confused little boy who had vowed fiercely never to allow himself to be hurt as his father had been …
And then the dark mist of memory cleared and he found himself staring into the ice-blue eyes of Ella Jackson.
She was having his baby, he realised incredulously. And therefore this was not just any baby. The child she carried was the son or daughter of the sheikh. And it was his. His.
He had once vowed never to marry. He had told his younger brother that one day the sheikhdom would be his—for no child would ever spring from the loins of Hassan Al Abbas. Blighted by the pain he had felt at his mother’s desertion, he had known that fatherhood would never be on his agenda, but now suddenly it was.
His mouth hardened and the hands which had hung by the sides of his powerful thighs now clenched into fists, because he recognised in that instant that what Ella Jackson had told him had changed his life irrevocably. In that moment, all his plans and certainties underwent a dramatic transformation and he knew what he must do. More importantly, what he must not do. He would not do as his own mother had done. He would not turn his back on his own flesh and blood.
He leaned towards her. ‘I’m not going anywhere. We need to talk,’ he said grimly.
She eyed him warily, his disturbing proximity reminding her that he was dangerous in more ways than one. ‘I thought we’d said everything there was to say.’
‘Are you kidding? We haven’t even touched the surface, Ella. Or did you think you could get away with telling me that you’re having my child and I would just walk away and leave you to get on with it?’
Yes, maybe she had. Maybe she had been that stupid and naive. Maybe she’d hoped that fate, or his reluctance to acknowledge his baby, would have taken him out of her life for good. But not any more. There was no mistaking the dark determination which had made his face look even more intimidating and something about his stance made her realise there was trouble ahead. The phone on her desk began to ring and automatically Ella reached out her hand to answer it.
‘Leave it,’ he bit out.
‘I can’t leave it. It’s my—’
‘I said, leave it. Let the other girl answer it.’
Their eyes met in silent combat as the phone rang six times before Daisy picked it up in the outer office and Ella knew this was a fight she would not win. Because how could she possibly conduct a business conversation with one of her clients under the grim gaze of the sheikh? She wouldn’t trust him not to snatch the phone right out of her hand and slam it down. And what if Daisy heard them arguing through the thin walls? ‘Okay, I’ll talk to you,’ she conceded wearily. ‘But not now and not here. I’ll meet you later, when I’ve finished work.’
‘Good.’ He held her gaze for a moment. ‘Come and have dinner in my hotel suite.’
She shook her head. ‘There’s no way I’m coming to your hotel.’
‘No?’ He saw the parting of her luscious scarlet lips and felt an unwilling kick of lust. But wouldn’t bedding her only be counter-productive to the idea which was slowly forming in his mind? An idea he would need to broach very carefully in order to get her to accept it …
‘Then where else do you suggest?’ he continued. ‘If we have what will inevitably be a difficult conversation in a crowded restaurant, we risk being overheard by waiters or other diners. And I don’t want to find our meeting making headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers.’
Ella heard the undeniable command in his voice and part of her wanted to rebel against it. He was so unashamedly autocratic, she thought. So completely used to getting his own way. If she went to his hotel suite then wouldn’t that allow him to call the shots? She didn’t know what he was going to say but she knew she needed all her wits about her, and maybe the best way of ensuring that was to be on home territory.
‘You can come to my house instead,’ she said. ‘Get the address from Daisy on your way out. I’ll see you there at nine, but you’d better have eaten something first. I’m not planning on making you dinner.’
He paused for a moment as he went to pass her, studying the dark spill of her silken hair and the scarlet tremble of her lips. The desire to kiss her was overwhelming. But he fought it as he had fought so much else in his life.
‘I’ll be there,’ he said softly, ignoring the dark dilatation of her eyes as he walked out of the office without another word.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WITH his bodyguards sitting grim-faced in two waiting cars, Hassan rang the doorbell, briefly wondering if he’d got the wrong address. He frowned. This neighbourhood was like no other he’d ever seen and Ella’s house was in a row of other small houses which looked directly onto a busy main road.
He didn’t know anyone who lived in a place like this—the kind of place you lived in when you didn’t have a lot of money to splash around. And yet Ella Jackson had blended in perfectly at the royal engagement party in her sparkling silver dress, her sky-high heels and those gleaming scarlet lips. He’d thought she’d be living somewhere trashy and flashy, displaying the complete lack of taste which had been on show in her office today. Not in this rather ordinary little house which was situated on the wrong side of town.
The door opened and Ella stood there, confounding yet another of his preconceptions. Gone was the silk and the gloss. With her shiny hair tugged into a ponytail, she was wearing a plain white T-shirt and faded blue jeans which emphasised the blueness of her eyes. He frowned. Gone too was that shiny red lipstick which drew attention to the luscious mouth which made a man have sinful thoughts, no matter how hard he tried not to. She was scarcely recognisable from the slick party girl he’d met, and for a moment, he felt disorientated, as if she had suddenly produced some low-key twin sister.
‘This is where you live?’ he questioned slowly.
‘No, I thought I’d rent the place out in order to impress you, but I can see that I’ve failed.’ She pulled the door open and ushered him in, stupidly unprepared for the tingling response of her body as she looked up at him. ‘Yes, it’s where I live, Hassan. Why, did you think I’d be living in some over-the-top boudoir, all gilt and ceiling mirrors and shaggy fur rugs lying all over the place?’
Actually, this was so close to what he had been thinking that for a moment he didn’t answer. Instead he stepped into the small hallway, shutting the door behind him. From there he followed the blue-jeaned sway of her bottom into what should have been the sitting room.
Except that this wasn’t what it seemed either. The surprisingly large space contained a sofa and a couple of chairs, but these were all bunched up at one end, as if they were nothing but an afterthought. Pride of place had been given instead to an easel, on which stood a half-finished painting of a naked man. It looked pretty good from where Hassan stood but his critical judgment was suspended as he made the inevitable comparison. He emerged from that with his ego satisfied but his morals outraged by the thought that she must have spent time studying another man’s genitals.
‘Who is this?’ he demanded furiously.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘On the contrary.’ His eyes glittered. ‘You carry the child of the sheikh and that makes it my business! Who is he?’
Ella
