The Chatsfield: Series 2

Of course, a fish-based entrée was not the be-all and end-all to her ambition. She’d worked for what she had. Every single bit of prestige and education. She’d gained tentative acceptance, acceptance that would have simply been her due had she been one of her father’s legitimate children.

The university she had attended had been a given for her half siblings. Something they could simply have because of their parentage. While she had not been afforded the same.

Because she and her mother had been secret. Because she and her mother had been kept separate. So she had set out to prove that she didn’t need her father’s influence, or money. She had worked her way to university on her own, graduating in the top of her class with a degree in journalism.

Three years on, and now that she was doing very little else beyond making coffee for the Herald, some of that triumph had dwindled.

But she was determined to hold on to her ambition. Because it had gotten her this far. Because it was the only thing she had to get her the rest of the way.

Which was why she couldn’t curl into a ball and give up now. This was the only way she could figure out how to help Isabelle, anyway. The sheikh claimed to know more than he let on, and she had to find out what it was he knew. She was stuck with him for a while, then.

And her boss now expected a profile of the royal wedding in Surhaadi. Which meant she might as well take in the whole experience. A certain amount of observation, including the quality of the leather, would be required of her.

She was, after all, a journalist. And so, she was hardly working to her full capacity at the moment as to what she intended to be one day. What was it they said? Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Well, right now, she would be taking in details, acting the part of the journalist she wanted to be, rather than the journalist she was. True, all of this had a bit more of a society bent than she cared for. She was interested in, someday, taking on stories that might be a little more hard-hitting than a sheikh’s upcoming marriage. But this was several rungs up the ladder she was currently standing on, and she would be foolish if she didn’t just go ahead and embrace it.

Frankly, she was kidnapped either way.

“What do you prefer?” he asked.

“Oh, something red, I should think. Do you drink white for a kidnapping?”

“I would think most people would prefer something a little bit stiffer for their kidnapping.”

“So, you admit that you’re kidnapping me.”

He wandered over to an ornate covered bar that was set into the wall, bottles closed into shelves, secured into carved wooden holders. He opened the doors, and selected a bottle of wine. “I do not see the point in quibbling over semantics. It changes nothing either way.”

“Well, one allows me a little bit of justified anger.”

“I do not see what you have to be angry about. Unless you have a lover you are meant to meet tonight.”

The very idea was ridiculous. She didn’t do the whole man-woman thing. Who had the time? Or the inclination toward heartbreak. Maybe, when she got to where she was going, maybe, if she ever found a man she thought she might be able to trust. Maybe. Two very big maybes.

“My diary for the evening was free,” she said.

“Then I would imagine that, as a journalist, a drink on a private plane with royalty makes for a much better story than you sitting on your couch and watching sitcoms.”

He had a point. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.

“I’m sure, but in the end most of this will make for a very good story. So what exactly am I supposed to be covering? You mentioned there being more to the Chatsfield scandal, but since then you’ve been awfully quiet about it.”

She could hear the engines of the plane being fired up, and her stomach flipped. She wasn’t used to flying. She had done a little bit domestically, but certainly nothing international. She didn’t even know how to calculate the estimated length of the flight from New York to Surhaadi.

“James Chatsfield is an ass. You can quote me directly on that, if you would like.”

“Forgive me, Sheikh Zayn, but there is full documentation proving that about James Chatsfield already. It’s hardly breaking news.”

The plane started to move down the runway and she wobbled where she stood. “You may want to sit down.”

And with that, it was clear the subject was closed. She did not find that acceptable in the least.

“Don’t you want to sit down?” she asked.

“I have a drink to pour.”

She walked across the expanse of the plane, and took a seat in one of the chairs. They were, indeed, as soft as they looked. Just for her mental records. For when she was writing a piece on this experience. On what it had been like to be in the private plane of the sheikh of Surhaadi.

He poured her a very full glass of red, not even looking unsteady when the plane picked up momentum. Then he put a stopper back in the bottle, and put it back in the cabinet. Before walking nonchalantly across the cabin and handing her the glass. He took a seat across from her, his hands noticeably empty of a drink.

“I think you and I have a lot in common, really. We both want Chatsfield blood. I think you should help me get some.” She took a sip of the wine, and fought to keep her expression neutral. This was not cheap wine.

If she ever did buy herself wine for home, it usually came in mini-bottles or a box. Silk taste, polyester budget and all that.

“Later. Later you will have your scandal. For now we can talk wedding business.”

Irritation spiked through her, and she fought to keep from showing him, fought to keep from revealing her hand any more than she already had. “But you are getting married? That’s true, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

She noticed he didn’t sound overjoyed at the mention of the upcoming union. She would file that away, as well. She would also continue down this line of questioning, because he was being a bit more forthcoming on this topic than on the topic of the Chatsfields.

