The Chatsfield: Series 2

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. People in your position have the luxury of clinging to their innocence a lot longer than people in mine.”

He laughed, the sound hollow, reverberating off the walls. “I have never been accused of being innocent.”

He turned away from her again, and continued walking down the corridor, and she took a deep breath, and went after him, doing her best to keep up. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“Do I hear a hint of the journalist in your tone?”

“You ought to. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

“That, and you were essentially forced into coming.”

“For the sake of my pride, let’s not speak of that.” Not that one really had any pride to speak of when one was tromping down the hall after a stranger in last night’s dress, trying not to twist an ankle on the uneven mosaic floor.

“Well, then, for your pride.”

“My pride thanks you,” she said, her tone dry.

“Somehow I doubt it.”

“I’m trying to make small talk,” she said.

“Perhaps it’s best if you don’t.”

It seemed that this area of the palace was deserted. Such a strange thing. Especially when she knew there had to be hundreds of members of staff and residents. Especially when the house she’d grown up in could easily fit inside one of the large antechambers.

The cavernous, empty feel was kind of unsettling.

They came to the end of the hallway and he stopped at a pair of double doors, inlaid with gold and jade. They were a stunning piece of art, rather than just a means of entry or exit.

“This is your room.”

He didn’t make a move to open the door, so she cautiously reached past him and pushed it open.

Calling it a mere room was a grave disservice. It was a suite of rooms, with a plush seating area in front, and great pillars dividing it into sections, separating it from a raised bedroom area at the back. The bed was large and plush, swaths of fabric hanging from the ceiling, sweeping outward before being caught by an ornate golden canopy that guided the lush silk to the floor.

To the right, through a domed entryway, she could see what looked like a bathing chamber. Not a mere bathroom, that was way too tame of a description for a room so grand, with what looked like a sunken bathtub that was larger than some backyard pools.

Zayn turned to face her. “I trust you will find everything you need here. And if not, do not hesitate to ask a member of staff, or myself, for something that might make you more comfortable.”

“A computer with internet?”

He shook his head. “Anything but that.”

“Satellite phone?”

“You can’t have that, either.”

She tapped her chin. “So when you said anything...”

“I meant a cold drink, or shoes in a different size or color.”

“Wait... Shoes?”

He looked down at her feet, at the platform high heels that were starting to make her feel achy all the way up her calves. “I thought that you might be in need of something else to wear.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. But did you seriously...buy clothes for me?”

“I had my sister’s personal shopper do it, but yes.”

“And how do you know what size I wear?”

“I took a guess. And anything that doesn’t fit can be returned.”

“You did not take a guess at what size my feet were.”

He shrugged. “All right, I looked at the bottom of your shoe when you were sleeping on the couch in the plane. I could see the number. But your dress size I did take a guess on.”

The thought of just what him guessing her dress size might entail sent a shiver through her. He would have had to look at her awfully closely. Taken visual measurements...

She closed off that line of thinking, and quickly. “Well, indeed.”

He inclined his head. “I will leave you now, you are formally invited to dinner tonight.”

“And at dinner we discuss the scandal?”

“All in good time.” Then he turned and walked from the room, leaving her standing there alone.

She took a breath. No offer of shoes, or pretty clothes, could be allowed to distract her from what she was doing here, she had to remember that. The wedding was window dressing, the beauty of the palace was window dressing, everything but the Chatsfield scandal was window dressing.

Isabelle had done so much for her. Without her, Sophie doubted she would’ve ever found her place at university. She doubted if she would have ever made friends at all. She certainly wouldn’t have her job at the Herald. More than that, Isabelle had been a true friend to her, regardless of where Sophie had come from. And that was something Sophie couldn’t put a price on.

She owed her this now. Isabelle had been through enough at the hands of Spencer Chatsfield, and the idea of her losing The Harrington was inconceivable.

She would not allow it. If she could play even a small part in preventing it from happening, she would.

And she would not be distracted.

Now, she just had to get cleaned up, and begin to feel human again. Then she could choose something to wear for dinner. She really hoped that there was something stunning in the closet. Because she had a feeling she would need it to feel confident. She had a feeling that interviewing Zayn would be a lot like going into battle.

And that meant she needed to get her armor on.

She went to the closet and examined the contents. Inside she saw a rainbow of fine fabrics, the lush textures denoting a quality that she could scarcely believe was at her fingertips. A quality that she was, frankly, almost afraid to put her fingertips on.

The kinds of clothes she passed in a store with barely a glance because she knew she couldn’t afford them, and she always had a feeling the store employees knew it, too.

She reached out and laid a hand on a dress that was a vibrant orange and an involuntary breath escaped her lips.

This was the one.

