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“I have a meeting. I don’t have time. I stopped in because Mother asked me to do so when you arrived.”
An obligatory visit. “Thank you for saying hello.” Did her voice sound higher than normal, or was it in her head?
Mikhail looked around the room again. Had he heard Harris in the closet? Would he search the room before he left?
“As-salaam alaykum,” Mikhail said.
Laila lowered her eyes to the floor. “Wa alaykum as-salaam.”
Mikhail left the room, and Laila waited a full minute before she moved. Was he gone? Would he return? Harris stepped out of the closet.
“That was close,” Harris said and his mouth twitched.
Was he enjoying this? “Too close. We need to be careful.” Pangs of doubt played on her thoughts. When she had imagined herself speaking to her family, she was a good liar. They believed her. Could she maintain this lie while in front of them? She and her uncle had agreed not to discuss the operation inside the compound walls. She couldn’t speak the truth to anyone and had to maintain her cover at all times. She felt overwhelmed and terrified. “Someone will find out. It’s too suspicious.”
Harris’s eyebrows furrowed with worry. “Suspicious how?”
“I’ve never brought a man to meet the family.”
“You’ve also never been on your own for two years,” Harris said.
Time in America had changed her, but would her family view the change as too abrupt? “How can I play pretend around-the-clock?” She rubbed her temples where a massive stress headache was forming.
Harris pressed his lips together. “Let me offer a compromise.” He took a deep breath, and she waited. “When we’re alone in this room, you’ll be you and I’ll be Harris Truman. Anything you need to say to me or get off your chest, you do it here with me. The rest of the time, we stay undercover.”
A small measure of relief passed over her. She wouldn’t be alone in her room with Harris often, but he was offering her something. If their mission became too much, she had a brief sanctuary from the lies. “Thank you. Yes. Here it will be you and me. Out there,” she said and pointed to the door, “it is Princess Laila and wealthy heir Harris Kuhn.”
Princess Laila and Harris Kuhn were to be engaged. How would a woman in her position behave toward a man like Harris? Even if her thoughts had changed since living in America, the culture in Qamsar hadn’t moved forward. She had no firsthand experience with men in that way, or in any way, but Laila was curious and hopeful about that part of her life.
Laila’s gaze traveled to Harris’s mouth. No touches or kisses. It was what a Qamsarian woman expected from a relationship until she was married, but Laila wasn’t sure what she wanted from a relationship. If Laila had a German boyfriend, wouldn’t their relationship be a mixture of the two cultures? She drew in the heavy air, feeling as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in it. It was Harris. That connection, that electricity that never stopped flowing between them was making her think about relationships, desire and lust. Topics she’d put out of her mind, knowing they weren’t available to her.
Until now.
Until the possibility of staying in the United States and building a life where she was more than a submissive wife and mother were on the table. The possibility of marrying for love. She could be herself in a relationship. An equal partner.
“Will your brother stop by to see you often?” Harris asked.
Though he spoke in Arabic, he had dropped his German accent. Hearing his American accent on the Arabic words for the first time since they’d arrived in Qamsar was startling. “Hard to say. We lived together before I moved in with my aunt and uncle. Mikhail and I have never gotten along,” Laila said.
“We’ll expect interruptions and be as careful as we can,” Harris said.
“I was worried the guards would find something when they searched the car and our luggage,” she said.
“Nothing to find.”
Laila held her tongue over the barrage of questions. The less she knew, the better. She couldn’t slip up and say anything in front of her family.
“I was planning to head to the souk and see the sights. Feel like helping me find my way?” Harris asked.
“We’ll need to find someone to accompany us.” Would that be a problem for him? What did he have planned? “Maybe after we do some shopping, we can have dinner with my mother at our family’s country house?”
Harris nodded. “No problem. Let’s find out how to get our hands on a car and an escort, and we’ll go.”
“I presume you’ll leave the way you came in?” she asked.
He winked at her. “You got it. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.” He waited at the balcony door for a few minutes before stepping outside.
The heat of the day rushed in, and Laila looked out the doors into the lush landscape. The emir’s gardens were beautifully maintained, every walking path clear, the plants shaped and benches clean. Did Mikhail spend much time walking in the gardens as their father had? The emir’s compound was the nicest place in Qamsar, containing the finest luxuries.
As a child, she had thought of the compound like a castle. Now it was large and foreboding, the last place she wanted to be.
Laila called her mother, disappointed when she didn’t answer her phone. She left a message, telling her mother she’d arrived safely and would see her soon.
She checked her appearance again in the mirror. If she was having dinner with her mother, it would be best for her to wear something less wrinkled. She selected a white dress that had the least crumpled fabric and wrapped a navy head scarf around her hair. Her dress was loose and comfortable, and would be cool in the heat of the afternoon.
