She stilled, relieved that he seemed to be telling the truth. The way that his nostrils were flaring and the vein was throbbing in his forehead, the reaction was just too genuine. Amir was as surprised and pissed as she was. Yet all of this was her fault too. She’d been swept up in passion, in his touch, and then she’d made a fool of herself for the whole planet to see.
It had to be all the stress from being demoted, all the fears of Jackson’s creeping presence. She let herself want something for once, just one thing with Amir, and now she’d ruined her reputation. As good as she’d felt last night, as much as the ecstasy had washed over her in unremitting waves, none of it was worth this.
She stumbled and fell into his arms, and again she was confronted with his scent, with the sandalwood and pure masculinity that he seemed to emit from every pore. Her heart was racing, but it had less to do with her fears and anger and more to do with what her traitorous body wanted her to do.
But she couldn’t do that again.
Her life had been based on loss and suffering, and something as harmless as a romantic fling abroad was turning out to be too much for both of them.
“Look,” he said, staring down at her with those intense amber eyes of his. “I’ve called my press agent. I’ve got damage control on all of that. Stay here with me, and we can work through all of this.” His hand reached out and threaded through her hair, and it was just a hint of the intimate caresses they’d shared just hours ago. “We can fix this, together.”
“I barely know you,” she admitted, even though the passion felt like more. She knew he’d revealed a big part of himself by talking about his lost sister. She’d opened up to him as well—she hadn’t expected to tell him about the investigation with Jackson. Fun was one thing, or so she’d been told, but there was more between them. Amanda couldn’t afford that. Holding her shoulders back, she glared back at the screen. “They’re calling me a whore, and frankly, blurred or not, if I saw some woman on a tape the way I see myself there, I’d probably think the same thing.”
“We can fix this.”
“No,” she said, pulling away from him. She felt anxious to collect her clothes from the bedroom. “We can’t. Besides, there’s nothing to fix.”
Chapter Eight
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Sinclair,” Harris stated, his tone as gravely as ever. Idly, she wondered how many cigars the man had smoked in his life in order to have achieved a voice like that. “I truly don’t. You were sent to Abu Dhabi to cover the opening of a casino. The next thing I know, I have every editor in the city calling to laugh in my face about how much life you’re living on the Life and Style beat.”
Amanda felt her cheeks flush with the shame creeping over her. “I know.”
“Good. Then can you explain what happened? Because I feel like an alien has taken over someone I care about.”
“It’s not like that.”
Harris shook his head and raked a hand through what was left of his thinning hair. “You’re one of the most promising reporters I have here. First, you rush to press without me, without consulting me all the way or letting me brace a legal team against Jackson’s onslaught. Then you take an assignment you couldn’t care less about and turn it into a sex scandal for the Sentinel.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve had the owners on the phone with me all day, Amanda. They’re beyond angry.” He shook his head again.
“I can’t even imagine,” she said, thinking of how awful everything had turned out. She’d been a fool not to think of cameras herself, to be so loose. “What’s the verdict?”
“You know what it has to be. You are an amazing journalist, but there’s no place for you here anymore, and I swear to God, Sinclair, that eats me up.”
“I know, chief,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. Head aching, she stood up and picked up her messenger bag. “I know what I did, and I can only take responsibility for that.”
“I knew your mother.”
Her heart stilled, and she turned back to look at him. “Well, DC is a small enough town. I guess you crossed paths with her at the Post.”
“No, I knew her well. We both came up as beat reporters here and were good friends,” he said, pacing a bit, huffing a little as he did it. “I never told you because I didn’t want to compromise our relationship or to have you ask me for favors.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“Other staffers might have said that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “The point is, you need to get your head screwed on straight. I don’t care about that affair. While it was foolish, it’s not that big of a deal. I mean, you need to get focused around danger. I watched your mother disregard the rules and it got her killed. I want to get Jackson as much as you do, but be smart. Alright? Keep working on it, and I’ll collaborate and help you. It will come out, but don’t risk yourself. I need you to keep yourself safe too.”
“I feel like I can’t do anything right,” she admitted. “A week ago, I had a career. Now I have a pink slip and I’m a laughingstock.”
“So?” he pressed. “You know the news cycle better than anyone. In two days the presidential nominee will make an ass of himself, and no one will remember. The one thing that matters is your story, getting the right version out, so just take care of yourself, kid, and keep e-mailing me. That’s what we need.”
She considered him then frowned. “You really did know my mom?”
“I did.”
“I bet she never did anything as dumb as I did with Amir.”
“She made her own mistakes. Just stay alive, kid, and then we can all breathe easy.”
“And nail that bastard?”
He grinned, an easy expression, but one so rare it shocked her. “That goes without saying.”
***
Three Months Later
“Javier, I promise I’m working on it,” she said, pulling out her notebook.
