by Leslie North
Meetings had detained him for most of the day. But just in the past hour and a half, since returning to the office, he’d found utter radio silence on Annabelle’s end. And the longer he couldn’t make contact, the more he feared the inevitable: that she’d left Parsabad without telling him.
The mere idea made cartwheels dance sickeningly through his bones, like an evil circus on parade. If she’d left without saying goodbye, it wouldn’t just sting. It would register as a blow. He wanted to be right at her side, helping her confront this. Problem solving together.
After another unanswered call, he decided he’d leave work early and head to the hotel himself. Maybe she’d been packing, blissfully unaware of the ringing hotel phone and cell phone, or taking an extra-long shower. Maybe she’d been downstairs, eating dinner. Maybe she was actively boarding a plane for New York City.
Anxiety made him tense as he headed for the lobby of the office building. Her hotel was only a few minutes away by cab, but each minute dragged on, an eternal wait to find out. He gnawed on his lip in the back seat of the cab, barely registering the pedestrians and traffic flowing by him.
He scampered out of the taxi after shoving a few bills into the front seat, and jogged into the opulent lobby of the hotel. Creamy light shone over taupe tiles, and the glittering black front desk beckoned to him like an oasis.
“Excuse me.” He gripped the edge of the smooth fake-marble receiving desk. “I need to check on a guest. Annabelle Thomas. Is she available?”
The front desk clerk coolly navigated her computer, her face expressionless. After a moment, she said, “That guest has checked out, sir.”
Disappointment crashed through him. “Can you tell me when?”
“About an hour ago,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Yeah. Make Annabelle answer her phone. “That will be all. Thank you.”
Imaad turned to leave but wasn’t sure where to go. The sane choice would be right back to his office, where he would let Annabelle do her own thing, her own way, without his interference.
But that wasn’t what called to him, not by a long shot. He’d already defied his father today. Why not take it one step further?
Imaad toyed with his phone in his pocket while an idea burbled to life. And then he slipped it out, phoning his driver.
“I’ll need you to pick me up at the Parsa Hotel,” he said. “We need to go to the airport immediately.”
As soon as he hung up with his driver, he made a call to the Minarak International Airport. An automated greeting responded in perfectly-articulated Farsi. He pressed ‘0’ for the operator and as it rang he paced the area in front of the sliding doors of the hotel, occasionally tripping the sensor and making them whoosh open.
He gnawed at the inside of his lip until it bled, planning what he might say. How he’d come across as a sane person, and not someone to be written off as a lunatic.
When an operator answered, every thought blinked out of existence. He took a deep breath.
“Ma’am, this is Imaad Almasi, son of Sheikh Dawir Almasi.” He paused, waiting for recognition, some sign that his name-dropping plan might work.
“Yes, sir. How may I help you?” The operator’s voice softened. He was through the gate.
“I’m calling with an urgent matter. A business colleague of mine is inside the airport now, heading for a flight scheduled to leave for New York City.” He took another reassuring breath. “I need to have her detained. She cannot board that flight.”
The operator paused. “Sir, are you positive she has a flight leaving Minarak Airport today?”
Hell if he knew. But it was the only thing that made sense. “Yes. Her name is Annabelle Thomas.” He rattled off a few other pieces of information at the operator’s request, and then waited as she consulted a colleague.
“I’m going to transfer you to a gate agent,” she finally said. “I’ll see what we can do.”
Imaad was on hold long enough for his driver to show up. While easing into the backseat, the gate agent finally responded. Imaad quickly repeated the situation and reinforced that this matter was of utmost importance, a business-security matter.
They couldn’t know the real reason: that he was petrified at the thought of her leaving the country and never seeing her again.
The gate agent sounded unsure but ultimately conceded. “Get here as soon as you can, and we’ll have you meet her in a conference room. You can handle it from there.”
Imaad squeezed his phone in his hand after he hung up. Yes.
One step closer, even though the detention plan might seriously backfire. He could already feel her scathing confusion from miles away. But she’d forgive him—he hoped.
Just like he hoped the rest of his family would too.
Imaad dialed Omar, drawing one last deep breath. He hadn’t even thought to pack clothes for this impromptu journey. Annabelle had wiped every other thought from his mind.
“Brother. What are you up to?” Omar sounded lighthearted.
“Just getting into some serious trouble.” Imaad assessed the sleeve of his work suit. At least he’d have something nice for over in America. “You wanted me to buck our personal patriarchy, so here I am.”
“Oh, no. What is it?”
“I’m going to America with Annabelle. And I’m sorry, but you’ll have to field father’s ire for me while I’m gone. I’ll return as quickly as I can, I promise. But this is something I have to do.”
Omar let a long, ragged sigh. “This is my penance for giving you advice?”
Imaad grinned. “Something like that.”
“Fine. I’ll do my best. But please, just make sure this is worth it. Whatever you’re after, whatever the aim here is…”
Imaad swallowed a knot in his throat, nodding as he caught the dusky hues of sunset settling over Minarak. “It’s worth it. That’s the only thing I’m sure of.”
