Harlequin Romance September 2021 Box Set

by Andrea Bolter

  “I’m sorry, but there’s not much more we can do,” the doctor had said. “I will suggest that psychotherapy, specifically cognitive behavioral therapy, could be of help. We do have a few psychiatrists on staff. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in, Ms. Khalid?”

  She hadn’t given an answer, and Mansur had done the talking, asking for time to consider the option and herding her out of the hospital.

  She appreciated what he’d done. If she’d remained in that hospital room for one more minute—well, she wasn’t sure she’d be coping as decently as she was at the moment. And that was saying a lot, considering how numb she felt.

  “Amal?”

  She was spooked by the sound of her name. She hadn’t forgotten Mansur was with her, but her reaction was a testament to how deeply she’d slipped into her depressed mind.

  Pasting on a smile, she said, “I can’t believe we’re not out of the city yet. Addis is far larger than Hargeisa.”

  “By several square miles,” Mansur said, his eyes straying from the road every so often. He had his hands loosely on the steering wheel, his posture relaxed, but his face was all hard angles and no-nonsense. “We can postpone the trip. I don’t mind pushing it back a day or two.”

  “I feel fine,” she said, realizing what he was hinting at.

  “No, you’re not.” Before she could argue, he said, “And that’s okay. I just don’t want you feeling like you have to come with me. If you need time—the rest of the day—that’s all right with me.”

  Amal sat in a stupor, the ultra-comfy leather car seat soaking up her tension as she weakened under the weight of it. His concern had her eyes prickling with familiar heat. A display of waterworks was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid—which was why she was thankful for Mansur’s deft thinking in whisking her out of the hospital and away from the presence of the second doctor bearing unpleasant news about her amnesia.

  Why is he being so nice?

  As if it wasn’t only a day before that he’d told his mother he couldn’t help them.

  Couldn’t help you, you mean, she corrected, lamenting. He can’t reverse the amnesia. No one can.

  Finally, she managed to get her tongue off the roof of her mouth. “It’s a lot to take in. I think I set my expectations higher than I should have.”

  “Do you regret coming? Because you shouldn’t.”

  His hands moved up the steering wheel, his fingers no longer lax in their grip. He revved the engine, too, making the car grumble as he switched lanes and gunned it past several cars.

  The freeway here was as lawless as the traffic in Somaliland. Hargeisa had one traffic light, and navigating the roads was the stuff of a traffic engineer’s nightmares. But for someone who didn’t regularly drive in no-holds-barred traffic, Mansur grasped the wheel like a race car pro.

  “You took a chance. It might not have panned out the way you hoped, but there has to be some comfort from hearing what the neurosurgeon had to say.”

  He spoke with his eyes focused on the road. Though he didn’t need to be looking at her for his words to touch her. Mansur’s sonorous voice reverberated inside the car, the space in the luxury vehicle feeling so much smaller suddenly.

  “And she did mention there being proven research into the psychotherapy she suggested. It could be of help to you.”

  Amal shook her head, plunging further into a bottomless pool of despair. “Something tells me cognitive behavioral therapy won’t be readily found in Hargeisa.”

  Mental health wasn’t a topic broached in Somaliland—or Somalia. Everyone knew it existed; they just avoided labeling it for fear of ostracization. And those who did suffer mentally and emotionally were hidden by their loved ones and ignored by the rest of society. Even the doctor in Somaliland had looked at her like she was plagued by demons and not suffering the effect of a head injury and brain trauma.

  “I won’t find any help of that sort back home,” she sneered.

  “Then take up the doctor’s offer and utilize the psychiatry department in the hospital.” He glanced askance at her as he made the suggestion.

  “I’d have to stay longer in Addis,” Amal countered, not even bothering to muffle her sulky tone.

  “If you’re worried about accommodation, the hotel suite is yours until you’re ready to leave the city and head home. It’ll come with a meal plan, too. And, as you’ve enjoyed the lunch there, you’ll know the hotel caters a host of delicious meals, both locally and internationally inspired.” Mansur nailed his sales pitch with a crooked smile.

  She allowed him to dazzle her with his good looks and his generosity, even if she was still unclear why he was being so gentle with her. Again, she wondered whether his actions were a direct result of Mama Halima’s wishes. Amal wouldn’t put it past Mansur’s mother. She was small, but her maternal instincts were fierce. Halima cared for Amal and, despite his lack of visits, Mansur was still her son, and he was acting like it now. It wasn’t far-fetched to suspect that his change of attitude resulted from his mother’s prodding.

  “Thanks,” she said, sweetening her tone because it wasn’t his fault at all. “Only I hadn’t planned to stay.”

  “Much like me,” he echoed.

  She nodded. “Like you, I figured that my visit to Addis would be short. That after I saw the doctor I’d be free to go home to Hargeisa.”

  “And you still can—” he said, stopping short when he had to brake hard. He leaned on the horn for the truck that had cut them off so dangerously. Shaking his head, he growled, “I forgot how it’s car-eat-car in this part of the world.”

  “But it is beautiful,” she remarked, gazing out at the sights she could spy as the freeway rode up an incline. “Is that the famous Meskel Square?”

