by Holly Rayner
“I don’t need you to pay for me,” she said, stubborn to the last. In truth, the more of Hassan’s parents’ money she spent, the worse she felt; even though she had found him, there was still no guarantee that she would be able to get him back home.
Hassan stood. “Of course you don’t, but if you’ll allow me, I think I can show you what the ‘outskirts’ of New Mexico really have to offer. Do you dare?” he asked, his gaze full of challenge.
He reached out a hand for her to take, and she glanced at it before meeting his eyes again. God, he was handsome. He wore a simple pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, like some Middle-Eastern James Dean.
Morgan narrowed her eyes, then slid her hand into his. It was warm and dry, the skin somewhat calloused. She liked the way it felt.
“I do,” she said, rising and following him out of the bar.
As the Sheikh strode toward a large, wide-handled motorcycle, Morgan cast a glance at her car.
Following her gaze, Hassan said, “Don’t worry about that. Lots of folks drink too much and leave their cars for the night here. They always just come back to get ‘em in the morning. Not much of a parking problem around here, you know.”
“I’ve noticed,” Morgan said, trying to ignore the increasingly rapid beating of her heart as they approached the bike.
She told herself that she was simply doing her job; she had found her missing person and had to stick to him like glue. If she was being honest with herself, though, she was thrilled to be going on an adventure with him.
They reached the bike and Hassan pulled a helmet off of the handlebars, handing it to Morgan.
“Here. It might be a bit big, but it should do the trick.”
Morgan plopped the heavy helmet over her head, shifting it until she could see out of the front. “Don’t you have a helmet?” she asked, her voice muffled behind the mouth piece.
Hassan grinned. “That’s the only one. I don’t do this all that often, as it goes.”
“What, give your only helmet to a lady while you seduce her with your wheels?”
“Who said I was seducing you?” he asked, his grin carving a dimple in his left cheek.
Morgan wanted to kiss that dimple, and then mentally chided herself for thinking as much. She shrugged her shoulders and said nothing as Hassan mounted the bike and looked over to her.
“Hop on,” he said, and she straddled her legs around his waist, holding onto the side of the bike. When he turned the engine on, the smell of gasoline and the vibration of the bike was an instant rush. Morgan’s stomach filled with butterflies, and as Hassan pulled out of the lot her arms wrapped around his middle of their own volition.
Under the full moon, the desert landscape took on an ethereal glow. Morgan breathed in the dry air as the wind blew all around them, encasing them in their own little bubble.
Hassan drove on the main road for some time, until Morgan saw a mountainscape come into view ahead of them. The Sheikh drove right up one of the hills, curling the bike onto a dirt road and continuing up the hilltop through scattered brush.
Morgan tried not to feel nervous as Hassan drove them deeper into the woods; his parents were good people, and her instincts told her that Hassan was, too. Still, she could tell he was dangerous—she just wasn’t sure what kind of danger she was in.
The bike’s lights flashed on an old wooden cabin, nestled within a smattering of trees, and Hassan pulled the motorcycle in front of it, turning the engine off.
Fighting off a pang of disappointment that the ride was over, Morgan pulled her leg around the back of the bike to dismount. Reluctantly, she slid her arms back from around Hassan’s middle, which was clearly muscular—she could feel his six-pack through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her legs felt stiff from being in the same position for so long, and she stretched as Hassan tended to his bike.
Removing the helmet, she tried to assemble her hair into something decent, handing it back to Hassan as he turned around.
“Thanks, Morgan,” he said, taking it. “Now, why don’t we go inside, and you can tell me the truth about why you’re really here.”
Morgan took a breath, meeting Hassan’s stare head on. There was no point in lying any longer. He’d seen right through her the moment he’d sat at the bar.
EIGHT
After a pause, the Sheikh nodded his chin toward the shack, and Morgan followed him inside, still holding her silence.
The wooden walls were bare, with a small ice box and a cot lining one wall and some first aid supplies lining another. That was it.
On the icebox there was a kerosene lamp, which Hassan lit before pulling two beers from the ice box and handing one to Morgan.
She twisted the jagged top off and took a deep pull of the beverage, which was a little skunked. Having gone so long without liquor, she had a hard time remembering why she’d ever enjoyed it in the first place.
Dangling the beer in her hand, she looked around the cabin, not sure what to do next.
“Please, sit,” Hassan said, gesturing toward the cot.
Morgan tried not to think of Hassan in the bed she was sitting on as he sank against the wall opposite her, drinking the skunked beer like there was nothing wrong with it. She was about to ask him how long he’d been out there for when Hassan spoke.
“I thought it strange when I got word that a beautiful woman from the city was asking around after me,” he said, staring at her intently, reading her expression.
Morgan kept her face neutral, waiting to see just how much he knew.
“I know our meeting wasn’t a coincidence, Morgan,” he continued. “Would you like to be honest with me now? Honestly, I’d rather we be truthful with each other from the beginning. I find it cuts a lot of unnecessary corners.”
Morgan sighed, setting her beer down on the floor. She met his gaze and gave him the truth. “I’m a private detective your parents hired to find you,” she said, and almost laughed at Hassan’s shocked expression.
“Another one? Really? They’ve already sent two!”