As she took her clothes off and got ready to slip the dress on, she had a sudden fear that it wouldn’t fit. But she pulled it up over her hips and contorted, sliding the zipper up, and found that it conformed perfectly to her curves.

He had indeed guessed accurately. Again, she got all weird and tingly thinking about what the guessing entailed. She shook her head and turned, coming face-to-face with her reflection in the vanity mirror.

And she lost her breath.

Standing here in a castle, in a dress that fit like a dream. Like magic mice and birds had tailored it to suit her, or a fairy godmother had conjured it up using nothing but silk and magic.

She turned away sharply, her heart hammering hard. She was being an idiot. This wasn’t a fairy tale. She wasn’t the maid-turned-princess. She was a journalist. She was a friend. And she did not have time to indulge in fantasy.

She had a job to do.

CHAPTER FOUR

ZAYN WAS UNPREPARED for the sight that greeted him when he entered the dining room that night. Sophie was already there, seated next to the head of the table.

She was a far cry from the woman he had found crouched behind trash cans in the alley. Certainly, it had been apparent she was beautiful even then, but just now she was somewhere beyond beautiful.

Radiant was one word that could be used to describe her. If he was given to such flights of fancy, and he was not.

Her golden hair was piled on top of her head, giving the impression of a halo, which was laughable all things considered.

Her face was made up, but done so in a very subtle way. Her cheeks glowed, an iridescent shimmer around her eyes brightening the green of them. Her lips were slick with some kind of pale pink gloss.

But it was the dress that she wore that made him want to call his sister’s personal shopper and fire her on the spot. Not because it wasn’t perfect, but because it was too perfect.

The burnished orange fabric molded itself to her skin, the structured bodice cupping her breasts, drawing his eyes to them. It was the dress, and not him, and certainly not her. Because he had been celibate for nearly three years now, ever since his engagement had been made official. And in all that time, he had never had any trouble keeping his eyes where they ought to be. He respected women, he did not see them as tools for his personal pleasure, or visual enjoyment. He did not leer at them when he invited them to join him for dinner.

That meant the only answer was that the dress was sincerely inappropriate. Because he was most certainly not. He had been nothing but appropriate for a great many years now. And he was hardly going to start changing his ways now.

“I did not expect you to be here already.” He strode past her, and took his seat at the head of the table.

“I thought I would spend some time taking in the sights. Getting oriented. I made it to the dining room a little quicker than anticipated.”

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I trust a member of staff has already been by to collect your drink order?”

She smiled, her lush lips curving upward. “I have been expertly cared for, thank you.”

“Good,” he said, his eyes fixed on her.

Last night there had been no time to notice just how beautiful she was, because he had been too busy trying to figure out what he was going to do with her.

Now suddenly he had noticed, and his body had a whole different idea as to what one might do with her.

No question, his captive was lovely. It was a shame he didn’t trust her. It was a shame that her loveliness simply couldn’t come into play. He was not in that place in his life. And even if he was, she would be the last person on earth he would ever touch.

She was privy to pieces of information that, were they ever connected, would bring press attention he did not need. Or want.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to serve my drink when we were here in the palace. But I got used to my royal treatment on the plane.” She sounded sincere enough, but he wasn’t fooled. She was angry with him. And he knew she had every right to be. But it did not mean he felt any remorse over his actions.

He’d had to act, there was no question about that. And her staying in the Surhaadi palace for a while would hardly damage her.

There was the slight issue of the fact that he would not be giving her any additional information on the Chatsfields, if for no other reason than he didn’t have any. But she didn’t need to know that. He simply needed to keep her here until the wedding.

By then, Leila would’ve made a decision, by then the media would be distracted with the proceedings. Yes, he needed to keep her here for three weeks, and then things would take care of themselves. She would return to New York with the story that her boss wanted, and his family would be safe.

He could not subject them to the kind of firestorm that had happened when Jasmine, his other sister, had died. That had been his fault, a failure on his part to protect her, and this with Leila was no different. He would handle it better.

Because he was not the same stupid boy he had been. He did not only care for himself and his pleasure; to the contrary, his pleasure took a backseat to everything else. He had a duty to fulfill, both to his country, and his family. He would never fail in that, never again.

He would be damned if he allowed a media firestorm to force Leila’s hand. That meant as far as Sophie was concerned, he had to keep his wits about him. There was no time for him to allow her dress to distract him.

It was everything. It was the essence of who he was.

“I think I will allow the staff to serve us both tonight.”

As if on cue a member of staff appeared not only with her drink, but with his. She had ordered wine, and they had brought one for him, as well. He was not a devout man, his faith left crumbled and scattered somewhere in his debauched past, and he did often drink a glass of wine with dinner. However, given the fact that his control seemed to be closer to the edge than usual, he was wondering if it was a wise decision.

