Khaled carried Sam inside—limping slightly, Lucy noticed—and she motioned to the sofa. ‘You can lay him there. He’ll need to wake up soon or he won’t go to bed tonight.’
‘We can’t have that.’ Gently Khaled laid Sam down, smoothing the soft, dark hair from his forehead, before stepping back. ‘He looks like me, like I was as a child.’
‘Yes, I noticed that.’
‘The DNA test will be no more than a formality.’
‘Right.’ Lucy escaped into the kitchen, concentrating on fetching things for tea. ‘Just yesterday I realised he has your eyes,’ she called back, trying to keep her voice friendly and light.
Khaled came in, propping one shoulder against the door-frame. ‘You didn’t notice before?’
Lucy hesitated, her back to him. ‘I must have done,’ she confessed. ‘Even if I didn’t admit it to myself.’
‘Were you so determined to forget me?’ Khaled asked softly. ‘Forget us?’
Lucy felt an ache deep inside at his words, at their sorrow. ‘Weren’t you?’ she said, and busied herself with filling a pot with water. ‘I hope spag bol is good enough for you. It’s Sam’s favourite.’
‘Sounds delicious.’ Khaled was silent, watching her, and Lucy felt like she couldn’t breathe for the tension uncoiling in the air, drawing her inexorably to him, even though neither of them moved.
Don’t do this, she wanted to say, to cry. Don’t make me want you again. Don’t make me remember how it was. I’m different. You’re different. We can’t…
‘Lucy.’ Khaled’s voice was low, insistent and sure. Lucy kept her head averted.
‘Could you get some salad from the fridge? I try to make Sam eat some greens.’
Wordlessly Khaled went to fetch the lettuce. This was so cozy, Lucy thought, reaching for some tomatoes. It was so domestic, so normal.
And yet the heightened atmosphere, the tension in the room and in her belly, didn’t feel normal at all.
Khaled didn’t say anything more, and Lucy was grateful for the reprieve. Yet she knew the tension between them couldn’t be ignored, not for ever. Not now that there was a for ever, or at least a very long time, with Sam between them.
‘Mummy…’ Sam, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his face with his fists. ‘Is Khaled still here?’
‘Yes, Sam,’ Khaled said and Sam dropped his fists to stare at him with obvious delight.
‘Are you staying overnight?’
Did Lucy imagine the tiny, charged hesitation before Khaled answered? She wasn’t sure. ‘No, Sam. But perhaps I can see you again tomorrow?’
‘I have to work tomorrow,’ Lucy interjected. ‘We’re getting ready for the Six Nations—’
‘Yes, I know.’ Khaled’s expression had darkened, but for Sam’s sake he merely shrugged. ‘We can talk about it later.’
Oh, and that was a conversation she was looking forward to, Lucy thought with just a little venom. No doubt Khaled would impose some of his royal decrees on her life and her job. And what could she do about it, when he had the threat of bringing a custody suit—and winning it—to hang over her?
Fortunately the rest of the evening passed in idle pleasantries, for Sam’s sake, and Khaled even helped with bath time. Lucy watched him perched incongruously on the edge of the tub, his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms, and felt a lurch inside her.
She was tired of this feeling creeping up on her—the feeling that nothing could be the same, that she now wanted something, a life, she’d never hungered for before.
Before Khaled. Before he’d come into their lives and acted like he belonged there, carving a place in Sam’s heart in the space of a day, acting so natural and normal and right, somehow—and he wasn’t.
It wasn’t.
This couldn’t last; it wouldn’t last. At some point it would break down, break apart, and Khaled would walk away.
And break your heart.
No. She would not let herself think like that. Her heart was not involved. Not at all. She would not allow it to be.
Yet as soon as Sam was settled in bed the tension returned, taut and heavy with silent expectation. Lucy came downstairs after tucking Sam in, to see Khaled stretched out on the sofa scanning yesterday’s newspaper. The room was lit only by a single lamp, the curtains drawn against the night. Khaled looked so comfortable on her sofa, Lucy thought with a touch of resentment, so big, strong and sure. Like he owned it, owned this house, owned every situation he’d ever been in. She was reminded forcefully of the charming, arrogant man she had loved, who had broken her heart. She didn’t like that man. She didn’t want him in her lounge or lying on her sofa. She didn’t want to want him.
Yet she did.
‘Would you like a coffee or tea?’ she asked, and the ludicrous phrase ‘or me?’ popped into her mind. She pushed it away.
Khaled looked up. ‘Coffee, if you’re making it.’
She nodded mutely before going into the kitchen to boil water, spoon coffee, get out mugs. Mechanical actions that kept her from thinking, from picturing Khaled on the sofa—stretched out, his eyes glinting in the lamplight—from remembering how darkly golden his skin was, his muscles hard and chiselled from rugby, so hard against her own softness. Would he look the same? Feel the same?
It wasn’t working, Lucy realised as she put two mugs and a plate of shop-bought biscuits on a tray. She was thinking and picturing. Remembering.
‘Here we are.’ She kept her voice brisk and her smile sunny as she set the tray on the coffee table. Khaled sat up, murmuring his thanks, his left leg stretched out stiffly.
Lucy handed him his coffee. ‘Have you taken your medication today?’
‘I don’t need it,’ Khaled replied shortly.
‘Is your knee still flaring up?’
‘A bit, but I can handle it.’ His dark eyes clashed with hers, filled with warning. ‘Don’t talk to me as a therapist, Lucy.’
‘Then as what?’ She’d meant the question lightly, but it came out as more of a demand.
‘How about as a woman?’ Khaled said. His eyes had suddenly turned heavy-lidded, his smile languorous, and Lucy knew what that meant.
Come here, Lucy. Come here to me.
And she’d come. God help her, she’d always trotted to him with the pathetic obedience of a little lapdog.
‘Although it’s a difficult question, isn’t it, Lucy?’ Khaled continued lazily. ‘How are we to relate to one another? What can we be to one another?’
‘Nothing,’ Lucy replied, and was glad her voice didn’t waver. She was already feeling the tug of sensual hunger deep in her belly, sending a wave of need crashing through her.
‘Nothing?’ Khaled repeated musingly. He reached out and threaded his fingers through Lucy’s hair. The slight, simple touch nearly had her shuddering. How had she ever forgotten the kind of effect he had on her? It was more powerful than any drug or medication that could be prescribed.
She’d been a slave to it, to him, helplessly bound by her own attraction, her own need. And it was happening again; she was still, unmoving, letting him touch her.
Wanting it…
Khaled rubbed her hair between his fingers, his expression almost harsh with desire.