Heir Untamed (25 page)

“No. I—well. Once, Sander asked me--”

“Prince Dare, please,” Allar said, politely interrupting her.

Chey cleared her throat. “Prince Dare asked me once about the person who attacked me in bed. I told him that I didn't have the sense that the person was large, as in as big as the man in the tower. I can definitely say it was not him that pinned me down that night.”

“Things can seem different in the dark, when you're woken by surprise. Are you certain, one hundred percent, Miss Sinclair, that it was not the man?” Allar asked.

“Yes.”

“That statement means the man acted with another, leaving no room for doubt,” Allar clarified. “Which also means that not just one, but
two
people wanted you dead almost as soon as you arrived here.”

Chey, not one for shrugging, lifted a shoulder helplessly. What could she say? She had no more clues why someone would want her dead barring her job.

“I checked and double checked every photo I've taken since arriving. I can't find anything in any of them that seem compromising to someone else. Then again, maybe I just don't know what I'm looking at. That's the only thing I can think of. He and whoever he's working with thought I caught something on camera, or thought I
might.
” That was the best Chey could do.

The men in the room fell to silence.

“In the tower, he used the term 'we', you said,” Allar mentioned.

“Yes. I heard that distinctly,” Chey replied.

“I think we should have her stay on castle grounds here until we have more information,” Sander said.

“I agree, Your Highness.” Allar set down the pen he'd been holding and glanced from Sander to Chey. “Within sight of the guards when you're outside at all times, yes Miss Sinclair?”

“Of course.” Chey wouldn't bring up quitting again right now. Not after all this. Sander and Mattias, as far as she knew, were the only ones who knew she intended to leave. And she still did, once the investigation was over. Nothing had changed about that.

“All right. Let's convene for now. Thank you for your time, Miss Sinclair.” Allar stood from his chair. Sander and Mattias followed suit.

Chey rose and inclined her head to the group. Her gaze touched on Sander's for a split second before she exited the office.

What a tangled mess she was in.

. . .

“We need to talk.” Sander grasped her elbow and guided her into a darker parlor before Chey ever reached the stairs.

“I suppose we do.” Rounding into the room, with the cold fireplace and vague light spilling in three tall windows from lamps outside, Chey walked across to a lush sofa and leaned the back of her hips against it. Folding her arms over her chest, she watched Sander close the door, dousing them into gloom. Dressed in sleek black slacks and a snowy white button down, he looked less like the rugged Sander she was used to and more like first in line to the throne.

Coming to a stop ten feet from where she leaned, he mimicked her stance and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Tell me what's on your mind,” he said, inviting her to begin.

Chey didn't say anything at first. She stared, taking in the smooth line of his strong jaw, the gleam of his blue eyes. He'd left his hair tied back into a low tail, which only enhanced the handsome angles of his face. The cut just above his eye from the fight had stopped bleeding some time ago. A faint bruise was forming on one cheek as well, sure to be darker by morning. Finally, the pent up rush of emotion couldn't be stayed any longer.

“You. You're on my mind. I'm pissed off at you for negating to tell me who you were, and while I get it, that changes nothing. Why, you ask? Why does it change nothing? Because you're playing with my heart. It's not like we met, had a one night stand, and never saw each other again. You
knew
I would be here for the next four months and yet you engaged me anyway. We both know that nothing can ever come of this except a few good nights in bed. And while that might have been all right at some point in my life, it's not all right now. It's not all right for you to assume that's
all
it would be to me.” She never raised her voice, but the words started coming faster halfway through. At one point, that was exactly what Chey thought Sander would be to her. A winter fling to be forgotten once she went home. Funny how things changed.

He regarded her with an unreadable expression. Finally, he looked away to the
window, dropping his arms to bring a hand to his jaw. He rubbed his fingers along the defined edge. Thoughtful.

