“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked, reaching for one of the bigger books and lifting it, holding it in his hands. “Do you find that answer predictable?”
“Well, let’s just say if you’d said ‘with cream and three sugars’ I’d have been surprised.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“On the contrary, I find predictability reassuring.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you in other ways.”
“Oh? Skeletons lurking in your closet?”
His grin made her insides tremble. He was too charismatic for words. “Some, naturally.”
“Oh?”
“How dull it would be if one could reach my age without a few secrets.”
“True,” she said, moving towards the kitchen. Only Samir stood between her and it, quite by accident. She moved towards him, her throat growing thick as she passed, the smile she offered him unusually tentative.
“So,” she rushed to fill the silence with noise. “What’s it like growing up royal?”
He made a tsking sound. “Isn’t it my turn to ask the questions?”
“I don’t know if we agreed to that,” she said with a tilt of her head.
“Your identity seems to be the mystery we must unravel.”
“Youneed to unravel,” she corrected, scooping ground coffee into the bottom of her trusty mokapot. “I know perfectly well who I am.”
“Tease.”
She laughed, unaware of the way the sound made him react, his eyes narrowing. “If you say so.”
She added boiling water, then placed the pot on top of the stove, flicking the gas to life.
“It was a serious question,” she said after a moment. “I’m curious. Indulge me?”
“You are curious, aren’t you,” he murmured. “You read widely on a huge array of subjects.” He looked over his shoulder at the coffee table.
“How do you know they’re not just decorative?”
“Do not take offence, but that is not particularly ornamental.”
She burst out laughing. “Ouch. My housekeeping skills are offended.”
“I rank housekeeping very low on the list of things I care about.”
“That makes two of us.”
His eyes held hers, really held them, for so long that it went beyond eye contact and turned into something much more intimate and personal and her pulse kicked up a gear, so she was aware of every nerve ending in her body.
“You’re avoiding my question,” she said, huskily, trying to bring them back to rational conversation. But his smile was too knowing for that, and when he moved away, towards the record player and records, the kitchen immediately seemed to grow cold. She concentrated on making coffee, only the occasional sound of records being pulled from the shelf, inspected, then returned, breaking the silence. It took a few moments only, and then she was pouring two steaming hot cups of coffee. She placed them on saucers and added a little plate of chocolates to the tray, then carried it into the lounge room.
He was busy loading one of the albums to the record player and hooking the needle in place. A moment later, the crooning voice of Jeff Buckley filled her apartment—it was one of her favourite tracks. She placed the tray carefully across three towers of books, balancing it with care. “My life is surprisingly normal. My parents made sure of that.”
“Oh?”
“My brother was raised to rule. My mother, in particular, wanted my life to be free of the burdens of public life.”