Kate Hewitt - The Chatsfield - Series 2

“I shall manage. Though if I end up in a royal vault and decide to abscond with the crown jewels, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

“It is a risk I shall have to take.”

“Clearly you’re a man who lives on the edge.”

Her words brought them up short. “On that score you would be wrong.” He nodded firmly, turning away from her, breaking the connection between them. The sooner he got rid of her, the better. “Good night.”

Behind him he heard her voice, slightly shaken, confused. He did not care, or rather, he should not. “Good night.”

Her tone of voice made him want to speak again. Made him want to say something kinder, something not quite so short and harsh.

“Later this week I shall take you to see the desert...”

He did not know why he was offering this, except that it was a chance to show the world what Surhaadi was, who they were. And she had seemed interested.

Moreover, he needed to keep her busy. He could not have her wandering about the palace appearing to be a lover, or a captive. Not considering the fact that media attention would be on them very soon for the wedding, not considering that he had a fiancée he had made certain he was faithful to.

If he had a story to give his staff, things would be better. Yes, she was a reporter covering the wedding and the history of Surhaadi.

Yes, getting her out of the palace for the day would be the best course of action. Taking her out to see the Bedouin tribe would be good, seeing as it would give her something to focus on that had nothing to do with Leila or James Chatsfield.

“And after that?” She was fishing for the scandal, still. She was right, she was rather stubborn.

“After that we will continue the interview.”

“And I will have my scandal?”

“You will have your scandal.”

And with that, he strode from the room, without looking back.

CHAPTER FIVE

ZAYN MANAGED TO avoid her for the next several days, setting a firm departure time for their trip to the desert late in the week.

She spent those days rattling around the palace, feeling slightly shaky and deprived since she had no contact with the outside world. She was ready to trade her kingdom for some internet. Or Zayn’s, since she didn’t actually have a kingdom.

The day of their desert trek dawned bright and early. She’d lost some sense of time and place after being cooped up in the palace, but still she was up, and dressed, courtesy of the clothing that had been provided for her by Zayn. It was a strange thing, having an entirely new wardrobe just sitting there for her. Not so idly she wondered if she would be able to bring it home with her. Then she felt guilty for wondering about that. But it wasn’t as though she could afford to go refresh her wardrobe every season, or even every year. And as projecting a polished, professional image was important in her line of work, she knew the clothing was important, too. And, as always, she was conscious of the fact that she was working from a disadvantaged place. People were more likely to be watching for her to appear low class, disheveled or cheap. Because once they knew where she came from they expected those things.

Isabelle could go to work in sweatpants and it would be assumed she was on the cutting edge of some fashion statement. The same consideration would not be given to Sophie. Not that either of them would ever go to work in sweatpants. For all that Isabelle had many advantages due to her name, she never seemed to take them for granted. Neither did she seem to rest on her laurels. It was just another reason why the two had become fast friends in spite of their differences.

And as she wandered through the corridor, wondering where she was supposed to meet Zayn, her thoughts turned back to why she was here.

She took a deep breath, and adjusted the loose, flowing tunic top she was wearing. She had a mission, and she would do well to remember that.

The interview she’d conducted earlier in the week had been informative, and certainly held information she could use in the piece she would write for the Herald . But it had not furthered her cause where Isabelle was concerned. And she could not allow herself to be too distracted.

Nevertheless, she was excited to get out of the palace and see some of the countryside. This was her first experience with world travel, with seeing a culture that was different from her own, that wasn’t just confined to a few blocks somewhere in New York City.

She walked into the entryway of the palace and stopped in her tracks when she saw Zayn standing there. He was dressed in a tunic and light pants, similar to her own, a headdress covering his dark hair. He had a length of fabric in his hands, strong brown fingers curved tightly around it.

“It is hot today, and there will be a lot of wind as we head away from the city. This will help.”

He held the fabric out to her and she approached slowly. “We won’t get caught in a sandstorm or anything like that, will we?” she asked.

The little she knew about weather in the desert was that it could be unpredictable, and very harsh.

“It can be a risk. Sandstorms hit hard and without warning when they come. Sometimes there are floods to contend with, but those at least come with warning. But we do have state-of-the-art transportation, and if things get bad before we leave the encampment, we will be cared for there.”

“So, we’re actually going to visit the people who refused to become part of Surhaadi as a nation?”

“Yes, but as I said, while they do not like to give me too much deference, for obvious reasons, we are quite friendly with each other. And they will not let me die out in the middle of the sands. At least, I hope not.”

“Your confidence astounds.” She accepted the scarf from him and surreptitiously studied the way he had draped his own over his head. She did her best to try and copy the fashion. She hated asking for help more than just about anything. She always wanted to step right in, and pick something up by observation. Never revealing the fact that she didn’t simply arrive knowing how things work.

That stubbornness again, and yes, a bit of misplaced pride. But it came with a lot of long-held anger over what might have been. That if her father weren’t a philanderer, or if he were at least honest about the fact that he was, she might have been treated like a child, and not a dirty secret. That if she’d been part of her family, raised in that glittering home upstate, she would have absorbed social graces, would have known how to navigate university and different social situations. Instead, she’d had to conduct herself with trial and error, and she had learned to fear the error.

So she had observed those around her, painstakingly so, in order to look as though she belonged. She hated asking for help. Hated admitting her shortcomings.

“Let me help you.” He took a step closer to her, and she took a step back.

“I have it.” She knew she was being stubborn, she didn’t care.

“You do not.” He extended his hands, and gripped the fabric, adjusting it where it sat on her head, drawing a swath of it around and bringing it beneath her chin before tucking it into the folds of fabric at the base of her neck.

His thumb brushed against her jaw, the heat from his skin a shock to her system. She looked up, her eyes crashing into his. The expression she found there intense, dark, hinting at things she could scarcely understand. She wondered if he always operated at this level of intensity, or if it was something about her. If he was reacting to the touch, in the same way she had.

She should look away, and she knew it. She should pretend that this hadn’t happened.

That he had touched her, but that it hadn’t registered as anything. But she couldn’t look away, she couldn’t pretend. Because something about his gaze held her fast, something about it called her, tugged at something deep inside of her that had been previously unknown, previously untouched. And it didn’t matter how much she wanted to ignore it, because her body simply wouldn’t let her.