The Chatsfield: Series 2. Кейт Хьюит
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this got out, the press would have a field day. He had no idea what Leila intended to do about her pregnancy, and with the heightened interest surrounding the royal family, due to Zayn’s own upcoming marriage, she was in a much more precarious position than she might have been.
She was vulnerable enough without introducing the variable of public opinion and scrutiny. That would add pressure she didn’t need, judgment she didn’t deserve. No, he would not have that. He would not expose his family to such criticism and judgment. Not again. Not while he drew breath.
He heard a clattering sound in the corner of the alley, a trash can turning over on its side, a blur of motion catching his eye.
He was not alone. And he and Chatsfield had not been the only two involved in the conversation that had taken place only minutes before. They had a witness.
And that was unacceptable.
The feeling of helplessness drained, a shot of adrenaline moving through his veins. Action. He craved action. He craved a plan.
Zayn stalked toward the movement, his body on high alert, muscles tensing, ready to strike. When a man lived as he did, he had ample time to train his body. And Zayn had done just that. Had taken every opportunity to spend hours channeling physical frustration into strength training.
He didn’t fear whatever would be waiting for him in the shadow. He had no reason to. Because he had no doubt whatsoever that he was the most dangerous thing in this alley.
There was more clattering, followed by a squeak, and he acted, reaching into the darkness and coming up with a fistful of hair, resistance and a sharp squeal.
Not the sound of a hardened criminal.
He released his hold on the person he had seized, and straightened.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“Ow,” his quarry made a plaintive noise.
“I doubt very much that you’re injured,” he said. “Come into the light.”
The intruder obliged, moving from the shadow and into the golden haze cast by the streetlight. He wasn’t entirely certain what he’d expected, but the slim blonde with long honey-colored hair, disheveled—likely from when he had grabbed it—wearing a sequined dress with a hemline that fell well above her knee, and mutinous expression on her face, was not at all what he’d imagined he might find.
“I am very much injured.” She sniffed.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you are so easily damaged, it is advisable that perhaps you shouldn’t spend time hiding in dark alleys. They are dangerous.”
“It would seem so.” She was frantically straightening her dress now, moving her hands over her slight curves, smoothing the wrinkles in the fabric.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, suspicion pressing down on him.
“I followed Chatsfield out into the alley.” She straightened, flipping long hair back over her shoulder, a pale, glimmering wave in the streetlight.
That made sense. She was very likely one of Chatsfield’s hopefuls, or one of his previous acquisitions. Probably trying to find out if she could finagle another night in his bed. Or perhaps just hoping she could trade on her connection with him for money or status.
Either way, she was dangerous. Either way, she would have motive to take her story to the press. The opportunity for revenge in the hands of a woman scorned by a playboy could prove dangerous for his sister.
“I see. And how much did you hear?”
Her eyes, which were already quite wide, widened further. “Nothing of interest. I was actually quite bored. I was actually taking a nap.”
“Try again.” He found he had little patience to continue standing out here as rain began to pour down on them. He found he had little patience for any of this. To face another failure where his family was concerned. To face another threat to them, after all they had been through.
It was in his power to spare them more pain, and he would do so. And he would not let one large-eyed blonde get in his way.
“I’m really into the free-food movement. And I like to make sure that there are no salvageable edibles in various trash cans surrounding posh hotels.” She started to move away from him. “You would be surprised how much gourmet food is simply tossed. I have found foie gras that was still quite fresh just cast out into the gutter. It’s egregious.”
“You said you followed Chatsfield out into the alley.”
She squinted. “I thought he might be looking for the foie gras.”
“It is getting quite cold out.” He reached out and grabbed hold of her arm, and she tugged back. But he held fast. “Why don’t we finish this conversation in my car?”
“Oh, you know—” she waved a hand “—I would, but I have a thing.”
“What thing?” he asked.
“A thing that is not getting into a car with a stranger.”
“I feel that after all you must have surely heard from your vantage point, we can hardly be considered strangers.”
He tugged her along through the alley with him, heading to where his limousine was idling. She walked along with him, but her hesitance was clear. For a moment he questioned himself. Asked himself what the hell he was doing.
But then he imagined Leila, in her distress, confessing her indiscretion, and worrying about the consequences. No, he would do whatever he had to do. No matter what that was.
There was no room, no time, for guilt.
“I really need to go,” she said. “My bicycle is double-parked. I think there’s a timer on the rack. I bet they’re going to cut my chain.”
“I will buy you a new bicycle.”
“That one has sentimental value.”
He paused, and looked down at her. “Why did you ride a bicycle in this weather? In that dress.”
“We don’t all hemorrhage gold.”
“No, indeed we do not. I imagine you have realized that James Chatsfield does.”
“What exactly are you implying?”
He propelled her forward to the passenger door of the limousine, and jerked it open. “I’m implying that you need to get into my car now.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“I’m sorry, I see you’ve confused my command with a request.” Not breaking his hold on her, he moved down into the limo, bringing her with him, her soft body flush against his.
And because it had been so very long since he had touched a woman, even given the circumstances, he could not help but take a moment to pause and enjoy the feel of her against him.
She wiggled, her bottom coming into contact with things he would rather not have her in contact with. “What are you doing?” she shrieked.
He did not answer. He only held fast to her, trying to figure out exactly where to take it from here.
Though he was immediately drawn back to the moment by the feel of her body against his.
It was in moments like this, moments when heat and curves overtook the gravity of the situation, that he wondered whether or not he’d truly managed to change. Or if he had simply spent years burying his weakness beneath the rock of good intention. Though, as he had so rarely found himself in this position since he had changed the focus of his life, he supposed it was neither here nor there. It did not matter how soft this woman was. It did not matter how good it felt to have her in his arms.
All that mattered was Leila. Her honor. Her safety, both physical and emotional.
No