The Secret Kept From The King (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 7

  He awoke the next morning with a yearning deep in his soul and he had every intention of indulging it.

  Malik was, naturally, against another trip to America.

  ‘I am going,’ Sariq insisted firmly, putting a hand on his advisor’s forearm. ‘Arrange the jet, call the embassy, notify them I’ll be there for the weekend.’

  ‘But, sir...’

  ‘No, Malik. No. I’m doing this.’

  He felt a thousand times lighter than he had the day before. It was only a temporary reprieve but, suddenly, seeing Daisy again felt like the right thing to do, and he was going to enjoy this last weekend before he made the official betrothal announcements.

  Her email was a gift, and he had no intention of ignoring it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TO SAY THE building was imposing would be to say the sky was vast. She stared at the RKH embassy, just off Park Avenue, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  I’m in Manhattan for the weekend. Come and see me.

  A map had been attached to the email with directions to this building, and she’d been staring at it for the last twenty minutes, her central nervous system in overdrive as she tried to brace herself for this.

  Keeping the truth of this from Sariq over email had been hard enough! But now? Keeping the secret from him when they were face to face? Daisy suspected it was going to take all the courage she possessed to go through with it.

  Every instinct she possessed railed against it. She hated the idea! But what was the alternative? If she told him, then what? He’d be devastated.

  She knew what was at stake for him, and why he needed to marry one of the women who would help him keep the peace in his country. The fact she’d fallen pregnant wasn’t his fault and he didn’t deserve to have to deal with this complication. More importantly, he wouldn’t want to deal with it. He’d made that perfectly clear during their time together. It had been a brief passionate affair, nothing more. He’d gone back to the RKH and moved on with his life—the last thing he’d be expecting was the news that, actually, they’d made a baby together.

  But didn’t he have a right to know? This was his child. When she stripped away the fact he was a powerful sheikh, he was a man who had the same biological claim on this developing baby as she did. She made a noise of frustration, so a woman walking past stopped for a moment, shooting Daisy a quizzical look. She smiled, a terse movement of her lips, then turned away, drawing in a deep gulp of air. It tasted cold, or perhaps that was Daisy’s blood.

  The fact of the matter was, she couldn’t strip his title away from his person. He wasn’t just a man, he was a sheikh, and with his position came obligations she couldn’t even imagine. One day, when he had the wife and heirs he’d explained to her were necessary, she might feel differently. Maybe then this child would be less of a problem for him. Maybe then he’d even want to know their son or daughter. But for now, she was better to assume all the responsibilities, to raise their child on her own.

  It was the right decision, but she simply hadn’t banked on how hard it would be to keep something of this magnitude a secret when she was going to see him. With him in the RKH, he was an abstract figure. While she dreamed of him at night and was startled by memories of his touch during the day, he was far away, and it was easy to believe he didn’t think of her at all. For the sake of their child, she had to plan for her future knowing he wouldn’t be a part of it.

  Digging her nails into her palm and sucking in a deep breath for courage, she looked to the right and dipped her head forward as she crossed the street, approaching the embassy as though she were calm and relaxed when inside a wild kaleidoscope of butterflies had taken over her body.

  Four guards stood on the steps, each heavily armed and wearing a distinctive army uniform. She swallowed as she approached the closest.

  ‘Madam? What is it?’ The guard studied her with an expression that gave nothing away.

  ‘I have an appointment.’ Her voice was soft. She cleared her throat. ‘His Highness Sariq Al Antarah asked me here.’

  The guard’s expression showed a hint of scepticism. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Daisy Carrington.’

  He spoke into a small receiver on his wrist and a moment later, a crackled voice issued onto the street. The guard nodded, and gestured to the door. ‘Go on.’

  Go on. So simple. If only her legs would obey. She stared at the shiny black doors, her pulse leaping wildly through her body, and concentrated on pushing one leg forward, then the next, until she was at the doors. On her approach, they swept inwards. More guards stood here but she barely noticed them at first, for the grandeur of this entranceway.

  Walls and ceiling were all made of enormous marble blocks, cream with grey rippling through them. The floor was marble too, except gold lines ran along the edges. At several points along the walls there were pillars—marble—and atop them sat enormous arrangements of flowers, but unlike any she’d ever seen, vibrant, fragrant and stunning. She wanted to stop time and stare at them, to learn the names of these blooms she’d never seen before, to breathe each in and commit its unique scent to memory.

  ‘Identification?’ The guard’s deep voice jolted her back to the present.

  She held out her passport—it had been specified as the only suitable form of identification on the directions she’d received. Her passport had no stamps in it, and in fact she probably wouldn’t have had a passport at all if it hadn’t been necessary for the vetting process at the hotel.

  The guard took it, opening it to the photo page and comparing the image to the real thing, then nodded without handing the passport back. ‘Go through security.’

  ‘My passport?’

  ‘I need to make a copy.’

  She frowned, uneasiness lifting in her belly. But Sariq was here, and so she wasn’t afraid. She trusted him, and these were his people.

