by Hana Sheik
Sharing the pain of coming second to his father had felt natural. He had known Amal wouldn’t judge him. And she hadn’t—even when she’d attempted to get him to reach out to his father and mend the broken father-son bond. She had never forced his hand. Never pushed her unwavering value of family onto him. With her, he had trusted that his thoughts and heart were safe.
At least he had thought she understood.
He set his jaw, mulling over her later rejection, tripping on the flaring hurt it still inflamed in him. She hadn’t been able to accept his indifference toward his father’s death. And he hadn’t been willing to settle on ending his grudge without the promise of her love.
None of that mattered now. He wouldn’t commit the same mistake again. He couldn’t chance his sanity a second time.
“A private investigator would help me track them down.”
Manny pushed himself up to stand, compelled to change position. He couldn’t sit there under the microscope of her discerning gaze. Amal had a knack of bringing to light the secrets in him. And he didn’t want to regret telling her something he wasn’t prepared to share.
“I’ll hire an investigative firm. Then it’ll be a matter of what I do when they’re found. I’m not sure I want to meet them—especially after all this time. We’ve lived separate lives.” And why ruin the unspoken arrangement they had? “I’ll have to consider my choice very carefully,” he said.
Amal swiped her fingertips over a napkin and shifted in her seat to fully face him. “Does your mother know?”
“She doesn’t,” he answered, adding, “And I’d prefer you didn’t tell her.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
He nodded. “I appreciate your discretion.” Looking at the sumptuous feast before them, he said, “It’s safe to say I wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was. I’ll head out and leave you to finish your lunch.”
Amal parted her lips, looking for all the world like she had something to say to him, but then she closed her luscious mouth and bobbed her head.
With her silent permission, Manny strode away from her. He didn’t stop to look back, just focused on reaching his suite next door and being far away from Amal’s catastrophic influence on his emotions.
CHAPTER FIVE
“YOU LOOK READY to run.”
Manny made the observation the next day, after watching Amal discreetly. She had been distant at breakfast...aloof during the car ride to the hospital. Now she looked as washed-out as the walls in the large private room they’d been immediately escorted to once he had given her name. Ashen with fear of the unknown and unexpected.
He knew it because he’d seen himself appear just as leery before. Right after she’d rejected his proposal. He hadn’t been able to trust anyone. The distrust had extended to all his choices. For weeks he’d questioned the simplest decisions that had once been easy. Working out of his home had been his only option until he’d been able to look at himself without wanting to punch out a mirror.
He still didn’t know what angered him most: the fact that he had acted so pathetically following Amal’s rejection, or that he’d allowed himself to love so fiercely at all. Because he had loved her. So very much. Enough to go against his characteristic behavior and buy a crazy expensive diamond that had been nowhere near her worth to him.
She’d done that to him.
Only her.
Now, seeing her close her eyes, breathe shallowly and generally appear distressed, galvanized him into action. He switched seats, sealing the space between them. Nudging her with his leg rewarded him with her eyes opening and her attention falling on him. She even gasped lightly, taken aback. Clearly she hadn’t expected him to make direct contact, to be as near to her as he was now.
“Did you hear me?” he asked, surprising himself as he pushed his face closer to hers. “Take deeper, fuller breaths. It’ll help.”
She did as he advised. Soon her breathing had evened out and a rosiness had returned to her complexion. If he could get her to maintain this improvement when the doctor arrived they’d be solid.
“Remember to ask questions,” he said.
Her thigh was close enough for him to imagine her body’s sweet warmth. His arms weighed heavily with the desire to hold her. Comfort her with contact. Very personal contact. The kind of contact he couldn’t allow himself to indulge in respectfully.
Clearing his throat lightly, he suggested, “Squeeze any information you believe to be helpful from this opportunity. Grasp it for what it could be worth.”
“I don’t think the doctor will be telling me anything new.”
“Then you’ll walk away with a peace of mind and zero regrets.”
She gifted him a small smile. “I guess I have no choice but to see it through...”
The pitch of her voice at the end was a last-ditch effort to leave the five-hundred-dollars-a-night hospital room before the doctor joined them. But Manny saw it—he saw her—and acknowledged her unspoken fear of disappointment.
“You always have choices, Amal.” Her name rolled off his tongue, gruff with his fascination for her. “If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Even if this visit might be good for me?”
He shoved his nerves down with a forced swallow. “Yes,” he said at last, “because having a choice is your fundamental right. If I didn’t give you that—if you felt like you’d been brought here and held against your own will—you’d never forgive me for it. Perhaps even resent me for it.”
“I wouldn’t...” she demurred.
“You would.”
He held firm to that conviction, remembering how, given the choice to be with him, she’d spurned his love instead. Somewhere, that Amal was locked away in the woman before him. For all he knew she was prowling beneath the surface of amnesia, lurking ever closer and ready to strike him at his weakest and most unsuspecting moment.
One day I’ll let my guard down...
