The Chatsfield: Series 2. Кейт Хьюит
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.”
“I am gratified that I was able to surprise you.” He released his hold on her and gestured to one of the velvet armchairs. “Please have a seat.”
He took a seat across from her, a healthy amount of space between them. “Would you like something to drink?”
“I feel a brandy is in order.”
He chuckled. “A brandy. Yes, naturally.” He stood again and made his way over to the bar in the corner of the room, picking up a decanter and pouring both of them a healthy portion of amber liquid. He made his way back over to the chairs, handing her a glass, careful to ensure that his fingers did not brush hers.
He took a seat across from her again.
“Thank you.” She swirled the liquid, lifting it to her lips, blinking when it touched her tongue.
“Strong?”
“No. Not strong at all.”
“We wouldn’t want it going to your head. You have an interview to conduct.”
She cleared her throat and straightened, setting the glass on the rich wood side table. “Yes, so...about the Chatsfields.”
He waved his hand, silencing her. “No, that is not how we are doing this.”
“What?”
“If you want to interview me, it will be on my terms. We will do this my way, or we will not do it at all. We will go back to talking about the very hot weather.”
“That isn’t how an interview works. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had one conducted?”
“It is how an interview works with me. If you don’t like it, spend the remainder of your time here in your room, and get nothing from me.”
“You know, you really are a demanding bastard.”
“I have never claimed to be anything else.”
“Fair point,” she said, her tone dry.
“Your boss wants an article on the wedding. And I think in order for you to get a good picture of the wedding, you need to understand some things about the circumstances my country is in.”
“Okay,” she answered slowly.
“In order to understand why the marriage is important, you must understand the monarchy.”
“I was always a very good study in world history. I do know some things about Surhaadi.”
He leaned back in his chair, a smile curving his lips. “Really? Do enlighten me on all of your knowledge of my country.”
“I didn’t mean to sound all arrogant about it. It’s only that I am somewhat familiar.”
“Yes, well, you may be somewhat familiar, but it is in my blood. The history of Surhaadi is a part of me, like flesh over bone.”
She reached down and picked up her purse, pulling out a small black device. “Tape recorder.”
He inclined his head. “Of course.”
It stood to reason that she would be recording their interactions, for ease when she compiled the conversations into an article. But it also made him conscious of the fact that he would have to be very careful in what he told her. She would have his words recorded, and she would be able to play them back, turn them over. Dissect them for meaning.
He continued. “But, of course, before you can understand the monarchy, you must understand how