by Holly Rayner
“Where would you like to meet?” she asked.
“There is a restaurant downtown, Abu Nawas. Have you heard of it?”
Morgan’s eyebrows rose. Had she heard of it? Abu Nawas was one of the most exclusive and expensive places in town, and she’d heard the food was exquisite—not that she’d ever been able to afford to visit. It was a Middle-Eastern place, which would explain the man’s accent.
“I have, and I would be happy to meet you there,” she said, hoping that he wasn’t expecting her to actually eat; she couldn’t afford the water there, never mind the food.
“Excellent! If you could meet us there at eleven tonight, that would be perfect.”
“I’ll be there, Ahmed,” she said.
“You will? Very good! Very good. We look forward to seeing you this evening, Miss Springfield. Goodbye.”
And the call was ended. It didn’t escape Morgan’s attention that Ahmed had originally said she would be meeting with him, but said “we” at the end of the call, implying that she would be meeting with a group. Eleven at night was late for a meet up, though Morgan assumed that it might perhaps be a cultural thing.
Regardless, the man had to be rich if he wanted to meet her at Abu Nawas, and Morgan was ready to watch her bank account grow again.
***
Heading back home, she kicked off her shoes and ate a small bag of chips before opening up her files and preparing a fresh document for her new client.
All that was left to do was wait, and then she would be making money again.
After writing up a few pages for her file, Morgan placed it in a black briefcase and opened up her laptop ready to do some research. She liked to see what she could find on people prior to meeting with them—even the ones not willing to provide a last name.
There were several reasons why a person might not want to give their name over the phone. Once, when she was still with the police, Morgan had answered a call from a big-name celebrity who was being stalked at her hotel, and who had wanted to remain anonymous to avoid the press. Fortunately, Morgan had been able to apprehend the perpetrator quietly and without hassle. That is, until someone placed a call to the paparazzi and had them swarming the hotel, exactly like the person didn’t want. Later that week, Morgan had gritted her teeth as Brett strolled in with a diamond watch—the price of ratting someone out.
Morgan pulled up Google and began researching the restaurant. Abu Nawas had opened a few years ago and taken off immediately. The international experience was all the rage these days, and the beautiful, glittering inside was enough to bring in all of Houston’s finest.
She looked intently at the pictures, googling the name Ahmed as well and coming up with nothing. The restaurant’s website said only that it was launched by a well-known woman from a Middle-Eastern country Morgan wasn’t familiar with. It was her first dead end.
Closing her laptop, Morgan rubbed a hand along the back of her neck and stretched.
There was a knock at her door, and she looked at the time. Eight o’clock—three more hours before she got to meet Ahmed.
Rising, she went to the door and peeked through the hole, seeing a familiar face and sighing inwardly. She pulled the lock from the chain and opened her door to a smiling, handsome face.
“Hi, beautiful,” Stephen said.
He was her neighbor. When he’d first moved in, Morgan had thought she might be interested, but as time went on she’d realized he was too clingy for her taste. He tried way too hard to impress her all the time, but he was so soft-hearted and lonely that she also didn’t have it in her to turn him away.
“I have a name, Stephen,” she said, still standing in front of the door.
Stephen grinned deeper. “I know you do, beautiful.” And then he giggled.
Morgan lifted an eyebrow. “Stephen, are you drunk?”
“No! You’re drunk!” he replied, slumping against the door frame.
Morgan groaned as she ducked beneath his arm and heaved him over to the sofa. He plopped down and stared ahead for a minute before swiveling his head in her direction.
“She turned me down, Morgan,” he slurred. Without warning, his face crumbled and he began weeping into his palms.
Not knowing what else to do, Morgan sat next to him and patted his back gingerly.
“It’s okay, Stephen. It happens. That’s all dating is—trying on different people and seeing if they’re a good fit. This one wasn’t. The next one will be.”
“You weren’t, either,” he said, sobbing still.
Not wanting to be dishonest, Morgan replied, “That’s true, but there are seven billion people on this planet, Stephen. Just because it didn’t work out with the two of us doesn’t mean there’s no one out there for you.”
Stephen sniffled loudly, looking up at Morgan with bright blue eyes, rimmed with red from his tears.
“You really think that?”
Morgan gave him a reassuring smile. “Of course I do. You’re a great guy, Stephen,” she said, and he grinned ruefully.
“Yeah, right.”
“Oh, come on now. Listen, you’ve got a clouded mind full of alcohol and rejection. Let’s get you to bed and I’m sure you’ll feel right as rain in the morning.”
Stephen looked hopeful at that. “Will you stay with me for a while?”
