“Is my arrangement acceptable, my king?” Umar asked Kareef with a bow of his head.
Kareef answered with a single hard nod, then looked back at Jasmine with glittering eyes.
Divorced. They were divorced. But that hadn’t changed her feelings. It didn’t keep her body from crying out for his touch. The divorce changed nothing.
“Thank you, sire.” Umar ducked inside the grandstand.
She felt Kareef’s fierce blue gaze upon her like the merciless desert sun, charring her soul, turning it to dust. He glowered, then walked past her.
Lifting her chin, she put one hand on her head, balancing her wide-brimmed hat as she followed him through the private door and up the stairs. They passed through an enclosed, air-conditioned private room with a one-way mirror overlooking the track, and finally came out into the open-air royal box.
Kareef went outside first.
When he was visible to the crowds in the stadium, forty thousand people rose to their feet, screaming his name.
He raised his hand to them.
The screaming intensified.
Coming out into the royal box behind him, Jasmine pressed her hand against her belly, holding her black handbag against her body like a shield against the roar of the crowd.
She looked at his beautiful, savage face. Saw the lines of strength and wisdom at his eyes, saw the powerful jut of his jawline. Honor was the heart of who he was.
She’d done the right thing, no matter how it killed her.
She’d set him free to be the king he was born to be.
Kareef finally sat down and she sank into the chair beside him. She was aware of him at every moment but didn’t look in his direction. Instead, she pressed her fingers against her wide-brimmed hat, blocking the sun from her eyes as she stared out at the racetrack.
Thousands of people stared back at her. Sitting beside the handsome, powerful young king, Jasmine knew she must appear to be very fortunate. Even though some of the older women whispered maliciously behind their hands, she could see their modern daughters looking at her belted, form-fitting red silk dress and handbag with envy. Looking at her expensive, pretty clothes and the handsome, powerful man beside her, they were no doubt thinking a lost reputation would be a small price to pay for such a glamorous life.
If only they knew what Jasmine really felt like on the inside. The truth was that she wished she had a spoon, so she could cut her heart out with it.
Beautiful clothes, wealth, attention and power—none of that mattered. Not when she couldn’t have the man she loved.
“Did you sleep well?” Kareef said in a low voice beside her.
“Yes,” she lied over the lump in her throat, turning away as she fought back tears. “Very well.”
The gunshot sounded the start of the race, and the horses bolted from the gates.
She felt the hot burn of Kareef’s gaze on her. Felt it by the way her neck prickled. By the way her nipples tightened and her breasts became heavy. She fanned herself with a program, sweating from a blast of heat that had nothing to do with the white desert sun above the grandstand.
In the next box over, she could see Umar sitting with his four young sons. The two-year-old baby was snuggled contentedly in the lap of the French nanny, Léa, who while not strictly pretty, had a sweet look to her plump face. She was only a few years older than Jasmine. Umar sat back in his chair until the horses pounded by their seats in a loud torrent of thundering hooves, and he rose to his feet, shouting at his horse in a mixture of cursing and praise.
The four boys were all adorable, Jasmine thought. She would soon be their stepmother. But even that thought didn’t cheer her as it used to. None of the children wanted her. They already seemed to have a mother—Léa.
As the horses neared the finish line, Umar gripped the railing, pumping his fist in the air as he watched. “Go! Go, damn you!”
Jasmine saw her mother and father sitting in a different section with her sisters, along with her sisters’ husbands and children. She hesitantly lifted her hand in greeting at her father.
Her father scowled at her in the royal box. He coldly turned his head away.
Jasmine set her shoulders. It didn’t matter, she told herself over the lump in her throat. Once she was married—if Umar still married her—her father would finally be proud of her. She would do the right thing. Even if it killed her.
She heard Umar shout with delight, heard him clap his hands. His horse had won. Ruffling the hair of one of his older sons, he rushed off to accept his prize, his children following behind with the nanny. Watching them, Jasmine felt more like an outsider than ever.
She rose to her feet and went to the front of the royal box. She watched Umar walking out onto the racetrack, waving to the crowd as he crossed the grass.