What did that say about her life?
* * *
Asim tossed a piece of wood onto the fire, watched the sparks flash and heard the greedy hiss as flames took hold. In the flare of light Jacqueline’s face was pensive, almost sad.
His gut twisted. He needed her smile, her gurgle of throaty laughter, the flash of animation in her sultry, amber eyes.
He needed her.
The realisation was stark and undeniable.
He needed her as he’d needed no other woman.
That made a mockery of his attempts to negotiate a compromise.
He didn’t want compromise! He wanted Jacqueline.
It was only now he’d lost her that he understood how important she was.
Asim frowned. He couldn’t recall another lover having had such an impact. He chose his women for their beauty and good humour, for intelligence and sophistication. For their ability to please.
Jacqueline Fletcher was just a little too sharp and questioning, a little too unpolished. Yet she charmed his family, his courtiers and guests, and she charmed him. Her passion was instinctive rather than subtle, honest rather than practised. He liked her mind, her inquisitiveness, even her damned independence.
Even after tonight’s fiasco the link between them was strong. The sizzle of passion hadn’t faded, though inevitably it must. He’d known enough women to understand that. Besides, nothing that burnt so bright could last indefinitely.
Yet Asim acknowledged with a flash of disturbing insight that he’d never be content to part from Jacqueline till this ardour faded.
He didn’t want other women. He’d even let his bridal search stall, distracted by her.
Giving her up wasn’t an option. Not yet.
He had to win back her trust.
Asim drew in a slow breath and faced the unpalatable fact he’d been avoiding. Jacqueline wouldn’t be won over by platitudes and a trite apology. She needed to know the whole truth.
She deserved to know it.
‘YOU BELIEVE ME to be overprotective.’
Beyond the flames Asim saw Jacqueline shrug but she said nothing.
He unknotted his hands and flexed his fingers. When that reporter had pumped Jacqueline about Samira, Asim had come within an inch of decking him. Hot fury surged and the need for violence had twanged every taut sinew. As if the man he’d spent a lifetime moulding himself into—honourable, thoughtful and judicious—was a sham.
As if he’d reverted to the unbridled, unthinking emotion that had been his parents’ hallmark.
His sudden lust for blood, his desire to wrap his fingers around the reporter’s throat, had made a mockery of everything he’d striven to be. Distaste filled his mouth.
‘You know my parents had a troubled marriage.’
Jacqueline lifted her head as if startled at the direction of the conversation. Slowly she nodded.
‘My earliest memory is the sound of fighting. Not physically,’ he added quickly when he read her expression, ‘Though there were lots of breakages. Ornaments and mirrors didn’t last long in the royal apartments.’
Asim paused, remembering. ‘I used to lie in bed, listening to the rhythm of the arguments. I became expert at reading the progress of a fight. I’d tell myself it would be over soon, when my parents kissed and made up, or temporarily separated.’
He shook his head. Amazing how some memories stayed fresh. His parents had soured his view of marriage and taught him that so-called love was a curse to be avoided at all costs. Was it any wonder he’d been in no hurry to find a bride? Shackling himself to a life partner, even in a carefully arranged transaction devoid of romance, was a step he’d put off for years.
‘I protected Samira as much as I could.’
‘They hurt her?’ Horror edged Jacqueline’s voice.
‘Not intentionally. But she suffered. One minute she was petted and fussed over, and the next they were too busy screaming at each other to notice her. The poor kid never knew what to expect from day to day.’
‘Nor did you.’
He blinked. Was Jacqueline taking his part?
‘I was older. I’d learned to cope. But for a long time Samira thought she was to blame for their unhappiness, or when one of them stalked out and wasn’t seen for weeks. She had nightmares for years, night terrors, they called them. I used to sit with her and try to keep her safe.’
‘Surely you had a nanny or someone to look after you?’
Asim smiled humourlessly. ‘We had plenty, but they never lasted. Either my mother sacked them because she believed they were seducing our father, or he sacked them because he believed they were spying for her.’
Asim rolled his shoulders.
‘The details don’t matter. I just wanted you to understand that Samira has always been vulnerable. She was caught in the middle of our parents’ wrangling and she was distressed by it.
‘They were never happy for long and when they were apart they spent their energy trying to best the other. Eventually my mother decided to use Samira to help her cause.’ Asim breathed deep, ploughing his hand through his hair. He hated thinking of his parents.
‘I found her being quizzed by a “friend” of our mother. The woman was a journalist and she put words into Samira’s mouth, twisting innocent statements into appalling accusations about our father. Samira was thirteen and distraught, trying to set the record straight and horrified at the way everything she said was distorted.’
‘That’s awful! No wonder you don’t like reporters.’
Asim permitted himself a tiny smile. ‘Some more than others. I’ve learnt they’re not all tarred with the same brush.’
Jacqueline’s eyes met his and heat punched low in his belly. ‘What happened?’
‘Our father stopped the story, but years later rumours circulated. It was too late to worry about them. Our parents died suddenly in an accident and I had more urgent things to worry about than sourcing lies in gossip columns.’ Accession to the sultanate at twenty-five, in a country damaged by his father’s ineffectual rule, had been no picnic.
‘The point is Samira blamed herself.’
‘She was just a child! No decent journalist—’
Asim lifted his hand. ‘I know. But ever since then she’s had a horror of dealing with the press.’
‘That was why she was adamant about me being interviewed tonight instead of her.’ Jacqueline nodded slowly. ‘She said she usually managed with a smile and a “no comment”.’
‘That worked until Jackson Brent.’ Asim watched his hands clench into fists. This time he felt no remorse at the tide of loathing that filled him. If he didn’t know it would make things worse for his little sister, he’d enjoy taking the actor apart with his bare hands.
‘A smile and no comment is probably the best thing she could have done,’ Jacqueline said. ‘It lifted her above the rest of the players in that little drama. It showed she has class and integrity. She won a lot of sympathy.’
‘She shouldn’t have to win public sympathy!’ The words slid out between gritted teeth.