by Loye, Trish
Movement drew his attention.
Sarah stood in the door to her bedroom. She wore an ankle-length dress with long sleeves. The deep red color emphasized her lustrous skin. A matching hijab in swirling reds covered her dark hair, giving her an air of mystery. He knew what her hair looked like, yet he desperately wanted to see it against the red of her dress. Her dark eyes looked luminous with whatever makeup she’d used.
Dylan stood and walked to her, pulled by the allure of her. “You’re completely covered up, and yet…”
Her eyebrows rose. “And yet?”
“You look beautiful.” And she did: the dress wasn’t tight, but it fit her well, showcasing her petite form in the deep fire of color. He wanted to peel her out of it. It drove him a little mad not to see any part of her.
She smiled and he wanted to kiss those lips. “Thank you, but I’m not dressing for you. This is for the other women. They’ll expect me to be festive.”
“Well…” He gazed at her. “You do look festive. But don’t you have to wear that face veil tonight? How will you eat?”
She laughed. “My friends never believed in the niqab. They only wear it in public when they’re forced to.”
He hadn’t heard her laughter nearly enough. “You know, we could postpone this celebration.”
“No,” she said. “It’s the only night we can do it.”
He didn’t understand. “But we’re not really married. It’s okay if we don’t actually celebrate our fake wedding, you know.”
She turned away and went to the kitchen. “It’s dark,” she said. “But it still seems too dangerous to move the body.”
Dylan frowned. She was changing the subject. He’d let her and then circle back around to her need to go tonight.
He glanced back at Jalila. “I don’t like leaving her here alone. But I’m definitely not leaving her alone with a dead body in the house. What if she stumbles upon it?”
Sarah glanced down at her dress and grimaced.
“I can carry the body myself,” he said, and added teasingly, “I live to serve at your whim. No need to dirty your hands with the man you killed.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You live to serve me? I think I like the sound of that.”
He couldn’t help it; he stepped closer and trailed a finger over the soft skin of her cheek. “Let’s skip dinner and I’ll show you exactly how I’d like to serve you.”
Her eyes widened and her breath caught. His heart beat hard in his chest.
“Qobla?” Jalila called from the living room.
“Keep watching TV, kid,” he said with a smile.
“Tee Vee!” She turned back to her show.
Sarah backed away, shaking her head. “This can’t happen again.”
Dylan frowned. “What can’t happen? Us?” She was running from him again. “Why are you so worried about us being together?”
She scowled. “We’re on a mission.”
“I realize that.” He crossed his arms and regarded her. “And what about after the mission? What then? When we get back stateside, are you telling me that there’ll be nothing between us?”
She lifted her chin and he knew. Fuck. His stomach churned as he waited for the words.
“There’s nothing between us. Now or when you get back.”
“You’re coming back with me.”
“That’s not important right now.”
“The hell it isn’t.” He wanted to shake some sense into her.
“No,” she said backing away again. “We’re talking about us. You think we have a relationship. We don’t. We had sex; that’s it.”
“It was more than sex.” He would not let her deny what they had. “I’ve had sex before. What we have is explosive. It doesn’t happen like that for everyone.”
She compressed her lips and shrugged. “So we have chemistry. It doesn’t mean we should be together.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “What are you so afraid of? Why do you keep pushing me away?”
She looked at him with cold eyes. “Maybe I just don’t like you.”
He stepped back, the blow of her words like a punch to the gut. Had he been forcing himself on her? Did she really not like his company? He ran through memories of their times together.
She had pushed him away at almost every turn. Sure, she’d liked sex with him, but she had fought against any kind of closeness with him.
Fuck. He really was an idiot.
“My mistake. I’d thought we were friends.” He had just seen what he’d wanted to. He needed to get out. To process this alone. “I’ll get rid of the body. See if you can distract Jalila.”
Sarah opened her mouth; her eyes held regret.
“Don’t.” He shook his head. “Don’t lie to me anymore.”
He left her with Jalila and went into the bedroom. He heaved the body wrapped in the rug onto his shoulder.
After a quick glance to make sure Jalila wasn’t looking—Sarah had her attention diverted—he checked the back alley.
Deserted and full of shadows. He slipped into one, holding his burden. He tried not to think, not to lose focus as he slipped from one alley to another, keeping to the dark as much as possible.
When he was about four buildings away, he heaved the body into a dumpster before jogging back to the apartment. When he stood outside the door, his hand didn’t touch the knob. He didn’t want to see Sarah. Nor did he want to go to this stupid dinner tonight to celebrate a fake marriage to her.
Fuck. He wanted a drink. And he wanted out of this fucked-up city. Why the hell had he stayed behind? Sarah Ramirez didn’t need his help. Hell, she’d told him that dozens of times. And he hadn’t listened.
Fuck this. He wasn’t going to be some wuss who mooned over a girl. Sarah was great in bed, but a fucking ice queen out of it. She’d made her decision. He would move on, starting now.
He would play out this dinner tonight and be the best fucking husband, and show her what she was missing out on. And he’d be Mister Professional, since that’s what she cherished so much.
