SUNLIGHT shimmered on a placid sea the morning of Lucy’s wedding. She stood in front of the window, watching dawn break and bathe a pearly grey sky in a pale, luminescent pink.
She took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air and let it fill her lungs, buoy her heart.
Today was her wedding day. No matter how strained and artificial things had become between her and Khaled, no matter how convenient and sensible their marriage, today was real and she wanted to enjoy it. She wanted it to be beautiful.
Lucy turned to glance at her wedding dress, a simple silk sheath in ivory that she’d picked from a book of designs and had made by a seamstress on the island. Its nod to Arabic culture was a pattern of vines picked out in gold thread along the bodice, also giving the elegant gown an exotic feel. Her head she would leave bare, her hair down like a girl’s.
A knock sounded, and her mother poked her head round the bedroom door. Dana Banks had arrived two days ago, and Lucy was grateful for her mother’s strong, comforting presence. She’d kept silent about her concerns for this marriage in light of its pressing reality. Lucy hadn’t invited anyone else to the wedding; really, there was no one else to invite. She’d thought briefly of Eric, who had been both her friend and Khaled’s, but it seemed that relationship was over now.
So many things were changing, ending. But, she told herself, stroking the silk of her gown, some things were beginning too…for better or for worse.
‘Did you sleep well?’ Dana asked, and Lucy grimaced wryly.
‘Not really. But Sam is still dead to the world—he has no idea what’s going on, just that it’s exciting.’
Dana gave a little smile. ‘It’s probably better that way.’
‘Yes.’ She and Khaled would spend one night at the palace, and then they were going on honeymoon. It was meant to be a surprise; Khaled had not told her the destination.
‘You should eat,’ Dana said. ‘Keep up your strength. It’s going to be a long day.’
And it was. The wedding was not taking place until late afternoon, yet the hours before the event were filled with activity—preparations, photographs, conversations with visiting dignitaries and royals. The wedding might have been planned in only a fortnight, but Khaled had still managed to bring together a dazzling array of guests eager for a show.
And that was what it felt like, Lucy thought—a spectacle. And she was at its dizzying centre.
All too soon it was time for the ceremony. Lucy stood in front of her mirror, dressed in the simple gown, liking the way it gently hugged her figure before swirling out around her ankles. Hadiya had taken Sam down to the formal reception room where the wedding was to take place, and Lucy was alone with Dana.
‘Lucy…are you sure about this?’ Dana asked softly. She laid a gentle hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Because, you know, even now it’s not too late.’
Lucy met her mother’s concerned gaze in the mirror. She smiled and shook her head. It was too late. To back out now would shame Khaled and permanently damage their relationship. She couldn’t let Sam suffer that, or Khaled, for that matter. She wouldn’t walk away from him.
‘Sam will get over whatever happens,’ Dana insisted quietly. ‘He’s only three. He won’t even remember.’
‘No,’ Lucy agreed. ‘But there will be plenty of people who will remind him.’
‘Khaled wouldn’t be so spiteful.’
‘Perhaps not, but there are others.’ Certainly Ahmed, and any palace officials, other royals, dignitaries and diplomats. He would walk under a perpetual cloud of cruel speculation and gossip.
Dana sighed. ‘I just don’t like seeing you throw your life away, even for Sam.’
‘I’m not.’ Lucy took a breath and turned to face her mother. ‘I’m thirty-one years old, Mum, and Khaled has been the only man in my life worth mentioning. I think—hope—I can have a future with him. A good one, a happy one.’ Was happiness too much to ask for? she wondered. She’d already given up on love. Surely she could strive for contentment at least?
Yet the events of last two weeks did not bode well for such a future. Since the announcement of their engagement, Khaled had been distant, even cool, relating to her only through Sam. They had not even had a moment alone.
Lucy had told herself it was better that way; perhaps she and Khaled needed a little distance. Yet today she didn’t want distance, she didn’t want fear. She wanted hope. She wanted to believe.
She leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mum. At least, not for today.’
Dana’s arms closed around her. ‘I’ll try,’ she whispered, and Lucy heard the trembling emotion in her mother’s usually dry voice. She pressed her cheek against her mother’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender soap.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘For being here today, and every day.’
