The Chatsfield: Series 2

CHAPTER SIX

“WE HAVE SENT your woman back to the tent.”

Zayn looked at Jamal, something strange twisting in his gut as he turned over the words the other man had just spoken. “She is merely under my protection. Nothing more.”

“Then would you prefer she sleep elsewhere?”

“As I said,” Zayn replied, knowing he should be taking Jamal up on his offer, knowing he wouldn’t, “she is under my protection. That means she must stay close with me.”

“As you wish.”

“There is nothing between us.”

Jamal looked off into the distance, his eyes fixed on the horizon line. “It is none of my concern what you do or with whom. I care not for your affairs, Al-Ahmar. You should know this by now. So long as you stay out of my business, I will stay out of yours.”

“To a point, I’m certain.”

“Well, you are here now. So obviously it only extends to a point. Though I will say it is lucky for you that you now have me to deal with rather than my father. His welcome for you may not have been so hospitable.”

“And yet, hostility between us is pointless. We both want the same things. We both want what is absolutely best for those we rule over.”

“Ah, yes. But I do believe you and I often have differing opinions on what is best.”

Zayn looked toward the tent that was being provided for Sophie and himself. “I sometimes differ with myself as to what is best.”

“Indeed.” Jamal laughed. “Don’t we all?”

Far too often. “I shall retire now.”

Jamal arched a brow. “As would I if I had a woman such as that waiting for me in my tent.”

“You have a wife. And this woman is not my lover.”

“Calm down, Al-Ahmar. I have no designs on your woman. Neither will I repeat what I have seen here. We may not agree on everything, but I believe you are a man of honor. And for that reason I do not see the point in causing you any trouble.”

Zayn extended his hand, and Jamal clasped it and shook it. “On that we agree. And I must bid you good-night now.”

He turned and walked away from the other man, ignoring his assumptions. Doing his best to push them away from his mind. Yes, he and Sophie would share a tent tonight. But there was plenty of room for both of them. And he would not touch her.

He crossed the courtyard, passing the campfires that were starting to die down. He swept up the closure of the tent and encountered a wide-eyed-looking Sophie.

“Good evening.” He turned away from her and continued on to the corner of the massive space, where there was a seating area, where the bags he had had his staff prepare for them were sitting.

“What are you doing here?”

“This is a guest quarters. And as we are both guests, this is where we will both be staying.”

“I don’t even have any...” Her sentence trailed off as she looked at the bags he was now standing next to.

“You have everything. Naturally.”

“Naturally. I’m beginning to discover that staying with you means being taken care of whether I want to be or not.” He only stared at her. “Well, that’s not what I mean exactly.”

“You mean I give you absolutely no excuses for being unhappy? I make you comfortable. It must be awful considering you’re trying to feel like the wounded prisoner.”

“Well, I do feel slightly like the invaded prisoner at the moment. I was not aware we would be sharing a tent.”

He swept his hand across the expanse of the vast space. “Did you think you would have such a place to yourself?”

She blinked, tossing golden hair over her shoulders, the strands turning to golden fire in the lantern light. “I confess I didn’t really think it through.”

“I don’t suppose you did.” He gestured toward a swath of silk that was suspended from the ceiling. “Back there you will find the bed. It is fine with me if you have it. I’m happy to sleep on the couch.”

“As long as you acknowledge we’re sleeping in separate places.” He watched as her cheeks turned a fascinating shade of pink after the words left her lips.

“Naturally.” He jerked up the zipper on the duffel bag sitting on the couch, only to discover that it was the bag that had been filled with Sophie’s clothes. His hands came into contact with silk, smooth and slick, and not what he needed right at the moment. “I am not in the market for a lover. And were I in the market for a lover, it would certainly not be you.”

She sniffed. “Good. As long as we have an understanding.”

“Yes, as long as we do.” Heat burned in his chest, and his palms burned from where he had just made contact with the feminine clothing. Three years of celibacy really was far too long. If women’s clothing had the ability to get him hard, it was obvious things had been left untended for way too much time.

“Changing topic completely,” she said, “I think it’s time for the second part of our interview.”

“Do you think so?”

She crossed the space and moved to the sitting area, to the low chaise that sat across from the couch he was currently standing next to. She sat on the chaise, leaning against the back, the position accentuating her shape, forcing his eyes to her curves.

He shoved the duffel bags onto the floor and took a seat across from her. “I fear tonight there is no alcohol to help make this process any less painful.”

“I’m okay with that. I don’t actually drink all that much.” She propped her cheek on her fist.

“Why is that?”

“High in calories, expensive. Compromises control.”

“Yes, so you said. When you mentioned you had never had a hangover.”

She reached into the pocket of her pants and produced the little black recorder again. “You seem to be forgetting who’s doing the interviewing again.”

“No, I never forget. But I never give without getting in return. It is simply not how I operate.”

“And I don’t like to talk about myself. And you keep forcing the situation so that I am. It’s very irritating.”

“My apologies.”

“I doubt I have any sincere apologies from you. So let’s continue, shall we?”

He abruptly changed his mind about sitting. And pushed himself back to his feet. “What was it you asked me the other night?”

“I asked how it was your family ended up being in power. How are they chosen? I’m curious about the history of the Al-Ahmar family.”