And that was the possibility that froze his muscles and cooled the sizzling desire in him to a manageable, albeit uncomfortable state. He had to be careful. One slip and he’d be kissing goodbye to what he viewed her amnesia as: a get-out-of-jail-free card. To be more specific, a chance to dodge the awkward debrief they should have had after his marriage proposal and her rejection.
It had been like this yesterday, too. Right after he’d enlightened her about his father’s second family. He’d been edgy around her. Nervous that she’d recall her rejection of him and push him away again. Make him feel he wasn’t worthy of her. Not that he felt he was, but he’d hoped he wasn’t a lost cause to her either.
In a twisted way, he found himself aligning Amal with his father. Like his father, she seemed to have judged him as beneath her. He’d come second in affection to his father and, similarly, Amal didn’t see him as worth her love. She hadn’t desired to bind herself to him. And yet, despite the fierce bitterness in him, he couldn’t bring himself to hate her. Not the way he hated his father.
Amal shifting beside him planted him in the present once more.
“I believe you’d talk to me and successfully convince me to stay. Just like you talked me into coming to Addis Ababa,” she said.
Amal’s oud perfume grew stronger when she leaned into him. The sweet balsamic notes of her choice of fragrance curled under his nose. She was close enough for him to count the few and nearly imperceptible brown freckles sprinkling her cheeks.
She touched his forearm and the muscles under her lightly pressing fingertips bunched and flexed. Manny reacted defensively, isolating the parts of him that were most affected and shutting them down as best he could. In short, he transformed himself into a living statue. He breathed, but he felt as minimally as possible, and he fought back against the sensual attack.
She licked her lips, whether consciously or not he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop ogling her slick
ly glossed mouth. Her dusky pink lips screamed sweet innocence to him as much as they made him want to lean in and satisfy his darkly obsessive pining.
One kiss, he vowed. One kiss and he’d be cured of his craving for her.
“Mansur...” she said breathily, invitingly.
“Amal...” He growled her name low, losing total control for a blinding, bewildering few seconds.
The brisk knock on the door pried them apart. A second and a heartbeat more and they’d have been locking lips. He knew it to be a fact. Neither of them had demonstrated restraint. And he’d seen it: her echoing desire. He wouldn’t have faced resistance in stealing a kiss.
The knocking that had halted what might have been either their salvation or their destruction started up again.
For a moment, Manny forgot where they were. Right—the hospital room. White walls and periwinkle wainscoting. A large bow window, with picturesque views of Addis Ababa and a shelf where an abundance of Delft blue vases and freshly plucked and trimmed floral arrangements were placed. Not to mention plentiful chairs, a sixty-five-inch wall-mounted television, and luxury gold silk jacquard bedsheets draping the state-of-the-art hospital bed.
“Come in,” he called, facing away from Amal in the nick of time.
The door opened and in breezed the neurosurgeon, a diminutive woman whose rosy brown skin was closer in shade to Amal’s. She instantly homed in on her patient. “Hello, Ms. Khalid. I understand you’re here to discuss a head injury resulting in a concussion and a subsequent case of retrograde amnesia.” She glanced at Manny. “Your husband?” she asked.
“No,” they answered in unison.
“Very well, Ms. Khalid,” she said, referring to her clipboard. “Then, with your permission, would you like me to proceed with the check-up and consultation with your companion or alone?”
He wanted to stay, but he could sense Amal’s fraction of a hesitation.
Standing, he said, “That’s fine. I’ll be waiting nearby. I want to grab a coffee anyways.”
“Mansur...” Amal began softly, but recognizably not urgently wanting to counteract his decision.
He’d made the right call to excuse himself. That was good enough for him.
“I’ll return once you’re finished.”
He walked away from her, past the neurosurgeon who would hopefully live up to her professional reputation, and out of the hospital room.
* * *
“Would you like me to call for your husband?” asked the nurse who had helped guide Amal back to the private hospital room, officially making her the second person to make that assumption in the span of an hour.
Amal opened her mouth to correct the nurse and call Mansur her friend, but discovered herself fumbling with that description. Because it wasn’t entirely true. They weren’t friends.
She still knew little about him and, although he’d shown that they had history, and she technically knew they had shared a childhood, it wasn’t enough. At least not for her.
But the nurse was staring at her like she was a crazy person, and Amal had to tell her something or risk her catching flies with her gaping jaw.
“He’s a...f-friend,” she stammered.
She blamed the jitters on the experience of being in the MRI machine. The awful, teeth-grinding battering sound as the machine powered on in its high-resolution imaging had left an indelible stain on her mind. She shuddered as cold, slimy fear pooled in her stomach. So far, it was one experience in Addis she didn’t wish to relive again anytime soon.
The nurse nodded. “I’ll let your friend know you’re done.” She left then, and Amal was alone.
She hadn’t realized how empty the lavish hospital room could feel. Really more of a suite than a room, it had a brightly lit wood-paneled alcove as a coat room, a washroom with a glass-walled shower, a plush sofa, and even a small crystal chandelier.