Dana gave Lucy’s shoulder a squeeze and stepped away. Neither of them had ever been particularly adept at showing emotion; Tom Banks had taken care of that. Yet Lucy appreciated even these small gestures. They still meant so much.
A discreet knock sounded at the door, and Lucy knew it was time. She gave her mother a tremulous smile. ‘Here we go.’
The palace corridors had never seemed so long or twisting. The only sound was the rustle of silk, and the thundering in her ears of her own beating heart. Her mouth felt dry, her hands cold and slick. Yet even amidst the tremendous nerves was a building sense of anticipation, of hope.
How she wanted to hope.
A liveried servant led her to the reception room where a hundred dignified guests waited in hushed expectation. Since Lucy’s father was absent, she would be walking down the aisle alone for every endless step until she came to Khaled’s side.
She could see him now, framed by the room’s panelled doors, his profile to her—harsh austere, familiar.
‘It is time.’ The servant stepped away, and Dana went to find her seat with Sam. Lucy took a step forward into the room.
She felt the gaze of a hundred guests like a single eye trained on her, assessing this unknown English woman, now to be royal bride. Her legs trembled and her step wobbled. She looked up, and Khaled’s gaze held hers.
He smiled.
It was a small gesture, perhaps it was meaningless, yet it didn’t feel that way. It felt like sunlight, like a bond finally forged between them, drawing them together. Hope burst within her, blooming like a flower, twining its way around her heart and strengthening her soul. Lucy smiled back, and her steps firmed as she walked the rest of the way down the aisle to Khaled’s side.
Silently he reached out his hand, his fingers twining with hers, drawing her closer as the service began.
Lucy didn’t remember much of the service. They were essentially married twice, first in the Arabic tradition, and then in the Western one. She didn’t have to say or even think much. She was conscious only of sensations: the fluid fabric of her gown against her hips; the strong, sure feeling of Khaled’s hand in her own rather clammy one, the whir of a ceiling fan that sent intermittent puffs of warm, dusty air over her.
And then it was over. Khaled led her out of the hall, into another room, this one prepared for a feast. Crowds surrounded them, pressed kisses against her cheek, clapped Khaled on the shoulder. It was a blur, strange and just a little bit frightening, and Lucy was glad Khaled never left her. His hand never dropped hers. She needed his strength.
Platters of food and drink circulated, and people began to dance, both Western dances and traditional Arabic ones. The music was loud, the laughter raucous. Both Khaled and Lucy sat on the side, smiling and watching; by silent agreement, they’d chosen not to dance.
Lucy was content to sit there next to Khaled, to enjoy the flurry of activity and the peals of laughter, and feel his solid strength by her side. She greeted the guests who came to congratulate her, smiled, nodded and spoke words she couldn’t remember. Somehow it all passed her by—the food and drink, the noise and music, the people and lights. She was conscious, so achingly conscious, of only one thing: Khaled.
And then it too was over. Khaled rose, drawing Lucy with him, and amidst a chorus of well-wishes—some bawdier than others—and more kisses and embraces, they left. Lucy kissed Sam, his silky hair brushing her cheek as he lay in Dana’s arms, sleepy and satisfied. She met her mother’s eyes over her son’s head and they both smiled, needing no words.
Out in the corridor Lucy followed Khaled past the reception rooms and public galleries to a distant part of the palace, far from the noise and the people. They walked silently along the narrow corridors, up twisting flights of stairs, until in the highest tower he led her to a set of rooms that could only be described as the palace’s honeymoon suite.
A wide four-poster bed dominated the bedroom, piled high with silk pillows in shades of umber and sienna. Candles flickered around the room, casting pools of light and shadow. The doors were thrown open to a terrace outside, and Lucy saw that the sun had set, leaving a violet sky spangled with stars.
She moved to the doors and let the night air blow over her, cool her flushed cheeks and calm her suddenly racing heart.
They were finally alone.
Behind her she heard Khaled move, and she tensed with both expectation and nervousness as he came towards her.
