His Hired Bride

by Holly Rayner

I didn't sleep well that night. The watch, now on my bedside table, seemed to fill the whole room. I imagined the man finding it gone. Would he think that I'd played him for a fool? That I’d had no intention of taking advantage of the second chance he'd given me? I knew almost nothing about him, not even his name. It shouldn't have mattered what he thought about me, but somehow, it did.

  I went to the kitchen to start some coffee, but stopped short when I glimpsed my front yard outside the window. The grass, the trees, my shabby little car—everything was blanketed in bright white.

  "I'll be damned," I whispered.

  It hadn't snowed in Seattle at Christmas in years, not since I'd been in high school. We always got snow after the New Year, when the temperature dropped further. But there was no mistaking the scene in my front yard; at least five inches had fallen overnight. Sunlight bounced off the surface of the snow and made the frosted tree branches sparkle against a bright blue sky.

  It made me wish that Marion was coming home for the holiday this year. Her roommate, a sociology major from a wealthy family, had invited her to stay with them in Vancouver, though, and she'd accepted. It was a great opportunity to see a new place and strengthen that friendship, and I'd encouraged her to do it. I'd told myself that I was relieved not to have to pretend holiday cheer I didn't feel. Now, though, I only felt deeply sad that she wasn't here.

  Marion would have freaked out over the snow. We'd have behaved like children, throwing snowballs and building a snowman. I'd have made hot chocolate for both of us. We'd have watched silly holiday movies, the ones we'd grown up watching every year with Mom. It would have been a lovely day.

  I made the coffee and thought about how I'd spend the day. I needed to return the watch. A voice inside complained that I was giving away Marion's tuition money for next year, but I ignored it. I'd find another way to pay it, even if I didn't know what that was now. I couldn't be a thief anymore. I was done.

  It was Christmas Eve, a day that I normally wouldn't expect someone to be home alone, but something told me that the owner of the watch would be. I ate a quick breakfast, showered, and dressed. A quick check outside told me that the snow hadn't been cleared off my street, but my car had front wheel drive. Getting out shouldn't be a problem, and the main roads should be fine. I had to dig in the back of my closet to find my only pair of snow boots. My red hat and scarf had been one of the last gifts I'd received from my mother, and I smiled as I put them on.

  It was late morning by the time I knocked on the front door of the house I'd intended to rob only the night before. I waited, but no one came to the door. I knocked again.

  I'd almost decided that I must have been wrong, that the man actually did have somewhere to be this Christmas Eve, when the handle of the door turned. It was the same man. He was casually dressed and his hair was wet, making me think that it was the shower that had kept him from coming to the door more quickly. He looked surprised to see me, and not entirely pleased.

  "Congratulations, you're officially the most incompetent criminal I have ever known."

  I felt my face flush.

  "No, I'm not—" I stopped and started again. "I'm very sorry to bother you."

  "And yet, here you stand."

  I wasn't certain, but I thought I could hear amusement in his lightly accented words.

  "I needed to give you this," I said. I dug in my purse and found the watch. His eyes widened when I held it out to him. I couldn't read his expression as he looked from the watch, to me, and back again.

  He took the watch from me, his warm hand brushing against my cold one as he did. He looked at me and nodded. There was something different now in how he looked at me.

  "You look like you’re freezing out there. Would you like to come in for a drink?" he asked.

  It may have been eleven a.m. on Christmas Eve, but I couldn't think of a time when I'd felt more in need of a stiff drink. I suspected that this man understood the feeling better than most.

  "Yes, I would like that."

  There was an indescribable surreality in following him back into the mansion. I asked myself what the hell I was doing, following a strange man into his empty house. My reservations were half-hearted, though. If he'd wanted to hurt me, he could easily have done so last night.

  The hallway to the first floor study was longer than I'd remembered it. Despite the sunny day, the room was nearly as dark as it had been the night before. Heavy drapes were drawn over the huge French windows, shutting out the light. The room smelled faintly of cigar smoke and whiskey.

  "Bourbon?" he asked. "Or Scotch?"

  "Bourbon is fine," I said, though I hadn't drunk it in years. He poured a few fingers of the golden liquid into a glass and handed it to me before pouring another for himself. He sat down in the same chair he'd been sitting in the night before. After a brief hesitation, I sat down on the couch opposite him. The silence grew tense as we sipped our drinks.