Amal caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the blue-and-gold geometrically patterned sink. Grasping the edges of the basin, she leaned in to examine her reflection. Either the bright white lighting in the room had washed her complexion out, or the pressure of having so many firsts—first travel, first flight, almost first kiss—was to blame.
Amal touched her fingertips to her lips and fluttered her eyes shut. It had nearly happened. She hadn’t imagined it. Her quivering mouth and thundering heart wouldn’t let her forget.
She dropped her fingers from her mouth as a knock on the closed bathroom door pulled her attention from her reflection.
“Amal?” Mansur’s low voice sounded from the other side. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m here, but take your time.”
He’d barely crossed the spacious room when she flung the door open, her cheeks aflame and her body lit with the need to be closer to him. She hadn’t known it could be such a thrill to have a crush. Couldn’t remember if she’d ever felt this way around him before. No, that was a lie. She recalled having a crush on him as a young girl. Had memories of being glued to his side when they’d play together.
But that didn’t come close to how she felt about him now. The sharp pull of attraction sliced at her more cruelly with each passing moment, and it was only her second day of being near him. She imagined the need in her for Mansur would transform into a driving pain as time passed.
Amal watched him turn around, his expression breaking from its usual impassive look.
His eyes widening was the first indication she had that something was wrong.
In her haste to see him she’d upset her headscarf. The silky veil had loosened to reveal her curly fringe. She blushed harder. Her rich brown skin warmed, but there would be no evidence of her embarrassment for him to witness. And yet he must know she was flustered by her mistake.
He whirled away from her.
Amal worked without a mirror. She’d been wrapping her headscarf most of her life, and not even amnesia could stop her hands from working quickly and effortlessly to cover her head.
Looking modest again, she called his name. “Mansur?”
Given the all-clear, he flicked an assessing look over his shoulder before he realized she was ready for him now, though her cheeks still burned, the heat creeping to her collarbone.
“The nurse said you were ready,” he explained, an apologetic look in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to barge in.”
“I told her to call you,” she said.
He stared, and then asked, “How did it go?”
The rough edge to his voice rubbed her sensitized nerves and frazzled her even more. She didn’t think anyone could sound so...so sexy. She could close her eyes and hear him talk all day long—but then he’d think she was crazy.
Then he’d know how you feel about him.
And she couldn’t allow that. For so many reasons. The top motivator being that Mansur had no life in Hargeisa. He’d built one in America and soon he’d leave her. And she didn’t want to be left mending the pieces of a broken heart. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had that experience only recently.
Just like that, her thoughts were redirected from Mansur to her father.
Her father hadn’t come to visit her except for that first day she’d got out of the hospital. And even then it hadn’t been to ensure her well-being, but to ask for money. Again.
She blinked rapidly, forcing the stinging from her eyes. She didn’t dare cry in front of Mansur. He had his own family problems. And he’d been considerate enough to avoid burdening her with his troubles. She should do the same and spare him the misery her father continued to cause within her.
Realizing Mansur awaited her reply, she said, “The doctor is reviewing the scans. I was instructed to wait for the rest of the consultation.”
“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, his gaze boring into her.
She knew that if she said yes, he’d leave. But she didn’t want him leaving her ag
ain. She had the strong sense that she could use him as a buffer if the neurosurgeon returned with bad news.
“I’d like you to stay, please.”
“I’ll stay, then,” he said.
They resumed their seats, sitting close together again, and Amal couldn’t help but notice him tapping his fingers on his thighs. He looked good in one of his suits again. Polished and immaculate and powerful. Mansur commanded the room with his presence alone, and she felt a mix of envy and admiration. Especially as more childhood memories were resurfacing with each passing day.
He certainly didn’t look like the young boy from her past. Older, yes, but the lines on his face told a story. Each furrow and crease spoke of the struggles he must have faced on his own in America. She still couldn’t believe that he’d left at seventeen. Amal barely remembered the day, but even after all these years Mama Halima got sorrowful when she thought of her son living apart from her.
Amal had learned to avoid speaking about Mansur, period. Maybe that was why she blurted now, “Do you miss Hargeisa when you’re in America?”
Mansur snapped his head to her, a scowl slashing his brows. “Sometimes,” he said, frown lines bracketing his downturned mouth. “Why are you asking?”
“I was thinking about your mother.” Amal laced her fingers together, staring down at her hands. “She gets sad whenever you’re mentioned.”
“Who mentions me?”
Taken aback by his snapping question, she looked up and murmured, “I did...a couple of times. But then I learned not to bring you up. I didn’t like how upset she’d get.”
“I call. Though I suppose not as often as I should—especially not since my father passed,” he said gruffly.
His father was clearly still a sore subject. And he had mentioned that to her before they’d left Hargeisa for Addis. She might not have understood why he disliked his father before, but she knew better now, after he’d reminded her of his half-siblings.