She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, and holding the wine out over the cream-colored carpet as the plane started to ascend. She didn’t have very many nice dresses, and she would be darned if she was going to get a red wine stain on one of the few she did own. His carpet would pay the price before this sequined masterpiece did.

“When is the wedding?”

A strange-looking smile curved the corners of his lips. It was not a happy expression, neither did it hold very much humor. “Three weeks.”

That would likely put her right at the center of the action. In spite of herself, she did find that exciting. “I imagine a lot of the preparation is under way already.”

“While my staff is executing much of it, my fiancée is dictating the activity from her home country.”

“She isn’t from Surhaadi?”

“No. My fiancée is the princess of a small European country. The fourth-born child in the family, and the only girl. She is still living in the palace there.”

“Long-distance relationship, understandable. Though not ideal.”

He shrugged. “I find nothing terribly un-ideal about it. There is no reason for Christine to uproot her life prior to our union becoming official.”

“Some people might not consider it very inconvenient to uproot things for the person they love.”

“Who said anything about love?” His dark eyes connected with hers and sent a shock wave down to her stomach. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore it.

She supposed she of all people shouldn’t have inferred love into a conversation about marriage. She hardly thought her own father loved the woman he was married to. Now, she didn’t suppose that the man loved her mother, either, but he certainly didn’t love his wife. If he did, why would he conduct so many affairs? Why would he conduct affairs with anyone at all?

“I don’t suppose anyone did. Except for me.”

“It is not a secret that my union with Christine has more to do with politics than feelings.”

“Oh, but the world loves a love match.” She leaned back in her seat, lifting her wineglass to her lips. “I should very much doubt if the public is content to imagine that you are simply allies for politics and not for pleasure.”

A political union would not make for a very strong hook in her piece. A piece she would have to give some consideration to, regardless of her primary aim of interviewing Zayn. Because Colin was expecting a story about a royal wedding now, and she had to deliver.

That wasn’t a problem, though, she was used to multitasking. Unlike most of her peers she’d had to hold on to a part-time job while going to school. And again, unlike most of her classmates, there had been no job waiting for her when she graduated. So there had been internships, combined with late shifts waitressing at bars.

No, multitasking wasn’t a problem for her.

“Yes, I daresay the public will be disappointed on that score.”

“Unless you decide to show them something else.”

“To what end?” He looked at her, and she could see that he was clearly intrigued.

“To the end of positive public opinion. Which I should think for a world leader would be of the utmost importance.” She knew all about playing that game, because in her life presenting a positive front, presenting a polished front, had been imperative.

Most everyone she’d gone to university with were simply accepted, based on their names and connections, but she hadn’t had that. Sophie had been forced to earn respect. She hadn’t been able to afford the mistakes the rest of her friends had been allowed to make. Any slip-up in behavior for them could be perceived as a simple youthful rebellion. For her, it was a revealing window into just how unsophisticated she was. Just how unsuitable she was. It was proof that, as they all expected, she didn’t belong.

For those reasons she’d had to be above reproach, because she was starting at a place of disadvantage.

Yes, Sophie knew all about manipulating public opinion—or in her case, the opinion of university administration and her fellow students—to her advantage.

“It certainly is, but shouldn’t my efforts to improve relations between countries count for something?”

“Certainly, and I’m sure for some it will. But it will be lost on others. And while they might accept your union with a kind of blissful neutrality, or at least a bit of interest in what your bride will be wearing, they would be a lot more interested in romance.”

“Then I give you leave to infer romance to your heart’s content when you write your piece.”

Sophie took another sip of wine. “I promise to read between the lines judiciously.”

“By which you mean you promise to read things that aren’t there?”

“That is a particular specialty of those who report on high-society stories.”

For the first time since he’d pulled her unceremoniously from the alley, the corners of his lips turned upward into a smile. It was not a smile that expressed happiness, but rather one that seemed to be laughing at some kind of perverse amusement. He rubbed his hand across his chin, fingertips grazing his square jaw, and she found herself distracted by the sound of his skin rubbing against the dark stubble. It was a very masculine thing, and she had not been exposed to many masculine things in her life.

An all-female household, female roommates, until she finally got her tiny apartment and lived alone.

Men were something of a foreign animal to her, and as she looked across to the man sitting opposite her, she realized he was an extremely foreign animal indeed.

He was magnetic, his features strong, dark brows, a blade-straight nose, eyes the color of midnight, framed by sooty lashes, the sort of lips that would entice lesser women to compose poetry about them.

Had he any softness to him, he might’ve been called beautiful. But he did not, so she would not. Beautiful wasn’t the right word.

