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His heart lurched with something too close to hope, and Khaled shook his head in disgust. Even if she was, it hardly mattered.
It didn’t matter at all.
It couldn’t.
He’d made a choice for both of them four years ago and he had to live with it. Still. Always.
The plane was approaching the runway now, and with a couple of bumps it landed, gliding to a stop just a few-dozen yards away from him.
Khaled straightened, his hands kept loosely at his sides, his head lifted proudly.
He’d been working for this moment for the last four years, and he would not hide from it now. He wanted this, he ached for it, despite—and because of—the pain. It was his goal; it was also his reckoning.
Lucy squinted in the bright sunlight as she stepped off the plane onto the tarmac. Having come from a drizzly January afternoon in London, she wasn’t prepared for the hot, dry breeze that blew over her with the twin scents of salt and sand. The landscape seemed to be glittering with light, diamond-bright and just as hard and unforgiving.
She fumbled in her bag for sunglasses, and felt Eric reach for her elbow to guide her from the flimsy aeroplane steps.
‘He’s here,’ he murmured in her ear, and even as her heart contracted she felt a flash of annoyance. She didn’t need Eric scripting this drama for her. She didn’t want any drama.
She’d already had that, lived it, felt it. Now was the time to stop the theatrics, to act grown up and in control. Cool. Composed.
Uncaring.
She pulled her elbow from Eric’s grasp and settled the glasses on her nose. Tinted with shadow, she could see the landscape more clearly: a stretch of tarmac, some scrubby brush, a rugged fringe of barren mountains on the horizon.
And Khaled. Her gaze came to a rest on his profile, and she realised she’d been looking for him all along. He was some yards distant, little more than a tall, proud figure, and yet she knew it was him. She felt it.
He was talking to Brian, the national team’s coach, his movements stiff and almost awkward, although his smile was wide and easy, and he clapped the other man on the shoulder in a gesture of obvious friendship and warmth.
With effort she jerked her gaze away and busied herself with finding some lip balm in her bag.
She hadn’t meant to walk towards Khaled; she wasn’t ready to see him so soon, and yet somehow that was where her legs took her. She stopped a few feet away from him, feeling trapped, obvious, and then Khaled looked up.
As always, even from a distance, his gaze nailed her to the ground, turned her helpless. Weak. She was grateful for the protection of her sunglasses. If she hadn’t been wearing them what would he have seen in her eyes—sorrow? Longing?
Need?
No.
Lucy lifted her chin. Khaled’s expressionless gaze continued to hold hers—long enough for her to notice the new grooves on the sides of his mouth, the unemotional hardness in his eyes—and then, without a blink or waver, it moved on.
She might as well have been a stranger, or even a statue, for all the notice he took of her. And before she could stop it Lucy felt a wave of sick humiliation sweep over her. Again.
She felt a few curious stares from the crowd around her; there were still enough people among the team and its entourage who remembered. Who knew.
Straightening her back, she hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and walked off with her head high and a deliberate air of unconcern. Right now this useless charade felt like all she had.
Still, she couldn’t keep the scalding rush of humiliation and pain from sweeping over her. It hurt to remember, to feel that shame and rejection again.
It was just a look, she told herself sharply. Stop the melodrama. When Khaled had left England four years ago, Lucy had indulged herself. She’d sobbed and stormed, curled up in her bed with ice cream and endless cups of tea for hours. Days. She’d never felt so broken, so useless, so discarded.
And now just one dismissive look from Khaled had her remembering, feeling, those terrible emotions all over again.
Lucy shook her head, an instinctive movement of self-denial, self-protection. No. She wouldn’t let Khaled make her feel that way; she wouldn’t give him the power. He’d had it once, but now she was in control.
Except, she acknowledged grimly, it didn’t feel that way right now.
The next twenty minutes were spent in blessed, numbing activity, sorting out luggage and passports, with sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades and beading on her brow.
It was hot, hotter than she’d expected, and she couldn’t help but notice as her gaze slid inadvertently, instinctively, to Khaled that he didn’t look bothered by the heat at all.
But then he wouldn’t, would he? He was from here, had grown up on this island. He was its prince. None of these facts had ever really registered with Lucy. She’d only known him as the charming rugby star, Eton educated, sounding as if he’d spent his summers in Surrey or Kent.
She’d never associated him with anything else, not until he’d gone halfway around the world, and when she’d needed to find him he’d been impossible to reach.
Even a dozen feet away, she reflected with a pang of sorrow, he still was.
Everyone was boarding the bus, and Lucy watched as Khaled turned to his own private sedan, its windows darkly tinted, luxurious and discreet. He didn’t look back, and she felt someone at her elbow.
‘Lucy? It’s time to go.’
Lucy turned to see Dan Winters, the team’s physician, and essentially her boss. She nodded and from somewhere found a smile.
‘Yes. Right.’