  She pointed toward a glimpse of bumper-to-bumper traffic at a barren crossroads. The freeway was congested with traffic, but it wasn’t anywhere as busy as Meskel Square. There had to be hundreds of cars there, narrowly swerving by each other. Her eyes were crossed from watching them.

  “Yeah—and that’d be Addis Mercato. Famed for its coffee.” Mansur pointed out his window.

  She leaned into his side, peering out for a peek at the open-air marketplace she’d read about in her hotel suite. She hadn’t only looked up Mansur on the Internet. Traveling out of Hargeisa for the first time had her curious, wanting to get to know more about the city she was temporarily in.

  “You could stay,” he said, his voice nearer, lower and huskier.

  Amal pulled back hastily, realizing how close she’d come to him. She carried his scent even after creating a space between them, his musky cologne tinged with a woodsy essence teasing her nose.

  “What about your father’s land?” It would be his land if he decided to go through with meeting his blended family.

  “Like I said, we could postpone.” He’d said “we”, like he intended to bring her along whether they went today or some other day.

  Amal didn’t want him to stall on such an important decision. She understood that he wasn’t warming to the idea of meeting his father’s second wife, but the nameless and faceless woman was still Mansur’s stepmother—his ayo. In Somaliland it was normal for men to have multiple wives—up to four—and, unlike mental health problems, it wasn’t social death to have half-siblings in this manner.

  Mansur was treating it unusually harshly. She had the sense that there was more to his hesitation and frustration when it came to his father and his second family, and more of his emotions invested in his perception of them than he might even realize.

  They weren’t discussing him, though, and she was reminded of that when he drummed his fingers over the steering wheel and asked, “Why is it so important that you remember?”

  “It’d be nice to know what I was like,” she replied, having had time to settle on an answer for that exact question.

 
She swallowed thickly, her breathing growing shallow and her body flushing with heat from rising stress. She scratched her fingernails up and down the pads of her palms, the nervous twitch similar to Mansur’s drumming fingers. It was nice to know she had company in her discomfort.

  “I mean, I know what I was like as a kid now—but that changes as you grow, doesn’t it? I used to bite my nails to the quick—I recall that—but I haven’t had the urge to do it as an adult.”

  “You’ll have to thank my mother for that.” Mansur’s profile couldn’t hide his small grin. “She got you off the habit—first with gloves and then, when that didn’t work, she resorted to a bitter-tasting nail polish and hid the polish remover where neither of us could find it. And I know it was bitter because you had me take a lick one day.” He broke off with a short but mirthful chuckle. “That was the last day I accepted a dare from you.”

  Amal’s laughter bubbled out of her, first it was a giggle, and then she doubled over at the image of Mansur licking her fingernail and tasting the polish because she’d dared him. She laughed so hard the tears she’d kept at bay up to that point leaked out on their own. She wiped them away and laughed again, looking at him through the blur of her tears and discovering his grin had widened.

  “It wasn’t funny, believe me.” He puckered his lips and wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so bitter to this day.”

  Amal heard him and she pealed into more laughter. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Clutching her now painful sides, she begged, “No more.”

  “Surrendering, are you?” Mansur teased. “I guess we’ll call it even.”

  She readily agreed, her giggles coming in smaller waves and fits now. And although the laughter had subsided, hoarseness from it lingered in her voice as she wiped at her eyes and said, “I think I’m starting to remember that incident.”

  And she was. The memory was crystallizing like magic. Now if only Mansur could help unlock her adult memories... Gripped by the notion, she looked at him, and grew shy when his stare met hers.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s silly,” she began, “but I’ve had this idea. Though it’s a little crazy, it might work.” She lifted a shoulder in her uncertainty as to how he’d react.

  Mansur nudged his chin at her. “Tell me.”

  “What if you could share some more memories with me?”

  It wasn’t her imagination that he stiffened, but his voice was deceptively calm when he spoke. “Your adult memories? I’m not sure I’ll be of any help there,” he said with a raised brow. “I wasn’t around, if you catch my drift.”

  “Not in person, maybe,” she said, remembering what he’d revealed in the hotel, when he’d told her about his half-siblings and stepmother. “But you mentioned we would talk, though, and video-chat sometimes.”

  He flexed his fingers on the wheel, accelerating faster on the snaking freeway. “And you think that’ll help.”

  “Why not? You heard the doctor,” she said.

  And he had—he’d been standing right there with her when the neurosurgeon had spoken about the talking therapy that might help unlock memories sealed by the amnesia.

  “You’re right—but I’m pretty certain the doctor mentioned how reducing stress and elevating the mood of the patient were a key part of the therapy, if you choose to undertake it.”

  “Yes—and she also said memory recall exercises were most effective when patients could connect with persons who share similar memories. Like family and friends...or acquaintances who were once neighbors and remain family friends of a sort.”

  That roused a smile from him. “And we’re the latter category?” he said, piecing together her sound logic.

  Amal grinned, glad to see him following along. “Yes, we are. What do you say? Will you help me?”