Annabelle was already tired when she reached gate A19 in the Minarak International Airport. Security always seemed to drain half of her life force; the emotional rollercoaster of wiggling out of her work arrangement here had drained the other half. Now she was left with fumes, barely able to carry her oversized purse on her shoulder…and somehow, bizarrely, already missing Imaad.
She collapsed into a chair at her gate, looking at the blend of faces waiting around her. Some American accents reached her. After a week in Parsabad, it felt like years since she’d heard another native English speaker. Imaad and his family were good, but their accents were so proper that she sometimes felt like she was communicating with a lesson book instead of a human.
Except for when they fucked. Imaad hadn’t been a lesson book there. He’d thrown the lesson book out, in fact, and written his own.
A shiver traveled through her and she fought another grin. What was there to be happy about? She was leaving that behind. Somewhere between her hotel and the airport, she’d made amends with the fact that she’d not only lost the deal, but lost her job. She had to consider herself unemployed now, to avoid any devastating emotional blowback. Hoping for the deal to go on and her father to be understanding was too dangerous.
She’d also allowed herself one concession: she’d find Imaad on Facebook once she got home. Just to check in on him, see how his life was going, find out how his business fared in the aftermath of her ruining everything. Maybe they could begin a correspondence. Chat a few times a week, even call each other on the phone. And then when he came to the US, they’d meet up and have an amazing dinner, followed by even more amazing sex. And then probably he could start coming to the US more often, and have a sort of home with her…
She blinked at the mauve swirls in the carpet. Was she imagining a future with Imaad?
Annabelle cleared her throat, reaching for her Kindle. It was time for some light reading. Anything to take her mind off the situation. And the man.
She checked her cell phone one more time—no new messages—and then settled into the funny
memoir she’d started three months ago but never finished.
Five minutes went by before a murmur on the overhead speaker informed her the gate agent was looking for her, that she needed to report to the desk. She waited for the lady to repeat the message before gathering up her things, brow creased severely, and hobbled over to the gate agent with her unprepared purse and laptop case.
“I’m Annabelle Thomas,” she said, trying to stuff the Kindle into its original slot. “Is there something wrong?” Fear snuck through the shadows of her mind—international travel always made her more tense than usual. Snafus could crop up anywhere, especially when visas were involved. Please don’t arrest me and throw me into Parsabad jail for a crime I didn’t commit.
“Miss, you’re going to need to follow these men.” The perfectly manicured gate agent gestured toward two brutish security guards behind her, both armed with rifles. Annabelle’s eyes widened. This had to be a joke. The equivalent of Parsabad Candid Camera.
“Um,” her voice stuck to her throat, “Why?”
The gate agent smiled apologetically. “There is an issue with your boarding pass. They will help you resolve it.”
Annabelle stared at the gate agent for a moment, her words rattling around inside her skull like the beans inside a maraca. There is no fucking way they are not letting me on that plane. “Will it take long? I need to be on this flight.”
The gate agent smiled again, her face devoid of real expression. “I can’t say, ma’am. You should follow them for now.”
Annabelle gripped the handles of her purse, looking back at the burly men. Two sets of steely eyes appraised her, and a shudder of indignation coursed through her.
“What if I say no?” She tried to say it politely, as if it were more of a hypothetical than a real option. She didn’t know much about Parsabad law when it came to defying airport officials.
“They’ll take you anyway,” she responded calmly.
“Okay then.” Annabelle headed toward the security guards, who made an abrupt about-face and led her down the terminal corridor, toward a small, unmarked door. She tried to prevent the onslaught of questions and worries and worst-case-scenarios from crippling her.
The guards led her down a narrow hallway that smelled like bleach and metal. Her heart raced as they wound deeper into the airport and then made a sudden right turn into what looked like a police interview room. A large window overlooked the room, where a desk sat with a chair on either side. The guards led her inside, pointing to a chair. From inside, she could see that the window appeared as a mirror. Great. So they probably think I’m a terrorist, and I’m on my way to the Parsabad prison system.
“Can anyone tell me why I’m being detained?” she asked the guards as they began to leave the room.
They looked back at her and one of them said something in gruff Farsi.
“Don’t you speak English?” she asked.
Another Farsi response came, and then both guards left the room, leaving her in an agonizing silence.
She groaned, dropping her bags on the desk, the solitary confinement acting like a match to the gas flame of her anxieties. How long would she be here? What was the next step? Why the fuck was she in here?
Annabelle took to pacing the room, gnawing on her thumb nail as she combed through possibilities. Maybe they found something in her passport. Did Parsabad have forbidden countries? It didn’t matter—the only place she’d been recently was Italy and Ireland, and nobody had any beef with those places. She stilled. But she’d been to Northern Ireland. She swung her head to look at the mirror. Was all of this because she’d gone to Northern Ireland? No way—Northern Ireland had been at peace for years now, almost two decades.
Annabelle rotated between pacing and sitting. Minutes felt like hours, though her phone told her only twenty minutes had passed. She heard a scuffle at the door outside.
Panic prickled through her, and she scrambled to standing. Anything could come through that door.