Time to get a grip.
He opened the door. A small part of him hoped he could lie to Sarah as well as he was lying to himself.
* * *
The movie had finished, so Sarah distracted Jalila with crazy eights. They knelt on the floor by the coffee table.
“You look beautiful,” Jalila said.
“Shukraan.”
Jalila left her cards and came around the table to her. “Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your makeup.”
What? She rubbed under her eyes. Wetness touched her fingers. She bit her lip. She had no right to cry. She’d made the best decision. Telling Dylan she didn’t like him had finally gotten the message through. She didn’t want a relationship. She should be happy right now.
She rubbed her fingers on her dress. This was for the best. Better to end it now.
“Will you be okay here by yourself?” she asked Jalila. “We’re only a few houses down. And we won’t be late.”
“I’ll be okay,” she said. “Why did Dylan make you sad?”
“He didn’t.” Sarah stood. “I need to pack up some kleicha to take. Would you like to help me?”
Jalila nodded. “But what did he say that made you sad?”
“I’m not sad.” She forced a broad smile. “I must have gotten something in my eye.”
“My mother said that it’s okay to cry when you’re sad.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’m not sad. I’m happy.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
Sarah walked to the kitchen and got out a cookie tin decorated with swirls of gold paint. “I’m going to celebrate my fake wedding,” she muttered to herself in English, filling the tin with her kleicha cookies. “With a man who now hates me. How could I not be happy?”
Jalila frowned as she tried to decipher what Sarah had said. “I’m happy,” Jalila said at last. “Because tomorrow we get Besma.”
Sarah didn’t turn, just cont
inued to fill the tin with cookies. She didn’t want the girl to see her face. She prayed Besma would be in the same place and not married off to some fighter, where they had no way of tracking her down in time.
She took a breath and finally turned. “We will try to rescue Besma tomorrow,” she said softly. “But even if we don’t, you will leave the city with Dylan.”
Jalila’s eyes widened, and then her chin lifted. “I won’t leave without my sister. You can’t make me.”
“Don’t do this, Jalila. I want to see you safe.”
The girl crossed her arms and tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t care. I won’t go without my sister. You promised.”
Sarah held up her hands. “I promised to try, Jalila. If they’ve moved her, then it will take too long to track her down. I just want to prepare you that you might have to leave without her.”
“I won’t!”
“Keep your voice down, Jalila. We’re not out of danger yet.”
Jalila stamped her foot. “No! You promised you’d get her out.” The tears overflowed her eyes and tracked down her cheeks. “You promised.”
The look on Jalila’s face reminded her of all the promises that had been broken to her when she was a child. When a family who had promised to keep her sent her back because she’d let her anger control her and gotten into too many fights, or ripped apart her room too many times.
Darkness would descend on her when she’d spot the social worker at the door, a whirlwind of pain and fear coalescing inside her. She’d hated being at the mercy of others’ choices, of having no say in what was happening next, of thinking no one cared.
And now she was making another child feel the same way.
“We’re going to try,” she repeated, her heart breaking for the girl in front of her.
Jalila shook her head and her breath hitched. “You promised.” She ran to the basement door and thudded down the steps.
Sarah went to the basement steps. “I’m sorry, Jalila,” she called.
“Leave me alone!”
The back door opened and Dylan appeared. There was no emotion on his face. No friendliness, no anger and certainly no heat. She hadn’t realized how much emotion he had in his eyes when he looked at her until it was all gone.
He cocked an eyebrow. “I see you’re cutting all your ties.”
Her face flushed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You figure it out. I need to change before we go play happy couple.” He went to Rakin’s bedroom and shut the door.
Fine. This wasn’t a bad thing, she told herself. She didn’t need attachments. They interfered with the mission. And this was just another mission.
No matter how twisted up inside she was.
* * *
Dylan knocked on the door to Amirah’s house. Sarah stood beside him, wearing her abaya over her dress and a face veil, even though it was only a short walk. Neither of them wanted to be picked up by a random hisbah on their last night, so she’d worn it willingly.
She held a cookie tin. On the way over, she’d explained that it was considered rude to show up without a gift. And the type of cookies she had were Amirah’s favorites.
Not that he cared. He just wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. How the hell was he going to survive a night of happy small talk in Arabic? He clenched his jaw. In essence, this was the easiest part of the mission. He had to sit, smile, and eat food. Instead, he wanted to punch something.
Fucking get a grip, Dylan.
The door opened. Amirah and her husband stood there. “As-salamu alaykum,” her husband said.
Dylan nodded. “Wa-alaikum salaam.”
“Welcome. I’m Fouad,” the man said in Russian.
Dylan’s eyebrows lifted. “You speak Russian?”
Fouad nodded. “Just enough to be dangerous.”
Dylan forced a smile. Great, now he had to make small talk.
Amirah wore a dark-green dress and black hijab. She greeted Sarah with a hug. She nodded at Dylan without meeting his eyes and he nodded back. “Come in, please,” Fouad said in Russian. “Our other guests are already here.”
