The Sultan's Heir. ALEXANDRA SELLERS

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      She sat and crossed her legs, shifting uncomfortably. The thick, woven cotton shirt she used as a bathrobe was longer than lots of dresses, but she felt naked as he sat beside her.

      Rosalind opened her mouth to say she was going to get dressed first, but Najib bent forward and clicked his briefcase ominously open, and the sounds of the locks were like neat little bullets into her spine, paralysing her.

      He drew out a long, narrow piece of buff paper, a printed form neatly inscribed in black ballpoint, straightened and held it in front of her.

      Certified Copy of an Entry of Birth, she read, and though she knew exactly what it was, her eye automatically glanced over the particulars. Name—Samir Jawad… Sex—Male…

      She looked up into the eyes that were gravely watching her.

      “Well?” she said.

      “In the summer you were pregnant with Jamshid’s child. The following spring you gave birth.”

      “Did I?” It was ridiculous to expect him to believe her word against this, but she was angry with him nevertheless.

      A long, well-shaped forefinger ruthlessly underlined a column as he looked at her. “Mother—Rosalind Olivia Lewis,” he read.

      Rosalind heaved a breath and tried to get control. “This is not going to get you anywhere,” she told him. “I—”

      “Father—Jamshid Bahrami.”

      “What do you want?” she demanded in exasperated tones. “What do you care? It’s been five years! What do you care whether my son inherits Jamshid’s property or not?”

      Najib turned his head sideways to look at her. He did not answer, and she felt a shiver of real alarm. So grave a matter, he had said. But how grave could money be? If a will and an unknown heir are belatedly found, that might be very inconvenient to some, but grave?

      Why had the discovery that Jamshid had a wife brought his cousin all this way in person? The question was obvious and she should have seen it before. Why hadn’t they just sent her a solicitor’s letter informing her of the inheritance, asking if there was a child? Why did they care so desperately about it?

      “Look. Sam is—” she began, but broke off with a gasp when Najib al Makhtoum released the birth certificate and grasped her wrist.

      “Do not lie to me, Rosalind!”

      The paper floated in graceful swoops to the floor. They were still for an electric moment of staring into each other’s eyes, and again were disturbed by the nearness of that other potential behind the moment. Then Rosalind tore her hand out of his grip and stood up. Whatever thoughts she had entertained about maybe giving in were lost in her fury.

      “Don’t accuse me of lying! You know nothing about my life!”

      “I know that you registered this birth,” he said, picking up the birth certificate from the floor and dropping it into his briefcase before getting to his feet. “In doing so you swore that Jamshid was the father of your son. Now you tell me otherwise. Which of your statements am I not to say was a lie, Rosalind?”

      He had a powerful aura, and she felt overwhelmed. She strode away, into the dining area, crossed her arms and stood looking out at the grey, damp street. A Bentley cruised by below in silent luxury.

      “In this country a woman’s husband is deemed to be the father of her children,” she said, “whether he is the biological father or not. Jamshid is not Sam’s biological father.”

      He followed her to the window, his mouth tight.

      “You were pregnant and you gave birth to a child, Rosalind. There was no miscarriage. True or false?”

      She glared at him.

      “Either you lied to Jamshid and my grandfather five years ago, or you are lying to me now. There is no other possibility.”

      There was another possibility, but she could not tell him what it was. She had to forcefully resist the crazy impulse that said it would be safe to tell him the truth. Najib was the last person she could tell, and what a stupid twist of fate it was that it should be he who had come here.

      “You know nothing!” she exploded harshly.

      “A woman does not have a miscarriage and then give birth a few months later,” he said remorselessly. “Tell me the truth!”

      What was it all about? Rosie’s skin began to creep with a dread of the unknown. There was much more here than she knew. Thank God she had not just taken the easy way out. Whatever this was, she had to keep Sam out of it.

      “I have told you the truth. I am not going to repeat myself,” she said stonily.

      “Why did you not put his father’s name on the birth certificate, then?” He did not pause for an answer. “Jamshid is the father. That is why you put his name on the birth certificate. You did not lie to my grandfather. You are lying now, and it is a foolish, dangerous lie.”

      “You know nothing about anything in my life,” she said with angry emphasis, her hands clenching on air. Furious with him, and yet knowing that there was nothing else for him to think.

      “Shall I believe that my grandfather was justified in the words he used to you in his letter, after all, Rosalind? Shall I believe that, not certain who had fathered your child, you chose to trick Jamshid into marriage?”

      Rosalind straightened, head back, staring at him, her mouth tight with fury. Her hand lifted of its own accord, and she slapped him across the cheek with a violence fuelled by five long years of bitter hurt.

      His eyes blackened as if this ignited feeling he had been keeping under precarious control. His hands closed roughly on her upper arms and he grabbed her close to ram his face down into hers. “Do not use violence with me!” he warned.

      There was silence as they stared into each other’s eyes from point-blank range. She watched in almost detached fascination the angry quiver of the thick black lashes, the expansion of his pupils, the flame of danger. She counted the pounding of her blood in her temples, heard the little ragged pants of her breathing. As if from a distance she realized that Najib al Makhtoum was not a man to cross.

      They both surfaced from the trance. He dropped his hands from her. Each turned away. Rosalind crossed her arms over her breasts, her hands involuntarily massaging her upper arms where he had gripped her.

      “Get out,” she said.

      “He is the living image of my grandfather,” Najib said, behind her. “I am sorry. I accuse you of nothing except being bitterly hurt and too angry to forgive. But this must be put aside for the sake of the boy. The res—”

      “Get out of my house and get out of my life!”

      Najib gave an indignant half laugh as the strange, soft possibility of deeper communication between them evaporated.

      “I cannot do that,” he said, and at his tone chills raced up her spine.

      “Why?”

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