The Royal House of Karedes: The Desert Throne: Tamed: The Barbarian King / Forbidden: The Sheikh's Virgin / Scandal: His Majesty's Love-Child. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
all night.”
All night. Trembling, she took a bracing gulp of wine and wiped her mouth. “But with your coronation in a few days,” she stammered, “you must have many demands on your time. I heard something about fireworks tonight, given by the city council in your honor—”
“Nothing is more important—” he refilled her wineglass “—than this.”
Why was he stretching this out? Why? What possible reason could he have?
Helplessly, she took another sip of wine. Silence fell in the shadows of flickering candlelight as they ate.
He glanced at her enormous diamond ring, heavy as a paperweight on her hand. “An expensive trinket, even for a billionaire,” he said. “Hajjar values you high.”
Embarrassed heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m not marrying him for his money, if that’s what you think!”
Something like a smile passed briefly over Kareef’s face. “No,” he said. “I know you are not.”
What was that smile hiding? Some private joke?
Once, she’d known him so well. The boy she’d loved had hidden nothing from her. But she did not know this man.
She watched him take a sip of wine. There was something sensual about watching his lips on the crystal glass, his tongue tasting the red Bordeaux. She could almost imagine those lips, that tongue, upon her body.
No! she ordered herself desperately. Stop it!
But every inch of her skin shivered with awareness that she was sitting beside the only man she’d ever loved.
The only man she’d ever hated.
“Do you like New York?” he asked, taking a bite of fruit.
“Yes,” she said, watching his sharp teeth crunch the flesh of the apple. “I did.”
“But you’re eager to leave it.”
She looked away. “I missed Qusay. I missed my family.”
“But you must have made many friends in New York.”
There was something strange beneath his tone. She looked back at him. “Of course.”
His tone was light, even as his hand tightened around the neck of the goblet. “Such an exciting city. You must have enjoyed the nightlife frequently with many ardent…friends.”
Was that an oblique way of asking if she’d taken lovers? With a deep breath, she took another sip of wine. She wasn’t going to tell him he’d been her only lover. It would be too pathetic to admit she’d spent the best years of her life alone, dreaming of him against her will. Especially since she knew he’d replaced her the instant he’d left her. She wouldn’t give Kareef the satisfaction of knowing he’d been not just her first—but her only!
Taking a bite of salad, so delicious with its herbs and spices and multicolored tomatoes, she deliberately changed the subject. “What’s your home like?”
He snorted. “The palace? It has not changed. A rich and luxurious prison.”
“I mean your house in the desert. In Qais.”
Taking another sip of wine, he blinked then shrugged. “Comfortable. A few servants, but they’re mostly for the horses. I like to take care of myself. I don’t like people hovering.”
She nearly laughed. “You must love being king.”
“No.” His voice was flat. “But it is my duty.”
Duty, she thought with sudden fury. Where had his sense of duty been thirteen years ago, when she’d needed him so desperately and he’d abandoned her?
Anger pulsed through her, making her hands shake as she held her knife and fork. But it wasn’t just anger, she realized. It was bewilderment and pain. How could he have done it? How?
Placing her hands in her lap, she turned her head away, blinking fast.
“Jasmine, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she said hoarsely. She would die before she let Kareef Al’Ramiz see her weep. She’d learned to be strong. She’d had no other choice. “I just remember you once dreamed of a house in the desert. Now you have it.”
“Yes.” His voice suddenly hardened. “And I will be your neighbor. My home is but thirty kilometers from Umar Hajjar’s estate.”
She turned with an intake of breath at mention of her fiancé’s name. Oh God, how could she have already forgotten Umar? She was an engaged woman! She shouldn’t be looking at another man’s lips!
But she could not stop herself. Not when the man was Kareef, the only man she’d ever loved. The only man she’d ever taken to her bed. And until yesterday—the only man she’d ever kissed.
Umar had kissed her for the first time only after she’d accepted his marriage proposal. His kiss had been businesslike and official, a pledge to seal the deal when a handshake wouldn’t do. He did not seem particularly keen to sweep her immediately into bed, which was just fine with Jasmine. Their marriage would be based on something far more important: family. And she wasn’t just getting back her parents and sisters. She would finally be a mother. She would help to raise his young sons, aged two to fourteen.
“Do you know his children?” she asked thickly.
He nodded. “I am godfather to his two eldest—Fadi and Bishr. They are good children. Respectful.”
Respectful? They hadn’t seemed that way when she’d met them last year in New York—at least not respectful to Jasmine. The four boys had glared at her, clinging to their father and their French nanny, Léa, as if Jasmine were the enemy. She sighed. But who could blame them for being upset, when their mother had just died?
“I hope they’re all right,” she whispered. “I met them only once. His poor children. They’ve had a hard time. Especially the baby,” she added, looking away.
“They need a mother,” Kareef said softly. “You will be good to them.”
She looked at him with an intake of breath. He leaned across the table, his gaze intense in the candlelight. He was already so close, his knee just inches from hers.
“Thank you,” she said softly. Sadness settled around her heart as unspoken memories stretched between them.
“Didn’t you know she was pregnant, my lord?” the doctor’s voice echoed in her ears, from the dark cave long ago. “She’ll live, but never be able to conceive again…”
Remembering, Jasmine dropped her silver fork with a clatter against her china plate. Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, she tried to close off the memories from her mind.
“You’ve always wanted children,” Kareef said. There was a grim set to his jaw. “And now you’re to be married to Umar Hajjar. A fine match by any measure. Your father must be proud.”
“Yes. Now,” she whispered. She shook her head. “He’s never cared about my success in New York. He even refused the money I’ve tried to send the family, as his fortunes have faltered while mine have grown.” She lifted her gaze. “But I’ve always believed some corner of his heart wanted to forgive me. My success in large part came from him!”
Kareef shifted in his chair.
She continued. “When I first arrived in New York at sixteen, I had nothing. No money. My only friend there was an elderly great-aunt, and she was ill. Not just ill—dying. In a rat-infested apartment.”
“I heard,” he said quietly. “Later.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling a surge of bitterness. “I worked three jobs to support us both. Then,” she whispered, “out of the blue the month before she died, I got a check from my father for fifty