James Chatsfield. As a substitution for the secret his sister carried. The one he had to keep Sophie away from at all costs.
He realized now where his stories were leading her, where they were leading them both. He had not before this moment, but he did now. The founding of a nation, self-sacrifice being the cornerstone of the monarchy. And the importance of acting with honor above all else. Of being worthy of the birthright he had been given without having to do any work at all.
“For tonight I suggest we get some sleep,” he said.
She stood, and he stopped pacing, pausing to look at her. The glowing of the lanterns overhead was more pronounced now that the light had dimmed further outside, and it was casting a golden sheen over her. And suddenly everything seemed to narrow in on Sophie.
Everything around her faded, the air growing tight. Pulling him nearer to her. Her green eyes glittered in the low light, her hair shimmering. She was temptation personified, sent to test him. While at the same time reminding him of his fatal weaknesses.
How was it one woman could represent both? How was it one woman could make him want to strive forward doing better, sacrificing himself for the greater good, while also inspiring him to drop it all, so that his arms were free to pull her into them? To bring her up against his body, kiss her, claim her, make her his?
He had no answers, he had nothing other than the burning ache in his gut. Nothing at all.
“Would you mind giving me some privacy while I get ready?” she asked.
He had no choice but to give her privacy. If he were in here while she readied herself for bed he doubted he would be able to control himself.
And with Jasmine so freshly on his mind, it seemed a blasphemy. With Leila, her secret and the weight of his responsibility pressing down upon him, he should be able to think of nothing else. Of Christine and their upcoming marriage.
And yet none of it seemed to matter half as much as what he felt when he looked at Sophie. It was a blasphemy. And yet it was one he was not certain he knew how to combat. It was one he was not certain he wanted to combat. It was such a foreign feeling, something lost back in time, something that had been bound up and twisted up in tragedy, in disgrace.
He’d had lovers in the years since he’d decided to take his role as sheikh more seriously. But it had been different. It had been with careful calculation and decision. It’d been at appropriate times, and in appropriate places. It had been nothing like this, this heady rush of heat and need that seemed to transcend reality, that seemed to transcend duty.
No, nothing transcended duty.
He could not afford to disrupt what was happening now. He could not throw away his future, his country’s future, Leila’s future, for the sake of a dalliance with an American journalist who would probably turn the entire thing into a tell-all.
She wouldn’t do that.
He gritted his teeth. He did not trust people easily as a rule, not anymore. Not after the betrayal of his friend Damien. And certainly, Sophie was not who he had originally assumed she was. She was not the cold-blooded tabloid leech, but he doubted she was a kitten, either.
She was a woman who had gotten into her position in life with sheer bloody-mindedness and determination. Underestimating that could be fatal. At least in terms of reputation.
Things were far too precarious for him to upset anything.
And he had an agreement with Christine, he had made her promises, and he could not go back on that.
“Of course I will step outside. Let me know when you are ready for me to return.”
* * *
Never. I will never be ready for you to return. Sophie kept all of that to herself, but she thought it at full volume. If he could somehow read thoughts it would be extremely helpful. Of course, if he could read thoughts he would know just how affected she was by being in close quarters with him. She didn’t like it at all. Not one bit.
She was much more disturbed by him than she could’ve ever imagined she might be.
She waited until he was gone, then went to the place where the bags were sitting, digging through them until she found a pair of silk pajamas. Of course he had made sure she would have overnight things. Because of course he had known they would end up spending the night out here. Perhaps he had even known they would end up staying in the same tent. Well, he had to have known.
He’s not trying to seduce you.
No, of course he wasn’t. And anyway, she was not seduceable. Not in the least. Men had tried, and men had failed. It wasn’t as though she intended to never have a relationship as long as she lived, it was just there had never been an appropriate time.
She’d watched her mother become a slave to sex, to desire, which she had always called love, but Sophie had doubted that very much.
It was weakness, and she would not be that weak. Would not be that sad and desperate. She’d gone out and made her own life, on her own terms.
Zayn was hot, there was no denying that. He was, in fact, the hottest guy she had ever seen in person. So there was that. And she was ready to admit it. It had been difficult to sort through her feelings for him when she had been half-afraid of him, but she wasn’t really afraid of him now. And now that the fog of terror had cleared a bit, she could say objectively that, yes, he was very handsome.
But handsomeness didn’t have anything to do with anything. She was here to do a job, not get distracted by a pretty face. Though she wouldn’t exactly characterize his face as pretty. His cheekbones were enviable, to be certain, and he had amazing eyelashes. If he were a woman he wouldn’t need to wear mascara. But that didn’t make him pretty. No, he was far too rugged for that. The dark stubble that covered his jaw by midday helped with that. As did the intensity in his dark eyes.
Magnetic. That was a better word for him.
And hot, hot still worked.
She mentally castigated herself while she put her pajamas on, while she tried to ignore just how sensual the fabric felt against her skin. Fabric was not sensual. None of this was.
Annoying was what it was. Well, not the fabric, the fabric was quite nice. But the feelings that he evoked in her were certainly annoying.
He was still stringing her along, too. She didn’t feel like she was any closer to getting the scandal than she had been on day one. He was interesting, and yes, she could use the material he was providing her for her career, but it wasn’t why she was here. It didn’t help Isabelle in any way. And neither did thinking about how pretty he was. Or wasn’t.
She finished dressing and went to the opening of the tent, pushing the flap back and poking her head outside. It was dark now, the golden light of the sun long since disappearing behind the dunes. Everything was golden brown during the day, fading into a strange yellowish white in the sky, a color she had never seen anywhere else. And now, in the dark, it was similarly monochromatic. Inky blues and slate grays covering the landscape.
She could see he was standing with his back to the tent, an imposing figure, a living shadow in the night.
“I’m ready.”
He