But the door didn’t open. She let out a terse sigh and then fished her phone out of her purse. She’d call Marian, let her know what happened. Her plane would be boarding in a half hour, and maybe she wouldn’t be out of here by then. She needed to have her friend start looking for a backup plan. Provided she was ever allowed out of the country.
Annabelle selected Marian’s name from the recent calls and pressed the phone to her ear. It never rang. She looked at the phone, finding an error message: Your phone must be out of airplane mode to make a call.
She gasped. So that’s why she hadn’t heard anything from Marian in so long. “Fuck.” She quickly swiped out of airplane mode, watching as the notifications dinged and shook the phone. One missed call from Marian, but then one, two, three…ten missed calls from Imaad in total.
Her mouth fell open. He’d been trying to get ahold of her…and she, the dolt, had been in airplane mode the entire time.
She stared at the phone for what felt like forever. Knowing that he’d reached out to her made her feel warm and fuzzy. Like maybe the thing that had been blossoming between them was something real, and not just a fantasy to be shot down whenever she indulged in it.
Maybe Imaad really could have a home with her in NYC.
The doorknob rattled and voices sounded from outside—urgent Farsi, like arguing. Imaad stepped inside a moment later, his face drawn, and Annabelle stood rooted to her spot, paralyzed by the tumult of contradicting emotions inside her.
“Annabelle.” He approached her slowly, as if he thought she might attack.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” She gripped her phone, struggling to piece together something that made sense. But nothing made sense. Not when she was in this airport prison cell and about to miss her flight home.
The relief she’d felt at seeing Imaad quickly segued into suspicion. He had you detained. He doesn’t want you to leave the country, so he made you miss your flight.
Anger roared inside her and she came to standing, her jaw tightening.
“Don’t tell me you were the one behind this detention,” she spat, gripping the edges of the table. “You can’t keep me in Parsabad, you know. I’m going home.”
“I know. This is all a bit different than I intended, but—”
“Why would you do this? Huh? What the actual fuck?”
“You wouldn’t answer my calls,” he said, flattening his palms on the desk, leaning toward her. “You checked out without even telling me. I couldn’t just let you leave like this.”
She was so angry she sputtered when she spoke. “Leave like this? You can’t stop me! I’m flying to America, Imaad! The choice is mine!” She balled her fists, stilling her hand from punching him in the face. What an arrogant prick. What an entitled piece of shit who already thought he could rule her life. And why? Because they’d been fake engaged for a week? This was bullshit of the highest order.
“I know!” His voice came out gruff, and the intensity quieted her. “That’s why I’m taking you myself.”
Silence filled the cell, broken only by her heavy breathing. “What?”
“I want you to go back,” he said, his neck flushed. “We’ll go on my plane.”
Annabelle swallowed hard, her anger still desperate for a release. “What fucking plane?”
“My private jet!” He shouted it, still caught up in the energy just as she was.
“God, you’re so irritating!” She pulled at her hair and stomped across the room for a second, and then the fog broke and she could think again. Irritatingly perfect. “Are you serious?”
Imaad came toward her, holding out his hands palms up, like it was a sign of submission. “Deadly serious. We’ll get there faster if we take my plane. Now come on.”
Annabelle eyed his hands, desperate to fall into his embrace. Only a half hour ago she’d been mourning the loss of him. Now she had an entire flight to bask in his company. She grasped his hand hesitantly, like the second-place winner afraid to cede the trophy.
�
��Fine. I guess I like that idea better.”
Imaad grinned, and he pulled her into his arms. “You’re hard to please, you know that?”
16
Imaad watched Annabelle watching their takeoff through the small window. She fascinated him far more than anything outside could, and besides, he could look out the window anytime. Annabelle was a far rarer gift.
She sighed, settling into the plush leather seat facing his. She sat rigidly, clasping her purse in her lap.
“You can relax, you know.” He propped an ankle over his knee. “We could even lie on the floor if we wanted. You can’t do that in commercial airliners.”
“I know.” She smiled briefly. “This is all just so much to take in.” She nibbled on her lip, avoiding his gaze. She’d carried a strange tension around her since boarding the private jet, one that he wanted to squeeze out of her in a hug.
Silence filled the cabin as the plane ascended into the sky. The pressure shifted, and Imaad swallowed a few times to get his ears to adjust.
“I just hate relying on people,” Annabelle blurted, fidgeting with the strap of her purse. “My father…your father…even you.”
Imaad smoothed his palm over his knee as he let her words sink in. “I’m not trying to endear myself to you.” Well, maybe a little, but it was the last reason on the list. “I just care for you, and I support your decision. I don’t think you’re beholden to me. I would never offer something with strings attached.”
Annabelle finally met his gaze, and the tenderness there nearly toppled him.
“I lost my mother when I was young,” he added more quietly. “I know what this must mean to you.”
Annabelle pinched her eyes shut and then unbuckled her seatbelt. She came over to him and crawled into his lap, nestling herself into the hollow of his legs, her forehead pressed against his chest. The warmth of her instantly soothed him, like a balm he hadn’t realized he needed.
“Much better,” he murmured, stroking her back. “This is where you need to sit all the time.”
