The Sheikh's Love-Child

‘Maybe one more, if Granny agrees.’ Lucy knew her mother would; she adored her unexpected grandson. A sudden lump rose in Lucy’s throat, and she swallowed it down. She’d told herself she wasn’t going to get emotional—not about Sam, not about Khaled. ‘I love you,’ she said.

Sam dutifully replied, ‘Love you too, Mummy.’

After another brief chat with her mother, Lucy hung up the phone. Outside the sun was starting its descent towards the sea, a brilliant orange ball that set Biryal’s bleak landscape on fire. Sam’s voice still echoed in her ears, filled with childish importance, causing a wave of homesickness to break over her. Sam, Khaled’s son. And she’d come to Biryal to tell him so.

CHAPTER TWO

THE next few hours were too busy for Lucy to dwell on Khaled and her impending conversation with him. Now that everyone was settled at the palace, she needed to visit the players who were suffering long-term injuries or muscle strain and make certain they were prepared for tomorrow’s match.

The match with Biryal was a friendly and virtually insignificant, yet with the Six Nations tournament looming in the next few weeks, the players’ safety and health were paramount. In particular she knew she had to deal with the flanker’s tibialis posterior pain and the scrum half’s rotator-cuff injury.

She gathered up her kit bag with its provisions of ice packs and massage oils, as well as the standard bandages and braces, and headed down the palace’s shadowy corridors in search of the men who needed her help.

The upstairs of the palace seemed like an endless succession of cool stone corridors, but it would suddenly open onto a stunning frescoed room or sumptuous lounge, surprising her with its luxury. After a few minutes of fruitless wandering, Lucy finally located a palace staff member who directed her towards the wing of bedrooms where the team was housed.

An hour later, she’d dealt with the most pressing cases and felt ready for a shower. The dust and grime of travel seemed stuck to her skin, and she’d heard in passing that there was to be a formal dinner tonight with Khaled and his father, King Ahmed.

Lucy swallowed the acidic taste of apprehension—of fear, if she was truthful—at the thought of seeing Khaled again. It was a needless fear, she told herself, as she’d already decided she would not speak to him about Sam tonight. She wanted to wait until the match was over. And, since Khaled had already shown her how little he thought of her, she hardly needed to worry that he’d seek her out.

No, Lucy acknowledged starkly as she returned to her room, what scared her was how she wanted him to seek her out. The disappointment she’d felt when he hadn’t.

Fool, she told herself fiercely as she stepped into the marble-tiled en suite bathroom and turned the shower on to full power. Fool. Didn’t she remember how it had felt when she’d learned Khaled had gone? Lucy’s lips twisted in a grimace of memory as she stripped off her clothes and stepped under the scalding water.

There must be a letter. My name is Lucy; Lucy Banks. I’msure he’s left something for me…

She’d tried the hospital, his building, the training centre where he’d worked out. She’d called his mobile, spoken to his friends, his neighbours, even his agent. She’d been so utterly convinced that there had been a mistake, a simple mistake, and it would be solved and everything would be made right. A letter, a message, would be found. An explanation.

There had been none. Nothing. And when she’d realised she’d felt empty, hollow. Used.

Which was essentially what had happened.

Lucy leaned her forehead against the shower tile and let the water stream over her like hot tears.

Don’t remember. It was too late for that; she couldn’t keep the memories from flooding her with bitter recrimination. Yet she could keep them from having power. She could be strong. Now.

At last.

Lucy turned off the shower and reached for a thick towel, wrapping herself up in its comforting softness as she mentally reviewed the slim wardrobe she’d brought with her. She wanted to look nice, she realised, but not like she was trying to impress Khaled.

Because she wasn’t.

In reality, there was little to choose from. She had two evening outfits, one for tonight and one for tomorrow. She chose the simpler one, a black sheath-dress with charcoal beading across the front ending just below the knee. Modest, discreet, safe.

She caught her hair up in a loose chignon and allowed herself only the minimum of eyeliner and lip gloss. Her cheeks, she noticed ruefully, were already flushed.

Outside night had fallen, silky and violet, cloaking the landscape in softness, disguising its harshness. A bird chattered in the darkness, and Lucy could hear people stirring in other parts of the palace.

Giving her reflection one last look, she headed out into the corridor.

Downstairs the front foyer, with its double-flanking staircases made of darkly polished stone, was bright with lights and filled with people. The combined presence of the England team and entourage as well as the palace staff created a significant crowd, Lucy saw.

