In this kingdom, not even the royals are immune to danger

With a sexy FBI agent posing as her suitor, Princess Laila of Qamsar is home for the wedding of her brother the Emir. In truth, the beautiful royal and Harris Truman are on an undercover mission: to find the infamous terrorist her brother is suspected of aiding.

But once the festivities begin, Laila faces a bigger threat than Al-Adel. Her secret meetings with Harris pose a danger to her safety—and her heart. To gain his love and live in freedom as his equal is her ardent desire. But will she betray her traditions for a man whose kisses are part of a charade?

“My apologies,” Harris said. “I wasn’t making an advance. I was trying to hide you. I forgot myself for a moment.”

Why did it sting that his actions were based only on protecting her? “I’m not upset. I’m glad you’re here. Being alone with a man is new to me, but it’s nothing like I’d imagined it to be.” It came with more powerful emotions. Desire. Happiness.

Harris looked at her. Watched her. Didn’t say anything. His gaze drilled into her.

Finally he spoke. “Are you telling me you’ve never been alone with a man?”

Laila shifted under his scrutiny. “Aside from members of my family, I have not been alone with a man. Not in the way you mean.” She had never before experienced the attraction or the connection she had with Harris. “It’s well understood in Qamsar that an unmarried woman of a certain age isn’t left alone with her suitors.”

Dear Reader,

I’m excited to the share with you the third book of the Truman brothers miniseries. Harris’s story takes place in a setting inspired by my husband’s experiences living in the Middle East.

Harris is a distrusting FBI agent who needs Laila, a member of the Qamsarian royal family, to help locate and stop a terrorist. The search leads Harris to Laila’s home country in the Arabian Peninsula. Away from the world he knows and the support of his family, Harris is tested by the rules and restrictions of Laila’s conservative country.

Laila has her own ideas about life and love and is challenged by the changes in her world and by her attraction to Harris. To find happiness, they’ll both need to set aside disappointments of the past and fears of the future and embrace a new life they never thought possible.

Happy reading,

C.J. Miller

Protecting His Princess

C.J. Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

C.J. MILLER

is a third-generation Mills & Boon reader and the first in her family to write professionally. She lives in Maryland with her husband and young son. She enjoys spending time with family, meeting friends for coffee, reading and traveling to warm beaches around the world. C.J. believes in first loves, second chances and happily-ever-after.

C.J. loves to hear from readers and can be contacted through her website at www.cj-miller.com.

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To our princess, Quinn. I wish you love, laughter and happily ever after.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 1

She would never enjoy a cup of coffee again. Laila removed her stained navy-blue apron and shoved it in the washing machine with the others. A few more tasks and she could close for the night, giving her feet—and her nose—a much-needed break.

Laila had been listening to the radio since she’d closed the store, hoping to learn new information about the situation in her home country of Qamsar. Her brother’s regressive, conservative social policies weren’t popular with certain factions in the country, and Laila hoped Mikhail would adopt a more moderate approach to ruling before tensions erupted into violence. Her mother feared civil war, and Laila feared for her family’s safety. The broadcast had nothing new to report.

Laila double-checked the coffee, latte and espresso machines, and switched off the lights and radio in the back room. The only sound in the small café was the washing machine filling with water.

She jumped when she saw a man leaning against the café’s glass front door. Deep blue eyes watched her. Laila crossed the room, her heart jittering nervously. He had visited the café dozens of times before, and each time, he had caught and held her attention. “Harris. What are you doing here?” she asked through the glass.

Had he not been one of her regular customers, she would have backed away, told him to leave and maybe even called the police. But Harris was a good man, charming, easy to talk with, and she’d developed a fondness for him. She looked forward to his visits, and though this one was oddly timed, a shudder of excitement piped through her.

“I tried knocking, but you didn’t hear me,” Harris said. “I need to talk to you.”

Laila stared at him through the glass. “About what?” Growing up in Qamsar, even as a member of the royal family, she was wary of men. American men made her doubly nervous; though with Harris, her nervousness was centered on attraction not fear. Attracted to him and unsure how to strike up a friendship, her feelings for Harris confused her. In Qamsar, it wasn’t appropriate to have a friendship with a man. Much about her life in America was new to her, including her job, which she’d taken to stay off her brother’s radar and have money of her own. It was a freedom she enjoyed.

Harris pressed a badge against the glass. “You’re in danger. I need you to come with me.”

