you any of the Parvan property, however, and I assure you that your inheritance, and your son’s, is virtually intact.”

And your son’s. “Oh.”

“Except for one thing. We thought that perhaps, on discovering your pregnancy, he might have entrusted it to you. Did Jamshid ever give you a jewel, Rosalind?”

“What, you mean a ring? He gave me a gold wedding band. We were in such a hurry before he went home…”

“Not a gold band. A very large diamond ring—or perhaps, the key to a safety deposit box?”

She shook her head, mystified. Again, he could not be sure of her. “A very large diamond? Larger than this?”

“It is a family heirloom that belonged to Jamshid but was not among his effects when he died. He would have wanted his son to have it.”

“His son,” she murmured.

“The family is naturally very eager to meet you and the boy. We would like to ask you, Rosalind, to visit—”

Rosalind looked down at her hands in her lap, watching the ring with deep sadness, and thought how different her life might have been.

“I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting him with quiet firmness. “Jamshid had no son. The day after I got that—that letter from your grandfather, I had a miscarriage. I lost Jamshid’s baby.”




Three


There was a startled silence. “A miscarriage?” he repeated softly. He did not look towards the entrance, where the plastic dinosaur was just visible.

She remembered the terrible, stabbing pain as she read the letter, as if the old man had taken a knife to her womb. As if her child had responded to such viciousness by refusing to be born into the world.

“It was the letter,” she murmured. “I knew it was the letter. It’s why I’ve hated you all so much.”

He sat in silence, staring at her with a mixture of doubt and sadness. But there was nothing more to say. Rosalind shook her head, made a slight shrugging movement, then got up. She went to the bathroom, rinsed her face in cold water, stared at the ring, gazed at her reflection for a minute in blank disbelief, and came back.

He was sitting where she had left him, holding one of the glass ornaments from the table, absently watching the snow settle around a perfect red rose. He looked up as she crossed the room and stopped in front of him.

“I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like some?”

“Thank you.”

Moving around the kitchen, getting down the cafetière, filling the kettle, laying the tray, she could see him through the doorway. He sat on the sofa in the kind of coiled relaxation that could leap into action very quickly. He absently shook the ornament again, and a cloud of snow bubbled up and hid the rose.

“How did you meet Jamshid? Were you a student, too?”

She shook her head. “Not at the same time he was. I’d already done an undergrad degree in Parvani, and was working at the Embassy of Parvan as a junior translator. I was mostly doing stuff for tourist publications. Prince Kavian and Arash and Jamshid came and were living upstairs at the embassy,” she explained.

“I was studying in Paris for much of that time. But my sister was a student at the university here at the same time as Jamshid,” he remarked. She was measuring the coffee, and looked up as he spoke. “Do you remember a girl named Lamis al Azzam?”

The little scoop caught the edge of the glass cafetière and leapt from her grasp, the fine-ground coffee spraying all over the counter. Rosalind muttered and reached for a sponge.

Next thing she knew, he was in the doorway, still holding the rose ornament. With forced calm, Rosalind wiped up the spilled grounds, dusted the residue from her pale blue shirt, rinsed her hands and the sponge under the tap.

As she carefully measured another scoop of coffee into the cafetière, she said, “I knew Lamis, yes.” How much would Lamis have told him? “She’s your sister?” she repeated, carefully wiping all expression from her voice.

He nodded. Rosalind swallowed. This was a complication she didn’t need. She would have to be careful. She lifted the kettle and poured boiling water over the grounds. The scent of coffee rose strong in the air.

“Why don’t you have the same name?”

He waved his hand as if the answer would entail some obscure cultural explanation that wasn’t worth the trouble.

“You must be from Barakat, then? Jamshid told me once that other branches of the family were in Bagestan and the Barakat Emirates.”

He hesitated. “Yes. We are in Barakat. My mother was half sister to Jamshid’s father. But the family is Bagestani originally.”

She wondered if he had mentioned Lamis as a way of gaining her trust. If so, it was having the opposite effect. She would have to be on her guard with him.