  She pushed down the squirming bashfulness that would have had her retracting her request. She couldn’t allow this opportunity to learn more about herself to slip from her fingers. Mansur could be the key she’d been looking for all along. The key to her still-missing memories.

  “All right,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

  Amal rounded in her seat to face him and placed her cheek in her hand. “What did we talk about—aside from you telling me about your father’s second family?”

  * * *

  Manny managed to hold Amal off from her interrogation, stalling her until they reached their destination—at which point she became temporarily distracted by the view of their new location.

  Almost as soon as she was out of the car, she shot off exploring. He hurried to trail her.

  “Careful,” he said briskly, catching Amal as she flailed to right her balance.

  When she was steady, she smiled his way. “We’re not dressed to hike up a mountain.”

  “A hill,” he corrected, but he agreed. “I’m sorry, I should have put some forethought into the geographical differences out here in the country.”

  He partly blamed his clamoring need to distance her as far from the hospital and the upsetting consultation as possible, and partly the emotions that came along with the inheritance itself. He’d been caught up in his head and hadn’t taken the necessary precautions.

  Amal reminded him of his mistake as she winced and forced him to stop as she checked on her foot. Her ballet flats were worn and mired with dust and dirt. They were clearly well-loved, but they weren’t the footwear he’d have chosen for her at this moment.

  He had the sudden urge to carry her up the hill in his arms. Flexing his biceps, he thought about it as she shook her shoe and muttered, “Not sure how a pebble got in there,” before placing it back on her foot and beaming up at him.

  Making a hasty choice, he crouched before her, his back toward her.

  Amal’s soft gasp reached his ears. “No, I couldn’t,” she said immediately, swatting at him from behind, and insisting, “I can walk up the hill on my own.”

  “Hop on, Amal.”

  He wasn’t budging until she did. One of them would win, and he was determined to see this through. Though it was a good thing he wasn’t facing her. He was blushing.

  “Mansur, I couldn’t,” she said. She sounded uncertain, though.

  “It’s Manny—and I’d feel less guilty about bringing you here in those shoes if you climbed on.” He glanced back and watched a war of emotions take place on her open-book expression.

  And then she nodded, sighing. “Fine.”

  She climbed on him easily, her warm, soft weight covering his back, and leaned on him entirely when he swept her up and stood with her. She yelped and squeezed her arms tight around his shoulders. Her thighs clamped around his waist and her skirt rode up her toned, smooth legs.

  Manny kept his hands locked under her knees, even when his eyes drifted to the sultry deep brown of her calves and ankles. Thankfully the challenge of keeping her safely on his back while climbing uphill kept him occupied and away from wandering thoughts.

  “It’s a paradise,” she breathed into his ear when he crested the hilltop.

  Manny couldn’t agree more. The beauty of the panoramic scene was jaw-dropping, a one-of-a-kind experience. In his ear again, Amal lightly gasped her admiration for the views at the top of the lookout.

  “Are those lakes?” she asked.

  “Yes, and they’re famous to the area.”

  He pointed to the two crater lakes the hill bisected, one on either side of them. Amal made cute noises of surprise when he explained how day tours were conducted out of Addis for tourists to experience the natural lakes in all their glory.

  Beyond that, there were humble thatch-roofed homes, and tilled and untilled farmland on the hillside. It was an idyllic pastoral scene. Better yet, they were alone in enjoying the sight. No tourists in view.

  “I’m relieved I didn’t let you talk me
into returning to the hotel,” she said.

  He laughed low, feeling the same relief she spoke of.

  “Are any of those farmlands yours?” she wondered, her lips brushing the tip of his ear. He suspected it was accidental because she pulled back after that, and stammered, “Th-That is if you decide to claim the land.”

  “Not according to the directions. My land should be on the other side of this hill.”

  He hitched her higher on his back, his hands locking tight around her flexed legs, his fingers mapping out the softness that her clothing hid from him. Amal’s curves looked divine, and they felt it, too.

  Controlling his voice, knowing it might reveal his lustful thoughts, he murmured, “Why do I get the feeling you’re more excited to see this land than I am?”

  “Aren’t you? I can only imagine what you could do with—Wait...how many acres did you say?”

  Mansur had told her in the car when they’d begun passing farmsteads on their way to their destination. He’d followed the map and the precise directions of the surveyors he’d hired to scout out the land.

  Reminding her now, he said, “Forty.”

  She whistled, the sharp noise a contrast to her soft awe. “That’s plenty of land. One might even argue it’s too much land for one man.”

  “If I sold it, it might be to a company.”

  There was foreign agribusiness in the area that struck deals with shady government officials in Ethiopia. Families lost their homes overnight as farms that rightfully belonged to them had their deeds stolen and resold to mega-corporations, driving small family farmers both out of business and out of their homes.

  “Then again, I might keep it and find a new purpose for it.”

  “Like...?”

  He’d given this some consideration, and he craned his neck to watch the happy surprise play out on her face when he replied. “I thought I could parcel the lands into smaller sections. Lease out those sections to local farmers. Their rent could come out of a small share of their good crop for the season.”

  He shrugged and her arms rose with the gesture, her hands creeping closer to his neck and the leaping pulse at the base of his throat.