Ahmed’s words echoed in Khaled’s mind, forcefully reminding him that he had a duty, a duty as both prince and father. Now, on the plane, he found himself considering it with both desperate hope and dread. Would Lucy despise him? Pity him?
Or could she possibly come to love him—him the man he was now?
Twelve hours later the plane taxied to a halt in front of Biryal’s airport. Glancing outside at the hard, bright sky, Lucy was amazed that it had only been a little over a week since she’d last been here. It felt like an age, a lifetime.
She scanned the tarmac, surprised and more than a little discomfited to see a crowd of people. Was this the royal welcome?
‘Who are all those people?’ she asked Khaled, who glanced out of the window, his expression turning ominously dark.
‘Journalists, by the look of it.’
‘Journalists?’ Lucy repeated incredulously. ‘Does Biryal have so many?’
He smiled faintly, although his eyes were still hard. ‘Indeed not. There is only one newspaper here. Besides, the Birayli journalists wouldn’t dare to inconvenience the royal family by showing up at an airport like this.’ He frowned. ‘Undoubtedly they are from other countries. I think I see a French photographer I recognise there.’
‘French…?’ Lucy peered out of the window again and saw from the television cameras and microphones that Khaled was indeed correct; it was a mini–United Nations out there.
Lucy was used to the press, having spent her working life among professional sports teams, but it had never been so relentlessly focussed on her. Now she found her mouth turning dry and her heart rate going up a notch or two.
‘Why are they here?’
‘Someone tipped them off,’ Khaled replied. ‘Leaks to the press are almost always unavoidable.’
‘But why are they so interested?’ Lucy pressed, and Khaled glanced at her, his second’s hesitation making Lucy wonder. Suspect.
‘Because I am the prince of this country, Lucy, and Sam is my newly discovered heir. You might not acknowledge it as such, but it is a momentous occasion. And a big story for them.’ He jerked a thumb towards the crowded tarmac. ‘You’ve faced the press before. Can’t you manage it now?’
‘Sam…’ Lucy glanced at Sam, who had managed to stay asleep through the bumpy landing.
‘I’ll carry him,’ Khaled replied. ‘I don’t want any photographs of him released at present.’
Now she really felt like things were spinning out of control. Was this why she’d been afraid to come to Biryal—because here Sam wasn’t just Khaled’s son but his heir-apparent? The thought made her nauseous and for a moment the cabin spun.
‘Lucy,’ Khaled said warningly, ‘pull yourself together. This is your life now. It is Sam’s life.’
For the first time, Lucy truly wished she’d never told Khaled about Sam. Yet even as the thought sprang to her mind her heart retracted it. Khaled was gathering a sleepy Sam into his arms, and the look of tenderness softening his features was unmistakable.
‘Ready?’ Khaled asked, and Lucy nodded.
Sam had wound his arms around Khaled’s neck with trusting ease. ‘Are we here? Are there spiders?’ he asked sleepily, and, smiling, Khaled tucked Sam’s head against his shoulder so the little boy wouldn’t be seen.
‘We’re here, sport, and I promise to show you the spiders soon. When your mum’s not around to be frightened by them.’ He smiled at Lucy, who tried to smile back, and almost managed it.
She felt perilously close to tears, caught between the strain of the press’s scrutiny and the tenderness Khaled showed towards Sam. It was too much, an emotional overload.
‘Right. Let’s go.’
One of the stewards opened the aeroplane’s door, and Khaled stepped out into the bright glare of sunlight and what felt like a thousand flashing cameras. Lucy followed him.
The questions fired at them like bullets, and Lucy heard at least a dozen different languages, each one incomprehensible. Then a question came in English, one she heard all too clearly.
‘Prince Khaled, when is the wedding date?’
WEDDING. The word echoed through Lucy as she stared, horrified, at Khaled.
Khaled, however, didn’t answer that question—if he’d even heard it. He simply ploughed through the crowd, his head lowered, protecting Sam. Lucy followed.
They made it into a waiting sedan, and Lucy pressed back against the seat, grateful for the protection and privacy of the darkly tinted windows.
Sam struggled to sit up, looking about him with bright-eyed curiosity. ‘Who were all those people?’
‘A welcoming committee,’ Khaled said dryly, and the sedan pulled away from the airport.
She wouldn’t ask Khaled about that ridiculous question now, Lucy decided. She’d wait until tonight, when Sam was asleep and they had a moment’s privacy. Besides, it was undoubtedly just a stupid rumour. She had enough experience with the press to know they made up the most ridiculous things.
Except it had sounded as if the journalist knew about the wedding, and just wanted a set date. The question hadn’t been ‘are you getting married?’ but ‘when’.
As if it were a foregone conclusion.
Stop, Lucy told herself. You’re tired and overwrought and imagining things—just like the journalists had to have been.
The rest of the short trip to the palace was occupied by Sam’s incessant questions as he pressed his face to the window and demanded to know how high the mountains were, were those buildings really made of mud, and where were the spiders?
Khaled answered each question with laughing patience, until finally the car pulled to a halt in the palace courtyard.
The palace was just as impressive and forbidding as it had been a week ago, and this time Lucy felt even more like a prisoner. The gates closed behind them, and she was conscious of a sudden sense of loneliness. The last time she’d been here, she’d been part of a lively entourage, a diplomatic event. Now she was alone, in Khaled’s own country. At his mercy.
Khaled was holding Sam’s hand, drawing him into the palace, and Lucy told herself to stop being so horribly melodramatic. There was something gothic and even frightening about the palace, yes, but it didn’t mean that was the reality.
The reality, she told herself firmly, was that Khaled was getting to know his son and vice versa. They would have a few weeks’ holiday—just as Khaled had suggested—and then return to London.
If she told herself that often enough, Lucy thought grimly, perhaps she would begin to believe it.
Pasting on a bright smile, she followed Khaled and Sam into the palace.
‘So.’ King Ahmed stood in the foyer, dressed in a pure white thobe which made a stark contrast to Khaled’s casual Western clothes. His dark eyes swept over Sam’s small figure. ‘This is the child.’
Khaled laid a proprietary hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Sam, meet my father, King Ahmed.’
‘King?’ Sam repeated, his eyes rounding in wonder.
‘Yes, and I’m Prince Khaled, although you don’t need to call me that.’ Khaled’s voice was light, his hand still resting on Sam’s shoulder, and Lucy’s hands clenched into fists.
Great. Sam undoubtedly