blind fool.
‘Let’s eat,’ Khaled said, his voice almost brusque. ‘You look too thin.’
Lucy smiled wryly. ‘Life with a busy three-year-old makes it easy to skip meals sometimes.’
‘You must take care of yourself. How can you take care of Sam otherwise?’
Lucy did not respond, yet silently she wondered if she could now expect more of these imperious commands. This was Khaled the prince, the future king, not the feckless rugby star.
Yusef must have been waiting for some kind of summons, for it only took a single flick of Khaled’s wrist for him to wheel in a silver domed trolley. Lucy watched as he placed several dishes on the table: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, stewed tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms.
‘I forgot how much you liked the full fry-up,’ she said, and just the words caused a shaft of memory to pierce her: scrambling eggs in Khaled’s kitchen, barefoot, dressed only in his rugby jersey, laughing as she teased him that he never used his expensive pots and pans.
Did Khaled remember? Was that memory as precious to him as it was to her?
Watching as he served them both eggs—his face impersonal, blank—she knew it was not. He probably didn’t even remember it at all. The weeks they’d had together were as incidental and unimportant as the other days, weeks or months he’d had with no doubt dozens of other women. The only difference was that their weeks together had resulted in a child: Sam.
They ate in silence for a few moments, and Lucy found her appetite had returned as she dug into her eggs and bacon. Yet questions still crowded her mind, worked their way up her throat.
What now? What next?
She knew what Khaled wanted, but what did he expect?
Yusef had cleared their plates and brought fresh coffee when Khaled told her.
‘I’ve made arrangements for us to fly back to England together, on the Biryali royal jet.’
Lucy’s mouth dropped open. ‘But—’
‘We leave tomorrow. We can have the DNA test done, and then I’d like to spend a few days with Sam in London, in his familiar surroundings. When he is comfortable and used to me, I’ll bring him back to Biryal.’
Lucy was still struggling for words. ‘Biryal? You want to bring him here?’
Khaled raised his eyebrows and took a sip of coffee. ‘This is my home, and therefore it must also be his home for at least part of the year.’
‘But…’ She shook her head, realising sickly that she should have anticipated this. What had she expected—that Khaled would come to London for weekend visits or take Sam to the zoo and the seaside once every few months? Had she actually thought it could be so simple? ‘Biryal is so…’ She couldn’t imagine Sam here, in this rugged and unforgiving land, in this palace.
Terror struck Lucy’s soul as she realised the implications of that word, of who Khaled was: palace. Prince.
Prince Sam.
Khaled watched her carefully, and for a moment Lucy thought she saw compassion flicker in the golden depths of his eyes. ‘Sam is my heir, Lucy,’ he said. ‘One day he will be king.’
‘But—but he’s illegitimate,’ she protested, trying to sound reasonable. To feel reasonable. ‘If you marry—have other children—’
He shook his head. ‘It is Biryali tradition that a king may choose which son he wishes to succeed him, legitimate or otherwise. As long as there is a son, it doesn’t matter which.’
‘But you may have other sons,’ Lucy insisted, even though the thought of Khaled with a wife or other children was unpleasant to contemplate. But it was better than considering the massive life changes that would lie in store for Sam…and her.
‘There won’t be other children,’ Khaled told her flatly. ‘And, in any case, I choose Sam.’
Fear clutched at her and she shook her head frantically. ‘But I don’t want Sam to be king!’
‘One day he will be,’ Khaled replied steadily. ‘It is his legacy, his destiny, as it is mine.’
Lucy pressed her palms to her eyes, blotting out the world and its horrible reality for a few merciful seconds. Why hadn’t she considered this? Why hadn’t she thought more carefully about the Pandora’s box she’d be opening when she told Khaled about Sam?
Because, she realised with sudden, stark clarity, you wanted him to know. You wanted to see him again.
And she wanted Sam to have a father, unlike her.
Had she expected this, secretly hoped for this, when she’d decided to tell Khaled? The heart was deceitful, yet it shamed her to think she’d been so willfully blind to her own secret desires. She’d convinced herself that coming to Biryal, telling Khaled about Sam, was right. Her duty.
Yet now she wondered if she’d just done it for her own selfish reasons—because she’d still wanted to see Khaled. To be with him.
And who would suffer because of it? They all would, she supposed bleakly, and perhaps Sam most of all.
THE Biryali royal jet took off from the island into a sky of cloudless blue, the sea smooth and winking with sunlight below. Lucy leaned her head back against the luxurious leather seat and closed her eyes.
The last twenty-four hours had been completely draining. First there had been the breakfast with Khaled, when her world had slipped on its axis, and she’d realised—and accepted—that nothing would be the same. Not for her, not for Sam. And, she added fairly, not for Khaled.
Her reluctant agreement to accompany Khaled on the Biryali jet and return home a day later than she’d planned had led to a flurry of activity.
First, the England team’s travel coordinator had had to be told. This had led to everyone else in the team’s entourage knowing her changed plans almost immediately, and within the hour Eric had been knocking on her door.
‘You’re staying? With Khaled?’ he demanded as soon as Lucy opened it, and she’d sighed wearily.
‘Yes, Eric. It turns out Khaled wants to be involved in Sam’s life.’
‘And you’re permitting this?’ Eric’s eyes had narrowed. ‘You want this?’
Did he sound jealous? Lucy had shrugged impatiently. ‘I don’t really have much choice. And Khaled has a right to know his son—’ She broke off, not wanting to finish that sentence: even if I don’t want him to.
‘And what about you? Do you want to be with Khaled?’
Lucy had found herself flushing, much to her irritation. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Isn’t
