Embarrassed heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m not marrying him for his money, if that’s what you think!”
Something like a smile passed briefly over Kareef’s face. “No,” he said. “I know you are not.”
What was that smile hiding? Some private joke?
Once, she’d known him so well. The boy she’d loved had hidden nothing from her. But she did not know this man.
She watched him take a sip of wine. There was something sensual about watching his lips on the crystal glass, his tongue tasting the red Bordeaux. She could almost imagine those lips, that tongue, upon her body.
No! she ordered herself desperately. Stop it!
But every inch of her skin shivered with awareness that she was sitting beside the only man she’d ever loved.
The only man she’d ever hated.
“Do you like New York?” he asked, taking a bite of fruit.
“Yes,” she said, watching his sharp teeth crunch the flesh of the apple. “I did.”
“But you’re eager to leave it.”
She looked away. “I missed Qusay. I missed my family.”
“But you must have made many friends in New York.”
There was something strange beneath his tone. She looked back at him. “Of course.”
His tone was light, even as his hand tightened around the neck of the goblet. “Such an exciting city. You must have enjoyed the nightlife frequently with many ardent…friends.”
Was that an oblique way of asking if she’d taken lovers? With a deep breath, she took another sip of wine. She wasn’t going to tell him he’d been her only lover. It would be too pathetic to admit she’d spent the best years of her life alone, dreaming of him against her will. Especially since she knew he’d replaced her the instant he’d left her. She wouldn’t give Kareef the satisfaction of knowing he’d been not just her first—but her only!
Taking a bite of salad, so delicious with its herbs and spices and multicolored tomatoes, she deliberately changed the subject. “What’s your home like?”
He snorted. “The palace? It has not changed. A rich and luxurious prison.”
“I mean your house in the desert. In Qais.”
Taking another sip of wine, he blinked then shrugged. “Comfortable. A few servants, but they’re mostly for the horses. I like to take care of myself. I don’t like people hovering.”
She nearly laughed. “You must love being king.”
“No.” His voice was flat. “But it is my duty.”
Duty, she thought with sudden fury. Where had his sense of duty been thirteen years ago, when she’d needed him so desperately and he’d abandoned her?
Anger pulsed through her, making her hands shake as she held her knife and fork. But it wasn’t just anger, she realized. It was bewilderment and pain. How could he have done it? How?
Placing her hands in her lap, she turned her head away, blinking fast.
“Jasmine, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she said hoarsely. She would die before she let Kareef Al’Ramiz see her weep. She’d learned to be strong. She’d had no other choice. “I just remember you once dreamed of a house in the desert. Now you have it.”
“Yes.” His voice suddenly hardened. “And I will be your neighbor. My home is but thirty kilometers from Umar Hajjar’s estate.”
She turned with an intake of breath at mention of her fiancé’s name. Oh God, how could she have already forgotten Umar? She was an engaged woman! She shouldn’t be looking at another man’s lips!
But she could not stop herself. Not when the man was Kareef, the only man she’d ever loved. The only man she’d ever taken to her bed. And until yesterday—the only man she’d ever kissed.
Umar had kissed her for the first time only after she’d accepted his marriage proposal. His kiss had been businesslike and official, a pledge to seal the deal when a handshake wouldn’t do. He did not seem particularly keen to sweep her immediately into bed, which was just fine with Jasmine. Their marriage would be based on something far more important: family. And she wasn’t just getting back her parents and sisters. She would finally be a mother. She would help to raise his young sons, aged two to fourteen.
“Do you know his children?” she asked thickly.
He nodded. “I am godfather to his two eldest—Fadi and Bishr. They are good children. Respectful.”
Respectful? They hadn’t seemed that way when she’d met them last year in New York—at least not respectful to Jasmine. The four boys had glared at her, clinging to their father and their French nanny, Léa, as if Jasmine were the enemy. She sighed. But who could blame them for being upset, when their mother had just died?