A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

A Dinner Conversation

Silently, he opened the door and stepped into the main room of the house. For a split second, the inviting beauty of the scene made him feel completely disoriented. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, the lights on the beams high above were dimmed, and candles were lit on the coffee table, flickering on the crystal wine glasses Zayn had set out beside linen place mats. It might have been the wine glasses and candles that suddenly made Harry feel as if he was walking into a seduction scene, or perhaps it was the dimmed lights or the soft music playing on the stereo. Trying to inject a brisk, business like tone into his voice, he headed toward Zayn Malik, who was standing in the kitchen, his back to him, taking something out of the broiler. "Are we expecting company?"

Zayn turned and looked at him, an inexplicable, lazy smile sweeping over his face as he surveyed Harry from head to foot. Harry had the staggering, and impossible, impression that he actually liked what he saw, an impression that was reinforced by the way he lifted his wine glass to Harry in the gesture of a toast and said, "Somehow, you look adorable in that oversize sweater."

Belatedly realizing that after five years in prison, anyone would probably appeal to him, Harry took a cautious step backward. "The last thing I want to do is look nice for you. In fact, I'd rather wear my own clothes, even if they're not fresh," he said, turning on his heel.

"Harry!" he snapped, all goodwill gone from his voice.

He lurched around, amazed and alarmed by the dangerous swiftness of his mood swings. Harry took another cautious step backward as he stalked toward him, a wine glass in each hand. "Have something to drink," he ordered, thrusting a long-stemmed glass toward him. "Drink it, damn it!" He made a visible effort to soften his tone. "It'll help you relax."

"Why should I relax?" he countered obstinately.

Despite the stubborn lift of his chin and his rebellious tone, there was a tiny quaver of fear in his voice, and when Zayn heard it, his annoyance with him evaporated. He'd shown so much courage, such indefatigable spirit during the last twenty-four hours; he'd fought him so relentlessly that Zayn actually believed he wasn't very frightened most of the time. Now, however, as he looked at his upturned face, he saw that the ordeal he'd put him through had left faint blue smudges beneath his glorious eyes, and his smooth skin was decidedly pale. He was amazing, Zayn thought—courageous, kind, and plucky as hell. Perhaps if he didn't like him—genuinely like him—it wouldn't have mattered that he was watching Zayn as if he were a dangerous animal. Wisely suppressing the urge to put his hand against his cheek and try to reassure him, which would undoubtedly panic him, or to offer an apology for kidnapping him, which he'd definitely find hypocritical, he did something he'd promised himself he'd never bother to do again: He tried to convince Harry of his innocence. "A moment ago, I asked you to relax, and—" he began, but Harry interrupted him.

"You ordered me to relax, you didn't ask."

His prim reprimand brought a reluctant smile to his lips. "Now I am asking."

Thrown completely off balance by what sounded like gentleness in his voice, Harry took a sip of his wine, stalling for time, steadying his confused senses, while he stood only two feet away, blocking out his view of anything but him. It hit Harry suddenly that he'd evidently showered, shaved, and changed clothes while he slept ... and that, in a pair of charcoal trousers and a black sweater, Zayn Malik was far more handsome than he'd ever looked on screen. Zayn lifted his hand and braced it against the wall beside his shoulder, and when he spoke again, his deep voice had that same strange, compellingly gentle quality. "On the way here, you asked me if I was innocent of the crime I was sent to prison for, and I gave you a flippant answer the first time and a grudging answer the next. Now I'm going to tell you the truth simply and voluntarily..."