by Maisey Yates
“You have now told me where you work. I am more than happy to take the ID out of your bag, find your name and call your boss. I will tell him that one of his reporters has greatly offended the sheikh of Surhaadi. And I will tell him I want you fired.”
Fear streaked through her. She despised it. Despised this feeling of being so disadvantaged because she was, by birth, lesser.
But I shouldn’t be. I should be one of them. But because my father didn’t choose me...
“You don’t actually think that would work, do you?”
“I do not see why it wouldn’t.”
“Well, perhaps in any other industry, it would work. But this is the media, if you give any hint of a scandal, they’ll just want to know what the scandal is. No one is going to fire me for creating a little bit of dust between myself and a sheikh.”
“You see, that is where you’re wrong. Because I have the capability of offering them a much bigger story than you ever could with your half-heard findings in the alleyway. But I would make it contingent upon them letting you go. And rest assured they would.”
“I can’t believe this. Are you seriously going to get me fired from my job? Because of...just because I overheard that Chatsfield slept with your sister?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice grave. “I would do just that. Do not doubt it. There are two things in this life that are dear to me. My people, and my family. I will do whatever is necessary to protect them. Sometimes, when you are the ruler of the country, that means being willing to go to war. When you are the head of the family, that means being willing to wage war on a more personal scale.” His gaze met hers, and even in the darkness of the car, she could feel the righteous fury emanating from him, could feel the heat. “There is nothing I would not do to protect my family. And right now, I feel that my hand is being forced.”
“I’m not forcing anything.”
“Your very presence does. Your name?”
“Why should I tell you?” He gave her a hard look, one that told her he would get it one way or another. She would just tell him. At least then it would be her choice. “Sophie Parsons.”
“And who do you report to directly?”
“Colin Fairfax.”
“Phone number?”
She rattled it off, because at this point, if she had her boss on the other end of the phone, perhaps she could at least signal her distress. Sheikh whatever-his-name-was retrieved the phone from the interior pocket of his jacket, and dialed the number she had given. A moment later she heard the phone stop ringing on the other end, and heard her boss’s voice coming through the line, muffled but recognizable.
“Yes, I am calling about an employee of yours. Sophie Parsons.”
She could hear words, but not what they were.
“She has done nothing wrong. She is with me, in fact...Sheikh Zayn, of Surhaadi...Yes, that one. We got into a bit of a discussion, and we spoke about her coming to Surhaadi to run a piece on my upcoming marriage.”
The implications of what he was saying turned over in her mind, and for the first time, she realized that some of this could actually go her way. That she could get something out of this.
Except where Isabelle is concerned. You’re leaving Isabelle up a creek without a paddle.
Not that she was doing it on purpose. If she had her way, she would escape the limo and run screaming into the night. But she didn’t seem to have much choice. He would load her onto the plane kicking and screaming if he had to, of that she had no doubt. There was barely another living soul out here, at least no one who didn’t work for him. And he had her boss on the line, her job in his hands, and if she did not have access to the media, the help that she could be to Isabelle was limited, anyway.
No, she wasn’t deserting her friend for self-serving reasons. She wasn’t deserting her friend for any reason that was in her control.
“She is a very charming young woman,” Zayn continued. “I find myself captivated by her. I should like to read her perspective of the goings-on.”
Her boss responded, his voice sounding much more cheerful and genial than it ever did when he spoke to her. Probably because she was a gopher and not a sheikh.
“I am not certain how long I will have her in Surhaadi, but of course we do have internet connections, and she will be able to make contact.” Somehow, Sophie doubted he would allow her free contact.
“Yes, I daresay it will be a wonderful exclusive for your paper. She will be in touch soon.” Zayn hung up, putting the phone back inside his jacket pocket. “There, that was relatively painless, wasn’t it?”
“For you, perhaps. I find all this has been quite painful.”
“I have scarcely laid a finger on you.”
“Pain can come in a lot of forms. Often I find the physical is the least of my worries.” That much was true, she had enough emotional garbage to last a lifetime.
“Well, it is all settled, your boss is happy to have you come to Surhaadi with me. And if you refuse, I will not hesitate to call him back and let him know you blew the story, and that I will require your immediate termination if the paper is to get the exclusive that I have now promised.”
“So those are my options? Be carried onto the plane kicking and screaming and lose my job, or get on the plane and keep my job.”
“That about sums it up.”
“What about my scandal? I need to do this. If you think I was out here for my own gratification, you’re wrong. I’m doing this for someone else. For a friend, and it’s important.”
“Come with me, and you will have your scandal.” His dark eyes were fathomless, impossible to read. But she could also see that she had no choice but to go with him.
She swallowed hard, trying to combat the swarm of nerves crawling through her system like a hoard of ants. “Then I guess we are going to Surhaadi.”