She lifted the tray, and he backed out of the doorway to let her pass. She carried it into the sitting room and set it on the low black table as they sat again.

“Jamshid was from Bagestan originally? He never told me that.” She poured coffee into the delicate cream-coloured porcelain cup, set a spoon in the saucer and passed it to him.

“He was born there,” Najib said briefly. He noted the hesitation that had crept into her manner. So she did know something. The mention of Bagestan had made her wary. He stirred sugar into his cup, laid the little spoon on his saucer, accepted a sweet biscuit from the plate she offered.

“Really! And what made the family leave?” she asked, in a light, false voice.

Overdoing the ingenuousness, he advised her silently.

“Lamis is married now, with a young child. She works in television in Barakat.” He lifted the little rose again. “She collects ornaments like this.”

A fact Rosalind knew well. The ornament was not in the same style as the others on her table. The others were mostly her own choice, a carved jade figurine, a chunk of raw amethyst, a polished rose crystal set in an antique wooden tripod, a decorated egg, but… Think of me when you look at the rose, Rosalind.

“I am on a permanent commission to buy her a new one every time I come to Europe.” She was hiding something, that much was obvious. You rushed her, he told himself. Relax. Let her tell you in her own time.

She gazed for a moment at the perfect red rose, with its little translucent drop like a tear on one petal. Rosalind had never really liked the idea of the rose being imprisoned. Like a woman in purdah. It was natural to think of Lamis when she looked at the rose: Lamis was the rose.

“My sister was not the same woman when she returned from her time in England,” Najib murmured. “Do you know what happened while she was here to change her?”

The black gaze seemed to probe her. Rosalind dropped her eyes and nervously adjusted one of the other ornaments on the table, then forced herself to meet his gaze again. She shrugged. “What, for example?”

“I never knew. She never spoke of it. But she had been a carefree young woman. She came home marked by…suffering.” He set down the glass ball with a kind of protective care, as if the rose, or the thought of his sister, called up an instinctive tenderness for anything weaker than himself.

Rosalind felt almost hypnotized by the gentle voice, the dark, dark eyes, the strong, sensitive hands. He sounded like a man in touch with life. It would be a relief to confide in him, but… The corners of her mouth pulled down to signal ignorance, she shook her head.

“Maybe it was because of the war,” she said.

But he only shook his head in his turn, still watching her, and somehow Rosalind felt compelled to speak.

“We heard a rumour that Lamis went home under a bit of a cloud,” she offered, a little desperately. “Gambling, or something. They said she lost an absolute bundle in some Mayfair casino and her family had to bail her out.”

“That was true.” He sipped his coffee. “But such a thing as this could not have caused the change I am speaking of.” His eyes were on her again, as if he knew she knew.

“But you were here yourself. Surely you would have known if anything happened?”

“I went home, like Jamshid, just before the Kaljuk War. Lamis remained to complete her studies.”

She said, “Did Lamis ever mention me?”

“She never talked about her time here. Did she know of your marriage?”

Rosalind shrugged, not sure what to say. “People generally did,” she temporized.

He nodded, drained his coffee cup, set it down.

“Well, it is no surprise if she was afraid to tell my grandfather. The messenger’s fate is well-known. Perhaps you will enjoy making her acquaintance again.”

“Oh, sure!” Rosalind smiled to hide her racing thoughts, her quickened heartbeat. “When is she coming to England?”

He frowned at her.

“Do you have no intention of visiting East Barakat to inspect your inheritance and meet the family, Rosalind?”

Once she had dreamed of such a trip. But that was long ago.

Rosalind hesitated. “I don’t know,” she began. She glanced at her watch and leapt in sheer horror when she realized what time it was.

“Oh!” she cried, slamming down her cup so that it rattled. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot! I—have an appointment.” She jumped to her feet. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m very late.”

He obediently slipped the papers back into his case, snapped it shut and got to his feet. He followed her to the door. She was practically running.

