The Sheikh's Love-Child

I love it when you touch me.

They’d been alone in the massage room, and she’d been meticulously rubbing oil into his knee, trying to keep her movements brisk and professional even as she revelled in the feel of his skin. She’d been so infatuated, so hopeless.

And then he’d spoken, the words no more than a murmur, and she’d been electrified, frozen, her fingers still on his knee. He’d laughed and rolled over, his chest bare, bronzed, his muscles rippling, and he’d captured her fingers in his hand and brought them to his lips.

Have dinner with me.

It hadn’t been an invitation, it had been a command. And she, besotted fool that she was, had simply, dumbly nodded.

That was how it had begun, and even now, knowing all that had and hadn’t happened since, the bitterness couldn’t keep the memory from seeming precious, sacred.

She forced her mind from it and concentrated on her food. Yet she felt the burdensome weight of Khaled’s presence for the entire meal, even though he never once even looked at her. She breathed a sigh of relief when the last course was cleared away and King Ahmed rose, permitting everyone else to leave the table.

Of course, escape didn’t come that easily. With a sinking heart Lucy saw Ahmed lead the way into another reception room, this one with stone columns decorated in gold leaf, and gorgeously frescoed walls. Low divans and embroidered pillows were scattered around the room and Lucy’s feet sank into a thick Turkish carpet in a brilliant pattern of reds and oranges.

A trio of musicians had positioned themselves in one corner, and as everyone reclined or sat around the room, they began their haunting, discordant music.

A servant came around with glasses of dessert wine and plates of pastries stuffed with dates or pistachios, and guests struck up conversations, a low murmur of sound washing through the crowded space.

Lucy dutifully took a cup of wine and a sticky pastry, although her stomach was roiling with nerves too much to attempt to eat. She balanced them in her lap, the music jarring her senses, grating on her heart.

Khaled, she saw, was sitting next to Brian Abingdon, a faint smile on his face as his former coach chatted to him—although even from a distance Lucy could see the hardness, the coldness, in his eyes. She could feel it.

Did anyone else notice? Did anyone else wonder why Khaled had changed? He’d brought them here; Lucy knew he’d orchestrated the entire match. Yet at the moment he looked as if he couldn’t be enjoying their company less. Why did he look so grim?

Lucy took a bite of pastry, and it filled her mouth with cloying sweetness. She couldn’t choke it down, and the incessant music was a whining drone in her ears. She felt exhausted and overwhelmed, aching in every muscle, especially her heart.

She needed escape.

She put her cup and pastry on a nearby low table and struggled to her feet. Almost instantly a solicitous servant hovered by her elbow, and Lucy turned to him.

‘I’d like some fresh air,’ she murmured, and, nodding, the servant led her from the room.

She followed him down a wide hallway to a pair of curtained French doors that had been left ajar. He gestured to the doors, and with a murmur of thanks Lucy slipped outside.

After the stuffy heat of the crowded reception room, the cool night air felt like a balm. Lucy saw she was on a small balcony that hung over the mountainside. She rested her hands on the ornate stone railing and took a deep breath, surprised to recognise the scents of honeysuckle and jasmine.

The moon glided out from behind a cloud and, squinting a bit in the darkness, Lucy saw that the mountainside was covered in dense foliage—gardens, terraced gardens, like some kind of ancient wonder.

She breathed in the fragrant air and let the stillness of the night calm her jangled nerves. From beyond the half-open doors, she could still hear the strains of discordant music, the drifting sound of chatter.

I didn’t expect this to be so hard. The realisation made her spirits sink. She’d wanted to be strong. Yet here she was—unsettled, alarmed—and she hadn’t even spoken to Khaled, hadn’t even told him yet.

And what would happen then? Lucy didn’t let herself think beyond that conversation: message delivered…and received? She couldn’t let her mind probe any further, didn’t want to wander down the dangerous path of pointless speculation. Perhaps it was foolish, or even blind, but she knew the current limitations of her own spirit.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Lucy straightened and turned, half-expecting to see Eric frowning at her in concern once more.

Instead she saw someone else frowning, his brows drawn sharply together, his eyes fastened on hers.

