Offence?
There had been nothing remotely offensive about that night. It had stayed with James for weeks now. An offence might have occurred if the seduction hadn’t been so mutual. James could very well have pointed out that Leila had been a very willing participant in the supposed downfall of her country, but he chose not to make this salacious comment.
Instead he shrugged Zayn off in one easy motion and told him a few other home truths—that Zayn was positively biblical. When Zayn warned him never to repeat what had happened, nor to let it out in the press, James merely laughed in his face and told him that he didn’t need the publicity. That here in New York the Chatsfields were royalty.
Fighting down some back alley was an experience James did not need and so he walked away from it.
Winded from the fight, he would not let Zayn see that and only when he got onto the street did he take a moment to get his breath.
His hands went to his pocket, checking for his wallet and keys, but instead they closed around a tube of lip balm and his mind went straight back to Leila.
A princess!
Despite his nonchalant responses to the threats, James was starting to realise the enormity of what he had done.
James headed for home, to his luxurious penthouse that overlooked Central Park, and he eyed the damage in the mirror.
There were finger marks around his neck, a bruise to his eye and the size of the lump on the back of his head probably meant that he should get checked out by a doctor.
Instead James poured himself a whisky and lay on the bed, pondering his next move.
He picked up his phone to check, and no, she hadn’t called him.
Leila was the one woman who didn’t.
He’d thought her a journalist, or that it might be a set-up by Isabelle. Instead she was a princess and her family was clearly incensed by what had taken place. He just hoped she was okay and that he’d been the sole receiver of Zayn’s fury.
Why would she have told her brother? He hoped to God she wasn’t pregnant, but she had been on the pill—James had seen them for himself. James was quite certain from Zayn’s fury that, had he got the precious princess pregnant, then he’d have been told about it, just before he took his dying breath! He lay there brooding, wondering why Leila would have told her brother what had gone on between them. The more he thought about that night, the clearer it became to him that Leila had walked into that bar with one thing on her mind. She’d used him, perhaps, to get out of marriage. No doubt the Al-Ahmars wanted her kept a virgin.
James lay there, angry at her, used by her, hard for her.
Five lots of flowers!
He could imagine her rolling her eyes when she took the deliveries.
Loser.
Well, he wasn’t going to spend time looking over his shoulder, waiting to see what sort of further punishment Zayn had in mind for him.
He’d wasted enough time over Leila, waiting for her to call.
James pulled out his case and he thought of all the women he hadn’t been with since that one night. He didn’t like that he had become so pensive, didn’t like how hung up he was on Leila.
He took out a shirt; it was the one he had worn that night and her exotic scent still clung to it. James buried his head in it for a moment and inhaled her. He was hard for her still.
Time to take care of that, James decided.
But rather than returning to the bed and his memories as he had these past weeks, he tossed the shirt back to the floor of the wardrobe and packed his case and decided on a return to France and the snowy slopes.
There was still some of the screwing season left after all!
CHAPTER FIVE
AS HANGOVERS WENT, this was a particularly bad one.
James sat on the terrace of the ski resort behind dark glasses and took a very welcome sip of strong, sweet coffee as he eyed the magnificent view.
He looked over to the black run that he would hurl himself down later.
At least it would clear his head.
Last night had been a particularly heavy one. Some idiot had hired a flash mob to take over the bar to assist in his wedding proposal. The man had clearly needed every assistance because the poor woman had, to James, looked as if she wanted to run.
Without the onlookers, James was quite sure that she would have said no to him.
Instead James had watched as the man had dropped to his knees and asked her if they could return here next year on their—wait for it, James thought— honeymoon!
‘How romantic,’ a leggy blonde woman beside him had said.
How awful, James had privately thought, though he hadn’t said that. Instead he had bought Longlegs a drink.
And another.
He was like a repeat prescription, James thought as he sat there recovering the next morning.
He resisted opening the American newspaper that had been pre-emptively placed on his table, for usually he requested one.