‘Would you like a bath?’ he asked after a moment. His voice was low, smooth, bland. She had no idea what he was thinking or feeling.
‘Yes, all right,’ Lucy agreed. She turned and saw Khaled gazing at her with dark, fathomless eyes. ‘That sounds nice.’ She didn’t really want or need a bath, but it was a way to bridge the awkwardness of this moment, of this evening.
With a little smile she moved past Khaled to the door that led to a sumptuous bathroom suite.
‘I’ll be waiting,’ he told her, and Lucy jerked her head in a nod.
Safe in the bathroom, she turned both taps on full blast and dumped half a pint of scented bath foam into the bath as she exhaled shakily.
Why was she so nervous? She was acting like a frightened virgin, and she wasn’t that. She’d slept with Khaled before, for heaven’s sake; she knew his body and he knew hers. She knew what he liked, how he buried his face in her neck, how he liked to kiss her.
‘Help.’ Lucy didn’t realise she’d said the word aloud until it echoed through the marble-tiled bathroom. She held her hands up to her face and took two or three deep breaths. She needed to get a grip.
The bath was nearly full, so she turned the taps off and stripped, hanging her wedding gown on the back of the door. As she sank into the lavender-scented foam, she realised belatedly that she had nothing to wear other than her gown.
She had nothing.
Where were her clothes, her things? She felt vulnerable, as if Khaled had stripped her of her belongings intentionally. Perhaps he had. She didn’t know anything any more, didn’t know how to go forward, how to act, how to feel.
Help.
She stayed in the bath until the water began to grow cold, knowing that to delay longer would be obvious and therefore make things more awkward. Insulting, even.
To her great relief she saw a thick terry-cloth robe hanging by the door, and she slipped into it gratefully. She brushed her hair and washed her face, making liberal use of the exotically scented body-lotion. And then there was nothing left for her to do but open the door and face Khaled.
Face her marriage.
Face her wedding night.
She took another deep breath, drawing the air deep into her lungs, and opened the door.
Khaled lay stretched on the bed, his coat and tie discarded, his shirt partially unbuttoned. He looked relaxed, rumpled and sexy, and just the sight of him made sweet need stab deep in her belly.
‘Does your leg hurt?’ Lucy asked, noticing that he had stretched it out, and then she tensed, waiting for Khaled to be annoyed.
He just smiled. ‘No, I feel fine.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re not a therapist tonight, Lucy.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re my wife.’ His smile widened and his heated gaze swept over her, from her damp hair to her bare feet.
‘I don’t know where my clothes are,’ Lucy blurted, and Khaled arched an eyebrow.
‘You won’t need any tonight, I should think, but they’re in the wardrobe if it makes you feel better.’ He gestured to a large, teak wardrobe in the corner of the room.
‘It does,’ she admitted. She moved gingerly to sit on the edge of the bed, a good three feet from where Khaled lay.
‘Why are you so nervous?’ Khaled asked softly. ‘I have to admit, I have been looking forward to this for a very long time. Four years, to be precise.’
Lucy managed a smile. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Too long.’
He reached out to grasp her hand and turn it over, then drew her slowly towards him so he could press a kiss in her palm. ‘I’ve wanted this, Lucy. I’ve dreamed of it.’
This. Just what was ‘this’? Lucy wondered numbly. Sex? It obviously wasn’t love.
Khaled deepened the kiss on her palm. The feel of his lips on the sensitive skin sent shivers all the way through her, and she cupped his chin, enjoying the feel of his stubble against her hand, the warmth of his cheek on her fingers. Warm desire replaced cold fear.
‘Kiss me, Lucy.’ Although he spoke it as a command, Lucy heard the plea underneath and she leaned forward to brush his lips with her own.
She couldn’t stop there, didn’t want to. Her hand dropped from his face to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer even as his arms went around her and he brought her half onto his lap, her robe opening at the front so her breasts were pressed against his bare chest.
She’d forgotten how good it was, how right it felt to have his skin against hers, his lips on hers, his hands on her body, roaming free.
Yet perhaps she hadn’t forgotten anything, Lucy thought hazily as Khaled rolled over so she was lying on the bed and he was poised on top of her. Perhaps this was new.
