She knew she should consult a solicitor, or come to some formal custody arrangement with Khaled, yet she was unwilling to be the first to do so. Right now things were calm, cozy even, and though she knew it couldn’t last part of her wanted it to.
Yet how long did anything last?
And then suddenly, too soon, it was over, and a new phase began…Biryal.
‘This is the best aeroplane ever!’ Sam bounced in his seat, gazing round the sumptuous luxury of the Biryali royal jet with obvious delight.
Lucy leaned back in her own seat, her fingers nervously clicking and unclicking the metal clasp of her seat belt.
Smiling at Sam, Khaled reached over and covered her hand with his own. ‘You’re going to drive me crazy with that noise,’ he said, and Lucy gave a nervous little smile.
‘Sorry.’
‘Why are you so jumpy?’
She shook her head, unwilling, unable, to explain. Why was she so nervous? Why did going to Biryal feel like some kind of monumental, irrevocable step, so much more so than having Khaled in her life? Now she would be in his, and she didn’t know if there was a place for her.
‘Sam will love Biryal,’ Khaled said firmly. ‘Don’t worry.’
Lucy bit her lip and said nothing. Was that what she was afraid of—that Sam would love Biryal and his new life there more than the one she’d been able to give him? Was she actually jealous?
Lucy leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. The plane began to taxi down the runway, and within minutes they’d left the dank fog of London for cloudless blue sky.
Sam had started to fidget, and she busied herself organising him with an array of toy trains, glad to avoid talking with Khaled for a little while.
But of course she had to talk to him; she’d come to the conclusion several sleepless nights ago. Life was spiralling out of control, and it needed to stop. She needed stability. Safety. Security. And the only way to gain them was by talking to Khaled.
She waited until Sam had fallen asleep in his seat, exhausted from so much excitement, curled up with a fleecy throw tucked around him.
Khaled was sitting near the front of the plane, some papers spread out before him on a table. Lucy moved to sit across from him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Work.’ Khaled smiled faintly and shrugged. ‘Trying to make Biryal a bit more of a tourist destination, and in so doing boost our revenue.’ He tapped the papers in front of him with a gold fountain pen. ‘These are plans for a luxury resort on the island—tasteful, in keeping with Biryal’s untouched beauty.’ There was a trace of irony to his voice, and he laughed aloud at Lucy’s expression. ‘You don’t think Biryal beautiful? But it is. This trip, I will make it my personal duty to show you all of its glory.’
‘That should be interesting,’ Lucy murmured. She pleated her fingers together, nerves starting to jump as she considered what to say. How to explain…
Khaled touched her hand. ‘Lucy, what is it?’
That was an opening if ever there was one. Lucy smiled with bright determination. ‘Khaled, we need to talk. We need to make some kind of plan for Sam’s future. One that is sustainable for both of us, and of course for him.’ She took a breath. ‘I think we should see a solicitor.’
Khaled leaned back in his seat, his eyes darkening to a deep bronze. ‘A formal custody arrangement?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
Lucy knew he was at his most dangerous when his voice turned mild, but she pressed on anyway. ‘It makes sense. I think a formal arrangement will give us all a sense of stability—peace, even.’
‘Do you?’ Khaled turned back to his papers, seemingly done with their conversation.
Frustration bubbled inside her. ‘Yes, I do, Khaled. I’ve been flexible now, in the beginning, so you have a chance to get to know Sam. But we can’t go on spending a few weeks in Biryal, a few weeks in London. I have a job, and next year Sam will start school. It makes sense,’ she ploughed on, even though Khaled had not looked up from his damn papers, ‘to have a plan. Perhaps he could spend a portion of his school holidays in Biryal.’
Khaled sighed and finally looked up. ‘Indeed, a plan makes sense. But do you intend to speak to a solicitor on Biryal, Lucy? Because I don’t think you’d be pleased with the outcome.’
Lucy stiffened. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘No, of course not. Just a statement of fact.’ He paused, his head tilted thoughtfully to one side, his eyes intent on hers yet suddenly filled with a dangerous languor. ‘The last week has been pleasant, has it not?’
‘Yes,’ Lucy admitted reluctantly. ‘But that sort of arrangement can hardly continue.’
‘Can’t it?’ Khaled turned back to his papers, brisk and dismissive once more. ‘There is no point discussing this now. We can’t even think of a solicitor until we return to London.’
Lucy didn’t miss the ‘we’. Would Khaled be following them like a shadow? ‘When will that be?’
Khaled shrugged. ‘You took a fortnight’s leave of absence. We can think about returning then.’
Think about it? Lucy wanted hard facts, clear answers, yet she knew there was no point pushing for them now. Push Khaled, and he would just become more intractable, more imperious. It was better, Lucy decided, to spend a few days in Biryal, act amenable and then insist on a firm return date.
What other choice did she really have?
With a sigh she went back to her own seat and closed her eyes, determined to catch some sleep while Sam was still napping and to forget the worries and uncertainties that had dogged her since Khaled had come back into her life.
Khaled watched Lucy settle into an uneasy sleep. His own body and mind were too restless even to think of sleeping, and his knee ached abominably.
He gazed out of the window at the fathomless night sky, and recalled the terse conversation with his father just a week ago.
‘The reporters are circling, Khaled. They scent carrion. You cannot allow these rumours to continue.’
‘They will die down.’
‘That is not good enough!’ King Ahmed’s voice had been savage. ‘I did not wait two decades to win my kingdom only to hand it to a son who will tarnish the honour of our heritage and our land with rumours and half-truths too tawdry to be believed.’
‘My son,’ Khaled had replied through gritted teeth, ‘is not tawdry.’
Ahmed had ignored this, as he’d ignored every reasoned argument Khaled had ever made. If it did not suit him to hear, he did not listen. ‘You know what you have to do,’ he’d told Khaled, ‘To make this right. One way or the other… Take her or leave her, but it must be resolved.’
Khaled’s hand had tightened slickly around his mobile. ‘And do you have an opinion either way?’ he’d asked sardonically.
Ahmed had been silent for a long moment. ‘No, I don’t,’ he’d replied finally. ‘For, when you take the throne, I shall be dead and it will not matter to me.’
And that was the crux of his father’s sensibility, Khaled thought as he’d severed the connection—utterly self-centred, utterly dedicated to his own purpose, his own rule, without any thought of the legacy he might leave for his country or for his son.
He would not