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.
Opening her door, she saw Yusef, the palace staff member from the stadium yesterday.
‘Good morning, Miss Banks,’ he said smoothly. ‘Prince Khaled is waiting.’
Wordlessly Lucy followed him down the corridor, and then another, and yet one more, until she was hopelessly lost. Finally Yusef brought her through a pair of double doors to a wide, private terrace overlooking the gardens she’d glimpsed by moonlight two nights before.
Khaled stood as she approached. He was, she noticed a bit sourly, dressed in a crisp, white shirt and immaculately ironed chinos, his hair still damp from a shower. He looked fresh and clean, the picture of good health, his skin a dark golden-brown, his teeth flashing white.
Lucy’s heart gave an unexpected lurch at the sight of him. When he smiled, he reminded her of the man she’d known, the man she used to love. The rugby star, the player.
The man who had broken her heart.
There was, she thought, no sign of the pain-wracked sufferer she’d seen last night. Even Khaled’s limp was virtually unnoticeable as he walked round the table to pull out her chair.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked, and Lucy grimaced.
‘Not particularly.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Khaled moved back to his own chair and picked up a porcelain coffee-pot stamped with the Biryali royal emblem. ‘Coffee?’
Yusef, she realised, had quietly, discreetly disappeared. They were alone.
‘Please.’
Khaled poured the coffee, and before she could ask he handed her cream. ‘I remember how you like it.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucy murmured, flushing. She poured a generous amount of cream while Khaled watched with a faint smile.
‘Do you still take half a teaspoon of sugar?’
‘No,’ she said, somewhat defiantly, even though she did. She didn’t want him to be like this: confident, charming, urbane. In control. The way he’d been four years ago, when he’d reeled her in and she’d fallen so hard.
Almost savagely she thought she preferred the pain-ridden man she’d encountered last night. He’d been vulnerable; he’d needed her. This man didn’t. This man expected her to need him.
Khaled just smiled and took a sip of his coffee, which Lucy saw he still drank black. She stirred the cream into her own coffee as she gazed out over the terraced gardens. Compared to the rest of the island with its craggy rocks and seemingly endless scrub, the gardens were luxuriously verdant, thick green foliage and bright bougainvillea tumbling over the landscaped ledges. Lucy could hear the bright tinkling of a nearby fountain, although she couldn’t see it.
As if reading her thoughts, Khaled said, ‘There are many hidden delights in the palace gardens. I will give you a personal tour.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy replied, her voice scrupulously polite. ‘I won’t have time.’
Khaled merely smiled, arching one eyebrow in such blatant scepticism that Lucy’s heart lurched again, unpleasantly, and she set her cup back in its saucer with a clatter.
‘What do you want, Khaled?’ It was the question that had been tormenting her since last evening, when she’d realised with a growing dread that Khaled wasn’t going to go his own way, or let her and Sam go theirs, as she’d so naïvely, stupidly, anticipated.
Khaled took a sip of coffee. ‘That is an interesting question,’ he mused. ‘And one I will be glad to answer. But first…’ He set his cup down and gave her a long, level look. ‘I’d like to know what you want.’
‘Very well.’ Lucy licked her lips and took a breath. ‘I want to return to England this afternoon. I want to get back to my son, and my life as it’s been, with nothing changed. And I want to forget we’ve ever even had a conversation.’
As she said the words, Lucy realised how harsh they sounded, as well as how much she meant them. And, gazing at Khaled, who had not spoken or even changed expression, she realised how unlikely it was for anything she wanted to come to pass. ‘You asked,’ she said with a shrug, and took a sip of coffee.
‘So I did.’ Khaled rubbed his jaw with one long-fingered hand, his expression fixed on the distant mountains. Somewhere in the garden a bird shrieked, and then Lucy heard the rustle of wings as it took flight. ‘These things you want,’ Khaled finally said, his voice mild, ‘necessitate the absence of my presence in my son’s life.’
Lucy swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Does that seem fair to you?’ He sounded genuinely curious. Lucy swallowed again.
‘It’s not about what’s fair, it’s what’s best for Sam.’
‘And you think it’s best for Sam not to know his father? His father who wishes to know him, love him?’
Lucy felt the fear and fury rise within her like a great dormant beast, though even now it was tinted with a fledgling, uncertain hope. His father who wishes to know him, love him. She’d never had that. Sam had never had that. Yet the thought of Khaled in that role was impossible, frightening. Dangerous. She glared challengingly at him. ‘And is that what you think you are? What you want?’