  The security checkpoint was like any in an airport. She pushed her handbag and shoes through the conveyor belt then walked through an arch before collecting her things.

  ‘His Highness is on the third floor,’ a man to her right advised. He wasn’t a security guard. At least, he wasn’t wearing a military uniform. He wore robes that were white, just like Sariq’s, but the detailing at his wrist was in cream. ‘There is an elevator, or the central stairs.’

  She opted for the latter. The opportunity to observe this building was one she wanted to take advantage of. Besides, it would give her longer to steady her nerves and to brace herself for seeing Sariq again.

  A hand curved over her stomach instinctively and she dropped it almost immediately. She had to be careful. No gestures that could reveal a hint of her condition.

  The stairs were made of marble as well, but at the first floor, the landing gave way on either side to shining timber floors. The walls here were cream, and enormous pieces of art in gold gilt frames lined the hallway. There were more flowers, each arrangement as elaborate as the ones downstairs.

  She bit down on her lip and kept moving. The next floor was just the same—polished timber, flowers, art, and high ceilings adorned with chandeliers that cast the early afternoon light through the building, creating shimmering droplets of refraction across the walls.

  She held her breath as she climbed the next set of steps. This floor was like the others except there was a noticeable increase in security presence. Two guards at the top of the stairs, and at least ten in either direction, at each door.

  ‘Miss Carrington?’ A man in a robe approached her. She thought he looked vaguely familiar, perhaps from Sariq’s stay at the hotel. ‘This way.’

  She fell into step beside him, incapable of speech. Anticipation had made it impossible. She was vividly aware of every system in her body. Lungs that were working overtime to pump air, veins that were taxed with the effort of moving blood, skin that was punctured by goose bumps, lips that were part
ed, eyes that were sore for looking for him.

  At the end of the corridor, two polished timber doors were closed. There was a brass knocker on one. The man hit it twice and then, she heard him.

  ‘Come.’

  That one word set every system into rampant overdrive. She felt faint. But she had to do this. She hated having to ask him for money. She hated it with every fibre of her being, but what else could she do? She was already in a financially parlous state, but adding a baby to the mix and her inability to work? Neither of them would cope, and the comfort and survival of her child was more important than anything—even her pride.

  The doors swung open and, after a brief pause, she stepped inside, looking around. The room was enormous. Large windows with heavy velvet drapes framed a view towards Bryant Park. She could just make out the tops of the trees from here. The furniture was heavy and wooden, dark leather sofas, and on the walls, the ancient tapestries Sariq had described. She took a step towards one, and it was then that she saw him.

  Her heart almost gave way. She froze, unable to move, to speak, barely able to breathe.

  Sariq.

  Dressed in the traditional robes of his people, except in a more ornate fashion, this time he had a piece of gold fabric that went across his shoulders and fell down his front. On his head he wore the keffiyeh, and she stood there and stared at him dressed like this: every bit the imposing ruler. It was almost impossible to reconcile this man with the man who’d delighted her body, kissing her all over, tasting her, taking her again and again until she couldn’t form words or thoughts. He looked so grand, so untouchable.

  ‘Daisy.’ Her name on his lips sent arrows through her body. She stayed where she was, drinking him in with her eyes.

  ‘Your Highness.’ She forced a smile to her lips, and was ridiculously grateful she’d taken care with her appearance. Her stomach was still flat but she’d chosen to wear all black—a simple pair of jeans and a flowing top, teamed with a brightly coloured necklace to break up the darkness of the outfit. She’d left her hair out and applied the minimum of make-up. His eyes dropped to her feet then lifted slowly over her body, so she felt warmth where he looked, as though he were touching her.

  ‘I feel like I should curtsy or something.’

  His look was impossible to decipher. ‘That’s not necessary.’ He stayed where he was, and she did the same, so there was a room between them. The silence crackled.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said, after a moment. God, this was impossible. She didn’t want to ask him for money and, now that she saw him, the idea of having his baby and not telling him was like poison. All the very sensible reasons she’d used to justify that course of action fled from her mind.

  He deserved to know. Even if he chose not to acknowledge the child? Even if he turned her away? Even if...the possibilities spun through her, each of them scary and real and alarming.

  Her stomach was in knots, indecision eating her alive. She knew only one thing for certain: she had to decide what to do, and quickly. If she was going to tell him, it should be now. Shouldn’t it?

  She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. More so. There was something about her today—she was glowing. Her skin was lustrous, her eyes shimmering, her lips, God, her lips. He wanted to pull them between his teeth, to drag her body to his and kiss her hard, to push her against the wall and make love to her as he’d done freely that weekend.

  But that had been different somehow. They’d had an agreement. They’d known what they were to each other. Now? He was on the brink of announcing his marriage. Surely he couldn’t still be fantasising about another woman?

  But he was. He wanted Daisy. Not for one night, not for two. He wanted her for as long as he could have her.

  ‘Sire, you cannot see her again.’

  Malik’s warning had rung through the embassy.