‘Hello, Khaled.’ Lucy surprised herself with how calm and even her voice sounded. Unconcerned, she turned all the way round, one hand still resting on the stone balustrade.

‘I didn’t think anyone was here,’ he said tersely, and Lucy inclined her head and gave a small smile.

‘I needed some air. The room was very hot.’

‘I’m sorry you weren’t comfortable.’ They were the words of a cordial host, impersonal, distant, forcing Lucy to half-apologise.

‘No, no. Everything has been lovely. I’m not used to such star treatment.’ She paused, and gestured to the moonlight-bathed gardens behind her. ‘The palace gardens look very beautiful.’

‘I will have someone show you them tomorrow. They are one of Biryal’s loveliest sights.’

She nodded, feeling somehow dismissed. There was a howl inside her, a desperate cry for understanding and mercy.

After everything we had…

But in the end, it—she—had meant nothing to Khaled. Why couldn’t she remember that? Why did she always resist the glaring truth, try to find meaning and sanctity where there had been none? ‘Thank you,’ she managed, and then lapsed into silence as the night swirled softly around them.

Khaled said nothing, merely looked at her, his gaze sweeping over her hair, her face, her dress. Assessing. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said quietly, almost sadly.

Surprised by what felt like a confession, Lucy blurted, ‘You have.’

Khaled stilled. Lucy hadn’t realised there had been a touch of softness to his features in that unguarded moment until it was gone. His smile, when it came, was hard and bitter. ‘Yes, I have.’

‘Khaled…’ She held one hand out in supplication, then dropped it. She didn’t want to beg. There was nothing left to plead for. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

Khaled arched one eyebrow. ‘Isn’t that what you’re doing?’

‘Not now,’ Lucy said, suddenly wishing she hadn’t started this line of conversation. ‘Tomorrow. I just wanted you to know… Perhaps we could arrange a time?’ Her voice trailed away as Khaled simply stared, his lips pressed in a hard line, a bleakness in his dark eyes.

‘I don’t think we have anything to say to each other any more, Lucy.’ Startled, she realised he sounded almost sad once more.

‘You may feel that way, but I don’t. I just need a few minutes of your time, Khaled. It’s important.’

He shook his head, an instinctive gesture, and Lucy felt annoyance spurt through her. She hadn’t come to Biryal to be rejected again, and for something so little. Was he not willing to give her anything? Would she always feel like a beggar at the gates when it came to Prince Khaled el Farrar?

‘A few minutes,’ she repeated firmly, and without giving him time to respond, or time to betray herself with more begging, pleading, she moved past him. Her shoulder brushed his and sent every nerve in her body twanging with feeling as she hurried back into the palace.

Lucy didn’t sleep well that night. She was plagued with half-remembered dreams, snatches of memory that tormented her with their possibility. Khaled inhabited those dreams, invaded her heart when her body and mind were both vulnerable in sleep. Khaled, laughing at a stupid joke she’d told, his head thrown back, his teeth gleaming white. Khaled, walking off the pitch, his arm thrown casually yet possessively over her shoulders. My woman. Khaled, smiling lazily at her from across the lounge of his penthouse suite.

Come here, Lucy. Come to me.

And she had, as obediently as a trained dog, because when it came to Khaled she’d never felt she had a choice. What hurt more than her own foolish infatuation was Khaled’s easy knowledge of it. He’d never doubted, never even had to ask.

Muttering under her breath, Lucy pushed the covers off and rose from the bed. The sun had risen, fresh and lemon-yellow in a cloudless sky, and she was relieved to be free of her dreams, for the new day to finally begin.

The day she’d been waiting for since she’d heard of the match with Biryal. The day Khaled would find out he was a father.

As she dressed in her physio scrubs, she found her mind sliding inexorably to the question of how Khaled would react to the news, wandering down that dangerous path. Would he deny it? Deny responsibility? Lucy couldn’t see many other possibilities. You couldn’t trust a man who walked out; it was a lesson she’d learned early. A lesson her mother had taught her. And, after the way Khaled had walked out on her, she couldn’t imagine him taking an interest in his bastard child.