doing just that, had imagined the scenario many times over the years.
“We may not have done anything else right, Ben,” she would have said to him, “but, between us, we created one terrific kid. You have a right to know that.”
She could have said that to Ben Ramsey, if he’d shown up on her doorstep one day, if she’d known where to look to find him.
But she could not tell Sheikh Barakah Karif Ramir that he had a young prince residing in San Antonio, going to preschool three mornings a week; that his favorite pastime was watching a television show featuring talking locomotive engines, that he slept with his thumb in his mouth and a bear named Fred clutched in his arms.
She could not tell this prince, this sheikh, this omnipotent king, that he had sired a sweet, wonderful, normal little boy who spoke with a slow Texas drawl.
Eden kept her eyes downcast, very much aware that the servant, Haskim, remained in the dining room, watching her as if she might be contemplating secretly pocketing the solid silver utensils on either side of her plate.
And she continued to think, continued to panic.
What would Sawyer look like in one of those headdresses, one of those colorful robes?
God. He’d look just like his father, that’s what he’d look like. A miniature of his father, complete with princely bearing.
She’d lose Sawyer. If Ben found out about their son, he would demand the child be taken to Kharmistan, educated in Kharmistan, prepared for the day he would replace his father as sheikh.
Her little boy. Her sweet, wonderful, innocent little baby. A pawn in a political game played in a very political country. A hostage to fortune, cementing Ben’s rule, securing the succession.
She couldn’t tell Ben. She had to hide Sawyer, hide him until Ben left the country. There was no other way.
And she had to hide herself, as well. She couldn’t let him too close, couldn’t let him see how much his reentry into her life had shaken her, had started her dreaming foolish, romantic dreams she’d thought long ago left behind her in Paris.
Her head came up with a jerk as Haskim bowed from the waist, signaling that Ben had entered the room. Eden blinked back frightened tears and looked at him, looked at Sawyer’s father.
She had tried to forget him. She had tried to forget how much she had loved him.
She might love him still, she most probably would always love him…but now she feared him more.
“Was your phone call successful?” she asked as Haskim held out a chair and Ben sat across from her. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t ask?”
“You can ask me anything you want, Eden,” Ben told her as a flurry of servants and serving trays almost magically produced a table heavily laden with a half-dozen different plates holding different Middle Eastern delicacies. “I may not, however,” he added, smiling, “always give you answers. Now, shall we eat?”
Eden, believing she would most probably choke on water, spread her hands, indicating the diverse dishes in front of her. “Everything smells delicious, Ben, but I would like you to explain the dishes, if you would?”
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