“Yes.” He remembered, of course, but he had wanted her to bring it up again. Had wanted her to feel as though she was directing the flow of the interview. “Yes, that’s right. That is what you asked. As with anything, changes are imperfect. There was a time when we all lived like this.” He swept his hand around the tent. “Of course, we had no satellite phones.”

“Naturally not.”

“When we banded together, it was natural to want to come together under one leader. It was what we were used to.”

“You talk about it like you were there.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He supposed he did. Though it was something he barely gave any thought to. This was his history. “In many ways I was. My bloodline was there. It is not my direct family line that rules now, though we are the blood ancestors of the tribe that ended up taking control. It is a part of me.”

She shifted her position, and he turned away. “I’m curious, though, what it was that singled your people out as being worthy of leadership.”

“Do not think it wasn’t highly contested. It was no unanimous vote that brought my bloodline into power. But when war with a neighboring country broke out, a country that had long been unified especially in comparison with ours, it was my people who proved to be the greatest warriors. And it was in fact the death of our tribal leader in that battle, saving the women and children of another tribal group, that decided it. He would have been king, he would have been the sheikh, but he had perished protecting others. And so his son was made the first ruler of what became known as Surhaadi.”

Silence fell between them. There was no sound beyond the wind pushing against the tent.

“What a sad story. He sacrificed himself and he never knew what it accomplished.”

He turned back to her. “I like to think he knew. Whether or not he ever knew that it accomplished installing our family as the ruling power, I like to believe he knew in the end his sacrifice saved the women and children he set out to protect. He fought until he could not move, destroyed enemies, removed every threat, before breathing his last. I like to think he knew the most important thing his sacrifice accomplished.”

She looked away. “Well, it’s certainly a better ending. Even if you can’t quite call it a happier ending.”

“I like to think his sacrifice established what kind of leaders the Al-Ahmar family became. It is certainly the unspoken covenant that was made. That whoever should take charge of the newly banded-together tribes would lay down his life to protect the weakest among them. That he would not love his own life so much that he would seek protection for himself over others.”

She sat up, her hands folded in her lap, the recorder clutched in one of them. “Do you feel you do that? Do you feel you are carrying on the tradition?”

“Do I feel I am as self-sacrificial as an ancestor of mine who physically died protecting those around him? No. I don’t. However, I have done what I can to make sacrifices when I can, where I can.”

“Your marriage?”

He hesitated. This was on the record, this was an interview. One that would go out to millions of people worldwide. And as Sophie had already mentioned, the public loved a love story. But beyond that, he had no desire to hurt Christine with unvarnished honesty. That was assuming, of course, that Christine could be hurt by honesty, and he had doubts that she could be. But even so, sensitivity was very likely the better part of valor in this situation. Too bad he had not often been accused of being overly sensitive.

“I have always known that I would marry. For many years I had known it would be Christine. Ours is not a traditional relationship. We have not spent much time together, it is not physical. But it is based on love. A love for our countries. A desire to see things improve. If you see parallels there in terms of sacrifice, that is up to you.”

She leaned forward, green eyes intent on his. “Do you feel the love of a country is enough?”

“It is the truest love I know. It runs through my veins.”

“And you do not believe in love between two people?”

He had not picked her for a romantic, and indeed, there was only curiosity in her tone now. But still, there was something beneath it, something that fascinated him. Something that made him ache.

He thought of his own parents’ cold, distant union. And then he thought of Jasmine and her lover. Jasmine and that despicable playboy Damien, who he had once called a friend. Had that been love? An emotion so strong it pushed you to alienate friends and family and make fatal decisions? No, he had never seen evidence of love in his life.

“I am certain such a thing exists—” except that he wasn’t, but he was being recorded “—however, for my purposes this is the more lasting. This is more important.”

“Have you always felt that way?”

“No,” he said, an honest answer slipping from his lips before he could stop it.

“When did it change?”

He froze, his blood turning to ice. “Some time ago.”

“Was there a specific event?”

He gritted his teeth, feeling like she’d skillfully led him into a corner. Either he answered with some measure of honesty, or he refused. Refusal, at this point, would only make things worse.

“There used to be three of us. Myself, Jasmine and Leila. Jasmine passed away some years ago,” he said, trying to block the images from his mind that always came when he thought of Jasmine. Trying to forget the yelling, the accusations... “Grief like that, loss like that...changes you. It makes you reevaluate.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For your loss.”

“It was a long time ago. But it changed things. For all of us.”

“Naturally. And anyway, in many ways your life is entirely different to the average person’s.”

“What do you mean?”

She brushed a strand of blond hair out of her face, and his gaze was caught by the elegant motion of her fingers. The action pulled his thoughts from the past, tugged him out of the mire of it before it could claim him completely.

She was all fine-boned sophistication, and yet there was more to her than that. Something deeper, something grittier and stronger. Were she only softness, were she only grace and poise, he would not be so captivated. It was the strength beneath it, the contrast, that held him in thrall.

“In my life I’ve only ever had to worry about myself for the most part. I mean, I certainly worry about what other people think of me, make no mistake. But only as it pertains to the way it affects me. You have to do things for other reasons. For bigger reasons. Your whole life is proof positive of the butterfly effect. When you make a small movement it really does affect millions. And I don’t think most of us can say that.”

“I don’t know. You’re a journalist. There is information you could bring the world that could easily affect millions. Or at least change the way they think about things.” He relished the chance to turn the spotlight back on her. To stop her from shining light on the dark places in his own life.