  "Sadiq," he said, startling me.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "My name, it’s Sadiq." He leaned back in the chair, watching me. "May I know yours, little thief?"

  I knew that I shouldn't tell him, that knowing who I was would mean he could send the police for me at any time. I was surprised when I heard myself answer him.

  "Annabelle," I said. "Annabelle Christensen."

  "Annabelle," he repeated, sounding thoughtful. "I don't think I've ever met someone with that name before."

  "My mother was old-fashioned. I hated it when I was younger. I wanted to change my name to Brianna or Mackenzie."

  "And now?"

  "Now I treasure everything my mother gave me, name included."

  "Your mother has passed," he said. It wasn't a question.

  "Yes, three years ago."

  He sighed, and the corners of his mouth pulled back, making a hard line.

  "You're very young to have suffered such a loss. But, then, so many are."

  His words weren't the standard I'm so sorry for your loss, and I didn't know how to reply. He spoke again before I could.

  "Why did you bring back the watch? You could have sold it. It's valuable."

  "Oh, I know that," I blurted out without thinking. He laughed.

  "So, you're an unlucky thief, but not an uninformed one. Why didn't you sell it?"

  I took a long sip of my drink as I thought about his question. The liquor made a hot trail down my throat to my belly, and I felt myself begin to relax.

  "I don't entirely know why," I said. "Maybe I'm just done. Maybe..." I looked into my drink as I spoke. "The world can be a lot of things. It can be hard, senseless. Last night, I saw that it could be merciful, too. I didn't want to turn my back on that. I'm worried that, if I do, if I go on like this, I might forget that there's mercy in the world. I might forget who I was before I started stealing. I don't want to forget."

  I glanced up at him. He was still watching me. The intensity in his dark eyes made me shift in my seat. He started to speak, but the sound of a phone ringing from another room cut him off. It rang again, and again, but he didn't move.

  "Don't you need to get that?" I asked.

  "I suppose I should," he said. He sighed, rising. "Please excuse me."

  While he was out of the room, I took a closer look at the room I was in. I took in the ornate furniture, the hand-carved fixtures, the bookshelves full of antique volumes. Despite myself, I found myself noticing what items were most valuable—the things I'd usually take. There was a particularly nice set of bookends, wrought in a scrolled leaf pattern, almost certainly real silver. And the books... I couldn't even guess at the price they'd bring. Collector’s items were riskier to sell, but it could be done...

  "See anything you like?" Sadiq's voice from the doorway made me jump.

  "No, of course not," I said. My face grew red. I got up from my seat, needing to move with the nervous energy I felt.

  "Relax, Annabelle." He smiled, and his face lit up.

  He should smile more often. It's
wonderful.

  "Another drink?" he offered.

  "Please."

  While he poured another round, I went to the windows and started to pull back the curtains.

  "What are you doing?" he asked, turning around.

  "I can hardly see you in this light," I said. "It's a lovely day out, haven't you noticed?"

  I pulled, and the drapes slid open, flooding the room in sunlight. Tiny dust particles floated in the bright shafts of light. Squinting, Sadiq held up a hand to shade his eyes.

  "I wish you hadn't done that," he said.

  "Well, I apologize if the daylight interrupts your very important brooding-and-drinking-alone time." I took the drink he held out for me, reminding myself to slow down. I wasn't much of a drinker, and it didn't take much to get me tipsy. Already, I felt my verbal filter slipping away.

  "We each spend the holidays our own way. You commit Class E felonies. I keep my liver from growing idle."

  "But why?" I flopped back down onto the couch. "It's gorgeous outside. You're not an old man, Sadiq. You seem to be pretty healthy, and you're definitely rich. What reason do you have to spend Christmas like this?"

  "And how would you expect me to spend Christmas?" He said, raising an eyebrow.

  "Oh, right. Where you're from, they don't—"

  He laughed again as I covered my face with my hands, humiliated.

  "Why are Americans so terrified of saying what they mean? You're not going to offend me, little thief. You can ask me whatever you like."

  I lowered my hands and peeked at him. He looked amused, not annoyed. I put my hands in my lap.

  "Well, you don't sound like you grew up in the United States."

  "I didn't. I was born in Almarain." He must have seen the look on my face, because he added, "If you haven't heard of it, you're not alone. It's a small country, South of Jordan. We're too peaceful to make it onto American news coverage of the Middle East very often."

  "That's good, though. Right?" He was right; everything I'd seen on television about the Middle East was about violence and war.