Lucy boarded the bus, moving to the back and an empty seat. She glanced out the window and saw the sedan pulling sleekly away, kicking up a cloud of dust as it headed down the lone road through the brush, towards the barren mountains.
Lucy leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Why had she bothered to track Khaled’s car? Why did she care?
When she’d decided to come to Biryal for the friendly match, a warm-up to the Six Nations tournament, she’d told herself she wouldn’t let Khaled affect her.
No, Lucy realised, she’d convinced herself that he didn’t affect her.
And he wouldn’t. She pressed her lips together in a firm, stubborn line as resolve hardened into grim determination within her. The first time she saw him was bound to be surprising, unnerving. That didn’t mean the rest of her time in Biryal would be.
She let out a slow breath, felt her composure trickle slowly back and smiled.
The bus wound its way along the road that was little more than a gravel-pitted track, towards Biryal’s capital city, Lahji. Lucy leaned across the seat to address Aimee, the team’s nutritionist.
‘Do you know where we’re staying?’
Aimee grinned, excitement sparking in her eyes. ‘Didn’t you hear? We’re to stay in the palace, as special guests of the prince.’
‘What?’ Lucy blinked, the words registering slowly, and then with increasing dismay. ‘You mean Prince Khaled?’
Aimee’s grin widened, and Lucy resisted the urge to say something to wipe it off. ‘Yes, wasn’t he gorgeous? I didn’t think I’d ever go for a sheikh, for heaven’s sake, but—’
‘I see.’ Lucy cut her off, her voice crisp. She leaned back in the seat and looked out of the window, her mind spinning. The scrub and brush had been replaced by low buildings, little more than mud huts with straw roofs. Lucy watched as a few skinny goats tethered to a rusty metal picket fence bleated mournfully before they were obscured in the cloud of sandy dust the bus kicked up.
They were staying at the palace. With Khaled. Lucy hadn’t imagined this, hadn’t prepared for it. When she’d envisioned her conversation with Khaled—the one she knew they’d had to have—she’d pictured it happening in a neutral place, the stadium perhaps, or a hotel lounge. She’d imagined something brief, impersonal, safe. And then they’d both move on.
They could still have that conversation, she consoled herself. Staying at the palace didn’t have to change anything. It wouldn’t.
She gazed out of the window again and saw they were entering Lahji. She didn’t know that much about Biryal—she hadn’t wanted to learn—but she did know its one major city was small and well-preserved. Now she saw that was the case, for the squat buildings of red clay looked like they’d stood, slowly crumbling, for thousands of years.
In the distance she glimpsed a tiny town, no more than a handful of buildings, a brief winking of glass and chrome, before the bus rumbled on. And then they were out of the city and back into the endless scrub, the sea no more than a dark smudge on the horizon.
The mountains loomed closer, dark, craggy and ominous. They weren’t pretty mountains with meadows and evergreens, capped with snow, Lucy reflected. They were bare and black, sharp and cruel-looking.
‘There’s the palace!’ Aimee said with a breathless little laugh, and, leaning forward, Lucy saw that the palace—Khaled’s home—was built into one of those terrible peaks like a hawk’s nest.
The bus wound its way slowly up the mountain on a perilous, narrow road, one side sheer rock, the other dropping sharply off. Lucy leaned her head back against the seat and suppressed a shudder as the bus climbed slowly, impossibly higher.
‘Wow,’ Aimee breathed, after a few endless minutes where the only noise was the bus’s painful juddering, and Lucy opened her eyes.
The palace’s gates were carved from the same black stone of the mountains, three Moorish arches with raised iron-portcullises. Lucy felt as if she were entering a medieval jail.
The feeling intensified as the portcullises lowered behind them, clanging shut with an ominous echo that reverberated through the mountainside.
The bus came to a halt in a courtyard that felt as if it been hewn directly from the rock, and slowly the bus emptied, everyone seeming suitably impressed.
Lucy stood in the courtyard, rubbing her arms and looking around with wary wonder. Despite the dazzling blue sky and brilliant sun, the courtyard felt cold, the high walls and the looming presence of the mountain seeming to cast it into eternal shade.
Ahead of them was the entrance to the palace proper, made of the same dark stone, its chambers and towers looking like they had sprung fully formed from the rock on which they perched.
‘Creepy, huh?’ Eric murmured, coming to stand next to her. ‘Apparently this palace is considered to be one of the wonders of the Eastern world, but I don’t fancy it.’
Lucy smiled faintly and shrugged, determined to be neither awed nor afraid. ‘It makes a statement.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Khaled greeting some of the team, saw him smile and clap someone on the shoulder, and she turned away to busy herself with the bags. She’d barely moved before a servant, dressed in a long, cotton thobe, shook his head and with a kindly, toothless smile gestured to himself.
Lucy nodded and stepped back, and the man hoisted what looked like half a dozen bags onto his back.