Laila leaned forward, examining the badge that contained Harris’s picture and the words FBI Special Agent. Surprise and alarm skittered across her skin. Harris had never mentioned what he did for a living, and she had never told him that she was the emir’s sister. A stab of betrayal pierced her. She’d expected the American government to monitor her, but she hadn’t expected Harris to be the one doing it.

Had danger traveled from Qamsar to find her in America? “Why do you think I’m in danger?” Her nerves tightened in her stomach and exhaustion fled to the corners of her mind.

“Please trust me. I don’t mean you any harm,” Harris said. He slid his badge into his pocket and held his hands out, palms facing her. “Let’s talk for a few minutes without me shouting through the glass.”

Laila unlocked the door and allowed Harris inside. “Is my family safe?” Her mother’s safety was at the foremost of her thoughts.

“At the present the data I have on the situation indicates they are not hurt or directly in danger.”

Which was not the same as saying they were safe. People in public positions during social upheaval were never completely safe. Since her father had died two years ago, her brother Mikhail had taken over as emir, and the shift of power had caused political and social rumblings that had only grown louder with time. “Then why do you think I’m in danger?” Laila asked. She liked Harris. Whenever he’d come to the counter to place his order, he had spoken to her and listened to her responses. His demeanor tonight was different than it had been in weeks past. His shoulders were tight; his carefree, flirtatious smile was missing and tension pulsed off him in waves.

“We’ve received intel that someone wants to hurt you,” Harris said. The tension she’d sensed was pent up in his words.

Laila forced her heart to remain calm. Growing up in Qamsar, political enemies of her father had often threatened her and her family. Threats weren’t anything new. “The situation at home isn’t good, and someone always gets the bright idea to intimidate my family and me in the heat of emotion. I don’t take those threats seriously.”

His brows drew together and his blue eyes sharpened. “You need to take this one seriously.”

Laila wouldn’t allow an American man—no matter how attracted she was to him—to scare her. Americans didn’t understand the Qamsarian culture, and they didn’t understand her family. “We can talk about this another time. I’m tired, and I have an early class tomorrow. My uncle will be expecting me, and he’ll be worried if I arrive home too late.”

Harris waited while she locked up and followed her to her car. “Please, Laila. I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t feel the threats against you were real and pervasive.”

Laila pulled her car keys from her handbag and pressed the unlock button. The lights on her car flashed.

“No!”

Harris’s shout echoed in her ears, followed by the sound of an explosion and the sensation of her body being slammed into gravel. She slid, the backs of her legs and her arms burning. Harris was on top of her, his body covering hers. Laila gasped for air, the heaviness of him stifling. She struggled to sit up. As he rolled to the side, pulling his phone from his pocket, she caught sight of her car. It was now consumed in flames.

Her mouth fell open. She hadn’t expected this. Not while she was living in America. Car bombings didn’t happen in suburban America. People were safe here, weren’t they?

Who wanted to kill her bad enough to follow her to America?

* * *

Harris scanned the area, looking for anyone out of place. A bystander who might have seen something or even the bomber lingering to watch the fallout of his attack. No one except law enforcement and the first medical responders were on the scene.

Laila sat on the curb in the parking lot, a blanket wrapped around her. He’d had someone on his team call her aunt and uncle to let them know Laila was fine, painting the explosion as a car accident. The truth was more grim: a car bomb had been planted in Laila’s car. If Harris hadn’t recognized the high frequency whine of an explosive’s timer engaging, she would be dead. The intel the FBI had gathered on the situation had predicted Laila and members of the royal family of Qamsar were in danger, though it was difficult to predict how or if an attack might occur.

The FBI’s list of bombing suspects was short, mostly made up of members of the Holy Light Brotherhood, a terrorist organization that wanted Qamsar to remain isolated from “infidel influences.” Those “infidel influences” included America as a whole, and with the emir negotiating a trade agreement, a female member of the royal family studying in America became an obvious target to anyone wanting to send a message.

Harris sat on the curb next to Laila. “How are you holding up?”

Laila watched him with tired, soulful brown eyes. “I’m in shock. I’ve read about bombings. I’ve seen it reported on the news, but nothing like this has ever happened to me.”