She was already ten minutes late and cursing herself for that. It had been hard enough to get Javier Alvarez to speak with her about what he knew of the cartels, but to be late to meet with a skittish source? That was foolish and unprofessional. Granted, that seemed to be her tune ever since she’d been swept away by Sheikh Amir Bahan in Abu Dhabi months ago, but it was no less true. Until today, she didn’t realize there was one odd problem, though; it seemed that none of her best button-down shirts fit like they used to. That made some sense, as embarrassing as it was to admit it. She might have binged on some ice cream as a form of therapy in all of this. But still, she’d also had a lot of mornings lately where she’d been too nauseated to eat. There were days when she’d barely been able to keep food down. It seemed that the minute she took a swallow of cereal she’d be racing to the bathroom.
Whatever the reason, none of her clothes had fit like she’d planned and she’d torn her closet apart finding something to look presentable down at the trendy El Salvadorian restaurant in DC. The chef there had escaped from the corruption down south and one of his brothers was feeding him information on the senator. He’d been one of her best anonymous sources in her first gutted article, and now she was pressing him again.
She hoped something else had come up over the months, that he had other leads within the DC community as well, maybe other people who were tired of it. Maybe even someone who’d go on record with her.
“I gave you everything I had, Miss Sinclair. I don’t want to do this anymore. Arturo can’t get any facts out to me. Yeah, he left that gang, but people are suspicious in his old neighborhood when he asks questions.”
Sighing, she fumbled for her pen. “I was hoping for better news. Frankly, the paper…all of it…the expose couldn’t come out fully because I didn’t have enough people who wanted to go on record with me. I was hoping you or Arturo might actually come out as sources.”
“That,” he said, his face going pale, “would be suicide. My brother would be shot, and that’d be the nicest form of e
xecution that the gangs could offer him. Me? I don’t want to get deported or find my visa in question.”
“But there must be something. Is there anyone else in your current neighborhood, anyone else in Washington who wasn’t ready to speak to me three or four months ago, but would be willing to now?”
Javier rubbed his palm over his face and looked away for a long moment. He waited so long to speak that she thought he might never reply. Finally, he eyed her again, his eyes like obsidian. “I’ll write down a few names for you…but I didn’t give you the names. Good luck, Miss Sinclair, because that bastard needs to pay.”
She gratefully waited for him to finish writing out three names for her to contact as soon as she could, but that was as long as she could dally. Almost as soon as he was done, a wave of nausea hit her again—something so strong that she almost lost her meager breakfast before she reached the bathroom. Launching into the ladies’ room, she found a private stall and wretched until she couldn’t wretch anymore. She was shaking, covered in sweat, and mopping at her mouth with a tissue.
“God, this is nuts.”
Then it dawned on her, this certain horror. She and Amir hadn’t used protection that night they had fooled around in the bathtub then the bedroom. Yes, she hadn’t had her period in three months, but she struggled with polycystic ovarian syndrome and she was rarely regular. Add in the nonstop stress of trying to find a new job and trying to live down the humiliation of the gallery opening, and it hadn’t seemed odd that she was irregular these last few months.
But now it was all too clear—the vomiting, the early morning nausea, and her weight gain. It was only about ten pounds, but…
But I can’t be. That’s impossible…okay not impossible…but it’s not like it happens every time. It was just one night.
She dug out her phone from her purse with shaking hands. It seemed like she was moving through molasses, all her actions slowed, but she finally pressed the dial button. The voice on the other line was reassuring and calm.
“Hey,” Margery said. “Did everything go well with Javier? You’re breathing so hard!”
“I…God, Margery. I think I’ve made a horrible mistake.”
***
“I thought you could use some tea,” she said, handing Amanda a steaming mug. Margery had come right over to her place, like the cavalry, and Amanda was eternally grateful for that.
On the way home from the restaurant, Amanda had purchased a pregnancy test. She’d even gone through with the actual test once Margery was over at her place. The stick in question was waiting to be ready on the bathroom sink. Okay, so it had been ready about twenty minutes ago, but she still hadn’t been able to get herself up from the couch to go over and see it. It was stupid. She could already tell from so many of her symptoms what it had to be, even if it seemed so nuts that one night could have such lasting consequences.
So final.
“Do you want me to check first?” Margery asked.
Would that even be better?
She found herself nodding, somehow feeling it might be easier. Hell, she would definitely be able to deny it if she didn’t see the plus sign with her own eyeballs. Holding the tea mug in her hands, letting the heat shift through her palms, Amanda felt adrift. She needed the heavy mug to ground her to a world that was pressing in on her. As she kept her head down, she heard Margery’s measured steps to the bathroom, followed by her sharp intake of breath.
Amanda didn’t need to be told what that meant, even though her friend was back a bit later, her deep brown eyes full of concern. Margery stood before her and put a hand on either shoulder. “Honey, you’re pregnant.”
The reporter set the tea down immediately, scared she’d drop it in her shock and scald her best friend. Blinking up at Margery, Amanda felt her head spin. It felt as if she’d pass out right then and there.
“Are you sure?”
