The Sheikh's Love-Child

‘Why don’t we continue this conversation tomorrow?’ she said carefully. ‘I don’t leave until noon. I think we’d both be in a better frame of mind to consider what’s best for Sam.’

‘Fine.’ His back still to her, Khaled waved one hand in dismissal. ‘We can have breakfast tomorrow. A servant will fetch you from your room at eight.’

‘All right,’ Lucy agreed. She waited, but Khaled did not turn round. ‘Till tomorrow, then.’ She walked towards the door, only to be stopped with her hand on the knob by Khaled’s soft warning.

‘And, Lucy…’ He turned round, his eyes glittering. ‘We’ll finish this conversation tomorrow.’

The door clicked softly shut and Khaled raised his glass to his lips before he thrust it aside completely with a muttered oath. It clattered on the table and, pushing a hand through his hair, he flung open the doors that led to a private balcony.

Outside he took in several lungfuls of air and let it soothe the throbbing in his temples, the still-insistent ache in his knee. He hadn’t had a flare up like the one tonight in months, years…and Lucy had seen it. Seen him, weak, prone, pathetic.

He’d never wanted that. He’d never wanted anyone—especially her—to know. Hadn’t wanted the pity, the compassion that was really condemnation. He didn’t want to become a burden, as his mother had, to her own shame and sorrow.

It was why he’d left, why he’d taken the decision out of Lucy’s hands. It was the only form of control he’d had.

Yet now he realised he would have to put that control aside. Things would have to change. He would have to change. Because of Sam.

Sam…

The air was sultry and damp; a storm was coming. He felt as if one had blown through here, through his room, his life, his heart.

Sam. He had a son. A child; flesh of his own flesh. A family at last. It was an incredible thought, both humbling and empowering.

A three-year-old son who didn’t even know of his existence. Khaled frowned, guilt, hurt and anger all warring within him. He wanted to blame Lucy, to accuse her of deceiving him, of not trying hard enough to find him, but he knew that would be unfair. He had not wanted to be found.

He had pushed her out of his mind, his heart, his whole existence, and thought things would stay that way. He’d made peace with it, after a fashion. He’d certainly never planned on seeing her again.

Loving her again.

For a moment, Khaled allowed himself to savour how she’d looked—kneeling before him, the sweep of her glossy hair, her slender, capable hands that had once afforded him so much pleasure. He remembered the way that satin dress had clung to her curves, pooled on the floor, and even in the red haze of pain he had a sharp stab of desire.

Desire he wouldn’t—couldn’t—act upon. Yet neither could he deny that Lucy was in his life once more, and now he would not let her leave it. He wouldn’t leave, because things were different.

Sam had changed everything.

* * *

Exhausted, Lucy entered her bedroom and peeled off her evening gown, leaving it in a puddle of satin on the floor. She knew she should hang it up, keep it from creasing, but she couldn’t be bothered. Her mind and body cried out for sleep, for the release of unconsciousness.

For forgetfulness…for a time. A few hours; that was all the respite she’d been given.

And then tomorrow the reckoning would come.

What did Khaled want?

Just the question sent her heart rate spiralling upwards, her breath leaking from her lungs. She hadn’t anticipated him wanting anything. She’d planned, hoped, believed that after today she would walk away, free.

Yet now she realised she might have entangled herself in Khaled’s snare more firmly than she had before. Now perhaps Sam was entangled too.

What did Khaled want?

And had she been so naïve—stupid, really—to think he wouldn’t want anything?

That he wouldn’t want his son?

But he didn’t want me.

She slipped under the covers and pressed her face into the pillow, trying to stop the hot rush of tears that threatened to spill from behind her lids.

She didn’t want to cry now. She didn’t want to feel like crying now.

Yet she did feel like it; she craved the release. She wanted to cry out in fear for herself and for Sam, and in misery for all she’d felt for Khaled once and knew she could not feel again.

And, surprisingly, she felt sad for Khaled. What was he hiding? Lucy couldn’t tell what kind of injury had him in its terrible thrall, but it was serious. More serious than she could treat as a physiotherapist. It was the kind of injury, she suspected, that could keep him from playing rugby ever again…no matter what Eric had said.

Had he left England because his rugby career was finished? And why would that have meant they were finished? The only answer, even now, was that she simply hadn’t meant enough to him. Not like he’d meant to her.

Her mind still spinning with too many questions and doubts, her heart aching like a sore tooth with sudden, jagged, lightning streaks of pain, she finally fell into a restless and uneasy sleep.

Lucy hadn’t even risen from bed when she heard a perfunctory knock on her bedroom door the next morning. With a jolt she realised it was already eight o’clock, and Khaled’s servant had come to fetch her.

‘Just a moment,’ she called out, throwing off the sheets and reaching hurriedly for clothes. Unshowered, groggy from sleep, she knew she’d be at a disadvantage for her breakfast with Khaled.

Calling out an apology, she quickly splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth and indulged herself in a touch of make-up.

She didn’t need any disadvantages now.

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