The profile the FBI and CIA had created for Laila indicated she had lived a sheltered life. Living in America with her uncle and aunt, her mother’s sister, was the first time Laila had been away from Qamsar and her life as a royal princess. After her father, the former emir, had died, Laila had come to America on a student visa and had enrolled in the University of Colorado in Denver. From what Harris had gathered, her brother was not happy about Laila living in America, but he hadn’t outright forbidden it. “We’ll make sure nothing like this happens again to you.”

Harris had connected with Laila from the first day he’d met her. She went about her job quietly and efficiently, and she had intelligent, alert eyes. If she wasn’t his assignment, he might have asked her on a date, and gotten a chance to know her better and uncover the passion he saw simmering below the surface. Then again it was better for him to keep his distance. His track record with women was embarrassing, and he wasn’t ready to add another name to the list of failed relationships. When he was working a difficult case, those women were targets of his enemies, and none had proven able to handle the pressure or remain loyal when money changed hands.

Laila pulled the fleece blanket Harris had given her tighter around her body. Harris read the gesture as less from cold and more from discomfort. Was his presence making her uncomfortable because he was male? He and Laila weren’t alone. The parking lot was filled with people: FBI agents and CIA investigators, along with local law enforcement. The FBI and CIA had teamed up to create a joint task force to shut down the Holy Light Brotherhood, starting with the head of the organization, Ahmad Al-Adel. When it became apparent Al-Adel had potential ties to the Qamsarian ruling family, the task force had become interested in Laila and how she could help find Al-Adel.

His CIA contacts had told him that, as a Qamsarian woman, Laila had had a conservative upbringing. Not conservative the way an American defined it. Conservative as in limited contact with men, chaperones when appropriate and never being alone or having physical contact with any male apart from family. Harris was doing his best to respect those boundaries, but the extrovert in him found it difficult not to touch her, not to let his gaze linger on her and not to overtly flirt with her. Laila was a beautiful woman. She spoke with a tentative formality, her accent light and pleasing to his ears. She was sensual and feminine, even if she tried to hide it behind loose and concealing clothing.

He moved a few more inches away to give her more personal space.

“No one can promise this won’t happen again,” Laila said.

Sadness drew a frown across her face and everything in him urged him to take action to erase her unhappiness. Seeing her upset affected him. He wanted to do something, say something, but he didn’t have the words to make this better for her.

Tyler Morgan, Harris’s CIA counterpart on the task force, arrived on the scene. He strode to Harris and glanced between him and Laila. “Is this the Princess of Qamsar?”

Laila flinched, and Harris gathered she didn’t like being called a princess. He’d gotten the sense she was trying to blend with the Americans around her, and her Qamsarian title didn’t help that effort. “Yes, this is Laila bin Jassim Al Sharani.”

Harris introduced Laila to Tyler. Laila stood and nodded, though she didn’t offer her hand in greeting.

“We need to talk with you,” Tyler said and looked around. “In private.”

Laila shoved her hand through her hair, forcing strands behind her ears. “It’s late.”

If she refused, Harris couldn’t force her to speak to them, but he feared what would happen to her and her family without his team’s assistance and her cooperation.

“It’s important. We can speak to you at your home if you’d be more comfortable,” Tyler added.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I guess we can meet. I feel like I don’t have a choice.”

Harris wondered how much Laila knew about the political situation. Mikhail bin Jassim Al Sharani, Laila’s brother and the Emir of Qamsar, was suspected of working with Al-Adel and the Holy Light Brotherhood. Harris doubted Laila was aware of how much danger the emir was bringing to his family and his country by engaging with a dangerous man like Al-Adel.

* * *

Laila rode with Harris and Tyler to her aunt and uncle’s home. Her aunt Neha and uncle Aasim were waiting up for her. Laila reassured them that she was okay, and Harris explained he and Tyler needed to speak with her about the car incident.

Tyler appeared nervous and tense, watching the situation with an anxious energy that made Laila uneasy. She was grateful Harris was with her. He had a relaxed and easygoing presence that made everyone in the room feel comfortable. She got the impression that that was the image he was trying to convey to relax her. Underneath his quick smile, he was a force to be reckoned with.

“We need to find out from Laila everything she remembers about the incident while it’s fresh in her memory. We think the man who caused damage to her car is a serial hit-and-run driver. We want to stop him before he hurts anyone else. Is it all right to speak with Laila alone?” Harris asked.

“That depends on Laila.” Her uncle looked to her and waited for her response.

Part of the terms of Laila’s student visa was that she comply with law enforcement. She’d known before coming to America that her brother was a person of interest to the American government.