  "It's very good. My country is blessed with rich oil reserves, and we sell to the U.S. and China. Our nearer neighbors don't need oil from us, and we send cash aid to countries who might otherwise find reason to quarrel with us."

  "What is it like there?" I asked, thinking of clay houses, sun-baked streets, and bazaars full of merchants. It was hard to imagine Sadiq in such a setting, as he sat sipping whiskey, surrounded by luxury.

  "Probably not how you think," he said. "Almarain is a prosperous nation. The capital, where I’m from, looks a lot like many American cities. The weather is different, of course—hot and dry most of the year—but life there is modern. People live in houses, not tents or huts. You can get McDonald's or Starbucks just as easily as you can here. There are more accountants there than shepherds."

  "What did you do, when you were living there?"

  "My family owns land. The land has oil. That is our business."

  I had a hundred questions about that, but something about his expression told me that he'd said as much as he wanted to. I decided to shift the direction of the conversation.

  "Are people in Almarain Muslim?"

  "Most are, to one degree or another, but, overall, the country is more liberal than others in the region. We're free to practice whatever religion we choose."

  "And what about you, Sadiq? Are you Muslim?"

  "My family is, and I respect their practice, particularly when I visit. My parents were more secular than their parents, who were quite devout. As for me, I don’t consider myself religious."

  "Does that bother your family?"

  "Like I said, I follow the practices when I visit, out of respect to them. My grandparents always assumed I was a believer. My parents knew I wasn't, but they didn't mind. Their religion was largely a cultural habit. They had no fear for my soul."

  "My mom was like that," I said. "We went to church sometimes, but only when my grandmother was still alive. She was really religious and wanted to make sure we'd make it into heaven, too."

  "Everyone finds their own way to express their love for their family," he said, and the sadness behind his eyes was back.

  Sensing I was touching on an uncomfortable topic, I jumped up.

  "Let's go outside," I said, wrapping my scarf around my neck.

  "Why on Earth would we do that?"

  "Look out there! Actual snow! And it's not too cold to pack." I took his drink from his hand and set it on the table beside his chair. "You can't waste snow like this. Come on!" I grabbed his hand and tugged him to his feet. He let me do it, watching me the whole time with disbelieving eyes.

  He had a good coat, but no boots, so made do with sneakers.

  "What about gloves?" I asked, pulling my mittens from my coat pockets.

  "Will these do?" He grabbed a pair of soft, calfskin driving gloves from a nearby shelf.

  "No! They'll get ruined. Don't you have any cheap ones?"

  "I do not." He sounded a little shocked at the idea.

  I huffed in mock exasperation.

  "Well, I guess you'll just have to risk your fancy ones."

  We crunched into the snow that covered his vast front garden. At the center of the lawn, we stopped, not speaking, drinking in the delicious, dense silence that only happened when there was fresh snow on the ground. Sadiq looked down at the snow, but I could tell his mind was far away.

  His attention returned to me abruptly when my snowball collided with the side of his head.

  "Are you insane?" he cried, shaking the snow from his dark hair.

  "It's just snow," I laughed. "I didn't even pack it that hard." I bent over and scooped up another handful.

  He was quiet for a moment, seemingly torn between irritation and amusement. Finally, he grinned.

  "How many life lessons am I going to have to teach you in the same twenty-four hours?" He grinned as he started gathering up snow, packing it into a massive clump. "You really think this is a smart fight to pick, girl?"

  I stuck out my tongue and flung my second snowball at him, just missing his head. I ran for the cover of some low bushes, stumbling as I hit a deeper drift. The giant snowball Sadiq had made slammed into my back, and I squealed as icy bits ran down the back of my neck.

  I made a few more counterstrikes before calling for a truce. We were both breathing hard, our cheeks red with cold, when the end of the snowball war was called. I stuck out my mittened hand and he shook it seriously.

  "Well?" he asked. "Does that qualify as sufficient respect paid to unseasonable, packing-grade snow?"

  "Not even. There has to be a snowman."

  He sighed and rolled his eyes, but dutifully went to work rolling up the base. It was, indeed, excellent packing snow, and we quickly had the snowman's body assembled.

  "He needs a nose," I said, regarding the snowman with my hands on my hips. "Do you have a carrot?"

  "Definitely not."

  "You seem quite certain about that."

  "Yeah, because carrots are food, and there isn’t a lot of that around here."

  "Seriously? You must have a huge kitchen in this place."