They weren’t just learning each other’s bodies once more, remembering how it had been.
They were discovering something new.
For they were different people, with different histories, new experiences—pain and joy, suffering and love. So much had happened, so much had changed them, in four years.
Khaled opened her robe and gazed at her naked body as Lucy’s toes curled in self-consciousness. Smiling, he traced a silvery stretch-mark with one fingertip. ‘Were you in very much pain for Sam’s birth?’ he asked softly.
Surprised, Lucy replied, ‘For a bit. Then I had an epidural.’
‘Good.’ He bent his head to brush his lips against her belly, and Lucy stifled a moan of longing at the exquisite sensation of being touched so intimately. ‘I don’t like to think of you in pain.’
Lucy couldn’t form a response; the sensations were too deep, too powerful. This felt far more intimate than any time they’d been together before. They were learning each other, finding new landmarks on the maps of their bodies.
And Lucy wanted a turn. She rolled over and let her hands drift down Khaled’s taut chest and belly, fumbling with his belt buckle for a moment before she slipped his trousers down his legs. He kicked them off with an impatient groan, and then his boxers followed, along with Lucy’s robe, and they were both gloriously naked.
Lucy let her hand trail along Khaled’s thigh, and then lower, and lower still, to a new landmark—the twisted scar tissue of his damaged knee.
Khaled’s breath hitched and he reached to still her hand. ‘Don’t…’ he pleaded raggedly, but Lucy wouldn’t stop.
She reached down to brush a kiss against the scar tissue and the swollen joint of his knee. She wanted to memorise this new landmark that had become so much a part of who he was. It had shaped and scarred him, and it was more than just these marks on his knee. There were deeper scars on his soul, invisible ones of pain and bitterness, and Lucy wondered if she could help to heal him. If he would let her. ‘Let me,’ she said softly, half command, half plea, and Khaled gave a little shake of his head.
‘Not this.’
‘I married all of you,’ she told him in a breath of a whisper, and she meant it. ‘All of you.’ Lucy saw Khaled’s eyes brighten with what could only be tears, and she felt her heart twist as she realised afresh what he’d experienced, how much he’d endured. They’d both suffered, and she wanted it to stop. She wanted a clean beginning, a healing one.
She bent her head and let her lips touch his knee again before trailing kisses upwards until, with a stifled moan, Khaled hauled her against him, their bodies now pressed length to length, and kissed her deeply.
Lucy returned the kiss, letting the tenderness flare into passion, letting her mind and body blur into sensation as pleasure blissfully took over and they were one once more.
Later, as the moon sifted silver patterns on the floor, she lay on the bed, Khaled’s arm draped around her, sleepy and sated. She looked over at him; he’d fallen asleep, his lashes brushing his cheeks, thick, dark and impossibly long.
She smiled, for he looked so peaceful and yet so vulnerable. There was no hardness, no grimness in his eyes, in the taut muscle of his jaw. He was relaxed and rested. She wanted him to stay that way; she wished he could. Wished she could help him.
Could she? She couldn’t restore his knee or his rugby career, but perhaps she could heal something much more important: his heart.
What business do you have with his heart? He doesn’t love you. He might not even stay…
The inner voice of her secret fear was like an icy whisper that echoed around the room and in Lucy’s heart.
Fear was so insidious. A few moments ago, lying in Khaled’s arms, wrapped in the hazy afterglow of desire and love, she’d thought she’d banished it for ever. Yet now it crept back in with a sly, self-satisfied smile and crouched like a hungry cat in a corner of her heart.
How long was Khaled hers, if he really was hers at all? This was a sensible, convenient marriage; there was no love binding them together. Just lust…and Sam.
How long until he found another excuse to leave, just as her father had, just as all men seemed to?
Lucy closed her eyes. She wouldn’t think of it; she wouldn’t give the fear a foothold. And she wouldn’t delude herself with silly daydreams of healing and love. Khaled wanted a marriage of convenience, and that was what they’d have. She’d guard her heart and keep herself from loving Khaled, from allowing him to hurt her.