“Goodbye,” she said quickly.

“We will talk again,” he said.

“Yes,” she babbled. “Yes, give me a call….”

She opened the door, but he did not step through. Instead, Najib al Makhtoum bent to set down his case beside the cheerful plastic dinosaur on wheels. He straightened, and Rosalind’s breath caught in her throat as his hands grasped her shoulders.

He stared down into her face. For a strange moment, his mouth above hers, they seemed to slip into some other reality, a reality where they knew each other very well, where he had the right to kiss her. Rosalind had the crazy thought that by putting the ring on her finger he had opened a door onto another life, and tendrils of that other possibility were now reaching for them. His black gaze pierced her, searching for her soul, and her lips parted involuntarily.

They blinked, and the world shook itself back into place. She is a complete temptress, he told himself. You will have to be on your guard every moment. Jamshid’s behaviour was a mystery no longer. His judgement must have been derailed as powerfully as if he were drugged.

“Rosalind, this is of immense importance,” he said. “You cannot guess how vital it is that you tell me the truth. Do not allow an old grievance to affect you any further. Did you give birth to Jamshid’s son?”

His long fingers were painful on the soft flesh at her shoulders. The look in his eyes frightened her.

“Why is it so important?”

“I am not at liberty to explain. But I ask you to believe that it is.”

It was her pain speaking when she said, “How can a possibility that was totally rejected five years ago suddenly become a matter of immense importance?”

He shook her. “Tell me.”

She pulled out of his grasp and turned away. “I have told you. Jamshid’s baby died,” she said, her voice raw. She looked at her watch again. “Please go. I’m late.”

“Goodbye, Rosalind,” he said, picking up his case. “I’ll be in touch.”

He strode down the corridor to the wrought-iron cage that held the elegant Art Deco lift. But before he could push the button, it clanged and heaved and started its upward journey from the lobby.

Rosalind bit her lip. Instead of closing the door she stood there, nervously planted in the doorway, following the sound of the machine’s tortured progress. How could she have failed to think of this?

Najib glanced at her, his eyes widening and then narrowing into alertness at what he saw in her face.

Rosalind waited with a kind of fatalistic foreknowledge as the lift creaked up three floors and ground to a stop. Then the door opened and, as she had known they would, a small, excited boy and a pretty teenage girl stepped out.

Najib, holding the door open with one arm, turned to watch in disbelief as the child shot down the hall towards Rosalind, a decorated sheet of blue construction paper clutched in one tiny hand. Rosalind knelt down and held her arms open.

“Mommy, Mommy!” cried Sam, his eyes glowing, as he flung himself into her embrace. “Look what I made you!”

Over his head, Rosalind saw Najib al Makhtoum’s dark, accusing gaze rake over her for one horrible moment. Then he turned and stepped into the lift.



“He’s the living spit of the old man,” said Naj.

“Damn,” came Ashraf’s fervent voice. “Damn, damn, damn.”

The was a silence. “And she knows nothing about the Rose?”

“So she said. But she is living in a place she certainly did not buy on a translator’s income. In Kensington.”

Ashraf cursed again. “You think she sold the Rose? Who to?”

Naj shook his head, his lips pursed. “No guesses there. Depends how much she knew.”

“She knows enough to deny the kid is Jamshid’s.”

“And maybe when she’s had a little time to absorb the facts she’ll stop denying it. She naturally assumed we all knew about the exchange of letters and left her to swing in the breeze. And God knows what she thought Jamshid’s motives were.”

“Naj, if he gave her the Rose she can’t have doubted his sincerity.”

“True. Well, maybe she sold it because Grandfather’s letter killed off any sense of loyalty.”

“It’s not fitting together,” Ash said.

“She’ll tell me eventually,” Naj said, though he wondered whether it would be himself who cracked. “It may take her time to get up the courage to confess.”

“We don’t have that luxury, time,” Ashraf pointed out. “We have to bring the boy here, and we have to do it yesterday.”