He accepted the glass, a feeling of determination blooming in his chest and spreading outward. He would not allow her to control the situation. Not in regards to what he drank, or ate, or did. He was not a slave to his body, or her dress.

He leaned back in the chair, keeping his eyes on her, on the way her fingertips slid uneasily along the stem of her wineglass. It was a small display of nerves, but he would take it. Would take it as a sign that he was very much in control.

“I do hope you don’t have any particular dietary restrictions.” He regarded her closely.

“Such as?”

“Vegetarian, gluten-free.”

“I don’t. But thank you for asking.”

“Well, don’t thank me prematurely. I was about to tell you that if you do I will not be able to accommodate you tonight, but tomorrow and the evenings thereafter we would have.”

“Thankfully, there is nothing to accommodate. So, I thank you again, for your thoughtfulness.”

“Have you poisoned my wine?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?” Her green eyes were wide, the essence of wounded innocence. He didn’t buy it for a moment.

“You are being awfully nice considering your current situation. Much nicer than you were only hours ago.”

“I’m being professional. This is a professional meal, isn’t it?”

He lifted his wineglass to his lips. “I see.”

“Do you? What is it you see, exactly?”

“I see that you are ready to play the game.”

“This is the game, this is my career. And beyond that, this is a friend’s livelihood at stake.”

“Interesting. What does your friend’s livelihood have to do with any of this?” She looked away from him, biting her lip. “I see, you have given away more than you intended to. This is very interesting.”

“The only thing you need to know is that we have a common enemy,” she said, looking up, her eyes blazing now. “I don’t think either of us are James Chatsfield’s biggest fan. As far as I can see, that’s all either of us need to know. For now.”

“For now.”

The double doors to the dining room opened again, and more staff entered, with platters laden with food. They set them down in the center of the table, they did not speak, as the palace staff here in Surhaadi were trained to do. In his own quarters, he treated staff differently. When he had lived predominantly in the other palace, things had been structured differently. But this was the way his father had run things, and the way his mother preferred to run things, as well. And while they were no longer in residence here, the established protocol remained the same.

They were served in silence, and both he and Sophie let the silence rest. Once their plates were filled, and the staff had filed back out again, she turned her sharp green eyes to him. “You promised me an interview. You promised me a scandal. I would like to collect on that now.”

“During dinner? I do not conduct business during dinner.” That was a lie, he had conducted business during dinner plenty of times, but he did not like her dictating the terms. And he also needed to figure out how to keep her interested for the next few weeks. There was also the small matter of what he was going to tell her.

The simple fact was, he had no information on James Chatsfield he was willing to share. That was the sort of scandal she was after, and it was not one he could give. Which meant he was going to have to lead her on a journey that would not end where she expected..

He just hadn’t decided where yet.

“It is a very good dinner. But I did anticipate getting down to things. We traveled quite a lot, and I am feeling tired.”

“Do you want your story? Or not?”

“Obviously I do.”

“Then you will wait and you will hear it on my terms.”

He could read the annoyance plainly on her face, and he found it perversely enjoyable. Yet another point in his win column. Yet more evidence that he was still in command, no matter how well fitted her dress was.

“Tell me, then,” she said, looking back up at him, attempting to look friendly, but still looking like she would rather sink her teeth into his neck. Unfortunately, something about that image sent a sharp jolt of heat straight to his gut. He ignored it.

She cleared her throat. “Which topics are on the table for dinner? So that I know for future evenings.”

“We may discuss the weather, though, invariably it is hot.”

“The weather is hot, there we have covered that.”

“Very well done.” He took a bite of couscous, and let the conversation rest until he was finished. “We may also discuss issues of the day. I see no reason why we ought not to occasionally discuss politics, or even religion. Seeing as I doubt either of us are worried about offending each other.”

“True, after you take control of someone’s person and force them to come back to their country with you, you have sort of made it clear that you don’t care whether or not you offend them. But I do wonder if discussing politics might get dicey, as the fact remains that if we discuss politics in Surhaadi, we will be discussing you.”

“Then we can stick to American politics.”

She laughed, a short, one-note sound. “No, that’s something I can’t discuss while eating, for fear I will be sick,” she said, her tone dry.

“Fair enough. Perhaps I will take this opportunity to ask you about you.” He didn’t really care about his beautiful captive, neither should he. She was a liability, and she needed to be minimized. That was what one did when something was a liability. It did not matter where she came from, or who her friend was that she seemed to be intent on protecting. It did not matter if she had a lover, or if she did not.

All that mattered was protecting Leila.

“And what is it exactly you want to know about me?” she asked.

“Whatever it is you would like to tell me.”

“I’m not sure how it would make any difference to you.”