A man in a black suit, with a dark kufi cap and a neatly trimmed beard, smiled at them. Beside him stood a woman in a purple dress and a deeper purple hijab. Fouad introduced them as Hafiz and Mihad. These were more of Sarah’s friends. She hugged Mihad while he shook Hafiz’s hand. She looked like nothing was wrong. Completely professional.
A professional liar who lied to everyone. Something he’d known about her, but had refused to see.
The women went into the kitchen and he waited with the men in the living room. They sat and Amirah came with a tray of coffee. She poured them each a cup and then left. He sipped the strong coffee and focused on the positive. He was warm, dry, and relatively safe. All good things not to be taken for granted as a special ops soldier.
The home was a mirror image of theirs, though they’d put a dining table in one end of the living room, near the kitchen. He could hear the women laughing in the kitchen about something. His gut churned as he heard Sarah’s laugh. Something he hadn’t heard a lot of. He wondered whether she was acting now.
He sat on a threadbare but clean sofa. The two other husbands sat across from him in matching chairs the color of rust.
“So, Amirah tells me you’re a soldier,” Fouad said in Russian. He turned to the other man and spoke in Arabic.
“Da.” He sipped his coffee.
Hafiz nodded. Fouad crossed his legs and then uncrossed them. Hafiz tapped a finger on his leg. The women’s laughter echoed through the rooms.
Fuck, this was going to be a long night. What he wouldn’t give to be in his bird now, swooping through the dark sky, maybe even chasing down some tangos. What was his team doing?
A clatter of dishes drew his attention to the table. The women were laying the trays of food out. Delicious smells of lamb, garlic, and oregano scented the air. His stomach rumbled.
It wasn’t long before the women called them to eat. He was pointed to a chair beside Sarah. The men sat on one end of the table while the women occupied the other. He sat across from Hafiz while Fouad took the head of the table to his left.
He understood that men and women didn’t mingle usually with the opposite sex, but in these small houses they made do with what they had.
“We’re a modern couple,” Fouad explained. “We like to eat at the same time.”
Sarah walked into the room, her smile in her eyes until she saw him. As she walked to her chair, the emotion drained from her face. She lifted her chin, almost as if she were getting ready for a fight. But he didn’t want to fight. She’d already landed the worst blow. What did she have to defend herself from? His unwanted friendship?
His hands curled into fists under the tablecloth.
Sarah sat beside him and leaned over, touching his fist gently. “Relax,” she whispered in his ear. “Smile. This is a wedding feast, not a funeral.” Then she straightened and said something too quickly in Arabic for him to catch. Everyone laughed.
He clenched his teeth, and knew his smile was little more than a grimace, judging from Mihad’s wide eyes. He focused on his plate, listening to Sarah speak to the other women.
She played the part of new bride very well, even throwing in a giggle. It pissed him off. She was such a damn good actress. It was what made her a great covert agent. But had she been acting with him? His gut twisted, because he didn’t know.
But really, what did it matter? She’d made her feelings known. They’d had a night of great sex, or so he’d thought. And now they just needed to get through the next twenty-four hours. He’d speak with Blackwell when they got out of this shithole. He never wanted to work this closely with her again. He needed to be able to trust his teammates and Sarah Ramirez was a loner and wildcard who did what she thought was best without consulting anyone else.
He forced himself to relax. He wasn’t going to dwell on this. He had to get through this meal a
nd then plan the op for tomorrow. Sarah was doing her job and now it was time he did his. He would play the part of happy groom.
The conversation in Arabic swirled around him. He caught the odd word or phrase. Enough to know they spoke about cooking. Time to start playacting.
“Are you speaking about your cooking, darling?” He spoke in Russian, but he emphasized darling so Fouad would hear it.
“Da.” Fouad smiled indulgently at his wife. “The women are speaking about how they pulled this feast together so fast.”
Sarah eyed Dylan warily, though she kept a half smile on her face. “Did you want to say something?”
“Why don’t you tell them where you learned to love cooking?” he said.
It was an innocent question, something she could tell the truth about without being too specific. Would she lie anyway, though, because she was so used to it?
Anger simmered in his gut. He shouldn’t expect the truth in a situation like this, but he still wanted it. He wanted her to tell him something real.
Sarah frowned briefly, but then Fouad translated his request into Arabic so the others would understand. Dylan raised his eyebrows and nodded. He wished he understood Arabic better, but Fouad translated her words into Russian for him, his voice low and soft.
“I learned to love cooking from my grandmother,” she said, while looking directly into his eyes.
Her grandmother. Abuela.
He went still, forgetting the others. He watched her intently, trying to discern whether she would tell the truth to him or not.
“I would come home from school and she would always be in the kitchen, baking or cooking or stewing something.” She averted her gaze and stared at her plate. “She was always there, ready to put me to work chopping something, but always listening to me. She listened to me no matter what else was going on. I was…important to her.”
Something in those words caught his attention. Her gaze flicked to his and then away. A bright smile came over her face as she turned to the others. “She was a wonderful woman and a wonderful cook.”
