Heir Untamed - By Danielle Bourdon Page 0,83

you. Most women would never admit that my brother sent you a dress and that the dinner with my family was a disaster. But not Chey Sinclair.”

Distracted by the glimpse of his chest past the few undone buttons of his white shirt, Chey lifted her gaze to his when he came to stand right in front of her. He exuded casual sexuality coupled with a regal mantle that had been missing at the cabin. Or had it? Perception was a funny thing. Maybe he'd worn it all along and she'd been too distracted by his sheer sense of presence to notice. In a giant hall full of staring portraits and gilded accents, Sander seemed larger than life. He dwarfed the space with his predatory charisma and incisive stare.

“It was. A disaster, I mean. The King all but ignored me, The Queen interrogated me and if looks could kill, I would have been dead on the floor thanks to Natalia. Maybe Viia, too.” Now that she thought about it, half the room had been upset at her presence.

“Interrogated you about your lineage?” Sander guessed.

“Yes. I made the gross mistake of mentioning miscarriages in my ancestral past.” She quirked her mouth and eyed Sander closely. Would that matter to him, too? It was his job, of a sort, to carry on the family line.

Sander's expression waned, then turned wry. “I can imagine how well that went over.” Leaning into her, he stretched an arm and set his glass on a small half table against the wall.

Chey resisted putting her hands on his hips, or his sides, but she gave in to the desire to take a deeper breath while he was close. The masculine scent of his skin and cologne tantalized the senses. Looking at him from under the veil of her lashes, she expected him to steal a kiss.

He didn't. Sander, though watching her like a hawk, leaned back to his original position and kept his hands to himself.

“She's never going to approve of this,” Chey whispered.

“No, she's not,” he replied honestly. “You have a lot to think about. What you've been exposed to so far is only a fraction of the machinations and turmoil that go on around here. I won't lie—sometimes, this will not be easy. Even if we manage to get past the obvious obstacles, you'll be expected to gain citizenship here, learn the language and customs, live here at least ninety percent of the year and take on all the responsibilities of your position.”

Chey hadn't considered citizenship or living arrangements or any of that. It was overwhelming.

“To start with,” she guessed.

“To start with, yes. There is a lot more.”

“I never did thank you,” she said out of the blue.

“For what?” He cocked his head.

“Earlier. In the tower. Thank you for showing up when you did.”

“I saw you leave, like I mentioned, and decided to follow. I knew you wouldn't be going out at that time of the evening, in this weather, unless something happened.”

“It occurs to me that they must have been watching us the whole time. That day we visited the castle...they knew.” Once again, Chey had a niggling feeling that she was overlooking something. Her brow furrowed in thought.

“I'm sure. The tale that goes along with the tower is infamous around here, so it probably wasn't difficult to guess that's why we went.” He paused, then asked, “What is it?”

She glanced at his eyes. “I don't know. I keep getting the sensation that there's something I'm overlooking. A little niggling feeling that I can't get rid of.”

“And you can't pinpoint it?”

“Not really. I guess I'll remember when I'm supposed to remember.”

“Maybe.” He sounded thoughtful. “Do you want me to walk you to your room?”

“No. I'm going to finish my perusal of your ancestors then head up.” There were so many guards around that Chey wasn't worried of an attack in the castle.

“I'll see you tomorrow, then. Good night.” Sander hovered close, then, after a quick smile, headed the opposite direction.

Chey wondered if he was withholding his attention to make her want it more. And it was working, the bastard. She was sorry she hadn't reached out. To touch, to kiss, to...something. Any kind of contact was better than none.

After he was gone, Chey turned to the hallway. Many pairs of painted eyes seemed to follow her every move. If she'd been of a superstitious nature, she would have thought the ghosts of Sander's ancestors were weighing and judging her, deciding if she would do justice