“Come on,” she said, purposefully not answering his question as she helped him back down the hall to his own apartment. They were small studios, with the living room, kitchen and bedroom all in the same space. Morgan couldn’t really afford much else, and she didn’t need that much space anyway.
Opening Stephen’s door, she laid him on the bed and made to exit, but he grasped her wrist.
“Morgan, please stay? I don’t want to be alone,” he sniffled.
Morgan sighed. “Sometimes it’s better to be alone. Especially when I’m not the person who should be in that bed with you. Drink some water and get some sleep,” she said gently.
There was a part of her that wanted to comfort Stephen, to tell him that it was going to be all right, and hold him until it didn’t hurt anymore. But what good would that do? She wasn’t the person for that job, and she knew it.
Back in her apartment, Morgan closed and locked her door back up, pressing her back against it as she gazed around the tiny space. It was clean and tidy, with everything in its place.
She sat on her small couch and opened her laptop once more, turning on a movie until it was time to head out. As much as she hated to admit it, she was wondering the same thing as Stephen.
Was there really someone out there for her, too?
The movie passed without Morgan really focusing, her mind elsewhere, until it was time to dress again and head to her meeting.
On her way out, Morgan checked in on Stephen, who never locked his door, no matter how many times she told him he should. He was fast asleep on his side, snoring. Good. He would likely have a hangover in the morning, but he would recover.
Everyone always did.
Steeling herself for a potentially long night ahead, Morgan headed down to the garage below the building where her car was parked.
It was time to find out just who Ahmed was, and what he wanted.
THREE
Morgan stared up at the glowing neon sign. Abu Nawas had closed an hour earlier, and she felt like a fool. She hadn’t even thought to check the hours on the website, busy as she had been, looking for traces of who Ahmed might be.
Still, not wanting to give up that easily, she pressed her face against the glass door, and was surprised to see the lights still on. An older woman in Middle-Eastern dress met her gaze and hurried over to the door, unlocking it and letting her in.
“Hello, hello! Welcome to our restaurant!” the woman said, grasping Morgan’s hands with a small bow.
Not knowing the proper greeting for her culture, Morgan simply gave the woman’s hands a firm squeeze back, and a smile.
“I’m glad you found me—for a moment there I thought I
’d been given a cold case.”
“Of course not! Your services are much needed, my dear.”
The woman ushered Morgan into the opulent dining room, where a man in white cotton clothing was seated at a table in the center. He wore a thick pair of glasses and was examining some documents, but when Morgan and the woman entered, he stood to greet them, removing his spectacles.
“Miss Springfield,” he said, his voice recognizable as the one from the phone call earlier that day. “Thank you for coming.”
Morgan tried not to gape at her opulent, bejeweled surroundings. The chandeliers had to be Swarovski crystals—they glittered and glistened, giving the room an ethereal feel.
Taking a breath, Morgan realized she could smell something amazing, and, to her embarrassment, her stomach rumbled.
The woman didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll have some food brought out for us. The chef is still here,” she said, scurrying off.
The man—Ahmed, she supposed—gestured to a seat across from him, and Morgan took it, gratefully. The chair was well cushioned, and she sank into it for a moment before remembering herself and sitting upright.
Ahmed grinned. “We brought in all the finest furnishings; we’re very proud of this place,” he said, his accent even more melodious in person.
Without knowing him, Morgan liked him immediately. That didn’t mean terribly much, but she prided herself on her instincts, even as she allowed for the possibility that they could be wrong.
A heartbeat later, two waiters were at the table, setting down plates of creamy hummus and warm pita bread. Morgan’s mouth instantly began to water, but she waited for Ahmed to make a move before diving in.
“Please, help yourself, Miss Springfield,” he said, gesturing at the plates. “I think you’ll find our hummus to be the best in town,” he beamed, clearly proud of his establishment.
Needing no further encouragement, Morgan scooped up a large helping of hummus, and took a bite. The creamy spread melted in her mouth, and she had to fight off a moan of pleasure. How long had it been since she’d had decent food?
The woman returned to the table and took a seat beside Ahmed. Both of them stared at Morgan for a moment, and she stopped eating, suddenly self-conscious.
“Miss Springfield,” Ahmed finally began. “Do you know what a sheikh is?”
Morgan racked her brain, remembering the title from her research.
“Isn’t it like, a king or something?”
Ahmed smiled. “Something like that, yes. In my country I am known as Sheikh Ahmed Al-Khali. This is my wife, Sheikha Almera Al-Khali. We are the ceremonial heads of a tribe in our home nation of Al-Harrari, and the owners of Abu Nawas.”