She paused midway down the staircase, looking for someone familiar and safe. She saw Khaled.

He was taller than most men, even many of the rugby players, and he turned as she came down the stairs, alerted to her presence. How, Lucy didn’t know, but she was rooted to the spot as his eyes held hers, seeming to burn straight through her.

Summoning her strength, she tore her gaze from his—this time she would be the one to look away—and continued down the stairs, her legs annoyingly shaky.

‘You look like you need a drink,’ Eric said, handing her a flute of champagne. Lucy’s numb fingers closed around it automatically.

‘Thank you.’

‘Have you spoken to Khaled?’

She glanced at Eric, saw his forehead wrinkle with worry and experienced a lurch of alarm. In the last few years she’d come to rely on Eric’s comforting, solid presence. But his increasing concern over this trip to Biryal and seeing Khaled made her wonder just what he expected of their relationship.

Perhaps she was being paranoid, seeing things, feelings, where there were none.

Hadn’t she done that with Khaled?

Still, Lucy acknowledged, taking a sip of cool, sweet champagne, she didn’t want or need Eric’s protective hovering. It made her seem and feel weak, and that was the last thing she needed.

‘I haven’t talked to him yet,’ she told Eric. ‘There’s plenty of time.’ She met his concerned gaze with a frown, although she kept her voice gentle. ‘Please, Eric, don’t coddle me. It doesn’t help.’

Eric sighed. ‘I know how much he hurt you before.’

Lucy felt another sharp stab of annoyance. ‘That was before,’ she said firmly. ‘He can’t hurt me now. He has no power over me, Eric, so please don’t act like he does.’ If she said it enough, she’d believe it. With another firm smile, she moved away.

A gong sounded, and Lucy turned to see a man standing in the arched doorway of the dining room. He was tall, powerfully built, with a full head of white hair and bushy eyebrows. She knew instinctively this was King Ahmed, Khaled’s father.

‘Welcome, welcome to Biryal. We are so happy and honoured to have England’s team here,’ he said. His voice, low, melodious and with only a trace of an accent, reached every corner of the room. ‘We have worked hard to bring tomorrow’s match to pass, and we look forward to thrashing you soundly!’ King Ahmed smiled, and the English in the room dutifully chuckled. ‘But for now we are friends,’ Ahmed continued with a broad smile. ‘And friends feast and drink together. Come and enjoy Biryal’s hospitality.’

With murmurs of acceptance and thanks, the crowd moved as one towards the dining room. Ahmed took a seat at the head of the table, Khaled at the other end. Lucy immediately went for a safely anonymous place in the middle, and found herself sandwiched between Dan and Aimee.

The first course was served, Arabian flat-bread with a spicy dipping sauce of chillies and cilantro, and Lucy determinedly lost herself in mindless chitchat with her neighbours.

If her gaze slid to Khaled’s austere profile once in a while, it was only because she was curious. He had changed, she realised as the bread and sauce was cleared and replaced with melon halves stuffed with chicken and rice, and seasoned with parsley and lemon juice.

The Khaled she’d known in London had been charming, arrogant, a little reckless. His hair had been thick and curly, his clothes casual and expensive. The man at the end of the table held only the arrogance and little of the charm. His hair was cut short, a scattering of grey at his temples. He wore the traditional clothes of his country: a white cotton thobe topped with a formal black bisht, a wide band of gold embroidery at the neck.

His eyes were dark and hooded, the expression on his face purposefully neutral. She remembered him smiling, laughing, always gracious and at ease.

But now, even as he smiled and chatted with his neighbours, Lucy saw a tension in his eyes, in the taut muscle of his jaw. He wasn’t relaxed, even if he was pretending to be. Perhaps he wasn’t even happy.

What had happened in four years? she wondered. What had changed him? Or perhaps he hadn’t changed at all, and she’d just never known him well enough to realise his true nature.

Of course, she knew about his knee. She knew that last injury had kept him from playing. Yet she couldn’t believe it was the only reason he’d left the country. Left her. All rugby players had injuries, sometimes so severe they were kept from playing for months or even years. Khaled was no different. With the right course of physiotherapy, or even surgery, he surely could have recovered enough to play again. Eric had told her as much himself, and as Khaled’s best friend—not to mention the last person to have seen him—he should have known.

Just as Lucy had known he’d always had muscle pain in his right knee, and that the team physician as well as a host of other surgeons and specialists had been searching for a diagnosis. Lucy had treated him herself, given him ice packs and massage therapy, which is how it had all started…