Читать книгу The Chatsfield: Series 2 - Эбби Грин, Кейт Хьюит - Страница 14

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.”

“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.