The Sheikh's Love-Child

She gazed out of the window again and saw they were entering Lahji. She didn’t know that much about Biryal—she hadn’t wanted to learn—but she did know its one major city was small and well-preserved. Now she saw that was the case, for the squat buildings of red clay looked like they’d stood, slowly crumbling, for thousands of years.

In the distance she glimpsed a tiny town, no more than a handful of buildings, a brief winking of glass and chrome, before the bus rumbled on. And then they were out of the city and back into the endless scrub, the sea no more than a dark smudge on the horizon.

The mountains loomed closer, dark, craggy and ominous. They weren’t pretty mountains with meadows and evergreens, capped with snow, Lucy reflected. They were bare and black, sharp and cruel-looking.

‘There’s the palace!’ Aimee said with a breathless little laugh, and, leaning forward, Lucy saw that the palace—Khaled’s home—was built into one of those terrible peaks like a hawk’s nest.

The bus wound its way slowly up the mountain on a perilous, narrow road, one side sheer rock, the other dropping sharply off. Lucy leaned her head back against the seat and suppressed a shudder as the bus climbed slowly, impossibly higher.

‘Wow,’ Aimee breathed, after a few endless minutes where the only noise was the bus’s painful juddering, and Lucy opened her eyes.

The palace’s gates were carved from the same black stone of the mountains, three Moorish arches with raised iron-portcullises. Lucy felt as if she were entering a medieval jail.

The feeling intensified as the portcullises lowered behind them, clanging shut with an ominous echo that reverberated through the mountainside.

The bus came to a halt in a courtyard that felt as if it been hewn directly from the rock, and slowly the bus emptied, everyone seeming suitably impressed.

Lucy stood in the courtyard, rubbing her arms and looking around with wary wonder. Despite the dazzling blue sky and brilliant sun, the courtyard felt cold, the high walls and the looming presence of the mountain seeming to cast it into eternal shade.

Ahead of them was the entrance to the palace proper, made of the same dark stone, its chambers and towers looking like they had sprung fully formed from the rock on which they perched.

‘Creepy, huh?’ Eric murmured, coming to stand next to her. ‘Apparently this palace is considered to be one of the wonders of the Eastern world, but I don’t fancy it.’

Lucy smiled faintly and shrugged, determined to be neither awed nor afraid. ‘It makes a statement.’

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Khaled greeting some of the team, saw him smile and clap someone on the shoulder, and she turned away to busy herself with the bags. She’d barely moved before a servant, dressed in a long, cotton thobe, shook his head and with a kindly, toothless smile gestured to himself.

Lucy nodded and stepped back, and the man hoisted what looked like half a dozen bags onto his back.

‘My staff will show you to your rooms.’

Her mind and heart both froze at the sound of that voice, so clear, cutting and impersonal. Khaled. She’d never heard him sound like that. Like a stranger.

She turned slowly, conscious of Eric stiffening by her side.

‘Hello, Khaled,’ he said before Lucy could form even a word, and Khaled inclined his head, smiling faintly.

‘Hello, Eric. It’s good to see you again.’

‘Long time, eh?’ Eric answered, lifting one eyebrow as he smiled back, the gesture faintly sardonic.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Much has changed.’ He turned to Lucy, and she felt a jolt of awareness as his eyes rested on her, almost caressing her, before his expression turned blankly impersonal once more. ‘Hello, Lucy.’

Her throat felt dry, tight, and while half of her wanted to match Khaled’s civil tone the other half wanted to scream and shriek and stamp her foot. From somewhere she found a cool smile. ‘Hello, Khaled.’

His gaze remained on hers, his expression impossible to discern, before with a little bow he stepped back, away from her. ‘I’m afraid I must now see to my duties. I hope you find your room comfortable.’ His mouth quirked in a tiny, almost tentative smile, and then he turned, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor of the courtyard as Lucy watched him walk away from her.

She murmured something to Eric, some kind of farewell, and with a leaden heart she followed the servant who carried her bags into the palace.

She was barely conscious of the maze of twisting passageways and curving stairs, and knew she wouldn’t find her way out again without help. When the servant arrived at the door of a guest room, she murmured her thanks and stepped inside.

After the harshness of what she’d seen of Biryal so far, she was surprised by the room’s sumptuous comfort. A wide double bed and a teakwood dresser took up most of the space. But what truly dominated the room was the window, its panes thrown open to a stunning vista.

Lucy moved to it, entranced by the living map laid out in front of her. On the ground, Biryal hadn’t seemed impressive, no more than scrub and dust, sand and rock. Yet from this mountain perch it lay before her in all of its cruel glory, jagged rock and stunted, twisted trees stretching to an endless ocean. It wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense, Lucy decided, and you wouldn’t want it on a postcard. Yet there was still something awe-inspiring, magnificent and more than a little fearsome about the sight.

This was Khaled’s land, his home, his roots, his destiny. With a little pang, she realised how little she’d known him. She hadn’t known this, hadn’t considered it at all. Khaled had just been Khaled, England’s outside half and rising star, and she’d been so thrilled to bask in his attention for a little while.

With an unhappy little sigh, she pushed away from the window and went in search of her toiletry bag and a fresh change of clothes. She felt hot and grimy, and, worse, unsettled. She didn’t want to think about the past. She didn’t want to relive her time with Khaled. Yet of course it was proving impossible not to.

She could hardly expect to see him, talk to him, and not remember. The memories tumbled through her mind like broken pieces of glass, shining and jagged, beautiful and filled with pain. Remembering hurt, still, now, and she didn’t want to hurt. Not that way, not because of Khaled.

Yet she couldn’t quite protect herself from the sting of his little rejection, his seeming indifference. A simple hello, after what they’d had? Yet what had she expected? What did she want?

They’d only had a few months together, she reminded herself. Only a few amazing, artificial months.

Four years later, that time meant nothing to him. It should mean nothing to her.

Shaking her head, Lucy forced herself to push the disconsolate memories away. She had a job to do, and she would concentrate on that. But first, she decided, she would ring her mum.

‘Lucy, you sound tired,’ her mother clucked when Lucy had finally figured out the phone system and got through to London.

‘It was a long flight.’

‘Don’t let this trip upset you,’ Dana Banks warned. ‘You’re stronger than that. Remember what you came for.’

‘I know.’ Lucy smiled, her spirits buoyed by her mother’s mini pep talk. Dana Banks was a strong woman, and she’d taught Lucy how to be strong. Lucy had never been more conscious of needing that strength, leaning into her mother’s as she spoke on the phone, her gaze still on that unforgiving vista outside her window. ‘Tell me how Sam is.’

‘He’s fine,’ Dana assured her. ‘We went to the zoo this morning—his favourite place, as you know—and had an ice cream. He fell asleep in the 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. ‘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…

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.