The Desert King's Secret Heir. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
Idris but he wasn’t past trying to wheedle more concessions before the betrothal was announced.
Idris turned to the ambassador, who, ever the diplomat, was already standing. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Highness, I’ll leave you to check for news on that US investment project.’
Idris nodded. ‘That would be useful, thank you.’
When the ambassador had left, Ashar entered the room, closing the door behind him. Silently he passed a computer tablet across the desk. Bold black lettering filled the screen.
Off the Leash in London, Sheikh Tastes Local Delicacies.
Beneath the headline was a photo. A close-up of Idris locked in an embrace with Arden Wills, her hair a riot of curls against the black of her front door.
The air rushed from his lungs as an unseen punch slammed a sickening blow into his midsection.
Damn it. Hadn’t he known it was a mistake, going to her house? Hadn’t it defied logic? Yet when she’d told him to leave, what had he done? Had he behaved like the sane, prudent man he was and returned to his embassy? No, he’d reacted like...like...
Words failed.
Worse was the fact that, facing a nightmare public debacle, he had total recall of her sweet mouth and her soft body moulding to his.
‘There’s more.’
Of course there was. It was the way of the world that you slaved twenty hours a day for your country and the first time in four years you did something utterly selfish, utterly incomprehensible, the press was there to turn a molehill into a mountain.
He sighed and forked his hand through his hair. ‘Let me guess. Princess Ghizlan.’
He scrolled to the next page and the next headline.
Two-Timing Sheikh Keeps Fiancée and Lover in Same City.
Idris swore long and low. There was a photo of him and Ghizlan at the embassy reception. Beside it was one of him with Arden. His hand wrapped around her neck, pulling her to him, and her eyes were closed, those plump lips open, as if eager for his kiss. As if she hadn’t just told him to take a hike.
Fire shot from his belly to his groin. Even now, with all hell about to break loose, his body was in thrall to the Englishwoman he should have forgotten four years ago. Instead he remembered it all. She’d been ardent, so deliciously honest and real. Her desire had been for him, not his wealth or connections. Together they’d created a magic he’d craved more of, though brutal logic said it must eventually burn out. Passion always did. That was how it always was for the men in his family, how it was for him—lust and desire, never anything more permanent.
He shoved the tablet across the table and shot to his feet, stalking away from the desk.
Of all the impossible timing. This was the worst. For his country, and for Ghizlan’s.
Ghizlan! He’d put her in an appalling situation.
‘Get me the Princess on the phone.’ He spun around. ‘No. Contact her aide and ask for a meeting. I’ll come to her hotel immediately.’
Ashar didn’t move. ‘There’s more.’
‘More? How could there be more? There was nothing else. That—’ he gestured to the photo of him hauling Arden into his arms ‘—is the sum total of what happened.’
His jaw was so rigid it felt as if it might shatter. Self-contempt swamped him.
How often had he told himself he was better than his uncle, the old Sheikh, who’d frittered his time and energy on endless lovers instead of governing? Or Idris’s father, whose philandering destroyed his family and any respect he might have garnered from the people?
Idris had taken pride in devoting himself to his people, putting duty before pleasure. His planned marriage to Ghizlan was for the good of both nations. He’d modelled himself on the one completely honourable man in his family, his grandfather. The old man had been the sole exception in six generations to the rule that men in his family couldn’t love. Idris didn’t expect a miracle—to love one woman all his life like his grandfather had. But he aimed at least to be loyal to his wife. A great start he’d made on that!
‘There’s something you should see before you talk to the Princess.’
Ashar’s expression was as grave as on the day Idris had returned home to find his uncle on his deathbed.
Idris put out his hand for the tablet. ‘Show me.’
Ashar scrolled to another page, then passed it to him, half turning away as he did so.
Idris frowned. It felt almost as if Ashar was trying to give him privacy. The notion was laughable. His aide knew as many diplomatic and royal secrets as he did. More probably.
Then Idris looked down and felt the floor buckle beneath his feet.
Royal Baby Secret. Which Cousin Did Arden Seduce?
This time there were three photos. One of his cousin Hamid entering college with a briefcase in his hand. One of Idris in traditional robes, taken at some public event.
And one of Arden Wills holding a toddler in her arms.
Idris felt his eyes bulge as he took in the details. Arden’s attention was on the child throwing bread to some ducks. A child whose face was golden, in contrast with her ivory and rose features. A child with glossy black hair and dark eyes.
A child with a remarkable resemblance to Idris at that age.
Or his cousin.
Idris tried to read the words beneath the photos but they blurred into lines of swarming black ants. He blinked and ordered himself to focus, but his eyes were drawn to that telling photo. Arden smiling radiantly at a child who, Idris would bet his sword arm, belonged to the royal family of Zahrat.
Sensation bombarded him and he had to brace his feet so as not to collapse back into the leather chair.
How old was the child? He knew nothing of babies. Two? Three?
Could it be his?
Shock scattered his thoughts. He should be planning an appropriate public response, deliberating on the fallout and talking to his almost-fiancée.
Instead he stared at the photo with something like possessiveness.
He was marrying partly to secure an heir but becoming a father was a political necessity, not a heartfelt desire. His own father had been distant and Idris knew little about good father-child relationships. He’d assumed his wife would take the lead in child-rearing.
Yet, looking into the laughing face of a child that might be his, Idris was gripped by a surge of protectiveness he’d never before experienced. This could be his son or daughter. The idea slammed into him like a physical blow, stealing his breath and obliterating any illusion of disinterest.
‘Boy or girl?’
‘A boy. She named him Dawud.’ Not an English name then. There was obvious significance in that.
‘Dawud.’ An unseen cord tugged at his heart, making it thud faster.
Why hadn’t she contacted Idris? Why keep his existence a secret? Anger stirred amidst the glowing embers of softer emotion.
Unless he’s not yours.
Remember Hamid last night, his ‘someone special’. Arden was living under his roof.
Yet if Hamid was the father, why not claim the child as his own? Hamid might have inherited the family practice of sowing his wild oats, but he had a serious side. He wouldn’t shirk responsibility, especially if he cared for Arden as he seemed to.
Idris stared at the photo, trying to read the truth in the curve of the child’s chubby cheek and wide smile.
That was when he realised his hand was shaking. And the feeling snaking through his belly