Her grin was rueful. “And you outsmarted them both. Your father guessed that you would be more receptive to a female looking for you,” she added, glancing down.
Hassan laughed, but the sound rang hollow. “Well I suppose he really does know me then, after all this time,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Morgan looked back up from the floor. “They care about you a lot, Hassan. I sat with them and they told me how worried they were, how much they missed you.”
“And how much did they offer to pay you? More than you’ve seen in years, I bet. More than anyone has seen in a lifetime?”
Morgan sat back, perturbed by his sudden snide tone.
Seeing her wary expression, Hassan backed down. “I’m sorry, Morgan. None of this is your fault. You’re just doing your job, trying to make a living for yourself, but my parents are con artists willing to do whatever it takes to get their own way. They may have come off as sincere, but all they want is a son to ensure their money stays in our house. That’s all.”
“You don’t know that…” Morgan protested.
“Don’t I? Morgan, they’re my parents. I’ve been under their shadow my whole life, doing what I was told, getting the right education, dressing in the proper clothing, acting the way they wanted me to act. I was a puppet; something they could manipulate to increase their fortune. Nothing will ever be enough for them—no amount of land, no amount of money. It’s never enough!” he cried, throwing his hands up in the air.
Morgan reached around for her purse, which had been strapped across her body during the drive, and pulled out the insignia ring Almera had given her. She held it out for him to take.
“Your mother gave this to me. She said no matter what you decide to do, you ought to have it.”
Hassan stared at the ring in her hand like it was a venomous scorpion. He took it between his finger and thumb, turning it around in his hand, lost in memory.
Morgan watched him,
amazed by this turn of events. Never before had she revealed her status as a detective while undercover…until now. It felt right somehow, with Hassan.
He rose, then, and walked over to a wide-open window. Taking one last look at the ring, he reached his arm back and threw it out into the brush, wiping his hands of invisible dirt as he turned back to the cabin.
“I want to show you something. Will you come with me?” he said, holding out his hand to help her up.
Without hesitation, Morgan placed her hand in his, grateful for the warmth of it.
They stepped outside into the night, the moonlight peeking in through the trees. Hassan stopped by his bike and pulled a few blankets out of a side pouch, holding them under his arm as he led Morgan up the hilltop and toward a rocky outcrop.
When they reached the peak, Morgan gasped.
All around them, the desert was bathed in moonlight. Morgan could see for miles, even in the dark, and the world seemed…peaceful.
Hassan released her hand and laid out the blankets for them to sit on. He took a seat, staring out at the open desert, and Morgan sat by his side.
“You want to know why I ran away?” he asked, his gaze penetrating the night. “When you’re rich, people will do anything you want. Like, anything. I got away with so much garbage all the time. Sometimes I would just do stupid shit just to see what I could get away with, and my parents were so wealthy I got away with all of it. To a lot of people that sounds like the life but the truth is, it’s all so damn fake. My friends were fake. People put on a face because they wanted to enjoy the lifestyle I could provide. I didn’t know who to trust, and my parents weren’t any different. They laid into me because I wasn’t acting the way they wanted me to act—like a sheikh. They wanted me to learn how to play politics, and that game requires giving up your soul.”
Morgan shivered as a breeze rolled by, shifting a little bit closer to his warmth. Hassan didn’t seem to notice.
“I didn’t ask for that life, Morgan. It was forced upon me, shoved down my throat. When I went to college in the States, I met people who didn’t know who I was, people who treated me like an equal, for better or worse. I saw what life could be like without the weight of a sheikhdom sitting on my shoulders, and I liked it. I liked being on my own, doing my own thing. When my parents came to Houston looking to drag me back home, I just couldn’t do it. I sold everything I owned, bought a bike and rode out here. I placed one call to my parents just to stop them worrying, but now I wish I hadn’t done it. I’m never going to be the son they want.”
He looked down at Morgan then, his eyes begging her to understand. And she did. She thought about every conversation she’d had with her own mother recently. The guilt. The judgement. What would it be like to just ride away from all that and start over?
“But this life? You’ve gotten yourself involved with some pretty sketchy characters, Hassan,” Morgan pointed out, and Hassan let out a dry laugh.
“Well that part was a bit of an accident. I needed to make money, and Daryl just happened to be there. I knew he was trouble, but at the time I was used to doing whatever I wanted without consequences. Now I know there are consequences—fortunately I know how to fight, too. So that helps. Besides,” he said, sweeping a hand across the landscape. “Look at this place, Morgan. I can be myself here. I can figure out who I am. I’ve been told who I am all my life, and now I just happen to disagree. That doesn’t suit my parents’ wishes, so here you are,” he said, grinning down at her.
Morgan found herself grinning back, then frowned. “I won’t try to convince you to go back to Houston, Hassan. I see what you’re going through, and I understand it, I really do. I think it’s cool that you were brave enough to make your escape. You’re a braver person than I am.”
“I’m not brave,” he said, gazing down at her. He lifted a hand and gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re giving up a lot of money, you know. You sure you don’t want to try and convince me to go home?”
“I’m not that good of a manipulator,” Morgan replied, her gaze darting to his lips as he lowered his face closer to hers.