“I know.”

“Can you handle it, Naj? Want any backup?”

He thought of her eyes in that odd, fleeting moment when life had seemed different. There had been a promise there, of a kind he had been waiting for all his life without realizing it.

“I’ll handle it,” he said.



Sam and Rosie sat on the sofa, Rosie cuddling her son as she read him a story from a book they had chosen from the library and he told her about the pictures. It was something they did nearly every day.

But he was making do with less than her full attention today. Rosalind stroked her son’s head, kissed his hair, and murmured approvingly as he talked, but her eyes kept dropping to the beautiful ring, and her mind kept slipping back to her meeting with Najib al Makhtoum.

Her head was buzzing with questions. Why had Jamshid never told his grandfather about the marriage? Why had he not told her he was from such a rich family? Had they really only found the will recently, or did the family have some reason for suddenly being willing to part with her inheritance?

If so, that reason centred in the possibility that Jamshid had an heir. He had spoken about a jewel, but how likely was it that they really believed Jamshid would have given her anything so valuable? She looked at the diamond Najib had put on her finger. She knew little about precious stones, but this one had to be two carats at least. Bigger than this one—what were they talking about? The Koh-i-Noor? Why would Jamshid have given it to her when he hadn’t even told her about his wealthy background?

He had given her gifts, of course. But nothing more valuable than an ordinary man would give his fiancée. He had bought her a leather jacket she had admired, and given her a gold chain with a heart on her birthday. Rosalind’s eyes drifted down to the coffee table. And the little antique crystal ornament when she told him she thought she was pregnant. That was absolutely all.

She stared at the diamond ring Najib had just given her. She still could hardly believe it. Was it even real? But the light caught it as she moved her hand, and her question was answered. There was unmistakable fire in the heart of the stone.

Someone somewhere was very disturbed, that much was clear. Najib al Makhtoum had come, not so much to right an old wrong, not to see that she got her inheritance after five years, but to discover if Jamshid had a son.

She wondered if Najib had asked his sister about her. But anything Lamis might have told him was now overshadowed by the fact that he had seen Sam. He would be back, of course. She would have to plan what to say to him when he came.




Four


“Hello again, Rosalind.”

Rosalind tilted her head in a small nod, marvelling at how strong the family likeness was, especially around the eyes. They were Sam’s eyes.

“Najib. You do have a knack with the security guard. What is it, a Cloak of Invisibility?”

He gave her a look. “May I come in?”

“Do you think you might have phoned first?”

“Would you have been here if I had done so?” he asked dryly.

She lifted a cool eyebrow to let him know what she thought of that. “What do you want at this hour on a Sunday?”

Najib looked at Rosalind without answering. Her bare legs seemed too long under the unbleached cotton of her shirt, her hair was tousled, her lips vulnerable without any makeup, her eyes slightly swollen, and with a blow that rocked him he understood clearly that the answer to that was, I want you.

He clenched his jaw, because he almost spoke the words on the thought. Instead he said urgently, “Let me in. I have to tell you—”

She moved to block the doorway. “How did you get past the doorman, and this time I want to know?”

He glared at her. Her distrust of him suddenly infuriated him. “I got in because I am officially a resident of this building. I have bought an apartment here,” he explained with irritated emphasis.

She goggled at him. “You—you what? I don’t believe you!”

“Money can do many things. You know it, so what is there to surprise you? Now let me in.”

He put his hand on her arm, and that was a mistake. His skin seemed to glue itself to hers. Impelled by the urgency in his eyes, the heat of his flesh, she stepped back, and he followed her inside, his foot pushing the door shut behind him.

Electricity from his touch rushed along her arm and through her body. What a fool she was not to have recognized this attraction for what it was before! But it had needed this combination of morning, being taken by surprise, and a sense of her own vulnerability, apparently, to show her what should have been totally obvious: it had a potency that was frightening.

And just her luck she couldn’t even trust him.