Powerful, that was the word. The kind of power that far exceeded most of the people she’d been exposed to. No matter how influential a society family in New York might be, a sheikh certainly outstripped them.

He was the sort of man with ultimate power, not a man ruled by the laws of this, or any, land, really. Beneath his well-tailored suit, she could sense he was a man who didn’t ascribe to civility in a typical sense. Well, her presence on this plane was proof enough of that.

He was dangerous, she realized with a sudden jolt. And for some reason, she found that more fascinating than repulsing. She couldn’t figure out why.

She would attribute that to the masculine inexperience thing. Because it was easier than having to examine it deeper. This way, she could stick it in the “men are mystery” drawer and close it tight.

She suddenly became very aware of the fact that her heart was beating faster than normal. She would ignore that, too.

“Yes, I am well aware that it is a skill of the press, to imply all kinds of things.” The smile stayed fixed on his face, but there was a darkness to it now. A terrifying emptiness that was reflected in his eyes.

“In this case, perhaps it will benefit you.”

The smile widened, and she felt an answering tightness in her chest, as though he had managed to forge a link between his facial expressions and her insides. As though he had not just kidnapped her body, but had seized control over other parts of her. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

“Perhaps it will benefit both of us in the end.”

CHAPTER THREE

NOTHING COULD HAVE prepared her for the overwhelming heat of Surhaadi. The arid wind that had whipped across her face as she made her way down the staircase from the plane into the waiting limo had been dry and hot like an oven. Her pale skin starting to burn the moment she got beneath the sun’s rays.

In truth, it felt as though they were closer to the sun here than they had been in New York. It was beyond anything in her experience, and while it was uncomfortable, it was also fascinating.

Her level of fascination with her new surroundings far surpassed the unease she had been feeling on the plane ride over. She’d managed to sleep for a good portion of the flight, disengaging herself from conversation with Zayn after their little talk about love matches. For some reason, being close to him made her feel jittery.

Okay, so it was normal to feel jittery around the man who’d essentially forced her to come back to his country with him, but this was something else. Something that went beyond the expected unease that one might feel in the situation.

And she was still ignoring it. Ignoring it, and focusing on the view of the Surhaadi desert, and then, of the looming palace walls, and the massive structure that rose up from behind them.

Every window in the palace seemed to be lit with an orange flame, each line, every detail of stone carved into the walls, illuminated by a thin band of light. A blue dome rose from the center of the roof, an intricate pattern fashioned from the gleaming tile that covered it.

It was a modern-day fantasy. An updated take on classic stories that she’d read as a child.

But sadly reading about it could not have prepared her for the reality. For the sheer size of the place.

Yet again, going to friends’ holiday homes upstate was a poor comparison to the home of actual royalty.

“What do you think?” he asked as the limo drove through the parting gates and into a beautifully appointed courtyard, the ground covered in gleaming tile, and fountains stationed throughout.

“I suppose it will have to do,” she said, her tone dry as the desert sand.

“I daresay not many people get kidnapped into such luxury.”

“That all depends, I suppose, on whether or not you intend to throw me in the dungeon.”

“You shall have your own quarters.”

Her own quarters in a massive palace. Things continued to seem unreal. “Oh.”

“No matter what you might think, I am not an animal. I am simply a man. Doing what I must to ensure that my family remains safe.”

She wasn’t familiar with that kind of loyalty. And for a moment, the desire to be on the receiving end of it, from someone, anyone, him even, was so strong it made her ache.

What would it be like to have someone do whatever must be done, to protect you?

She and her mother had never been close, and they had only grown more distant throughout the years. Her mother had no ambition beyond being a rich man’s plaything. Worse, as the years had gone on, she hadn’t even been the rich man’s plaything, but his discarded toy. And she had never moved on from that. She’d never been able to connect with her only child, because her heart had been given over to a man who didn’t care about her at all.

Sophie would have loved her. But she’d never given Sophie the chance.

And Sophie hadn’t been able to watch her mother endure that existence after a certain point, either.

And as for her father, she may as well have not existed. Except for a card, with a check, on every birthday. A check she had summarily put into savings and hadn’t touched until her university years.

This kind of familial love, this kind of protectiveness, wasn’t something she had any experience with.

It was best to just focus on the palace.

“So, is this the original palace? Or is this something of a redo?”

“There have been extensive renovations in the past twenty years. Lots of modernizing. But the majority of it is original. A couple hundred years old. Of course, while homes that are that age are magnificent, they are rarely comfortable to live in. Hence the renovation.”

“Sure, I imagine that’s the case.”

She knew for a fact that living in a home that was fifty years old wasn’t overly comfortable, so anything spanning back centuries probably wasn’t any better. Though it looked immeasurably fancier.

