by Charles, Eva
About twenty minutes into the trip, Saher presses a button to speak to the driver. “We’ve changed our minds. Pull right into there.” She points out the window. “To Harvey Nichols.”
Wait. We’ve changed our minds? What? I can’t get a good look at Trippi and Baz from where I’m sitting, but I’m sure they’re alarmed too.
“I’m sorry, Princess,” the man seated next to the driver says. “We were told you were going to Saks. We cannot deviate from this instruction.”
“You can and you will.”
Whoa.
“I am King Khalid bin Abdullah’s daughter. You pray every day to remain in the good graces of my father.”
She’s a fighter, God love her.
“The crown prince instructed—”
“The crown prince has my respect,” she interrupts tersely, “but the king, while he has even a single breath in him, has not only my respect, but my loyalty. As he should have yours. Shall I call his secretary and have him wake my father from his nap so that he can tell you what he told me, that I may shop in any store that captures my fancy?”
Without another word, the driver crosses the median and pulls into the front of Harvey Nichols. This gives “bitches get things done” a whole new meaning. Still, I’m wary of the change in plans, and I’m sure my two sidekicks are none too happy either.
She turns to me. “You will love the merchandise. It is of high quality. Saks is in the US—you can go there any time. This will be special.”
She has a plan. I see it in her eyes. Hopefully it’s not some half-cocked scheme, or a trick on me.
We leave the bodyguards, mine and hers, behind, because men are not allowed in the store. “We will be one-and-one half, to two hours, at the most,” Saher instructs the driver. “Let us go,” she says to me.
Once inside, two saleswomen fawn all over us. It’s not me, but the princess who is not only the king’s daughter, but no stranger here.
Saher whips around the room, handing hanger after hanger to the saleswomen, with clothing in both our sizes. I say very little, but nod and gush in all the right places.
In thirty minutes, she’s amassed quite a haul. “We should start to try on the clothes so we have enough time.”
The dressing area consists of a few smaller changing rooms off one large room, with a few chairs, a triad mirror, and refreshments. When we’re settled, she dismisses the saleswomen. “We would like privacy, please. I will call you if we need help. In the interim, would you please find us some accessories to wear with our new clothes?”
“Yes, Princess Saher, of course.” They fawn one more time before leaving us alone.
As soon as they’re gone, Saher pulls me into one of the small changing rooms. “Try this,” she says, handing me a designer gown with a floppy bow at the shoulder. It’s not something I would ever be caught dead in, but she didn’t ask my opinion, and I’m not here to shop anyway.
I assume she’s going to find her own changing room, not because I’m modest, but because this one is tight. But she doesn’t. She strips down to her birthday suit, and grabs another gown off the hanger. She holds a finger to her lips, and motions for me to take off my panties and bra. This is getting weird, but I’ll give her a little more rope.
After we’re dressed to the nines in ballgowns without a shred underneath, she takes our belongings, all of them, and arranges them on the floor in a heap, like she’s going to start a bonfire. Then she covers the pile with the stacks of clothing we brought into the dressing room. Oh my God. She’s a savvy little thing. She thinks our clothes are bugged.
I begin to help her, until everything we brought into the room is piled on the floor.
She hands me another dress, and motions for me to follow her into a changing room on the far end of the larger room.
“We only have a few minutes before they come back,” she whispers. “I don’t understand. Who asked you to pass me the note?” she demands. “Is it a trick by the Americans?”
“No. It’s not a trick.” I want to tell her it’s a message from her father, but I can’t. “Please trust me. It’s for your safety and Amir’s. When your father receives a cable about his sister’s declining health, you must act immediately.”
“The last time I begged to take Amir abroad, I was punished.” Her tone is dire. “They would not let me see my son for one month. Ahmad promised that the next time the punishment would be far more severe.”
“I can’t force you to act, but I hope you will. We haven’t been friends long enough for you to trust my motivation, but I would never do anything to put you in danger.”
Her features contort as she struggles to process all of it. We’re going to run out of time. I need to say something that will convince her it’s safe.
“Your father will smooth the way for you.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “And once we are in London?” she asks with some skepticism.
“You’ll be protected by the British government. That’s all I know. This wasn’t engineered by the Americans. I promise you.”
“But we will be prisoners there, like here.” Her shoulders slump under the weight.
She’s right. But the Brits won’t have her and Amir murdered. “It’s your decision. But I’m not sure it will continue to be safe here.”
The saleswoman calls from outside the dressing room.
“We are not yet in need of assistance,” Saher replies quickly.
“I want to trust you, but Amir is my life. He is my reason for being.” The emotion in her voice is so tangible, so real, I could hold it in my palm.
The image of the Marshalls at Richie’s funeral pops into my mind. They were broken. Devastated beyond repair. I can’t push the grisly image away.
“Amir is a prisoner, but he is alive,” she adds, the gravity of her circumstances gripping us both.
I don’t make any more assurances, or encourage her to take the risk. Because honestly, I am one small cog in a big wheel, and I don’t know what’s in store for her—for either of them.
The saleswoman calls again, from outside the dressing area. She has shoes for us to try on.
