The Sheikh's Secret Son (15 page)

“Time has not changed how beautiful you look in that dress, Eden,” he whispered into her ear as they both stopped at the bottom of the stairs to watch the small procession of caterers trailing through the foyer on their way out the front door.

“All done, sir,” the last caterer said, holding out a piece of paper that was obviously the bill for the company's services.

“Haskim was supposed to take care of this. Perhaps this company does not accept the Kharmistan National Bank's credit cards?” Ben quipped facetiously as the caterer looked at Eden, clearly puzzled.

“You still don't carry money with you, Ben?” Eden asked, shaking her head. “Do you know how…how
arrogant
that is of you? I'll go get my purse.”

“There is no need,” he told her as he reached into the inside pocket of the absolutely fantastic dark blue suit he was wearing—she had refused to look at him while they were in the upstairs hall, for fear her knees would melt. He'd been wearing a dark blue suit the first time they'd met. A dark blue suit, a whiter-than-white dress shirt against his tanned skin. He'd remembered. She remembered.

He extracted a gold money clip thick with folded bills, and began peeling them off into the caterer's hand. As each new bill was dispersed, the young caterer's eyes grew wider, soon to be followed by a toothy grin that nearly split his face. “Thank you!
Thank
you, sir!” he said at last, then turned and nearly ran out of the house, probably sure Ben would soon discover his mistake and ask that half the bills be returned to him.

“You understand the exchange rate between Kharmistan money and the American dollar, right, Ben?” Eden asked as she brushed past him, heading for the kitchen and a tall glass of cold water. “No, don't bother to answer that. Of course you do. You just always tip one hundred and fifty percent of the
bill. That guy probably won't stop running until he hits the doors of the nearest mall.”

“You are angry with me, Eden, not the caterer. I needed a service performed, at very short notice. Those men provided that service. It is as simple as that.”

“And as complicated,” Eden told him, taking a glass from an overhead cabinet and then filling it with ice water from the dispenser compartment on the front of the refrigerator. “How high do your servants jump when you say their names, Ben? Have you any idea how unusual it is to have your sort of absolute power in today's world? Have you any idea how having this same sort of power could warp Sawyer's view of real life?”

“Sawyer is a child, Eden,” Ben said, his tone maddeningly reasonable when she was begging, itching for an argument, some way to get him out of her house, out of her life. “He will have a personal servant, yes, but he will also have a small allowance that is not in the least extraordinary. He will also have his duties, his lessons. At Sawyer's age, Eden, I was already speaking French with my language tutor. Does Sawyer have these opportunities here?”

Eden ground her teeth together, then glared at Ben. “He can count to one hundred and fifty and knows his name, address, and telephone number.
And the names of all the Power Rangers,” she tacked on, feeling like a terrible mother, experiencing all the defensiveness and insecurities of the single mother trying to raise her son alone.

Raising a
prince,
a future king, alone absolutely defeated her.

Then she rallied, lifted her chin defiantly. “He's five years old, Ben. Life expectancies being what they are, what they will be, he'll probably live to be ninety or more. There's more than enough time for him to learn what he needs to know. Right now he needs to learn how to be a child.”

“Yes, Eden, Sawyer is a child. A child with two parents who love him. But you would deny him half of his family, half of his heritage. Not because you do not love him, not because you do not love me, but because you are frightened. I understand.”

“You
understand?
Well, bully for you, Ben.” The half-empty glass hit the far wall, shattered to the floor, leaving a wet stain on the wallpaper. Eden stared at the growing stain, unable to comprehend that she had been the one who'd thrown the glass. Unwilling to believe she, who prided herself on her control, had lost that control so swiftly, so violently.

Yet she was also surprised she'd had enough control to not throw the glass at Sheikh Barakah Karif Ramir's head.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, burying her face
in her hands. “This isn't happening. None of this can be happening. When will I wake up? Nobody can survive in a nightmare like this.”

Ben stepped forward, slid his arms around her shoulders, allowed her to cry into the fabric of his suit. He held her gently, mumbling nonsense words into her ear, soothing her as he would a frightened animal.