She glared down at his hand, strong on her bare flesh, and wished it were her fate to give in to such strength, to be protected by it instead of threatened. “Let go of me,” she said hoarsely.

He was standing close, too close. Another mistake. He could smell the perfume of her skin, and worse, he could smell bed on her mussed hair, the drowsy smell of a woman newly climbed from the sheets.

“Let go,” she said again, her voice weaker, barely a whisper.

He willed his hand to lift from her warmth, but it only tightened on her. With almost overwhelming urgency, he wanted to pick her up and carry her back to her bed, undress her, make love to her, make her his before she could decide against him. His body leapt with the hungry need to lose himself in her.

“I am sorry,” he said.

He lifted his free hand to her cheek, slipping his fingers under the fall of her hair to cup her head, and bent his head to the dangerous, inevitable kiss.

In a sudden burst of paranoia, Rosalind thought, He’s trying to use sex as a weapon. She stepped back abruptly, breaking his hold, and his lips touched only air. And the same pang of regret pierced them both.

“What are you here for?” she demanded coldly.

He abruptly lost patience.

“I have seen your son, Rosalind. Why have you lied to me about so grave a matter?” he demanded fiercely.

As the dark eyes burned accusingly into hers, Rosalind felt the hairs lift all over her body. “I have not lied to you!” she snapped. “And what is grave about it?” She was beginning to wish she had never told him the truth. What harm would it do to let the family believe that Jamshid had left an heir?

“Shall we sit down?” he said grimly.

“I am not going to have this conversation with you now!” Rosalind cried. For answer he simply strode over to the sofa and set his briefcase on the table. Weakly, she followed him, demanding, “Why didn’t you phone?”

“Sit down, Rosalind,” he commanded softly, and to her own fury she could not resist the authority in his voice.

She sat and crossed her legs, shifting uncomfortably. The thick, woven cotton shirt she used as a bathrobe was longer than lots of dresses, but she felt naked as he sat beside her.

Rosalind opened her mouth to say she was going to get dressed first, but Najib bent forward and clicked his briefcase ominously open, and the sounds of the locks were like neat little bullets into her spine, paralysing her.

He drew out a long, narrow piece of buff paper, a printed form neatly inscribed in black ballpoint, straightened and held it in front of her.

Certified Copy of an Entry of Birth, she read, and though she knew exactly what it was, her eye automatically glanced over the particulars. Name—Samir Jawad… Sex—Male…

She looked up into the eyes that were gravely watching her.

“Well?” she said.

“In the summer you were pregnant with Jamshid’s child. The following spring you gave birth.”

“Did I?” It was ridiculous to expect him to believe her word against this, but she was angry with him nevertheless.

A long, well-shaped forefinger ruthlessly underlined a column as he looked at her. “Mother—Rosalind Olivia Lewis,” he read.

Rosalind heaved a breath and tried to get control. “This is not going to get you anywhere,” she told him. “I—”

“Father—Jamshid Bahrami.”

“What do you want?” she demanded in exasperated tones. “What do you care? It’s been five years! What do you care whether my son inherits Jamshid’s property or not?”

Najib turned his head sideways to look at her. He did not answer, and she felt a shiver of real alarm. So grave a matter, he had said. But how grave could money be? If a will and an unknown heir are belatedly found, that might be very inconvenient to some, but grave?

Why had the discovery that Jamshid had a wife brought his cousin all this way in person? The question was obvious and she should have seen it before. Why hadn’t they just sent her a solicitor’s letter informing her of the inheritance, asking if there was a child? Why did they care so desperately about it?

“Look. Sam is—” she began, but broke off with a gasp when Najib al Makhtoum released the birth certificate and grasped her wrist.

“Do not lie to me, Rosalind!”

The paper floated in graceful swoops to the floor. They were still for an electric moment of staring into each other’s eyes, and again were disturbed by the nearness of that other potential behind the moment. Then Rosalind tore her hand out of his grip and stood up. Whatever thoughts she had entertained about maybe giving in were lost in her fury.