She’d take what she was given and be happy, content with that, for God knew it was more than most people had.
She wouldn’t live her life in fear. She would be strong.
She curled her body round Khaled’s, drawing his warmth, wanting his comfort. There might not be love there, but neither was there fear. She clung to that truth as sleep slowly claimed her.
Lucy awoke to bright sunlight, and with Khaled gone from the bed. Her heart lurched with alarm and she bolted upright, searching the room as if she might find him crouching in a corner.
He wasn’t there. She could tell, she could feel the emptiness. She drew her knees up against her chest, wrapping the sheet around her. She shouldn’t feel this bereft; it was stupid and senseless.
Yet she couldn’t keep it from swamping her soul anyway.
The door opened, and Khaled came in with a tray of coffee and rolls. He smiled. ‘I didn’t want a servant to disturb us.’
The relief that washed through her was just as alarming as the fear had been. Lucy smiled back. ‘I’m starving.’
‘So am I.’ Khaled set the tray on the table next to the bed and began pouring coffee. ‘Eat up. We leave for our honeymoon in an hour.’
‘An hour! That’s no time!’
‘Your bags have been packed, and Sam is content with your mother. There is no reason to delay.’
Lucy accepted a cup of coffee and took a fortifying sip. ‘Where are we going?’
Khaled’s eyes glinted with humour. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
She didn’t like surprises, Lucy reflected as they boarded the royal jet amidst another storm of paparazzi. She liked to be prepared, in control, even over little things.
Yet she knew Khaled was planning a nice surprise for her, and the gesture touched her. Even if she didn’t like it.
It was the fear again, she knew. The agony of doubt, the pain of uncertainty. She’d trusted Khaled once—he was the only man she’d ever trusted. No one else had claimed her heart the way he had. She wasn’t about it to give it to him again, yet, even so, she still felt nervous. Afraid.
Would the fear ever be banished? Could she ever trust Khaled, trust herself?
Glancing over at him, his head bent, lost in thought, she couldn’t answer that question. Last night had been good. No, she admitted honestly, it had been wonderful. But a few moments in bed didn’t change who they were, what they were capable of, how much they could give.
Did it?
How long until he leaves? Until he’s tired of you?
The jet took off into the sky, leaving the island of Biryal far behind until there was nothing in every direction but glittering blue, endless ocean. And no answers.
It was late afternoon when the jet arrived at Dubai International Airport.
‘Dubai?’ Lucy questioned, for she’d never been there and didn’t even know much about it.
‘Wait and see,’ Khaled assured her. ‘You will be treated like a queen.’
A throng of paparazzi greeted them, and Khaled navigated easily through the crowd, his hand clasped with Lucy’s, ignoring most questions and fielding a few necessary ones.
‘We are very happy. And, since this is our honeymoon, we’d like to be alone!’ He spoke good-naturedly, and the journalists responded, allowing him an easy passage to the waiting Rolls Royce.
Lucy slipped into the luxurious leather seat and within minutes the car was pulling smoothly away. They left the airport and desert for the glittering lights of Dubai, a mass of needle-like skyscrapers straight down to the sea.
‘Where are we staying?’ Lucy asked.
‘The best,’ Khaled said simply. ‘The Burj Al Arab.’
Lucy had never heard of it, but then there was no reason why she would have. This was Khaled’s world, the sports star and the reigning prince who was used to luxurious hotels and servants leaping to do his bidding.
She’d let herself forget that the sunlit days in Biryal when it had just been her, Khaled and Sam, swimming and spending time among Biryal’s far simpler pleasures.
Now the memories of Khaled as he was in London—fun loving, pleasure seeking, untrustworthy—came back full force as the Rolls swept up to the front of a huge skyscraper shaped like a billowing sail on its own artificial island right on the water.
Liveried attendants opened the car door and escorted them through the sumptuous atrium that soared a dizzying six hundred feet upwards, making Lucy feel faint and small. There was no need for Khaled to check in; everyone knew who he was. An attendant led them to a private elevator which went straight to the top of the towering building, and doors opened onto the most oppressively opulent suite Lucy had ever seen.