  He hunted around in the bushes until he came up with some red berries and short sticks. "Here, try these." I took them and went to work giving our snowman a face.

  "Don't rich people eat? Or do you pay someone else to do that for you?"

  "Hilarious, Annabelle. Yes, I eat. I don't cook, though."

  "You can pay people to do that, too. I'm surprised you don't."

  "I used to. After a time, though, I could no longer tolerate having people around so much. Eventually I sent all the staff away." His voice was carefully neutral. I glanced at him sideways.

  "I guess that’s why the bedroom was such a mess," I murmured, but apparently not too softly for him to hear.

  "My apologies. If I'd know I was going to be robbed, I'd have tidied up first. Perhaps put out some snacks and tea." He ste
pped back and narrowed his eyes at the snowman. "It's not right. What's he missing?"

  "He needs a hat," I said. I took the red knit cap from my own head and plopped it onto the snowman. I paused before adding the scarf. "Just a loan. Got that, Frosty?" I slipped my mittens off and put them on the ends of the sticks that stuck out crookedly from its sides. I wrapped my arms around myself as I started to shiver.

  "You're going to freeze to death to dress a snowman, silly," he said, coming closer to me. He rubbed my upper arms briskly with his palms. I inched closer to his broad chest, already feeling warmer. Our breath made clouds in the chilly air. I looked up at him. He was so tall. How had I not noticed that before? And he had a little scar, just next to the corner of his mouth...

  The moment stretched out, tension building. Each passing second made it more difficult to find something to say that wouldn't be ridiculous.

  He smelled good, like soap and ice and something else, something utterly male and entirely him.

  "You're so tall," I said finally, when I could stand the silence no longer. I needed to say something or kiss him.

  He tilted his head a little, smiling, confused. "I'm not so tall, Annabelle Christensen. You just happen to be very, very short."

  "I'm only slightly shorter than average," I said. "I'm five two."

  "That's good to know. In case my silver goes missing later."

  I punched his chest playfully and turned away.

  "The winter gods have been appeased," I declared, trudging back toward the house so he couldn't see my blush. My voice echoed over the snow. "Let us return to our castle and celebrate with a mighty feast."

  "The feast will have to be a figurative one," he said as he followed me. "No food, remember?"

  "That's okay," I replied seriously. "The gods are in the mood for Thai anyway. They know this great place in Belltown that delivers."

  He chucked as he trailed after me.

  We were still grinning as we shed our coats in his cavernous foyer.

  "Hurry, you have to get the snow brushed off your pants before it melts," I scolded him. "You'll be wet for hours if you don’t act fast."

  "You're remarkably skilled at snow-related activities," he said.

  "No, you're just remarkably bad at it. Didn't you have snow days when you were a kid?"

  I shook out my thick blonde hair, running my fingers through the damp mess it had become.

  "Not so much," he said dryly. "It doesn't snow where I'm from."

  "Not at all?"

  "Not at all," he said, kicking off his sneakers.

  "So, I’m guessing your family didn't celebrate Christmas?"

  "No. Most Almarainian families don't, but I've spent time in the U.S. since I was a boy. We always tried to take part in local observances when we traveled. My parents believed it to be educational. But even so, somehow, Christmas just passed us by."

  All of a sudden, it made sense; why he was spending Christmas Eve alone in an empty, undecorated house. But right now our spirits were light. I decided to leave the subject alone for now.

  "You're like a kid from California," I said. "You’re aware of Christmas, but you have no idea what all that white stuff on the ground is in A Christmas Carol. You never got why Bob Cratchit was all about adding coal to Scrooge's stove when the temperature never falls below seventy."

  He shrugged. "My father didn't care for snow. He never understood some Americans' romantic fascination with the stuff. We avoided traveling to cold climates in the winter."

  "Well, then I guess it's not your fault that you suck at snow. Your parents really neglected this part of your upbringing, though. Every kid should spend some days half frozen. It builds character. I bet you don't even have hot chocolate in the house." I pulled off my boots and set them up against the door.

  "You'd be right about that." he said. "Like I said, when I heard someone knocking over furniture upstairs in the dead of night, I didn't realize I'd need refreshments for them."

  I started to tell him that we'd have to make do with pad Thai and bourbon when the doorbell chimed. Sadiq turned and walked the few steps over to the front door.

  The blood drained from my face when I saw two uniformed police officers standing outside.

  FIVE