Saher sighs as we leave the cramped room. It’s a deep, mournful sigh, of a mother whose child’s life hangs precariously in the balance. Her decision can save him, or doom him. Or as Saher knows too well, perhaps there’s no winning hand to be played.
43
Delilah
Boarding the plane is an adventure. Every bag, every electronic device, every article of clothing is swept for explosives and recording devices. Trippi and Gray are like men possessed, combing through every inch of our belongings. Baz and I repack bags as items are cleared.
It drives home the danger lurking in Amidane. I shudder, thinking about the implications for Saher.
When we got back to the limousine after shopping, the guard in the passenger seat informed Saher that the crown prince wanted to speak to her the moment she returned to the palace.
She didn’t seem surprised. While we hugged good-bye, I begged her to let me have Gray intervene on her behalf.
But she shook her head. “You cannot save me. No one can.” It’s the same thing Gray said, but it wasn’t any easier to hear it from Saher, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
“Delilah.” I finish zipping a small suitcase and glance up. Gray looks worn and edgy. We’re not out of the woods yet, and many a mission has gone sour at this stage, especially when people begin to let their guard down.
“We’re done here,” he says briskly. “Take a seat so we can get out of this shithole as soon as humanly possible.”
* * *
Ninety minutes later, the pilot announces in her very proper British voice that we’ve left Amidane airspace.
Gray visibly relaxes, and reaches for my hand. “You did great, Blue Eyes. You’re the hero.”
“Do I get the game ball?” I tease, trying to deflect the praise. Or maybe I’m trying to shield my heart from the reality that the mission being
over means Gray and I are over too. I haven’t allowed myself to dwell on it much. I’ve been too worried about passing messages, and until a few minutes ago, our plane being shot out of the sky. But it hits me now with a profound sadness that makes my soul ache. Put it away for now, Delilah. You can wallow in your misery at home.
“Not the game ball, but I do have something for you.” His weaselly expression spells trouble.
“What?”
Gray starts toward the front of the plane, ignoring my question. It better not be some wildly expensive jewelry like those earrings he supposes I’m keeping. I don’t know where he thinks I go to wear jewels.
Although I do have to admit, it was fun pretending to be some glamorous high-society chick for a little while. More fun than I expected. I loved the intrigue, and the covert nature of the mission. I loved everything about it, even when it was hard, or in the end, when I felt lost.
Covert operatives are expected to experience a wide range of emotions. It goes with the territory. But that’s done too. The mission, with its clandestine opportunity, was one and done. I knew it when I agreed. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing there were more opportunities for covert work—with Gray.
He proved himself to be a worthy leader. I’d follow him into battle. That’s for sure. In truth, I’d follow him anywhere.
Before I get too carried away with my thoughts, Gray is sauntering down the aisle, carrying a tray. His boyish grin makes his eyes twinkle like a rascal. He sets the tray down in front of me and lifts the silver dome.
“Pop-Tarts!” I squeal like a child. The pale-pink icing is smoothed to a shiny glaze, with a sprinkling of pastel sugar crystals. They’re smaller and far more delicate than the toaster pastries from the box on a supermarket shelf. But they look amazing.
“Yep.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Take a bite, and I’ll tell you.”
I take a small bite of the strawberry-filled pastry. It tastes nothing like what I’m used to—it’s sweet and buttery and wonderful. “It’s delicious. Really delicious,” I add, taking another bite.
“They’re from a small bakery in Paris I love. The pastry chef is a bit of a snob, but when I explained that I was trying to win over a beautiful woman, he was all over it.”
The emotion winds its way into my chest, and it takes up so much space, I have trouble swallowing even another small bite. “Paris. Not exactly around the corner. Thank you. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble—for me.”
“You earned it. Besides, I would do anything for you, Blue Eyes. But those Pop-Tarts just took a phone call.” He reaches for his briefcase and pulls out a manila envelope. “This is a bonus for a job well done.”
“The government is handing out bonuses now?” I ask, opening the tiny clasp.
“That’s from me.”
His face gives nothing away, but God knows what he’s scheming. At least it isn’t jewelry.
I pull out the paperwork, and read until my brain stops firing. I glance at Gray. “Please tell me you didn’t sign over the deed to your beach house to me. Please,” I plead.
“I can’t tell you that.” The response is resolute. He’s dug in—I sense it.
Well, you’re going to be disappointed.
With trembling hands, I put back the paperwork, and shove the envelope at him. “I’m just going to pretend this didn’t happen.”
He places his hand on mine, lacing his long, strong fingers through my smaller ones. “It’s a gift.” His hand tightens around mine. “It comes with no strings.”
I’m having trouble breathing, and my first inclination is to fight, but I don’t. He doesn’t deserve the churlish response of a little girl who is embarrassed and overwhelmed, and doesn’t know what to do with her feelings. I can’t accept this outrageous gift, but he deserves a civil response from me.
“A gift is a bottle of bourbon or a nice pair of gloves. Maybe concert tickets. Not waterfront property worth millions of dollars.” My voice is starting to get prickly and I pause for a beat to recalibrate. “You love that place. It’s your escape.”