A gold and marble staircase, more impressive even than the one in the Biryali palace, led up to the suite itself. Lucy followed Khaled and the attendant, her footsteps clicking faintly on the carrara marble.
Upstairs the suite seemed to be an endless succession of rooms filled with gold leaf and marble, thick, tufted rugs and heavy mahogany furniture. Lucy glanced around, but she could see no end in sight; room after room stretched on, filled with furniture and paintings, every sign of wealth and luxury.
The attendant left, and Khaled turned to Lucy with a smile that looked just a little smug. ‘Well?’
‘It’s amazing,’ she said faintly.
His smile deepened. ‘You’re overwhelmed.’
‘How could I not be?’
‘Watch this.’ They were in the bedroom, which was decorated in royal-blue and gold, with a magnificent, canopied four-poster bed. Khaled pushed a button and Lucy watched the bed rotate slowly on its dais.
‘Wow,’ she said lamely. Khaled turned to her.
‘Is something wrong?’
Lucy shrugged and spread her hands out. How could she explain how this suite reminded her of their time in London? Of how overawed she’d been by Khaled, by his wealth and poise, his careless charm, his reckless ease? She’d never felt like his equal, and yet somehow in the last few weeks Sam had neutralised that feeling. With Sam, they were on an equal footing. But not here.
Here, in Khaled’s world, she felt like a hanger-on, a beggar at the table waiting for the scraps of his attention.
His love.
She still wanted him to love her, Lucy realised with a jolt of panic. That was why she was so nervous, so afraid. She wanted, needed, Khaled’s love, and she’d never have it.
‘Lucy?’ Khaled prompted with a frown, and she tried to smile, although her mind still spun.
‘It’s just so…much.’
‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No, of course not.’ This was her problem, Lucy knew. Her insecurity, her fear. She glanced around the room, taking in all the luxurious embellishments. ‘It’s wonderful, Khaled. Thank you.’
That evening Lucy dressed in one of the designer gowns that had been packed for her; she hadn’t seen any of the clothes before, but they were all the right size. They took a simulated submarine ride to the hotel’s underwater restaurant, Al Mahara.
They sat at a table right next to an enormous aquarium, watching fish swim lazily by; they dined on lobster salad and oysters washed down by a champagne that Lucy didn’t want to know the price of.
A few people recognised Khaled, a mix of businessmen and society starlets, and Lucy watched as Khaled kissed their cheeks and chatted easily, smiling and laughing and talking about things Lucy could barely understand. This was his world. It always had been.
How could she have forgotten? Four years ago she’d been so dazzled, so grateful to be seen on his arm, but she was older now. She was wiser, too, and she didn’t want to live like that.
Feel like that.
After what felt like an endless meal they returned to their suite. The bed had been turned down, the lights dimmed and a tray of fruit and Arabic sweets left by the terrace.
‘Is something wrong?’ Khaled asked, and Lucy heard a coolness in his voice.
She hesitated, not wanting a confrontation, not knowing how to explain how she felt. And what did it matter? There was no way to make it better.
‘I’m just tired,’ she said at last. ‘It’s been a crazy few weeks.’
‘So it has.’ Khaled came behind her, his hands resting heavily on her shoulders. ‘But we can leave that all behind, Lucy, and relax for a few days. Enjoy being pampered, enjoy each other.’ He dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck, making her shiver. His lips moved along her shoulder, his tongue touching her skin, and desire overcame doubt as she turned in his arms and gave herself to him.
At least here and now they were equals.
Lucy tried to relax over the next few days, and sometimes she even succeeded. Khaled was kind, considerate, yet there was no denying a slight distance in his demeanour, a sort of separateness that made Lucy both desperate and anxious.
She wanted more. She wanted all of him. But he was keeping himself apart, saving his passion for their marriage bed.
It was better this way, she told herself. This kind of distance was convenient, sensible, what they’d agreed. She hadn’t agreed to more, hadn’t bargained for more.
She was afraid of more.
And yet she craved it.
Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact that he was in his element in the luxurious hotels and night-clubs, on the yacht, the beach, the high-end shops in Jumeirah, Dubai’s shopping district.