“No, it probably wasn't right to withhold my status from you. But I did, and I still stand by my reasons,” Sander said. He paced toward the window and away, making a slow circuit in front of her. “You have to understand that this doesn't happen every other day. It hasn't happened once in my lifetime until you. Every meeting, every date, every idea of romance is arranged. I know in advance who I'll be taking to dinner, who I'll be escorting to a party, who I'll be expected to kiss goodnight. Then along comes your haughty self, with your face slaps and your indignation. You didn't treat me different because you didn't know—and I enjoyed it. I liked goading you and pushing your buttons. You're not like the women I'm expected to court. And I'll freely admit—I wasn't looking further than a one time shot with you. Not at first. But you have this way about you. It grows on a person who appreciates a little rebellion along with beauty.” Sander glanced at her.

Expecting a diatribe something along these lines and hearing it outright were two different things. Enraptured by the stalking half circles he made, by the way his clothes fit and the sheer command of his presence, Chey could only stare and swallow down the sensation of sawdust in her throat. A full minute went by in silence. She sorted through how she felt compared to what he said. At the end of all things, however, the outcome never changed.

“All right. So you wanted to flirt and be flirted with outside the usual parameters. I can't blame you for that, not after what I've seen and heard. Mattias told me what it was like for you and at the time, it seemed so loveless. So...futile. I don't envy your titles, money and position when you can't even choose to be with someone you love. Or even like. Despite all this, Sander, it doesn't change the outcome. Sure, we can flirt and go canoeing and have our fling—but what then? Why risk heartache when we both know it's going nowhere?”

“You didn't strike me as the type of woman who gave up easily, or allowed someone else to run roughshod over you without a fight, that's why.”

“What does that mean?” She narrowed her eyes.

Sander swerved out of his languid cycle of figure eights and walked right up to her. He stared down, searching her eyes.

Chey had to crane her chin up another notch because he was so tall. Being this close to him made her heart pick up speed. It shortened the breath in her throat. She waited him out, almost afraid of what he might say.

“It means I want you to stay and fight. Stay and risk it. Throw caution to the wind because you think I might be worth the time and effort to get to know me better. It means, Chey, that I'm willing to take the system on if you're willing to honor your agreement to finish the four month contract my family signed you to. We need time to figure out if we're right, if
this
is right, and we have a perfect shot to do it if you'll change your mind about leaving.” He didn't touch her, just stared into her eyes like he might discern her answers before they left her mouth.

She knew what he was asking her to do. Sander thought they might have a chance, wanted to give them a shot at making it together and to hell with the odds. To hell with the rules and regulations and what his parents wanted. But he
was right—they did need time. Time for more canoe trips and dinners and talks about the future. They had to have a chance to date, to learn each other, to see if the spark would catch flame or if it would wither and die. It meant risking her heart, risking falling in love and then being rejected if he didn't feel the same.

It also meant allowing her a better look at what it took to be involved in the Royal family. Already she had her doubts. Chey wasn't bred for this. Maybe it would have been different if he was second or third in line to the throne—but this meant that one day, if it all worked out, she would be Queen.

Queen.
She couldn't wrap her mind around it. Couldn't picture herself in Helina's role. Did she even want that kind of life? Did she want the stress, the spotlight, feeling like she was a bug under a pin? And what of the system? Would she and Sander even be allowed to marry? Chey suspected it would be a lot harder than just deciding to tie the knot.

“Will you give me a day or two to think it over?” she finally asked.

“Of course. I'll hold off telling anyone else that you're quitting until I hear what you're going to do. I'll also make sure there are no shoots scheduled so you have time to recover.”

“Thanks.” She unfolded her arms and straightened from her lean. There was a lot to consider between now and the next two days.

“You have my number. Text me if you need anything. And remember not to leave the sight of the guards,” he reminded her.

“I won't.” She tried on a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, then stepped past him for the door. Chey didn't want to touch him because she fretted she might wind up in his bed for the night and that would cloud her judgement.

She exited without looking back.