“Why wouldn’t it make a difference to me?”

“We seem to have these kind of circular conversations, and I find them quite annoying.”

“Indulge me,” he said.

“Fine. I don’t see why you would care because you’re a sheikh. Because you’re important. Because you have money and that means other people rarely matter in a sincere way.”

“Is that what you think? It seems a very cynical way to view the world.”

Her cheeks colored, her mouth pulled into a tightly drawn line. “Hey, I’ve earned my worldview, on that you can trust me. I wasn’t from a family with a name anyone recognized. That made me lesser. So you can see why I feel a little bit surprised that someone like you would care to hear about me.”

He was happy to use this moment to keep the microscope on her. To keep her in the iron sights of this conversation rather than submitting himself to an examination. “Your surprise is misplaced. Now that you’ve said all that, I find I’m even more curious.” What she was talking about was something that was far outside his experience in many ways. People had always treated him with a certain amount of deference because he was a ruler. Because he had power and, as she had mentioned before, money. However, he also knew far too well that it did not erase all of one’s problems.

“There isn’t much to be curious about. I grew up in your standard low-end neighborhood. On a small street, with smaller houses. I had a single mother who worked quite a bit, so I was left on my own a lot. But it didn’t bother me. It gave me time to study. I decided from a really early age that I wasn’t going to settle for the kind of life my mother had.”

“It sounds to me like your mother was admirable. Working to keep you fed.”

“I don’t disrespect that. But my mother had an unhealthy attachment to my father. And I watched it destroy her. I watched it kill any chance she might have had at happiness. She didn’t ever want to move because he had bought the house for us. She didn’t want to go where he could not easily come and visit. She didn’t want to get too invested in a job, because she needed to be able to drop it at a moment’s notice if he came for her. He rarely did. And as I got older he stopped coming at all. I swore I would never be that way. I swore that I would be independent. And I knew that the only way I would manage that was by getting an education, and getting a job that could support me. So here I am.”

“That is very admirable indeed.”

“You don’t have to sound so dry about it. It actually is admirable. I worked hard. I’m still working hard.”

“I didn’t mean for it to sound dry.” He knew how hard it was to change yourself, how hard it was to break patterns of behavior. He had done it with himself. Though he had not had the type of obstacles she’d had. In fact, all of his obstacles had been self-built. But in the end he knew the sort of thing she was talking about was no simple task.

“Well, then your sincerity is unexpected, and appreciated.”

“Very good.” They finished their meal, and when they were done he stood. “Would you like to accompany me to my study?”

“I assume there you will discuss business.”

“You assume correctly. You answered my questions. Now, I will answer some of yours.” He extended his arm, and she looked at it as though he was offering her a lizard. “I will not bite you. I am simply being chivalrous.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I missed it somehow. You know, considering our history together.”

“Fair enough.” But he kept his arm extended.

She took a step toward him and curled her slender arm through his elbow, her body sliding close to his. And in that moment he knew he had vastly underestimated the dress. Because the moment she touched him he burned. The moment she touched him he thought of nothing but pressing her up against the nearest wall and bringing his mouth down on hers.

It was a wild and errant fantasy. The kind he had not had in more years than he could count.

While he had not given up sex entirely until his engagement had become official, he had given up this. This kind of intense heat. The driving sort of need that transcended everything. From duty and honor to decorum and appropriate behavior for the public. Because once he had her against that wall, once his mouth touched hers, he would be hard-pressed to stop.

He shut down that line of thinking. It would not happen. He would not touch her.

His engagement to Christine would be honored. Though he and his fiancée did not have a physical relationship, they had made an agreement. And he would respect that.

If Samson had had the foresight to stay away from Delilah, he would’ve been spared quite a bit of trouble. Zayn intended to spare himself the trouble. He would not touch Sophie.

He adjusted his hold on her, disengaging his arm from hers and placing his hand on her lower back. The gesture was provocative, more intimate than the previous one. He was doing it to test himself. Doing it to prove to himself that he was not a slave.

She tensed beneath his touch, but did not look at him. She didn’t stop. Perhaps she was testing herself, too.

No, he would not think of that. That way lay madness.

They walked from the dining room, and down the corridor that led to his quarters.

The study was different to the rest of the palace. Most of this portion of it was. Zayn had never moved quarters when his parents had left. Instead choosing to stay in the rooms he had called home from the time he was a child. He had remodeled them as an adult. The study had a more European feel to it. Dark wood bookcases, large windows that overlooked the gardens outside. And armchairs. Places for him to read. When he had given up partying, when he’d given up womanizing, he’d had to find a hobby. Reading seemed as good as any.

“Well, this is different than what I imagined.”

“What is it you imagined?” he asked.

“Well, not this.”