After pulling on a pair of flat, plain shoes, she left her room and locked the door behind her. Not that she had any expectation of privacy. Mikhail would make it his business to be aware of everything that went on inside his compound. If he wanted to go into her room, he would.
Harris was waiting in the lobby for her, leaning against the wall, hands casually in his pockets. He had covered his head with a ghutra. Though it wasn’t expected for him to wear it, it would help him blend. With sunglasses over his eyes, he’d be less identifiable, his blond hair and light skin an obvious difference from most native Qamsarians with their darker skin and hair.
“Ready?” he asked. The German accent had returned.
Laila nodded and clasped her hands in front of her. Harris didn’t touch her. Didn’t try to. He followed her to the lobby where Mikhail’s butler explained the car situation. A driver would escort them to the souk and serve as their chaperone and security detail.
Harris didn’t seem upset by the arrangements. If he was planning to smuggle something into the compound to help them search for Al-Adel or to keep them safe, how would he do so with the driver watching them? The security guards at the front gate would search them and the car again. What was Harris planning? Their mission was to find Al-Adel and alert Harris’s team if they saw him or heard rumors about his arrival. Would Harris need a weapon to protect them if someone uncovered their real objectives for being at the wedding?
On the drive to the souk, Laila spoke to Harris about her life in Qamsar. Harris asked questions to spur the conversation. To anyone listening, it was a casual getting-to-know-you-better conversation.
When they arrived at the souk, the driver got out of the car and followed them. His behavior indicated his presence wasn’t a negotiation. Laila and Harris wouldn’t be alone for any portion of the trip.
In the busyness of the marketplace, Harris and Laila walked beside each other, not touching, the driver close behind them.
The marketplace was flooded with hundreds, if not thousands, of people. The CIA had told Laila to assume she was always being watched. It left her with an eerie feeling. She hadn’t considered that Mikhail would place surveillance devices in the guest rooms. If she did anything wrong, anything out of place, it could be reported to her oldest brother and put her status with Mikhail in jeopardy. Laila didn’t believe her brother held much regard for her, but at the best, he was indifferent. Earning his displeasure risked the operation.
Harris slipped on his dark sunglasses. For someone who looked foreign, he blended remarkably well.
“How are you enjoying yourself so far?” Laila asked him. Though he wasn’t visiting for pleasure, and though the circumstances weren’t ideal, she wanted Harris to have something good to say about her country. Wanted him to see the beauty around them. Most of what he knew about the country might be negative, but the emir’s possible relationship with a terrorist didn’t describe the country as a whole.
“Things are going well so far. How are you feeling?” he asked. He glanced at her and then returned to looking around the crowd, strolling slowly through the cobblestone streets. They skirted around a fenced-in area containing herd animals.
The driver stayed close behind them. Laila wished he would give them space or at least pretend as if he wasn’t hanging on to every word they spoke to each other.
Her nerves were wound, but overall, she was fine. “It’s nice to be home. I’ve missed my mom and my family. I love my life in America, but when I’m there, I’m aware I’m a foreigner.”
Harris nodded in understanding. “I know what you mean. Whenever I travel abroad, it’s not only how I look that makes me stand out from the locals. It’s not knowing the customs and culture. I feel like I make insulting mistakes.” With the exception of a brief time in her room, he hadn’t dropped his German accent for a moment since they’d arrived. How did he stay perfectly in character? She felt as if she needed to check every word that left her mouth to be sure she wasn’t blowing their cover.
“Do you have anything you’re looking for specifically? I can take you to the best shops with the nicest wares. I know an antique dealer who sells some unique pieces.” Was he eyeing something in particular for his mission?
“I read that the marketplace is the perfect location to shop for perfumes and carpets. My family might like a few local specialties as gifts. And of course, I’ll need something for your mother.”
It would make a good impression that Harris had gotten her mother a gift. “My mother is a practical woman. She won’t expect anything elaborate.” Anything too elaborate and Mikhail would take possession of it. She and Harris had discussed purchasing a gift for her mother before leaving the United States. If she and Harris were to become engaged, a gift of equal measure to Laila’s social status would be expected from him to her family. Since their relationship was a sham, Laila didn’t think putting the CIA through an additional expense made sense. By the time it became important for Harris to give Laila’s family a lavish gift, the ruse would be up. For now, a thoughtful trinket was best.
“I’ll let you give me guidance on what to get your mom. In my country, flowers and wine are appropriate. I’m guessing there’s another protocol here.” A man walking in the opposite direction bumped her, and her shoulder brushed Harris’s.
Harris reached to steady her, his hands on her for only a moment, but it was heated enough to sear her to the core. “Are you all right?” he asked, shooting an annoyed look in the direction of the man who’d jolted her.