The limousine came to a stop, and Zayn got out without waiting for a driver to come to his aid. He walked to her side of the car, and opened the door for her, standing there as though he was some kind of chivalrous paragon, rather than the marauder she knew he was.

She collected her purse, and got out, rising slowly, her body a little bit stiff from such a long plane ride followed by a ride in a car. The wind whipped through her hair, and she flicked some of the honey strands away from her face, the sun reflecting on it and casting a golden haze over her vision.

He stood tall, regarding her, his expression like granite.

“What?” she asked.

“Just thinking about how strange it is.”

“What?”

“How quickly things can change.”

She lifted her shoulder. “I feel like that should be something I’m pondering more than you.”

“I know you feel quite inconvenienced by all of this. But you must realize that it is a difficulty for me, as well.”

“No, I really don’t think I have to acknowledge that.”

“I wasn’t prepared to host a guest. And I have a wedding to plan.”

“Forgive me for feeling short on apologies at the moment. I find I’m not all that sympathetic to your fate.”

Yet again, she earned one of his odd smiles. “No, I imagine you wouldn’t be. Follow me, I will escort you to your room.”

He turned away from her, and started to walk toward the palace without waiting for her. She took a deep breath, and scampered after him, having to take two steps to his every one to try and keep up, last night’s high heels feeling like bricks nailed to the soles of her feet after so many hours in them.

She estimated that he was nearly a foot taller than her own five foot four, her head landing just below his shoulder. And he was broad, incredibly muscular with a trim waist and...

Again, just filing away details about him, for when she wrote her piece on the wedding. It had nothing to do with her own personal need to catalog details about him.

The double doors to the palace swung open, as if by magic, and the two were admitted into the cool antechamber.

Dimly, she realized that comparing the doors to magic was a bit silly. Had they been in a shopping mall, automatic doors would not have seemed at all out of place. It was this place, this strange mix of old and new, of fairy tale and blazing-hot reality, that had her creating fanciful metaphors in her head.

Inside, there were members of what she assumed to be palace staff milling around, but if the presence of their ruler was notable, they didn’t show any sign of it. They moved around like they were ghosts, intent on being invisible to anyone in the land of the living. And Zayn did not appear to notice them at all. So that, she assumed, was palace protocol.

The help going unnoticed, the antics of their ruler going unnoticed, too, apparently. Because nobody seemed to blink over the fact that their sheikh had just walked into the palace with an unknown woman trailing behind him. An unknown woman wearing a sequined party dress quite early in the day. Truly, no one seemed concerned at all.

“I made a phone call from the plane while you were sleeping, and had your room prepared for you.”

So, they were expecting her. Or at least whoever had made her bed was expecting her. Though she imagined they made it a practice not to question their orders too deeply.

“Well, I will happily allow you to lead me there.” She felt suddenly stale from travel. As though her body had been folded and packed away tightly in a suitcase for the duration of the journey.

She needed to get out of the dress and into something a little bit less constricting.

And that was when it occurred to her that she didn’t have any clothes. Nothing at all. She didn’t even have a toothbrush.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even pause.

Zayn was pressing through the antechamber, barely looking at anything or anyone, or at the opulent surroundings. Though she imagined this was all commonplace to him.

But nothing about this was commonplace to her, from the ornate mosaics on the floor and walls, to the marble pillars placed throughout the room to the ceilings inlaid with precious stones.

The palace was like a jewelry box, more than a dwelling. Evidence of riches beyond her wildest dreams built into the framework.

She imagined if she took a chisel and mallet to one of the walls she would come away from them with enough gold dust to pay her rent for the next couple of months.

He led her down a narrow passageway that fed into another massive room with two curving staircases on either side. He paused for a moment, then turned to face her. “This way.”

He started up the staircase on the left side of the room, his footsteps almost silent on the stone. She did her best to keep up with him, her heels echoing loudly in the empty, cavernous room. She was not quite as stealthy as he was.

“This is the part of the palace that is often reserved for visiting dignitaries. And members of the press.”

“From my limited research on Surhaadi,” she said, speaking to his back, “I didn’t think you had a lot of visitors. Dignitaries, press or otherwise.”

“Not in recent years, no.”

“If by recent years you mean the past decade and a half.”

“For a family as old as mine, that is recent years. In the fabric of history, fifteen years is nothing.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, in the fabric of my lifetime, fifteen years is quite a bit.”

He paused, the expression on his face strange. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

He stopped walking and swore, the sound harsh. “Barely older than my sister.”

“Is that a problem?” She could tell from the look on his face that it was.

“It is very young.”

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. I imagine in many ways I’m years older than your sister, and in fact many years older than you might assume someone my age would be.”