The Chatsfield: Series 2. Кейт Хьюит
didn’t know you could do that.”
He smiled, and she felt the impact down to her toes. “I may yet have some surprises in store for you, Sophie Parsons.”
* * *
As Sophie had guessed, the tent was small. Oh...so small. If the tent back by the oasis had felt crowded with his presence, this would be unendurable. She would melt. She was sure of it. And she could not afford to melt.
But you already are...
She ignored the treacherous thought and went back to examining the tent.
It was not tall enough for either of them to stand. Sophie only had to crouch, but Zayn had to bend at the waist. There was room enough for them to sit, but it was very close quarters and she feared it would drive them both to the edge of madness.
Before this she had had no experience with firsthand lust madness. In fact, she had absolutely fancied herself immune. Now, she was not so cocky.
As soon as Zayn was finished, fat raindrops started to fall on them, and Sophie made a dash for the tent. Zayn followed closely behind, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“I have food in here,” he said as he ducked his head and entered the tent, dropping to his knees near where she was standing, hunched over in the corner.
“Well, I am a fan of food.”
The rain started to fall in earnest, as if the skies had cracked open, letting it all pour out now with no restraint, making up for the countless dry days that had come before. It splattered against the roof of the tent, the sound like a handful of pins being dropped on a marble floor.
“It is nothing special.” He unzipped the top of the backpack and produced sealed bags of flatbread, grapes and some other fruits she couldn’t readily identify.
“It all works.”
He also took out two bottles of water, handing her one and keeping one for himself.
He adjusted his position so that he was sitting with his legs crossed and he gestured for her to sit, as well. She did, unscrewing the cap on the water bottle and taking a long drink.
He extended his hand and offered the bag to her. She plucked one round purple fruit off the stem and popped it into her mouth. She suddenly realized she was still looking at him, looking at his dark eyes. She looked away. Her stomach was tight, her heart fluttering.
She was getting distracted again. She did her best to get a grip on herself. But she still felt that strange weightless feeling she’d felt since the moment she’d accepted that she didn’t have to pretend just now. It made her want to hold on to the feeling, made her want to hold it close and examine it, not push it down.
Too bad she didn’t have a choice. Maybe she needed to get a date when she got back to New York. Stop ignoring this part of herself. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it wasn’t Zayn, but the culmination of twenty-five years of celibacy. She hadn’t really intended to leave it that long, but all things considered she’d had a lot of stipulations placed on the whole sleeping with someone thing.
Maybe she needed to stop taking it so seriously. Because this wasn’t normal. The strange, intense feeling that was blooming in her chest, spreading down to her stomach, and into her extremities.
No, this could not be normal at all. She’d heard people talk about butterflies, but this was somewhere beyond that. This was beyond anything she’d ever heard about.
But no matter how strong it was, it didn’t make it any less impossible.
She looked away from him, desperate to catch her breath, desperate to catch her sanity.
She adjusted one of the blankets he had laid on the floor so that it offered a bit of support for her back. “Since we’re here for a while...I think it’s time for the third interview.”
“Do you?” he asked, his expression growing guarded.
Every so often she had the feeling she was skirting around the edges of something deep. Something real. It made her both curious, and afraid.
Part of her didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to be the keeper of his secrets.
“Since we’ve talked about how the country came to be, and how the monarchy came to be. I think it’s time to talk about you.” She took another sip of water and reached out for the bag of grapes.
“Me?” he asked, and there was no question of whether or not he was guarded now. She could see it happening, watch the depth in his dark eyes recede, replaced by a flatness that terrified her.
But she couldn’t back down. Not now. She had to get to the heart of why she was here. And she had a feeling it would never happen until she got to the heart of the man.
He paused for a moment, his eyes fixed behind her. Then he started speaking again. His words slow, monotone.
“It is interesting how time changes things. Surhaadi has been a very wealthy country since before my birth. So far removed from the scattered groups of people living in tents in the desert. This has brought positive change, new developments, the opportunity for good education. And yet, prosperity does not always build the best of characters. This is a story about a flawed character.”
His tone was grave, stoic, and she found herself looking at him again, even though she’d just been telling herself to get a grip. “And this is about you?”
“When a man knows from the day of his birth that one day an entire nation will bow at his feet, it affects him. I was told the history of our country, but unfortunately I missed the moral. It was all a very interesting story about battles, about destroying the bad guys. What I did not realize was that it was also about sacrifice. That it was intended to form the way I saw the throne. That it was not enough for a leader to simply have power. It is woven into the fabric of our country that a leader must be willing to sacrifice above all else. But those realities were lost on me. Those stories, those values, were dusty relics in my mind. And everything in life was shiny and new.”
He adjusted his position and opened one of the bags that contained a piece of flat bread. He tore off a piece and ate it slowly, as if he was carefully considering his next words. He swallowed and continued. “Nothing was off-limits to me and I set no boundaries for myself. I was the despair of my mother, and I earned my father’s disdain. Make no mistake, it was earned. My father was a wise man, serious, and consumed with the idea of honor. And I was a son who had none. I was a son who cared for nothing more than acquiring the latest model of car, or finding the best nightspots throughout Europe. I had a large network of friends who helped me gain access to those places. Who helped me pick up women.”
It was jarring to think of him in this way. As a young man consumed by the idea of acquiring more wealth. She had seen nothing of that in him from the moment she met him. His only concern had ever been for his family. His family and his country.
“My father warned me that my behavior would lead to ruin, that it would lead to death. But I didn’t care. Because I had never seen evidence of a consequence. Because money and power had spared me from every single one. If we trashed a hotel room, I could more than afford to pay someone to clean it up. If we got into a fender bender, it was easy to throw money at the owner of the other car and make it all go away. When I was through with a lover, all I had to do was give her a trinket and she would be happy again. She would go on her way feeling pleased at her dalliance with a sheikh. Yes, I lived my life consequence-free for a great many years.”
She tried to read what he was feeling, tried to understand what he was thinking by looking into his eyes. But there was nothing there. Nothing but an endless black well. “What changed? Because something had to. Otherwise I very much believe you would still be cutting a party swath through Europe.” And who wouldn’t? She’d never had the luxury of living consequence-free, she’d always had to work harder. Had her life been different, she very likely would have been different to.
“You are not wrong. Something did