Laila wished she had brought a hand fan. It was too hot. The souk was crowded, and without the wind blowing, it was stuffy and confining. She wouldn’t focus on how it felt to touch Harris. “I’m fine. I’m thinking my mom might like a small piece of artwork, like a statue or a landscape painting. One of her hobbies is painting scenery. Or maybe a set of worry beads.” Her father had several worry beads he’d gotten at important dates in his life, among them when he’d become emir, when he’d married Laila’s mother and when each of his three children was born. To continue the tradition and have Harris present her mother with a set to mark the occasion of their meeting would have significance to her mother.
In the event her mother grew to like Harris, she would be disappointed when she learned Harris and Laila’s relationship was fake. Perhaps the worry beads and her mother forming any connection to Harris were a mistake. Before she could make another suggestion, Harris answered.
“That sounds great. We can also look for something for my mother and two sisters-in-law. I’ve heard the perfumes here are the best. I think they would get a thrill out of a special perfume.”
Laila had known the stakes before she’d agreed to this. Being in Qamsar was harder than she’d imagined. She reassured herself that her deception was only required for a short time, and she was doing the right thing for her country and her family.
Harris was talking like a tourist. She had assumed he had a secondary motivation for coming to the souk. Maybe she’d been wrong. She’d been anticipating a cloak-and-dagger routine. “I know a shop that sells amazing scents. I’ll let you know when we get there.”
They were beckoned to a jewelry stall. “You wish to buy something for your beautiful lady?” the vendor asked, holding out a few necklaces for Harris to see.
Harris turned to her. “See anything you like?”
He wanted to buy her something? It wasn’t necessary. Or was this part of the role he was playing: rich German heir? Would the girlfriend of such a man decline the gift, or would she be so accustomed to being spoiled that accepting would be natural?
Laila was overthinking. She wasn’t pretending to be anyone. She was herself. “You don’t need to buy me anything, Harris. But thank you.”
“I have beautiful gold bracelets. They would look lovely on your lady,” the vendor pressed.
“She’s already lovely,” Harris said.
The compliment tickled her insides. The vendor held a gold bangle bracelet with silver threading in the shape of ivy wrapping around the gold.
Laila gasped. It was a beautiful piece. “This reminds me of a ring that belonged to my great-great-grandmother. This has the same ivy pattern set against the gold.”
“If we can work out a price, I’ll take it,” Harris said.
Laila whirled to him in surprise. “You don’t need to buy that.”
Harris negotiated with the vendor and smiled when they struck a deal. He turned and presented it to Laila. “I saw how you looked at it. You can wear it to your brother’s wedding. It’s my special gift to you.”
She slipped the bracelet over her hand onto her wrist and secured the safety clasp. “Thank you. This is nice of you and unexpected.” It was the first piece of jewelry, or any gift she had received from a man she wasn’t related to. “You didn’t have to buy this.”
Harris lifted a brow at her. “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. Is there a place where you’d like to stop for a few moments to get something to eat? I’d like to look around on my own. You can stay with the driver.”
Laila glanced at the driver standing a step away, watching Laila with annoyance in his eyes. Was he irritated he had been sent to babysit her, or did he have some personal problem with her?
“Maybe we should stay together,” Laila said. Was Harris safe alone?
“Perhaps I should take you to see your mother first, and then return?” he asked.
Stash her somewhere first? Was what he needed to do that dangerous? What if something happened to him? How would anyone know? He could disappear in the country and never be heard from again.
“I’d like to stay together,” she said. She should go along with whatever he said. It had been the plan when leaving the United States, but now she was worried about him.
Harris looked at her, studying her face, perhaps trying to understand her reasons without asking the question. “All right. If you insist.”
She processed the words. Had her refusal caused a problem with his plans? He wouldn’t argue in front of the driver and raise suspicions.
Harris continued walking and stopped at a stall where the vendor was selling shoes. He picked up a pair and turned them over. “Are these leather?”
The vendor nodded. “The finest leather. Soft. Will contour to your feet the more you wear them.”
Harris held up his hand. “I’ll take two pairs. And a pair for the lady.”
Laila didn’t think the shoes were attractive. They looked like shoes to wear on a construction site, heavy and durable. She opened her mouth to protest and then thought better of it. The CIA had asked her to go along with Harris when possible, and since they were in front of the vendor and the driver, no point in arguing with him. If he wanted to buy ugly shoes, then fine.
The guard escorting them leaned in close to look at the shoes. Was something wrong with them? Why did he seem interested in Harris’s purchase? He hadn’t cared when Harris had bought her the bracelet.
With the laces knotted and the shoes thrown over his shoulder, Harris continued along the marketplace. He bought a few bottles of perfume for the women in his family and an ornamental carpet, the items she’d expect a vacationer to buy. He was playing his role well.