In each place he ran into acquaintances, people like himself—rich, powerful, arrogant and self-assured—and each time Lucy shrank a little bit further into herself and her own fears.
This was the rugby star, the man who had used her and left her, the Khaled she’d fallen for, and she didn’t want to again.
Yet at night those fears and doubts receded in the reality of their bodies. Then they were equals, lovers, exploring each other with freedom and joy, revelling in the marriage bed.
‘You’ve been very quiet,’ Khaled said on their last night in Dubai. They were getting ready to go out yet again, and Lucy gazed glumly at the rack of gowns that undoubtedly cost more than her year’s salary.
‘I’m tired,’ she said, which had been her excuse all week. And she had reason enough to be tired; some nights she and Khaled had been still awake, loving each other, to see the dawn.
She glanced at him, saw him frown, and frustration bubbled within her. That chasm was opening between them again, despite the shared nights. The wall was coming up, and she didn’t know what to do.
She wanted to bridge the gap, knock down the wall, run to Khaled, and tell him—what?
I love you.
No. She did not love him; she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Yet the words still bubbled up inside her, from an endless spring of yearning. She couldn’t love this man, this powerful, arrogant prince.
No, a voice whispered inside her. You love the man who tickles your son, who shows you his scars, who wipes away your tears. You love that man.
But which man was the real one? And could that man love her back?
Khaled crossed to her, put his hands on her shoulders and brushed a kiss against the top of her head. ‘We don’t have to go out tonight,’ he said softly. ‘We could stay in, order room-service. There’s a private cinema, even, if you want to watch a film.’
Lucy hadn’t even seen that part of the endless suite, yet the idea of staying in appealed to her almost unbearably. ‘Could we?’ she asked. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Of course.’
Within minutes Khaled had cancelled their dinner reservations and changed out of his evening suit into more casual clothes. He was looking through the suite’s selection of DVDs when Lucy noticed the chess set by the sofa—an opulent set in gold and silver.
‘How about we play chess?’
Khaled turned round, one eyebrow quirked. ‘Are you sure?’
Lucy touched one of the pawns. ‘Yes. I’ve never really played, but I learned how.’
‘All right.’ Smiling faintly, Khaled moved to the sofa. He glanced at Lucy, humour lurking in his golden eyes. ‘I’m very good, you know.’
Lucy smiled back, suddenly feeling happy, light, comfortable, perhaps for the first time since she’d come to Dubai. ‘Don’t play easy on me,’ she warned. ‘I hate that.’
‘Promise.’ Khaled settled himself on one side of the chessboard, Lucy on the other. ‘I’ll thrash you, though, you know.’
‘Bring it on.’
Of course, he did thrash her. But Lucy played surprisingly well, considering each move with so much care that when the game was finally over she said, ‘Where did you learn to play?’
Khaled shrugged. ‘Eton. I didn’t discover rugby until my second-to-last year. Before that I was in the chess club.’
‘Were you?’ Laughter bubbled up; somehow she couldn’t imagine it.
‘Yes, I was,’ Khaled replied, his lips twitching. ‘Really.’ Lucy glanced down at the board. Checkmate. ‘Do you miss it?’ she asked quietly. ‘Rugby?’
Khaled was silent for a long moment. ‘Yes,’ he finally said, his gaze on the board as well. ‘I miss the thrill of the sport, but I’ve come to realise I miss something deeper than that too. I miss…’ He let out a ragged breath. ‘I miss what rugby made me.’
Lucy glanced up sharply. ‘What did rugby make you?’
He shrugged. ‘You saw.’
Yes, she’d seen, and it disappointed her somehow that Khaled missed that—the stardom, the popularity, the press, the life that had crushed her in the end. She didn’t speak, and Khaled’s mouth tightened, his eyes dark.
He gestured to the board, his voice purposefully light. ‘You’re really rather good. How come you never played?’
Lucy drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on top. ‘I never had the opportunity.’
‘Never?’
She hesitated and then, trying to keep her voice as light as his, continued, ‘I learned as a child. My father was a terrific chess player. He was a bit of a layabout, but he used to play in the pub. I learned so I could play with him, but it never came to pass.’
