The Chatsfield: Series 2. Кейт Хьюит
href="#ulink_90e784f6-cd8d-5a0c-87f4-9b7564c9b246">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