At an artist’s shop, he purchased a strand of rose-colored glass worry beads for her mother. It was delicate with the colored spheres catching the sun.
“Did you get what you needed?” she asked.
“Almost everything,” Harris said. He looked ahead and continued walking.
Laila kept waiting for something to happen. For a man to lean out from an alley and draw them inside and give them a package. For someone to slip Harris a bag. For Harris to pick up a lone package off the sidewalk, left by another asset.
A man walking by stopped and pointed to Harris’s shoes. “I can take those off your hands if you’d like.”
Harris shook his head. “The stall ahead on the left sells them. You’ll have your pick of color and size.”
“I’d prefer shoes that were broken in,” he said.
“Can’t help you there,” Harris said.
The man looked between her and Harris a few times. She stepped closer to Harris, unsure if the man was considering mugging them or stealing the shoes. It struck her as odd, since the shoes weren’t remarkable or expensive. Whatever the nameless man was thinking, he decided to leave them alone and hurried in the direction of the shoe stall.
“That was strange,” Laila said.
Harris made a noncommittal sound.
Was that conversation some coded exchange of information? “You bought those ugly shoes—” The guard was hanging on to every word, and Laila stopped her train of thought.
Harris’s eyes widened slightly. “Hey, they are not ugly.”
For a moment, she worried she’d offended him. Then she saw the amused gleam in his eyes. What good were ugly shoes? Was he trying to smuggle something inside them? Laila hadn’t seen him pick up anything and put it inside the shoes. Did he have a gun stashed somewhere? Would he risk it, knowing they’d be searched, and if caught, they’d be in danger? American spy movies had her imagination running untamed.
“Whatever you say,” Laila said. “Don’t think you’re wearing them to the wedding.”
“But I bought a pair for you so we’d match.”
She scrunched up her face. “Gee, thanks. I’ll return the favor sometime. Maybe you’d like to wear matching head scarves.”
Harris let out a bark of laughter. “Perhaps. I wonder what your family would think of that.”
They’d think he was crazy. His blue eyes shone in the sun. He was a beautiful, captivating man. One who could make her think he had feelings for her, who could make her believe their romance was real. No matter how Harris looked at her or how he treated her, she had to keep their objective at the front of her mind. He was in Qamsar to find and stop a terrorist. He wasn’t interested in falling in love, least of all with her. “If you dressed like a woman, my family would have questions,” she said.
Harris grinned at her and molten heat rolled through her.
“I’m ready to leave whenever you are. The heat is getting to me,” Harris said, plucking at his shirt.
Based on his nonchalant response, she was alone in feeling the chemistry between them. She refocused on the mission. If Harris had been in the souk for information, except for his strange and brief interaction with a man offering to buy the shoes, Laila hadn’t seen anything unusual. She couldn’t have explained the purpose or reason for the interaction if questioned.
If anyone asked her what she and Harris did in the souk, she could tell the truth. He’d bought presents for his family, a bracelet for her, a gift for her mother and ugly shoes. The driver would corroborate her story.
“I’ll call my mother and see if she’s ready for our visit,” Laila said.
Laila took out her cell phone and dialed her mother.
Her mother answered on the second ring. “I was hoping you would call again. I missed your first call by ten minutes.”
Laila’s chest filled with happiness at the thought of seeing her mother. “Harris and I are finished at the souk. Are we too early for dinner? I wouldn’t mind extra time to visit with you.” She and her mother had kept in touch over the phone and with almost daily emails, but talking in person was better.
“I can’t wait to see you. I’ve been calling you, but the calls went straight to voice mail,” Iba said.
“The signal is sometimes weak here,” Laila said.
“I’d love to have you over, but didn’t Mikhail tell you?” Iba asked.
Laila’s stomach knotted. “Tell me what?”
“He’s invited guests in town for the wedding to the compound tonight. He has a special announcement. I don’t know what it is. I was getting ready to leave now.” Her mother sounded reserved and tense.
A special announcement sounded ominous. Maybe it was something to do with the wedding, or maybe it was another opportunity for Mikhail to make a declaration about how he planned to keep his family under his thumb. More monitoring. More check-ins. More rules. “Okay, then we’ll see you there.”
Dread and worry heavy in her stomach, Laila said goodbye to her mother and disconnected the call. “Change of plans. Mikhail is having a dinner and making a special announcement tonight.”
The corners of Harris’s mouth turned down. He addressed the driver. “Sounds like we need to return to the compound.”
The driver glanced at his watch and nodded. “It would be offensive to be late.”
Why hadn’t Mikhail mentioned anything when he’d stopped by her room earlier in the day? If the news was bad, maybe he didn’t want to give her a chance to run. What if Mikhail’s special announcement was her engagement to one of his lackeys?
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