At her quick nod of agreement, her uncle turned back to Harris. “We’ll give you a few minutes of privacy. We’ll be upstairs if you need anything. It is late. Please do not keep our niece awake too long. She’s been through a trial tonight and needs her rest.”

If it hadn’t been two badge-carrying members of the United States, her uncle never would have agreed to leave her alone. American-born, her uncle was more progressive than her family in Qamsar, but he took his role as her guardian seriously.

Her aunt and uncle were one of the reasons Laila believed Mikhail hadn’t outright denied her coming to America for her education. Under their watchful eyes, she had thought she was safe. Were her aunt and uncle targets of the bomber, as well? Her aunt had distanced herself from the Qamsarian royal family when she had married Aasim, an Arabic-American small business owner living in Denver.

Laila took a seat on the tan suede couch and smoothed her dress over her knees. She’d worn this outfit to work a hundred times before. Now, with Harris, it felt too short and revealing. Add to it Harris making her feel hot and tingly, and the circumstances were compromising. She was grateful for the other man in the room even if he was quiet and on edge. “How can I help you?”

Laila studied Harris. Clean-cut. Shaven. Good dresser. Unless he had changed his appearance for this operation, she could see him being a man who followed the rules and kept out of trouble. He was taller than Tyler with broad shoulders, blond hair and lighter skin than most men from her country.

When she and Harris had spoken in the café, she’d thought him an intuitive person, or if she was honest with herself, she’d hoped it meant something more about their connection. Now she wondered if it was just a part of his agent training.

“We’d like to offer you protection,” Harris said.

Suspicion swept over her. They’d demand something in return. If they wanted information about Mikhail, they’d be disappointed. She didn’t have the inside track on her brother’s plans for the country, and she held no sway over his decisions.

Harris smiled at her. The easiness of his voice disarmed her. “We believe the man who orchestrated the bombing is a dangerous person. We can keep you safe from him while we look for him,” Harris said.

“What about my family? My aunt and uncle? My mother and brothers?” Laila asked. How in-depth was the information Harris and his team had gathered about the bombing? Was anyone at home in danger? Mikhail had his personal guards, but how well was he looking out for the rest of the family?

“We can provide protection for the members of your family in America,” Harris said. “If anything happens to any members of the royal family on U.S. soil, negotiations between the United States and Qamsar get dicey. It’s in our best interest to keep you safe.”

Then their offer was politically motivated.

“Agent Tyler is with the CIA, and we’re working on a joint task force. I have experience in the region from my time with the marines, and Tyler’s been involved in the Middle East for most of his career,” Harris said.

They didn’t have to sell her on it. She welcomed help as long as the price wasn’t too high. “What is it that you want from me?” Laila asked.

Harris met her gaze. Her body temperature escalated. “I want you to take me to your brother’s wedding as your guest.”

The emir’s upcoming wedding was no secret, but his request was a surprise. Her brother’s marriage was long overdue, and Laila had considered not attending the ceremony. She and Mikhail didn’t see eye to eye on most issues, and Laila liked being out of the country and away from Mikhail’s control. Though she hadn’t forgotten her life in Qamsar, her lifestyle in America was fast becoming preferred. More comfortable dress. Going where she wanted. Talking to whomever she pleased. She liked her independence.

“Why are you so interested in my brother’s wedding?” Laila asked. It was the last place she wanted to be. Forget about bringing a spy into the compound, which would land her in a tremendous amount of trouble. Were they looking to get an edge on the negotiations for oil? Or was he offering to attend to provide protection?

“The men who we believe targeted you tonight might attend your brother’s wedding. It gives us the opportunity to do some reconnaissance. If we locate them, we’ll alert our law enforcement counterparts in Qamsar, and they’ll apprehend them. We need someone to get us inside the wedding events so we can look for them.”

“Who is it that you are looking for?” One of her brother’s political enemies? Someone in America drawing her brother’s attention here, making a point to Mikhail?

“We’ve heard chatter on our monitors about a conspiracy to harm you. Your presence and activities in America aren’t appreciated by those who’d like to stop progress in Qamsar,” Tyler said.

He wasn’t directly answering her.

She looked to Harris to fill in the blanks. “We don’t have confirmed intel yet, but we suspect the Holy Light Brotherhood, under the direction of Ahmad Al-Adel, wants a safe haven for his group, and he hopes to find that in Qamsar. Al-Adel wants to stop any trade agreements between America and Qamsar. We’ve taken a leap of faith telling you this,” Harris said. Harris paused, as though not certain he should say more. “As I’ve gotten to know you, I feel you’re a good person who makes the right decisions.”

