Six Sizzling Sheikhs. Оливия Гейтс
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a short time.
Except, of course, he really hadn’t been.
Lucy glanced up at him and saw Khaled lean forward, one white-knuckled hand clasped in the other, watching the match with an intent ferocity. She wondered what had brought him to this moment, what had made him work so hard. What made him look so…unhappy.
Since he couldn’t play himself… Was that really the truth? Was that the reason he’d left so suddenly? And did it really make any difference? Lucy wondered sadly. If he’d loved her, as she’d loved him—had thought she’d loved him—he would have shared such important, life-changing information with her. He would have wanted her to be there.
She’d tried to be there, God knew. She had been turned away from the hospital when a nurse had flatly explained that Prince Khaled had requested no visitors. No visitors at all.
A cry rose from the crowd, and Lucy saw that Biryal had scored. She narrowed her eyes, noticing that Damien Russell, the team’s open-side flanker, was limping a bit, and went to get one of her ice packs.
The next hour was spent fulfilling her duties as team physio, checking injuries, watching for muscle strain, fetching the tools of her trade. She kept her mind purposely blank, refused to think of Khaled at all, even though her body hummed with awareness, ached with tension.
The match seemed to go on for ever. For a fledgling team, Biryal was surprisingly good—thanks to Khaled and his insistence on one of the best coaches in the game, Lucy suspected. She also suspected the England team wasn’t trying as hard as it might, wanting to save its energy and stamina for the more important matches coming up in the Six Nations.
And then finally it was over. John Russell, England’s outside half, spun away from an opposing player in a daring move that sent a ripple of awareness through the stadium like an electric current. When he went on to score, the stadium erupted in cheers.
For a moment, Lucy was startled; Biryal had lost, yet they were cheering.
‘Close match,’ Yusef murmured. ‘And, as you just saw, won by one of Prince Khaled’s signature moves.’
Of course. Lucy had recognised that half-spin; now she knew why. Khaled had invented it. How many times had he been photographed for the press in that almost graceful pirouette?
And now England had taken that from him too.
Lucy didn’t know why that thought slipped into her mind, or why she suddenly felt sad. She didn’t know what Khaled felt, although she could see him smiling now as he walked stiffly towards the pitch to shake hands with the players.
He was limping. The thought sent a ripple of shocked awareness through her. Khaled was limping, although he was trying not to show it. Just as Yusef had intimated, his old injury must have been a good deal worse than anyone had thought.
Than she had thought—and she had been his physiotherapist! Shouldn’t she have known? Shouldn’t she have guessed?
Shouldn’t she have understood?
Lucy shook her head, wanting to stem the sudden, overwhelming tide of questions and doubts that flooded through her. She didn’t want to have sympathy for Khaled, not for any reason. It would only make this trip and everything else harder.
The stadium was in its usual post-match chaos, and numbly Lucy went about her duties, checking on players, arranging care.
At some point Aimee told her there was another party tonight at the palace, a big celebration—for, even though Biryal had lost, they’d played such a good match that it felt like a victory.
Lucy listened, nodded, smiled. Somehow she got through the rest of the afternoon, though both her body and mind ached. She’d never wanted to talk to Khaled more, even as she dreaded it.
Yet he was as inaccessible as he’d been since she’d arrived in his home country, and she wondered if he would ever grant her the opportunity of a moment alone—or if she would have to make one.
From the top of the foyer’s staircase Lucy heard the drifting sound of a classical quartet; there would be no discordant music tonight. Tonight, she saw as she came down the stairs, was a show of wealth as well as a celebration. White-jacketed waiters circulated through the palace’s reception rooms with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, and King Ahmed stood by the front doors that were thrown open to the warm night air, dressed Western-style in a tuxedo.
Lucy ran her palms down the sides of her evening dress, an artfully draped halter-neck gown in cream satin. It was the most formal piece of clothing she owned, as well as the sexiest, even though the draped fabric didn’t cling or reveal, simply hinted. With her hair pulled back in a slick chignon, she felt glamorous—as well as nervous.
Judging from the crowds below her, she wasn’t overdressed; Aimee’s pink-ruffled concoction made her own gown look positively plain. But she felt it. She felt like she was parading herself for Khaled, never mind every other man who turned with an admiring glance as she came into the foyer.
A few glasses of champagne later, her bubbling nerves had begun to calm. Lucy circulated through the crowd, smiling, chatting, laughing, looking.
Where was Khaled? She wanted to see him now, she wanted that conversation. Fortified with a bit of Dutch courage, she was ready, and she simply wanted it to be over.
Yet he was avoiding her, he must be, for as she wandered through the crowded reception rooms she couldn’t find him anywhere.
Disappointment sliced through her as she surveyed the foyer once more. It was getting late, and her head ached from the more-than-usual amount of champagne she’d consumed. Yet she was leaving tomorrow morning, and this was her last chance. Her only chance.
Lucy’s face felt stiff from smiling, and fatigue threatened every muscle of her body. She felt anger too, a surprising spurt of it. Khaled had known she wanted to talk to him. She’d told him it was important, yet now he was avoiding her.
Or did he just not care at all?
Shaking her head, Lucy turned towards the stairs. Fine; if Khaled was going to act this way again, then he didn’t deserve to know about his son. Message forgotten.
Angry, annoyed and hurt, Lucy stormed down the hallway towards the maze of rooms in the back of the palace. Over the thudding of her heart and the silky swish of her gown, she heard another, surprising sound.
A moan. Of pain.
She stopped, waited. Listened. And she heard it again, a low, animal sound.
After a moment’s hesitation, her medical training coming to the fore, she knocked once and then pushed open the door from behind which had come those terrible sounds.
Another moan, coming from the hunched figure on the edge of the bed.
‘Can I help…?’ she began, only to have the speech and breath both robbed from her as the figure looked up at her with pain-dazed eyes.
It was Khaled.
THEY stared at each other for a long, frozen moment before Khaled jerked his head away.
‘Leave me…’ he gritted, his teeth clenched, sweat pearling on his forehead. Lucy ignored his plea, dropping to her knees in front of him.
‘Is it your knee?’
‘Of course it is,’ he retorted. Both white-knuckled hands were curled protectively around his leg. ‘It’s just acting up. Leave me. There’s nothing you can do.’
‘Khaled—’
‘There’s nothing I want you to do,’ Khaled cut her off. Lucy looked up at him, and saw misery and fury battling in his eyes. ‘Go.’
‘You must have painkillers,’