And she let him. She had to, for she was too exhausted to fight him any longer. She let his strength surround her, breathed in the intoxicating cologne she remembered from Paris, gave in to a moment of pure trust in a man who held the ability to destroy her happiness forever.

When he led her into the family room, sat beside her on the couch, she kept her head buried against his shoulder, slowly admitting to herself that she took comfort in his presence, that this man who had come back into her life, turning that life into a complete shambles, was also the only person to whom she'd ever want to turn to for help.

“I love him, Ben,” she said at last, sitting back and rubbing at the tears on her cheeks. “I love that child
so much.
I want what's best for him, even if what's best for him destroys me. But you have to give me time, Ben. I'm not ready to lose him to you, to Kharmistan, to his future as the next sheikh. My
God, Ben, Sawyer can't be a prince—he still sucks his thumb at night!”

Ben reached out, patted Eden's damp cheeks with the soft linen handkerchief he'd pulled from his pocket. “Eden, have I asked you to give up your son?”

She sighed, caught her breath on a dry sob. “No, Ben. No, you haven't. You're even willing, so you say, to make us a family, take that family back to Kharmistan with you. Which we both know is impossible, don't we? Your people will accept Sawyer—he's you as a child all over again—but I doubt they'll accept his mother. Remember, Ben, to them I will be the woman who kept the heir to the throne hidden in America for five long years.”

“And the international tabloid press will have themselves a field day, won't they, Eden? The Hidden Prince… Sheikh Ramir Hoodwinked Into Marriage… Eden Fortune, Her True Story… Texas Seductress Bears Elvis's Love Child. Is this what you are thinking?”

Ben tipped up her chin with his index finger, smiled into her eyes. “I can think of at least a dozen celebrities who would be very grateful to see the tabloid feeding frenzy turned away from them and onto us for the next year or more. Have you ever had your photograph taken by some idiot half falling
out of a helicopter as you try to take a simple swim in the ocean, Eden?”

“That's not funny,” Eden said, shivering at the thought of such a total lack of privacy. “And I won't put Sawyer through it. I won't.”

“And I would? Eden, think. You did not know I was who I am. One reason for that is that my face has never appeared in any of those lurid tabloids. I do not allow it.”

“How—” Eden shook her head. “Never mind, I probably don't want to know how you've managed that, do I?”

“I doubt you would,” he agreed, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. “Now, let us forget all of our problems and enjoy our meal. All right?”

Eden looked at the small table for the first time, at the gleaming silver, the mass of thick candles and stubby roses that made up an informal centerpiece, the silver, standing bucket holding crushed ice, one bottle of chilled wine, one of spring water, and two upturned glasses. “Only because I'm hungry,” she grumbled mulishly, waiting as he pulled out her chair for her.

Ben pulled the chilled glasses out of the ice and poured her a measure of wine before he lifted the silver covers in front of them, revealing a clear, cold consommé. “Our first course in Paris, as I recall,”
he said, sitting across from her. “
Bon appetit,
Eden.”

She picked up her spoon, as she had done so many years ago, and sampled the consommé. It was probably wonderful. It smelled wonderful. But now, as then, she couldn't taste it. All she could do was gaze across the table, see Ben's smiling face, his laughing eyes. She felt the intensity of his look, the absoluteness of his intentions.

And she felt all of her resolve, her resolutions, slipping away from her. She had to do something fast. Or else she'd be lost.

“You'd do anything to get Sawyer, wouldn't you, Ben?” she asked at last…finally succeeding in erasing his smile. “Seduction. Kidnapping, if seduction didn't work.”

“I love you, Eden,” he said quietly, his voice hard rather than seductive. “I came here for you, remember. I did not know our son existed.”

“And if I said I didn't believe you? If I said that the damn near richest man in the world knew full well where I was every minute since you deserted me in Paris? If I said you always knew of Sawyer's existence, but you just didn't give a damn? If I said that it wasn't until your wife died that you decided that maybe the American's bastard son was good enough to show to your people, to make them happy to see that your line would continue? If I said you
came here to get Sawyer, even if you had to romance the mother to reach the son? What would you answer if I said any of that?”

