The Sheikh's Love-Child. Kate Hewitt
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car on the way home, and now he’s got a cartload of Lego spread across the lounge floor.’
Lucy smiled. She could just picture Sam, his dark head bent industriously over his toys, intent on building a new and magnificent creation.
‘Do you want to talk to him?’
‘Just for a moment.’ Lucy waited, her fingers curling round the telephone cord as she heard her mother call for Sam. A few seconds later he came onto the line.
‘Mummy?’
‘Hello, darling. You’re being a good boy for Granny?’
‘Of course I am,’ Sam replied indignantly, and Lucy chuckled.
‘Of course you are,’ she agreed. ‘But that also means eating your green vegetables and going to bed on time.’
‘What about an extra story?’
‘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’m sure 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.