Chapter Seventeen

When Chey walked into her bedroom, the first thing she smelled was food. Elise hovered over the cart, pulling off lids to platters of roast chicken, salad and steaming vegetables.

“Elise, you're a Godsend. That smells heavenly.” Closing the door, Chey toed off her shoes and approached the small table near the window.

“Mister Mattias had your dinner delayed until you were ready and said you might appreciate a hot bath. So I ran you one.” Elise transferred the plates to the table. “Wine, water or coffee, Miss Chey?”

“Wine, please. A whole glass.” She thought drinking straight from the bottle sounded fantastic, but didn't want to scar the staff with her heathen habits. She fell into a chair and slouched, rubbing her head with her fingers.

Elise uncorked the bottle and poured, then set the glass on the table. She peered down at Chey like a hen at a newborn chick. “If you would like the bath first, I can recover all this and wait.”

“Thanks. No, I'm all right. Just a lot on my mind.” She picked up the glass, still
feeling odd about people waiting on her in a private setting. At a restaurant, one expected it. Here, Chey felt conspicuous and strange.

“I'll just put the clean towels out and then I'll go,” Elise said.

“That would be great.” Chey picked at her food while Elise disappeared into the bathroom.

“It is terrible what happened to you at the ruins. I am so glad you are okay.” Elise's voice echoed off the tile.

“So am I. What a nightmare.” Chey set down her fork and picked up the wine again. She had several long sips.

“Do you have any injuries? Should I bring more ointment?”

“No thanks, Elise. I'm fine. Just a few minor scrapes. The scare was the worst part.”

“I've been to the tower room. Just once. I never wanted to go back. It is scary by itself, is it not?”

“It's not pleasant, I'll say that.” Chey set down the wine and propped her elbow on the table. She knew she needed to eat, but her appetite was waning quickly.

“There, everything is set out. Just ring if there is anything else, Miss Chey.” Elise paused at the door to smile.

“I will. See you in the morning.” Chey returned Elise's smile, though hers felt more hollow than she meant it to.

Elise departed with a quiet click of the latch.

Once she was gone, Chey picked at her food for another fifteen minutes. She managed to get enough down to stave off hunger pains over night and covered the rest with lids.

Lighting a few candles in the bathroom, she sank into the jacuzzi tub, flipped on the jets, and soaked for a while. Her mind raced with questions and suppositions, discarding one idea for another. It was maddening and disconcerting, the constant buzz of activity. She couldn't shut her thoughts down at all.

By the time she crawled out of the tub, she was wrinkled and her skin was pink. Still, her mind revolved around Sander and his request that she at least think about staying and giving them a shot to work it out.

Too restless to sleep, she pulled on jeans and a simple zip up, velveteen shirt in pink. After sliding on socks and shoes, she departed her room for a walk. Glad to see the hallway empty, she decided to head downstairs to the gallery and the portraits lining the walls. Passing several guards, she returned polite nods and wondered at something vague that kept niggling her mind. It was one of those things she couldn't pinpoint for the life of her yet persisted enough to pose a distinct distraction.

At least until she reached the gallery. It was a long hallway on the main floor with paintings of Ahtissari ancestors dating back centuries. All the Kings were on the left, the Queens and children on the right. Crossing her arms over her chest, she began meandering along the corridor, taking her time with her study of each one. The archways leading into parlors and libraries and other formal rooms were dark at this time of night, the guests of the party long departed.

Several feet from a dark sitting room, she heard the low thrum of voices.
Pausing, she cocked her head to see if she heard it again. Maybe she was imagining it. A moment later, the voices resumed. Taking a few steps closer to the doorway, she tried to make out the words. They were male voices, no doubt about that.

“So just
how
well did you look after her, anyway?” Sander asked with a note of curious caution.

Chey caught a gasp before it could slip free.

“Does it matter?” Mattias answered.

“It does if there are feelings involved.”

“She's a unique woman. I'm not sure she realizes her own appeal,” Mattias said.