by Maisey Yates
For those reasons she’d had to be above reproach, because she was starting at a place of disadvantage.
Yes, Sophie knew all about manipulating public opinion—or in her case, the opinion of university administration and her fellow students—to her advantage.
“It certainly is, but shouldn’t my efforts to improve relations between countries count for something?”
“Certainly, and I’m sure for some it will. But it will be lost on others. And while they might accept your union with a kind of blissful neutrality, or at least a bit of interest in what your bride will be wearing, they would be a lot more interested in romance.”
“Then I give you leave to infer romance to your heart’s content when you write your piece.”
Sophie took another sip of wine. “I promise to read between the lines judiciously.”
“By which you mean you promise to read things that aren’t there?”
“That is a particular specialty of those who report on high-society stories.”
For the first time since he’d pulled her unceremoniously from the alley, the corners of his lips turned upward into a smile. It was not a smile that expressed happiness, but rather one that seemed to be laughing at some kind of perverse amusement. He rubbed his hand across his chin, fingertips grazing his square jaw, and she found herself distracted by the sound of his skin rubbing against the dark stubble. It was a very masculine thing, and she had not been exposed to many masculine things in her life.
An all-female household, female roommates, until she finally got her tiny apartment and lived alone.
Men were something of a foreign animal to her, and as she looked across to the man sitting opposite her, she realized he was an extremely foreign animal indeed.
He was magnetic, his features strong, dark brows, a blade-straight nose, eyes the color of midnight, framed by sooty lashes, the sort of lips that would entice lesser women to compose poetry about them.
Had he any softness to him, he might’ve been called beautiful. But he did not, so she would not. Beautiful wasn’t the right word.
Powerful, that was the word. The kind of power that far exceeded most of the people she’d been exposed to. No matter how influential a society family in New York might be, a sheikh certainly outstripped them.
He was the sort of man with ultimate power, not a man ruled by the laws of this, or any, land, really. Beneath his well-tailored suit, she could sense he was a man who didn’t ascribe to civility in a typical sense. Well, her presence on this plane was proof enough of that.
He was dangerous, she realized with a sudden jolt. And for some reason, she found that more fascinating than repulsing. She couldn’t figure out why.
She would attribute that to the masculine inexperience thing. Because it was easier than having to examine it deeper. This way, she could stick it in the “men are mystery” drawer and close it tight.
She suddenly became very aware of the fact that her heart was beating faster than normal. She would ignore that, too.
“Yes, I am well aware that it is a skill of the press, to imply all kinds of things.” The smile stayed fixed on his face, but there was a darkness to it now. A terrifying emptiness that was reflected in his eyes.
“In this case, perhaps it will benefit you.”
The smile widened, and she felt an answering tightness in her chest, as though he had managed to forge a link between his facial expressions and her insides. As though he had not just kidnapped her body, but had seized control over other parts of her. It was disconcerting, to say the least.
“Perhaps it will benefit both of us in the end.”
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 kne
w 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 p
air 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.”