* * *
Zayn’s private plane was far more luxurious than anything Sophie had been exposed to before. And in the years since she’d moved up from her nondescript existence in a quiet neighborhood, tucked away from people she and her mother might encounter who would know who her father was, she had seen a fair bit of luxury.
She had not, however, seen private plane levels of luxury.
She felt like it had to be some kind of mental disconnect happening within her brain right now. Because she was essentially being kidnapped, and yet she was admiring the butter-soft quality of the leather that covered the chairs that were stationed throughout the airplane cabin.
All things considered, she didn’t feel like this was the time to be admiring the qualities of leather. Though if she thought about anything much deeper she might go insane. Because all of this was just too much to digest at once. She needed time to get used to this whole being kidnapped by a sheikh thing.
“There are two bedrooms in the back of the plane, and you’re welcome to use whichever one you like,” he said, speaking as though he was playing host at an extremely civilized dinner party. “You are also welcome to stay up here should you prefer. Can I get you a drink?”
“Well, the offer of the bedroom is certainly appreciated. As is the offer of a drink. Which I accept.”
She had never been much for drinking. After Isabelle had accepted her into her group of friends, Sophie had often found herself dining in places that were way above her pay grade. Soup or salad, coupled with the water, had often been the only thing on her menu. Certainly, had her friend been aware of the fact that Sophie couldn’t afford the places they’d gone, Isabelle would have happily given Sophie the money to pay for her meal. But charity had never sat well with Sophie. And anyway, the burning hunger to one day be able to order the fish dish, rather than ordering from the appetizer section, was one of the things that kept her going.
She had often been afraid that if she took those kinds of incenti
ves from herself she would lose some of her drive. And that, in her mind, was unacceptable.
Of course, a fish-based entrée was not the be-all and end-all to her ambition. She’d worked for what she had. Every single bit of prestige and education. She’d gained tentative acceptance, acceptance that would have simply been her due had she been one of her father’s legitimate children.
The university she had attended had been a given for her half siblings. Something they could simply have because of their parentage. While she had not been afforded the same.
Because she and her mother had been secret. Because she and her mother had been kept separate. So she had set out to prove that she didn’t need her father’s influence, or money. She had worked her way to university on her own, graduating in the top of her class with a degree in journalism.
Three years on, and now that she was doing very little else beyond making coffee for the Herald, some of that triumph had dwindled.
But she was determined to hold on to her ambition. Because it had gotten her this far. Because it was the only thing she had to get her the rest of the way.
Which was why she couldn’t curl into a ball and give up now. This was the only way she could figure out how to help Isabelle, anyway. The sheikh claimed to know more than he let on, and she had to find out what it was he knew. She was stuck with him for a while, then.
And her boss now expected a profile of the royal wedding in Surhaadi. Which meant she might as well take in the whole experience. A certain amount of observation, including the quality of the leather, would be required of her.
She was, after all, a journalist. And so, she was hardly working to her full capacity at the moment as to what she intended to be one day. What was it they said? Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.
Well, right now, she would be taking in details, acting the part of the journalist she wanted to be, rather than the journalist she was. True, all of this had a bit more of a society bent than she cared for. She was interested in, someday, taking on stories that might be a little more hard-hitting than a sheikh’s upcoming marriage. But this was several rungs up the ladder she was currently standing on, and she would be foolish if she didn’t just go ahead and embrace it.
Frankly, she was kidnapped either way.
“What do you prefer?” he asked.
“Oh, something red, I should think. Do you drink white for a kidnapping?”
“I would think most people would prefer something a little bit stiffer for their kidnapping.”
“So, you admit that you’re kidnapping me.”
He wandered over to an ornate covered bar that was set into the wall, bottles closed into shelves, secured into carved wooden holders. He opened the doors, and selected a bottle of wine. “I do not see the point in quibbling over semantics. It changes nothing either way.”
“Well, one allows me a little bit of justified anger.”
“I do not see what you have to be angry about. Unless you have a lover you are meant to meet tonight.”
The very idea was ridiculous. She didn’t do the whole man-woman thing. Who had the time? Or the inclination toward heartbreak. Maybe, when she got to where she was going, maybe, if she ever found a man she thought she might be able to trust. Maybe. Two very big maybes.
“My diary for the evening was free,” she said.
“Then I would imagine that, as a journalist, a drink on a private plane with royalty makes for a much better story than you sitting on your couch and watching sitcoms.”
He had a point. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.
“I’m sure, but in the end most of this will make for a very good story. So what exactly am I supposed to be covering? You mentioned there being more to the Chatsfield scandal, but since then you’ve been awfully quiet about it.”