Ben slowly, carefully, laid down his soup spoon. “You have already said it all, Eden,” he pointed out quietly, a small tic having begun to work in his left cheek. “I hurt you badly when I left Paris, and I am sorry for that. But until this moment I did not realize that I had destroyed you. I have persisted, doggedly holding to my memories, excusing you at every turn. But now I see the truth. You are not the Eden I remember. That Eden did not look at people and see ulterior motives, purposeful deceit. That Eden had an openness, a love of life that captivated me in an instant. I am sorry she is gone.”

Eden watched as Ben carefully folded his napkin, laid it on the tabletop, stood up. He was leaving. Dear God, he was leaving!

“No! Ben, wait!” she said, hopping to her feet so quickly she nearly overturned the table. She ran to him, took hold of his arm with both hands. “I'm sorry…I shouldn't have said any of that. I—I don't know what's wrong with me, Ben. I'm just scared. My whole world turned upside down when I saw you again. I'm
so
scared…”

And then she was in his arms. She didn't know how, she didn't know when, but one moment she had been tugging at his sleeve, begging his forgive
ness…and the next they were holding each other, kissing each other, damn near devouring each other.

She felt her curls tumble free of their pins as Ben jammed his fingers into her hair, his hand at the back of her skull, pressing her hard against his mouth.

He wasn't being gentle. She didn't want him gentle.

Her mouth opened under the assault of his tongue and she breathed in the essence of him, fought with a thrust and parry of her own. She couldn't get enough of him, couldn't hold him close enough.

Almost six years. Six years since he'd touched her. Since she'd held him. Since they'd loved.

Too long…too long…too long apart.

Somehow, they were both on their knees on the beige Berber carpet, still holding each other, their mouths still fused. Eden felt her fingers ripping at Ben's silk tie, impatiently tugging at the buttons of his dress shirt. There was a lot to be said for those loose flowing robes she'd seen him in, imagined him out of without ever admitting as much to herself.

Cool air caressed her back as the zipper on her dress whispered open. The heat of a thousand furnaces scalded her as Ben's hands slid along either side of her spine, found their way beneath the wisp of her black silk panties, cupped her buttocks as he ground himself against her.

She finally tore her mouth free of his, taking in
great gulps of air before attacking his throat, his ear, the dark, curling hair on his now bared chest.

He bit her earlobe, nipped at her shoulder as her dress, so carefully preserved all these years, seemed to shred under his searching hands. They were two lonely, frightened people feeding off the strength of the other; searching, searching, for some sort of solace, some sort of temporary peace.

He kissed her breasts through the sheer black silk, suckled at her, drove her insane with his flicking tongue until he'd found the front closing of her bra and dispensed with one of the last, ridiculous barriers she'd built against him.

They were lying on the floor now. Eden on her back, her dark brown hair fanned out above her head. Ben above her, ruthlessly stripping off suit jacket and shirt, flinging them away from him.

Eden watched him through slitted eyes as he twisted from one side to the other, taking off his shoes and socks. She saw the beauty of his strong body as his muscles rippled with his exertion, and then went on the attack once more. She tugged at his zipper, pulled his slim hips free of his trousers, of the paisley silk boxers that were so unerringly in Ben's taste.

He straddled her even as he lifted her legs high, slid her panties down her legs, flung them away. She raised her arms, doing her best to take hold of him,
to pull him down to her, to hold him and love him and never, never ever let him go again.

He came to her willingly, entered her in one swift movement, brought his body against her as he braced his arms on either side of her head, looked down into her face. “Is this wrong, Eden? Is this madness?”

She had no words for him, no answers, no explanations. Sensation gripped her, held her, urged her onward…to more, more…more…

So she answered him with her body, lifting herself to him, moving with him thrust for thrust as he resisted her grip on his arms meant to pull him down to her so that she could kiss him.