  ‘You were far from discreet last time. With your engagement due to be announced any day now, if word of this were to get out—’

  ‘It won’t. And I’m relying on you to make sure of that.’

  But Malik’s reaction had been a good barometer. He was worried about Daisy, worried about what the people of the RKH would think if the affair became public, and with good reason. Sariq was no longer free to follow his passions wherever they took him. He was now the ruler. He’d been crowned, and the weight of a country rested on his shoulders.

  He needed to remember that, and yet, faced with Daisy, he couldn’t. He was not a man to throw caution to the wind. All his life he’d been trained for this, he knew what his responsibilities were, but suddenly he wondered if he could have his cake and eat it too.

  His engagement hadn’t been announced...yet. He had a little time. And he knew just how he wanted to spend it. He regarded her thoughtfully, something pulling at his gut, given how she was looking at him—as though she was remembering every single moment they’d shared, every kiss, whisper, pleasure.

  He could postpone his trip, stay in New York a few more nights. Would she stay with him here, at the embassy? It was hard to read her, hard to know what she’d say if he suggested that. Besides, it wasn’t enough. A few nights would satisfy him temporarily, but if the fourteen weeks since he’d last seen Daisy had taught him anything, it was that his need for her was insatiable, and not likely to be easily dispensed with. He wanted longer. As long as she could give him.

  There was only one solution, and suddenly Sariq knew that if he didn’t reach for it with both hands, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

  ‘I have a proposition for you. One I think you’ll like.’

  She stood completely still except for her fingers, which she fidgeted behind her back. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Have a seat.’ He gestured towards the dark leather sofas and she followed his gaze, but shook her head.

  ‘I’d prefer to stand.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He nodded.

  ‘What is this proposition?’

  ‘When is your admission set for the Juilliard?’

  Darn it. She should have researched this. ‘Mid-January,’ she guessed, glad the words came out with such authority.

  ‘In three months.’ He ran a palm over his chin, as though contemplating this.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then here is what I would like to propose. I want you to come to the RKH with me, Daisy.’

  Her eyes flew wide and her lips parted. She stared at him, wondering if she’d imagined the words. ‘But you’re...aren’t you getting married?’

  He nodded. ‘My situation is as it was before. I have chosen my bride, but the wedding date is not set.’ Now he moved, closing the distance between them, until he was standing right in front of her. ‘I will not marry her until you leave.’

  A shiver ran down her spine, and she hated that heat was building low in her abdomen, filling her with a need that was instantly familiar even as revulsion gripped her, making her want to shout and stamp.

  ‘No one could know you were there.’ His jaw tightened, as though he were grinding his teeth. ‘It would be a disaster if anyone were to find out, so we would have to be very, very careful.’ He paused once more, and, for no reason she could fathom, Daisy held her breath. ‘Malik would arrange it so that you were installed in an apartment in the capital. He would manage your security, ensure you were not seen by anyone but me. And I would visit you often.’ He lifted a finger, tracing a line down her cheek towards her lips. She shivered again. ‘It would be just like it was here, in New York. You would have a piano, and you would have me, and anything else you could want. And at the end of it, you would return to study, your tuition paid in full, a house provided for you in New York. Anything you wanted, Daisy.’

  She stared at him, her heart dropping to her toes. Pain lashed her. What he was offering was little more than prost
itution! Well? What had she expected? She’d come here, cap in hand, after the weekend they’d shared. Could he be blamed for thinking her attention could be bought? Her knees felt weak and her stomach hurt.

  ‘You’re asking me to come and be your secret mistress,’ she repeated, incredulity ringing through her.

  ‘I’m asking you to be my lover for as long as possible.’

  ‘Before you get married.’ She nodded, numb to the core.

  He dipped his head in silent agreement.

  ‘And in exchange, you’d give me money.’

  Her insides lit up. Nausea crested through her.

  ‘I will give you money anyway,’ he assured her, as though just realising how mercenary the proposition sounded. She closed her eyes, wanting to blank him out for a moment, but even then, he was everywhere. His intoxicatingly masculine fragrance filled her. She was drowning in his presence and she desperately needed to think rationally and calmly.

  ‘I cannot offer you more than this,’ he said slowly, the words filled with the authority that came naturally to him, so she jerked her eyes open and looked at him once more. ‘My duties to my country come first. I could never openly date you. A divorced American? My people wouldn’t tolerate it. I know this isn’t sensible. In fact, it’s the opposite of that. If you were discovered, it would pose a real risk to my rule, but I don’t care. Daisy, I want you to come home with me. I want you to be my mistress more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.’

  A divorced American. His mistress!

  She felt so dirty! As though she was somehow lesser than him, and it brought back so many awful memories of her marriage, when Max had so cleverly undermined her confidence in herself until she saw her only value as being His Wife, rather than a person all her own. A shiver of revulsion ran down her spine, because she wasn’t that woman any more.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d even suggest this.’

  He moved forward, his body pressed to hers so weakness threatened to reduce her anger when she needed it most. ‘How is it any different from that weekend?’