‘My staff will show you to your rooms.’
Her mind and heart both froze at the sound of that voice, so clear, cutting and impersonal. Khaled. She’d never heard him sound like that. Like a stranger.
She turned slowly, conscious of Eric stiffening by her side.
‘Hello, Khaled,’ he said before Lucy could form even a word, and Khaled inclined his head, smiling faintly.
‘Hello, Eric. It’s good to see you again.’
‘Long time, eh?’ Eric answered, lifting one eyebrow as he smiled back, the gesture faintly sardonic.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Much has changed.’ He turned to Lucy, and she felt a jolt of awareness as his eyes rested on her, almost caressing her, before his expression turned blankly impersonal once more. ‘Hello, Lucy.’
Her throat felt dry, tight, and while half of her wanted to match Khaled’s civil tone the other half wanted to scream and shriek and stamp her foot. From somewhere she found a cool smile. ‘Hello, Khaled.’
His gaze remained on hers, his expression impossible to discern, before with a little bow he stepped back, away from her. ‘I’m afraid I must now see to my duties. I hope you find your room comfortable.’ His mouth quirked in a tiny, almost tentative smile, and then he turned, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor of the courtyard as Lucy watched him walk away from her.
She murmured something to Eric, some kind of farewell, and with a leaden heart she followed the servant who carried her bags into the palace.
She was barely conscious of the maze of twisting passageways and curving stairs, and knew she wouldn’t find her way out again without help. When the servant arrived at the door of a guest room, she murmured her thanks and stepped inside.
After the harshness of what she’d seen of Biryal so far, she was surprised by the room’s sumptuous comfort. A wide double bed and a teakwood dresser took up most of the space. But what truly dominated the room was the window, its panes thrown open to a stunning vista.
Lucy moved to it, entranced by the living map laid out in front of her. On the ground, Biryal hadn’t seemed impressive, no more than scrub and dust, sand and rock. Yet from this mountain perch it lay before her in all of its cruel glory, jagged rock and stunted, twisted trees stretching to an endless ocean. It wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense, Lucy decided, and you wouldn’t want it on a postcard. Yet there was still something awe-inspiring, magnificent and more than a little fearsome about the sight.
This was Khaled’s land, his home, his roots, his destiny. With a little pang, she realised how little she’d known him. She hadn’t known this, hadn’t considered it at all. Khaled had just been Khaled, England’s outside half and rising star, and she’d been so thrilled to bask in his attention for a little while.
With an unhappy little sigh, she pushed away from the window and went in search of her toiletry bag and a fresh change of clothes. She felt hot and grimy, and, worse, unsettled. She didn’t want to think about the past. She didn’t want to relive her time with Khaled. Yet of course it was proving impossible not to.
She could hardly expect to see him, talk to him, and not remember. The memories tumbled through her mind like broken pieces of glass, shining and jagged, beautiful and filled with pain. Remembering hurt, still, now, and she didn’t want to hurt. Not that way, not because of Khaled.
Yet she couldn’t quite protect herself from the sting of his little rejection, his seeming indifference. A simple hello, after what they’d had? Yet what had she expected? What did she want?
They’d only had a few months together, she reminded herself. Only a few amazing, artificial months.
Four years later, that time meant nothing to him. It should mean nothing to her.
Shaking her head, Lucy forced herself to push the disconsolate memories away. She had a job to do, and she would concentrate on that. But first, she decided, she would ring her mum.
‘Lucy, you sound tired,’ her mother clucked when Lucy had finally figured out the phone system and got through to London.
‘It was a long flight.’
‘Don’t let this trip upset you,’ Dana Banks warned. ‘You’re stronger than that. Remember what you came for.’
‘I know.’ Lucy smiled, her spirits buoyed by her mother’s mini pep talk. Dana Banks was a strong woman, and she’d taught Lucy how to be strong. Lucy had never been more conscious of needing that strength, leaning into her mother’s as she spoke on the phone, her gaze still on that unforgiving vista outside her window. ‘Tell me how Sam is.’
‘He’s fine,’ Dana assured her. ‘We went to the zoo this morning—his favourite place, as you know—and had an ice cream. He fell asleep in the car on the way home, and now he’s got a cartload of Lego spread across the lounge floor.’
Lucy smiled. She could just picture Sam, his dark head bent industriously over his toys, intent on building a new and magnificent creation.
‘Do you want to talk to him?’
‘Just for a moment.’ Lucy waited, her fingers curling round the telephone cord as she heard her mother call for Sam. A few seconds later he came onto the line.
‘Mummy?’
‘Hello, darling. You’re being a good boy for Granny?’
‘Of course I am,’ Sam replied indignantly, and Lucy chuckled.
‘Of course you are,’ she agreed. ‘But that also means eating your green vegetables and going to bed on time.’
‘What about an extra story?’
