Six Sizzling Sheikhs. Оливия Гейтс

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?’

      ‘Yes.’ The single word was so sincere, so heartfelt, that it left Lucy temporarily speechless. She believed him, accepted that single word, and it left her blindsided.

      She lowered her gaze to the table and focussed on the intricate scrollwork on her sterling-silver fork. Even so, her eyes filled and her vision blurred. She blinked back the treacherous tears. ‘I find that hard to believe,’ she said in a low voice, even though that wasn’t quite what she meant. She found it hard to trust—trust that he wouldn’t let Sam down, that he wouldn’t let her down. Again.

      Khaled was silent; it felt as if the whole world was silent, except for that faint, musical tinkling of the distant fountain.

      ‘You have a very low opinion of me,’ he finally said, his voice as low as hers. ‘To say such a thing and, worse, to believe it.’

      Lucy’s heart twisted. She didn’t want to feel guilty, and so she wouldn’t. ‘And why shouldn’t I have a low opinion of you?’ she asked. She looked up, met Khaled’s hard gaze. ‘You left, Khaled. You left me without a word or an explanation, without even the briefest of goodbyes. Why shouldn’t I think you would do that to Sam?’

      Khaled’s fingers clenched around the handle of his coffee cup, and Lucy saw his knuckles turn white. ‘Are you going to judge me on the basis of that one action, Lucy?’ he asked. ‘One decision?’

      Lucy gave a short, abrupt laugh of disbelief. ‘You speak as though it was one misstep, Khaled. A mistake, or a little slip. That one decision defined everything. It defined you to me, and what you thought of me. Of our relationship.’

      Khaled stilled, his fingers loosened. ‘And what did I think of you?’

      She shook her head. Now that they’d begun, she felt compelled to tell the truth. She was past blushing or tears, humiliation or hurt—for the moment, at least. ‘I shouldn’t even say we had a relationship, because we obviously didn’t. We had an affair. Torrid. Tawdry. And it wasn’t worth enough for you to even let me know you were leaving the country. For good.’

      Khaled rotated his cup between his long, brown fingers, and Lucy stared, strangely mesmerised by the simple action. His fingers were so familiar to her—they’d touched her, caressed her—and yet they were so strange. He was a stranger, and she wondered if he always had been.

      ‘I realise I hurt you,’ he murmured. ‘But that is past us now, Lucy. For our son’s sake, it has to be.’

      It wasn’t an apology, not even close. Even now he couldn’t explain. He couldn’t say sorry. ‘That’s not true, Khaled. I agree I may have to put my own feelings aside, but your past behaviour has given me no reason to trust you with Sam.’

      She spoke flatly, her expression and voice both bleak, and yet it was as if she’d brandished a knife. The tension that suddenly stilled the air could have been cut. With chilling precision, Khaled set his cup back down on its saucer; when he spoke his voice was just as cold as that careful action.

      ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘you do not have the luxury of such feelings. And this decision, Lucy, is not yours alone to make.’

      His words trickled icily into her consciousness, realisation pooling with dread in her stomach.

      ‘Are you threatening me?’

      ‘I’m stating facts. If the DNA test reveals what I believe it shall, Sam is as much my son as yours, and I have as much right to his time