On some level she trusted Harris, but Laila had grown up sheltered by her parents. She wasn’t street smart, and it had been one of her dear mother’s greatest fears when Laila had told her that she’d been accepted to the University of Colorado, an American university, that someone would take advantage of Laila’s unworldly and naive nature. She and her mother were in touch daily, which Laila hoped lessened some of her mother’s concerns.

“Why would this man be at my brother’s wedding?” Laila asked. “Why don’t you contact Mikhail and let him know who you’re looking for?” Her brother wouldn’t want to be involved with a terrorist. That could devastate the country.

Harris and Tyler exchanged looks. “We’ve reached out to you because we can’t contact the emir directly. We cannot trust him,” Tyler said.

Then Laila was hit with the second bomb of the night.

“We believe the Emir of Qamsar has voluntarily embroiled himself in a relationship with Ahmad Al-Adel, the leader of the Holy Light Brotherhood,” Harris said.

Laila missed the next several moments of conversation. Her tired thoughts caught up to what Tyler was saying.

“The emir’s wedding will bring Al-Adel out into the open. To miss his wedding would be a sign of disrespect between the two men. As a member of the royal family, you’ll have access to places and events and people that outsiders won’t. When Al-Adel arrives at your brother’s compound for the wedding, Harris can alert the team, and Al-Adel will be captured,” Tyler said.

Confusion spun through her. If Al-Adel was responsible for the car bombing at the café, as Tyler was implying, and Mikhail was working with him, had her brother tried to kill her?

Despite her efforts to stay unemotional and focused, the information was difficult to swallow, almost unbelievable. “My brother wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t willingly work with a terrorist.” Mikhail could be brutal and cold, but participating, even indirectly, in acts of terrorism against the United States, Europe and the Middle East was declaring a war he couldn’t win. Qamsar was a small country with limited resources. Besides that, she was his sister. It was a huge leap from not getting along to trying to kill her.

“We have a financial trail tying the Holy Light Brotherhood to Mikhail. We have assets in the country who have substantiated rumors of the entanglement,” Tyler said.

As much as she didn’t want to believe it, doubts about her brother flooded her thoughts. If Mikhail had found a way to get more money, he might have agreed to work with Al-Adel. Mikhail was ruthless, driven and bent on gaining power. Even more power than he possessed as the Emir of Qamsar. Mikhail wanted a legitimate, prominent place on the international scene and would do whatever was necessary to get there.

Al-Adel’s money would mean improvements for the country in places where Mikhail believed they were needed—in mosques and government buildings—without engaging in trade agreements with countries like America.

Blindly accepting their words as true could make a fool of her, putting her in a position to betray her country and her family for no reason. Then again, if they were right and Mikhail was working with Al-Adel, stopping him and evicting Al-Adel and the Holy Light Brotherhood from Qamsar would protect her country. Mikhail may be ousted from his position as emir, but cutting any ties with a terrorist group would be better for the prosperity of Qamsar. She was out of her depths and indecision rolled through her. “I can’t believe this.” She didn’t want to believe it.

“We believe the emir wants to end trade agreement negotiations with the United States, but because the people of Qamsar want the agreement, Mikhail needs to force public opinion that America will cause greater harm than good. If something were to happen to one of the royal family, Mikhail would blame America and use the incident to incite anti-American anger,” Harris said, his voice gentle.

Mikhail hadn’t stopped her from moving to America. At the time she had believed he was too grief stricken over their father’s death and too busy with his new responsibilities as emir to argue with her. She had been waiting for him to demand she return and had been surprised that he hadn’t yet. Did he have another motive for allowing her to stay in America?

“You think my brother would arrange for someone to kill me just to sway public opinion?” Believing that Mikhail was working with Al-Adel was difficult. Accepting that he would kill her to forward his agenda was impossible. “He wouldn’t do that, and even if you’re right and my brother wants me dead, how does traveling to Qamsar guarantee my safety in any way?”

“No guarantees. But you are safer on Qamsarian soil. It makes it more difficult for Mikhail to pin an incident on America,” Harris said.

“Difficult but not impossible,” Laila said, reading between his words.

“If you agree to do this, regardless of how it plays out, I’ll protect you and your family. I’ll be there,” Harris said.