She could hear the engines of the plane being fired up, and her stomach flipped. She wasn’t used to flying. She had done a little bit domestically, but certainly nothing international. She didn’t even know how to calculate the estimated length of the flight from New York to Surhaadi.
“James Chatsfield is an ass. You can quote me directly on that, if you would like.”
“Forgive me, Sheikh Zayn, but there is full documentation proving that about James Chatsfield already. It’s hardly breaking news.”
The plane started to move down the runway and she wobbled where she stood. “You may want to sit down.”
And with that, it was clear the subject was closed. She did not find that acceptable in the least.
“Don’t you want to sit down?” she asked.
“I have a drink to pour.”
She walked across the expanse of the plane, and took a seat in one of the chairs. They were, indeed, as soft as they looked. Just for her mental records. For when she was writing a piece on this experience. On what it had been like to be in the private plane of the sheikh of Surhaadi.
He poured her a very full glass of red, not even looking unsteady when the plane picked up momentum. Then he put a stopper back in the bottle, and put it back in the cabinet. Before walking nonchalantly across the cabin and handing her the glass. He took a seat across from her, his hands noticeably empty of a drink.
“I think you and I have a lot in common, really. We both want Chatsfield blood. I think you should help me get some.” She took a sip of the wine, and fought to keep her expression neutral. This was not cheap wine.
If she ever did buy herself wine for home, it usually came in mini-bottles or a box. Silk taste, polyester budget and all that.
“Later. Later you will have your scandal. For now we can talk wedding business.”
Irritation spiked through her, and she fought to keep from showing him, fought to keep from revealing her hand any more than she already had. “But you are getting married? That’s true, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
She noticed he didn’t sound overjoyed at the mention of the upcoming union. She would file that away, as well. She would also continue down this line of questioning, because he was being a bit more forthcoming on this topic than on the topic of the Chatsfields.
She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, and holding the wine out over the cream-colored carpet as the plane started to ascend. She didn’t have very many nice dresses, and she would be darned if she was going to get a red wine stain on one of the few she did own. His carpet would pay the price before this sequined masterpiece did.
“When is the wedding?”
A strange-looking smile curved the corners of his lips. It was not a happy expression, neither did it hold very much humor. “Three weeks.”
That would likely put her right at the center of the action. In spite of herself, she did find that exciting. “I imagine a lot of the preparation is under way already.”
“While my staff is executing much of it, my fiancée is dictating the activity from her home country.”
“She isn’t from Surhaadi?”
“No. My fiancée is the princess of a small European country. The fourth-born child in the family, and the only girl. She is still living in the palace there.”
“Long-distance relationship, understandable. Though not ideal.”
He shrugged. “I find nothing terribly un-ideal about it. There is no reason for Christine to uproot her life prior to our union becoming official.”
“Some people might not consider it very inconvenient to uproot things for the person they love.”
“Who said anything about love?” His dark eyes connected with hers and sent a shock wave down to her stomach. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore it.
She supposed she of all people shouldn’t have inferred love into a conversation about marriage. She hardly thought her own father loved the woman he was married to. Now, she didn’t suppose that the man loved her mother, eithe
r, but he certainly didn’t love his wife. If he did, why would he conduct so many affairs? Why would he conduct affairs with anyone at all?
“I don’t suppose anyone did. Except for me.”
“It is not a secret that my union with Christine has more to do with politics than feelings.”
“Oh, but the world loves a love match.” She leaned back in her seat, lifting her wineglass to her lips. “I should very much doubt if the public is content to imagine that you are simply allies for politics and not for pleasure.”
A political union would not make for a very strong hook in her piece. A piece she would have to give some consideration to, regardless of her primary aim of interviewing Zayn. Because Colin was expecting a story about a royal wedding now, and she had to deliver.
That wasn’t a problem, though, she was used to multitasking. Unlike most of her peers she’d had to hold on to a part-time job while going to school. And again, unlike most of her classmates, there had been no job waiting for her when she graduated. So there had been internships, combined with late shifts waitressing at bars.
No, multitasking wasn’t a problem for her.
“Yes, I daresay the public will be disappointed on that score.”
“Unless you decide to show them something else.”
“To what end?” He looked at her, and she could see that he was clearly intrigued.
“To the end of positive public opinion. Which I should think for a world leader would be of the utmost importance.” She knew all about playing that game, because in her life presenting a positive front, presenting a polished front, had been imperative.
Most everyone she’d gone to university with were simply accepted, based on their names and connections, but she hadn’t had that. Sophie had been forced to earn respect. She hadn’t been able to afford the mistakes the rest of her friends had been allowed to make. Any slip-up in behavior for them could be perceived as a simple youthful rebellion. For her, it was a revealing window into just how unsophisticated she was. Just how unsuitable she was. It was proof that, as they all expected, she didn’t belong.