“I do love it. But not as much as you love it. I’ve never seen you happier than you were gazing out over the ocean.”
There’s nothing worse than trying to reason with a man who’s decided that his idea is the best thing he’s ever heard, and has his mind set on it.
“I can replicate the house anywhere,” he continues. “But you won’t.”
Because I can’t. “Gray—I can’t afford the property taxes on the beach house, let alone the upkeep.”
He rifles through the envelope and pulls out a single sheet of paper. “It’s been taken care of for the duration of your lifetime.”
I don’t even glance at the paper. “It’s too much.”
“I don’t have anyone special to spend money on. My brothers have more than their great-grandchildren can ever spend. I set up a trust for Gracie, so she’ll always have her own money—money her father doesn’t control.” The mischief in his eyes tells me JD doesn’t know about this little gift. Even in the middle of a testy discussion, it makes me smile.
“But other than that,” Gray says softly, “there’s no one. Let me do this.”
No! “I don’t know. I’m not sure I can.”
We sit quietly for a long while. Each alone with our separate thoughts. I don’t know what his are like, but mine are so jumbled they don’t resemble anything coherent. The only thing I recognize in the morass is my mother. “Don’t be a little fool,” she says, primping her hair, with the smell of cheap jasmine practically gagging me. “Let him take care of you.”
That would be a big no.
“I promised myself when the mission was over,” Gray says, his brow crinkled tightly, “I’d help you make it right with Smith or find some work that suits you better. I convinced myself that I’d introduce you to a few guys, stand-up men and experienced Doms, who would be good to you.” His voice is heavy with sorrow, the grief twisted into every strangled word.
He might not be thrilled about it, but he’s willing to introduce me to experienced Doms. What did you expect, Delila? You are a fool. I swipe a lone tear from the corner of my eye before he notices.
“But I can’t do it,” he concedes with the rawness that accompanies unfettered emotion. “I’m not prepared to let you go, Delilah. I love you.”
The tears are falling too fast to swipe them away unnoticed. Gray gets up and lifts me off the seat, carrying me into the bedroom while I sob into his chest.
He kicks the door shut behind us, and lays me on the bed. My eyes are closed, but I feel the mattress dip beside me.
“I want us to be partners, in everything.” He brushes some hair off my face, his fingertips so gentle it makes me melt. “The club, the work I do with EAD, and in every other aspect of my life—I want you by my side. We make a great team.”
I feel as though I need to say something to acknowledge his unguarded confession, but I can’t find the right words to convey what I’m feeling. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. “This comes as a surprise. A shock, really.” I gaze at him, grazing my fingers over his scruff. “I need some time to sort through it all.”
Gray kisses my nose. “Take as much as you need.” His eyes glaze over, and his Adam’s apple bobs not once, but twice. “There are two other things to throw into the mix for you to consider as you’re deciding.” He rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “I knew Kyle from the Bureau.”
44
Delilah
I draw a slow, jumbo-size breath, and brace myself, because the other shoe is about to drop. I feel it in my bones.
“He was an abuser,” Gray says flatly. The same way he might say grass is green or cotton balls are soft—simple, incontrovertible facts. “The worst kind of sadist. He bragged about how he preyed on you, reeled you in, and groomed you for pain.”
The sear in my chest is pure agony. Gray’s words are a rusty blade piercing the skin and
snaking into the muscle until it’s wedged deep.
It’s one thing to know I followed the scraps into the trap like a fool—manipulated and gaslighted for years. A victim of my own stupidity. But it’s quite another to have others know the extent of my idiocy. To have Gray know.
My relationship with Kyle was tortured and conflicted, especially as I got older and wiser. I’ve worked hard to create the perfect façade around it, not just for the benefit of others, but it’s a lie I tell myself too. Not to protect Kyle. He doesn’t deserve my loyalty. I keep the truth hidden to protect me.
Gray knows I was weak and stupid—an operative who couldn’t even save herself from an asshole. He knows everything. He’s always known.
I cover my face with my arm. Jesus Christ. It’s so humiliating.
“I’ve never forgiven myself for not reaching out to warn you the fuck away from him.”
I want to shake Gray. To grab him by the throat and scream shut up!
“I should have killed the sonofabitch when I had the chance. I’m sorry, Delilah. I let you down.”
“I didn’t need a protector then, and I still don’t,” I spit out, with as much dignity as I can muster. “It was a lesson that needed learning.”
My head is throbbing, the loose fragments racing through my mind in damning circles. Then it smacks me in the face. Oh God. No, please. No.
Smith’s father, General Sinclair, was the head of the Joint Chiefs during all that mess with the congressman. He was there when I testified, and at the end of the hearing, he approached me in the hall: “A life well-lived is the best revenge,” he said, handing me Smith’s card. “Tell my son I sent you.”
Was it all a con?
“Did you arrange my job with Smith?”
He turns his head toward me, meeting my eyes. “Nope. I had nothing to do with that.”
I feel myself relax a little. “There’s no need for you to harbor any guilt for what happened between Kyle and me. I take full responsibility for my part in it.”