“If I allow an American into my brother’s compound, and he finds out, he’ll kill me,” Laila said. Any involvement with the American government, even manipulated, could be perceived as a betrayal of Qamsar by Mikhail. Though it would be harder for Mikhail to reach her in America, she would be at Mikhail’s mercy when she returned home.

“If we think the emir suspects anything, we’ll relocate you to the United States. We’ll give you, your mother and your brother Saafir citizenship and a new identity.”

Before coming to America, Laila’s life had been decided for her. Having a taste of freedom, Laila didn’t want to let it go and return to the life she’d had in Qamsar. She wanted to make decisions for herself and her life. Citizenship in America would give her that. Having Saafir and her mother with her would make that transition easier. Not having the deep love of America that she did, would they agree to relocate for their safety?

Mikhail’s name was absent from the list. If he was working with a terrorist, he would face the consequences of that decision.

Chapter 2

Two weeks later, with the contract from the United States government locked in a security box at the bank, Laila and Harris were en route to Qamsar accompanied by Laila’s uncle Aasim. They’d had to loop him into their ruse, and he had agreed to maintain his silence. He wanted no involvement in the politics of his wife’s family. The Qamsar Embassy in America had also agreed to wait for the Americans to complete their investigation before releasing information that the Holy Light Brotherhood might have been responsible for the car bombing.

Their flight had lasted twenty-two hours, and Laila was grateful they’d flown first class. Though she and her mother had often traveled in style with her father, this was her first trip as the girlfriend of Harris Kuhn, fourth generation descendent of the former German royal ruling family and heir to a German shipping company fortune. Laila was presenting him to her family as the man who intended to marry her. Considering her family was likely planning to arrange her marriage with a man of their choosing, she was concerned about this aspect of their cover story. She only hoped Mikhail liked the idea of a wealthy European nobleman with ties to the German government and an international shipping company marrying into the family. Harris was assuming a certain attitude. An I-deserve-to-be-here, I-have-plenty-of-money attitude.

One that normally Laila found classless and rude. In this case Harris assured her that his behavior and arrogant attitude was important. Any show of weakness and the emir could exploit it.

Harris needed to strike a careful balance of strength and gentleness. If he came on too strong, Mikhail would dislike him and feel threatened. If he wasn’t confident enough, Mikhail would dismiss him as useless and weak, and see no benefit in allowing his sister to have a relationship with him. Harris might even be asked to leave the wedding festivities. Mikhail was not known for his patience and calm demeanor.

For the trip Laila had chosen to wear an outfit more conservative than she’d worn in America. The fabric was light and cool, and she wasn’t showing an inch of skin from neck to wrists to ankles. She wouldn’t give her brother a reason to be annoyed with her. She wasn’t Mikhail’s favorite person. Far from it.

The drive to the emir’s compound took forty minutes, and the last five were the most important. If Harris wasn’t permitted inside for the wedding celebration, he couldn’t look for Al-Adel. Laila had let her brother’s event coordinator know about her plans to bring a guest. The liaison hadn’t indicated it was a problem, and Laila hoped she would have heard—either directly or through her mother—if her guest wasn’t welcome.

She was anxious, but Harris seemed at ease and was less apprehensive than her uncle, who wasn’t happy about visiting Qamsar. Her aunt had stayed in Colorado, but Aasim had felt obligated to escort his niece since she was traveling with Harris and to attend the wedding as a show of respect to the emir. At her aunt’s urging, he’d worn more traditional Qamsarian clothes. It was the first time Laila had seen him dressed in that manner.

Harris wore black trousers and a white dress shirt, the top button open at the neck and the sleeves rolled to his elbow. On his wrist was an expensive-looking watch. A simple, understated look and he owned it.

Their chauffer, provided by the emir, drove the black sedan to the entrance of the compound. The maroon iron gates were secured to a perimeter wall constructed of concrete, painted tan to reflect the rays of the sun. The smoothness of the concrete made it impossible to climb the fifteen-foot wall without ropes. Every ten feet along the top of the wall, a security camera was posted and actively monitored by the emir’s private security staff.

Two security guards stepped out from the gatehouse, guns slung over their shoulders. Their khaki uniforms and patches on their shoulders identified them as the emir’s private guards.

Laila glanced at Harris to gauge his reaction. He appeared unimpressed, though he turned to her and smiled. “Are you nervous about having me meet the rest of your family?”