“We can get another box. I can get like five different kinds. I know they’re not all accurate, and you’ll have to go to your doctor and double-check. They can do all those really accurate hormone tests and—”
Amanda chuckled ruefully. “Of all the times for you to nervously ramble, this is not exactly the best time,” she pointed out. “Trust me, Margery, I know about having to see my doctor. I just…”
Margery nodded fiercely, her head seeming like one of those bobblehead dolls. “Are you going to keep the baby?”
Amanda blanched. It was such a funny thought. Even as nervous as she’d been waiting for the result, feeling its inevitability, she’d never once thought of anything else but keeping her child. Part of it was the years of catechism ingrained in her, things she thought she’d mostly left behind when she’d stopped attending mass. But some of it was just the thought that, as fucked up as everything had become between them, as ugly as their end had been, the night she’d shared with Amir had given her some of the deepest happiness and pleasure she’d ever known. There had to be something good that came from that.
The baby might be the one good thing that their chaotic meeting and affair actually produced.
Almost unbidden, her hand covered her stomach as she shook her head. “I have to keep him.”
“Him, huh?”
“I know this will be a boy,” she said, her voice still shaking. “I just…I didn’t plan it and my life’s such a mess. I mean, I’m nominally working as a waitress like I’m back in college to keep my apartment and blogging because no real paper will hire me.”
“You can finally move in with me. Together we can get a bigger place and every kid needs a cool Aunt Margery,” she started. Then her friend narrowed her thoughtful eyes. “Except that’s so stupid of me. You’ll need to find some way to contact Amir, maybe even fly back to Abu Dhabi and go directly to the casino.”
“I can’t tell him,” she replied, standing and starting to pace before her friend. “Don’t you get that? I rushed out on him. We had an affair that embarrassed both of us and sent negative press after him for over a month in the middle of his grand opening.”
“So?”
“I can’t do that. How many times do you think sheikhs and other royalty have affairs? How many have children they never claim as heirs? Everything we did was a mess. It was not a mistake, but he probably doesn’t want anything to do with me after how I left it,” she finished, pacing a hole in the floor as she threw her hands up over her head.
“But he has a right to know,” she countered.
“I can’t try contacting him and then be blocked out or sent away. Even if I could reach him, he’d probably tell me, ‘So what am I supposed to do about it?’” Amanda wasn’t completely sure he’d be that cold in his rebuff, but she knew he would reject her…and their child. Amir had been more than clear that he didn’t want children, that it was nothing that would ever interest him. Showing up months later and being pregnant would hardly change his tune on that. “I just have to go this alone.”
Margery’s frown deepened and she opened her mouth, as if she were about to say one thing, but then shut her jaw again. Maybe she’d thought better of it. It was one of the things she loved the most about Margery. She was a good friend, always supportive, but also willing enough to give you room to make your own decisions and not lecture.
“Alright, but we so have to get you booked with a doctor and start apartment shopping. We need a place that has a good spot for a crib. I…we’ll make this work. Besides,” she said, reaching down and rubbing at Amanda’s belly (she had a feeling she needed to get used to that over the next few months), “I’m going to be the best aunt out there.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
***
She swiped at her eyes with her shirt sleeve. Margery and she both had set aside this Sunday for crib painting. It had taken two months to find and move into a suitable place. It was in Southern Maryland, out in the suburbs. Both of them had to take the metro into the city, but prices there were just too high for what they neede
d in the city proper. She was probably going to end up living the cliché life of a suburban mom with a minivan. But they had a space, and she was changing so much each day. At five months pregnant, she wasn’t huge, but she had at least twenty new pounds of weight in her breasts and her abdomen.
Some days, the changes made her feel awkward on her feet. Sometimes she imagined someone had just adhered a medicine ball to her stomach; her center of gravity was that compromised.
Reaching around to grip her aching lower back, she beamed at her best friend. “I think it’s really great.”
Margery nodded, although there was a shadow in her glance, something behind her look. Amanda had seen that a lot over the last eight weeks. Her best friend was good at not upsetting her, but she could tell that there were definitely things that Margery wished to say to her. When they talked about plans for her son, there was always just this second of hesitation. Margery still clearly thought that Amanda should have contacted Amir. But the woman hadn’t heard Amir’s pain over his sister, or his resolution to never have a family of his own. To reach out to him would invoke the ultimate rejection and pain, and she couldn’t bear that.
Her friend finally spoke. “I love the midnight blue. I think that was the right choice.”
“I know, right?” Amanda said, setting down the paint roller. “It really highlights the stars.”
Margery nodded. “It’s interesting.”
“What?”
“You chose such an Aladdin theme for your room. I didn’t expect you to do that. I guess I figured that you wouldn’t ever tell the baby about his father.”
“I don’t intend to tell him his father’s a sheikh, no,” she admitted. “But I do understand that he’ll realize there’s a different aspect to his heritage. He’ll realize he has a swarthier complexion. I want him to be proud of being Middle Eastern.”
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