Khaled held a knight in his hand, and he set it down carefully on the board. ‘What happened?’
Another shrug; Lucy was surprised at how hard this was. She’d made peace with her father a long time ago; time had healed the wound.
Hadn’t it?
Yet now, avoiding Khaled’s perceptive gaze, the chess pieces blurring in front of her, it didn’t feel like time had healed anything at all. It felt fresh and raw and painful. She swallowed.
‘He never came back.’ She blinked back tears and looked up, composed once more. ‘He was meant to pick me up one Saturday, spend the day with me. I’d learned chess by then, and was excited about showing him.’ For a moment she remembered that day—standing by the front window just like Sam had, nose pressed against the glass, waiting, hopeful. Then the hope had slowly, irrevocably trickled away. She took a breath. ‘He never came.’
Khaled frowned. ‘Never?’
‘Oh, he sent me a five-pound note in the post for my birthday a couple of times,’ Lucy said. ‘But after that, nothing. He just wasn’t father material.’
Khaled tapped his fingers against the board. ‘And that’s why you thought I wasn’t father material either.’
Lucy shrugged; the movement felt stiff and awkward. ‘I explained this before,’ she said, striving to keep her voice light but failing. ‘My little bit of pop psychology, remember?’
‘Yes. I remember.’ Khaled’s voice was dark. ‘I just didn’t realise he left you so…abruptly.’
Like you did. The words seemed to hover, unspoken, in the air. Lucy looked away.
‘Well, thanks for the game of chess,’ she said after a moment when the silence had gone on too long, had become awkward and tense and filled with unspoken thoughts. Accusations. She uncoiled herself from her seat and stood up.
Khaled looked up, otherwise unmoving. ‘You’re a good player.’ He made no move to join her, instead looking away, gazing out of the window at the stretch of silvery ocean.
Lucy hesitated, wanting—what? She wanted Khaled’s strength, his touch and caress to banish the memories the conversation had stirred up. Yet she couldn’t quite make herself ask. It would feel like begging.
Sex, she realised despondently, was not the answer to everything. After another long moment, when Khaled did not move or take his gaze from the fathomless night outside, Lucy turned and went to bed.
Khaled toyed with the silver queen, gazing out at the twinkling lights in Dubai’s harbour, each one so tiny, so insignificant, yet offering light. Hope.
He’d begun to feel the first, faint stirrings of hope this last week, with Lucy in his arms every night as he’d longed for these last four years. He’d begun to believe they could have a future together, a love.
That she would love him.
And he’d convinced himself that he could handle his condition, that Lucy would never see him debilitated, that it all could be managed. Controlled.
Yet some things couldn’t be controlled, and finally Khaled understood the depth of Lucy’s mistrust of him.
When he’d left all those years ago, he’d been thinking of himself, acting on his pride and his fear. He supposed he’d wrapped it up as self-sacrifice, told himself that it was better for Lucy, better for everyone if he left. That no one wanted a burden, and that was how he’d seen himself—a burden, a cripple, a man without the identity he’d clung to for so many years.
Yet now he acknowledged fully, for the first time, how his sudden departure had been essentially a selfish act, an act which had devastated Lucy. She’d told him often enough, but he’d pushed her objections aside because his reasons had made sense to him, and really it was easier to do so. He couldn’t change the past.
And he still couldn’t. He didn’t think he could influence the future either.
Lucy didn’t love him, didn’t want to love him, and there was nothing he could say—nothing that hadn’t already been said—that would change her mind.
He thought of telling her he loved her, but instinctively recoiled from the idea, the threat of rejection, of ruining what little they had. He shouldn’t yearn for more, shouldn’t expect it, because he didn’t even deserve it.
He didn’t deserve Lucy. And she deserved so much more than him.
Yet they were married now, and nothing could change that. He could give her space, time to heal, to stop being afraid, to trust.
If she ever would.
He couldn’t, Khaled realised with a growing sense of desolation, give her more than that.
What little they had. Resolutely Khaled placed the queen back on the chessboard. What little they had would have to be enough.