“Don’t accuse me of lying! You know nothing about my life!”

“I know that you registered this birth,” he said, picking up the birth certificate from the floor and dropping it into his briefcase before getting to his feet. “In doing so you swore that Jamshid was the father of your son. Now you tell me otherwise. Which of your statements am I not to say was a lie, Rosalind?”

He had a powerful aura, and she felt overwhelmed. She strode away, into the dining area, crossed her arms and stood looking out at the grey, damp street. A Bentley cruised by below in silent luxury.

“In this country a woman’s husband is deemed to be the father of her children,” she said, “whether he is the biological father or not. Jamshid is not Sam’s biological father.”

He followed her to the window, his mouth tight.

“You were pregnant and you gave birth to a child, Rosalind. There was no miscarriage. True or false?”

She glared at him.

“Either you lied to Jamshid and my grandfather five years ago, or you are lying to me now. There is no other possibility.”

There was another possibility, but she could not tell him what it was. She had to forcefully resist the crazy impulse that said it would be safe to tell him the truth. Najib was the last person she could tell, and what a stupid twist of fate it was that it should be he who had come here.

“You know nothing!” she exploded harshly.

“A woman does not have a miscarriage and then give birth a few months later,” he said remorselessly. “Tell me the truth!”

What was it all about? Rosie’s skin began to creep with a dread of the unknown. There was much more here than she knew. Thank God she had not just taken the easy way out. Whatever this was, she had to keep Sam out of it.

“I have told you the truth. I am not going to repeat myself,” she said stonily.

“Why did you not put his father’s name on the birth certificate, then?” He did not pause for an answer. “Jamshid is the father. That is why you put his name on the birth certificate. You did not lie to my grandfather. You are lying now, and it is a foolish, dangerous lie.”

“You know nothing about anything in my life,” she said with angry emphasis, her hands clenching on air. Furious with him, and yet knowing that there was nothing else for him to think.

“Shall I believe that my grandfather was justified in the words he used to you in his letter, after all, Rosalind? Shall I believe that, not certain who had fathered your child, you chose to trick Jamshid into marriage?”

Rosalind straightened, head back, staring at him, her mouth tight with fury. Her hand lifted of its own accord, and she slapped him across the cheek with a violence fuelled by five long years of bitter hurt.

His eyes blackened as if this ignited feeling he had been keeping under precarious control. His hands closed roughly on her upper arms and he grabbed her close to ram his face down into hers. “Do not use violence with me!” he warned.

There was silence as they stared into each other’s eyes from point-blank range. She watched in almost detached fascination the angry quiver of the thick black lashes, the expansion of his pupils, the flame of danger. She counted the pounding of her blood in her temples, heard the little ragged pants of her breathing. As if from a distance she realized that Najib al Makhtoum was not a man to cross.

They both surfaced from the trance. He dropped his hands from her. Each turned away. Rosalind crossed her arms over her breasts, her hands involuntarily massaging her upper arms where he had gripped her.

“Get out,” she said.

“He is the living image of my grandfather,” Najib said, behind her. “I am sorry. I accuse you of nothing except being bitterly hurt and too angry to forgive. But this must be put aside for the sake of the boy. The res—”

“Get out of my house and get out of my life!”

Najib gave an indignant half laugh as the strange, soft possibility of deeper communication between them evaporated.

“I cannot do that,” he said, and at his tone chills raced up her spine.

“Why?”

“You force my hand, and no doubt you will spend many hours regretting it. Rosalind, your son is in danger. He must go into hiding for a period. Only in this way can we protect him effectively.”

“Danger?” She felt as though he had smashed the side of her head, sending all coherent thought flying. “Danger from what?”

“People who will wish harm to Jamshid’s son when they learn of his existence.”

Oh, this was much worse than she had guessed a moment ago. Rosie almost sobbed. “He is not Jamshid’s son! Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because the family resemblance is unmistakable. And because he was registered as Jamshid’s son. Even if I could believe you, there are others who will not.”





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