Six Sizzling Sheikhs. Оливия Гейтс

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