The Sheikh's Secret Son

Ben continued to stare at Eden for another long moment, watching a flush kiss her cheeks as she so obviously lied to him. “Thank you, Haskim. Will you please be so kind as to seat Miss Fortune in the dining room? I will join her shortly.”

“Ben—I mean, Your Highness?” Eden said, her voice clouded by concern. “You—you aren’t going to fire the man or anything like that? Anything worse than that? I mean, you have absolute power, don’t you? I’m sure I read that somewhere in my notes.”

Ben stood as Eden did, motioned for her to follow Haskim into the dining room. “You overreact, Eden. I have a call coming from Kharmistan precisely at seven, and it is nearing that hour now. When I have completed my conversation with my minister of water and power, I shall join you. All right?”

“But I can see how angry you are, Ben. Like that day I was nearly run down by a horse-drawn carriage as we walked through Paris. Your eyes are all dark, the way they were then, and I can see a vein pulsing at the side of your throat. Please, don’t do anything rash. What’s done is done, and I’m sure your advisor had very good reasons for disobeying you. You said that, didn’t you? That he must have had the best interests of Kharmistan in mind?”

“You are much more forgiving than I am, Eden,” Ben said, pushing his temper back under his usual tight control, trying once more to remember his father’s words. He had suspected so earlier, but it was only Eden’s honesty tonight that finally convinced him that Nadim had disobeyed his direct orders. “There will be a punishment, I assure you, but I will listen first, then act. And I must act, Eden, as any show of weakness in one’s sheikh is reason to believe in one’s own ambitions. Nadim would expect no less from me. Is that all right with you?”

Eden licked at her lips, eyed him nervously. “I— I suppose so, Ben. And you’ll join me shortly? After your phone call?”

Another servant entered the room, carrying a portable phone on a lace doily placed in the center of a silver tray. Ben picked up the phone, nodded to Eden, then turned his back to her, speaking a fast and fluent Arabic into the phone.

Three

My son cannot live in Ben’s world. Eden’s head hurt as the message repeated itself in her brain. Her stomach had turned to stone, her appetite gone. All she could do was sit in the dining room chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap, while her mind began to scream, Run away, run away, run away.

She could run to the ends of the earth. But this time, Ben would come after her. Ben would find her. If he knew about Sawyer, he would find her.

She might have told Ben Ramsey about his son, about Sawyer. She could have seen herself 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?”