For a minute she forgot the part she was playing. She focused. His question was a good first-meeting question. “My mother won’t be pleased you’re German.” She gave herself a pat on the back for remembering his cover and playing along as if they were a couple. “But she’ll be happy to learn you’re converting to Islam.” Harris had hoped that part of their cover story would convince her family to accept him. Converting was a coup for her family, at least, if it was reality.

Since agreeing to this mission, she’d been thinking that she could have a life that had previously been an impossible dream. The man who she married needed to be faithful and true, but his religious beliefs weren’t as critical as being a good person, a partner to her. She wanted a man who would treat her as an equal, and with love, respect and fairness. If she married any man her brother had selected for her, she had no doubt those dreams would be out of reach.

The armed guards approached the sedan. This level of security was new. Did the additional measures mean her brother suspected a plot was afoot? Did Mikhail know his relationship with Al-Adel and the Holy Light Brotherhood put him and the people around him in a more dangerous position? Or did the influx of international guests attending the wedding, some who held visible and high-profile positions, call for enhanced security?

If they were turned away at the entrance to the compound, Laila would have fulfilled her part of their agreement and avoided the deception that would follow. It would have been a relief and a disappointment. If Mikhail was working with Al-Adel, he had to be stopped for the good of Qamsar and for the royal family.

Harris’s hand came over hers, his thumb rubbing hers slightly. The chauffeur lowered his driver’s side window.

“Everyone step out of the car,” the guard said.

Laila glanced at Harris, and he nodded. “It’s okay, Laila. These measures are to keep everyone safe.”

To keep everyone safe or to search for a traitor? Laila got out of the car on trembling legs. Her brother and his security team had eyes and ears everywhere. Did they know she had betrayed him? Harris circled to stand next to her, and her uncle took his position on her other side. If Harris’s cover had been blown and her uncle was charged guilty by association, Laila would never forgive herself.

The guards patted down the driver, her uncle and then Harris. They reached for Laila, sliding their hands down her sides and letting them linger on her hips.

“Watch your hands,” Harris said in Arabic, a hint of possessiveness in his voice.

The guards immediately removed their hold on Laila, appearing startled by Harris’s words. Harris didn’t flinch, and his piercing look communicated he was not backing down and might be willing to be more confrontational.

“We need your identification and to search the car and your luggage. Do you have any weapons you need to declare?” one of the guards asked.

“We don’t,” Harris said.

His answer surprised her. He didn’t have a gun with him? She had wondered how he would sneak it into the compound, but walking around unarmed seemed dangerous. What if he was discovered as an American spy? Mikhail did not treat spies or traitors with leniency. He jailed them, or in some cases, they disappeared.

“If you could please stand over here.” The guard gestured to his left.

Harris said he didn’t have a weapon, but had he packed anything else that would get them in trouble? Laila’s mouth went dry. Equipment Harris planned to install inside the compound? Some technical gizmo that would raise questions? The chauffeur popped the trunk, and the guards began their search.

Harris clasped his hands behind his back. He took sunglasses dangling in the front of his shirt and slipped them over his eyes. “It’s hotter than I thought.”

Was that a coded message? He was looking around with a bored expression on his face. How did he manage it? She felt as if she would sweat through her clothes and melt in a puddle of nerves.

Laila fiddled with the ends of her head scarf. Was Harris worried about what the guards would find? After several agonizing minutes, the guards put their luggage back in the trunk and opened their car doors. “Sorry for the delay. Enjoy your visit. As-salaam alaykum.” Peace be upon you.

“Wa alaykum as-salaam,” Harris and her uncle said in reply. And with you peace.

Laila gave Harris extra credit for knowing the proper response. He had indicated to her he’d prepared for this operation. Perhaps he had prepared more than she’d thought.

They climbed into the car and drove through the gate into the emir’s compound. Despite passing the security screening at the gate, Laila didn’t feel relief that the first gauntlet had been passed. They were now in the lion’s den.

* * *

The foyer of the emir’s main house was four stories high, a large aviary filled with colorful birds hung from the ceiling. On ground level, blue marble fountains located on either side of the double mahogany doors of the formal entryway spurted water.

They were greeted by the emir’s head butler who snapped his fingers for an attendant to appear and escort them to their room. Or more precisely, their rooms. Within the walls of the compound, Harris and Laila would not be permitted to spend time together in private without supervision. If they needed to speak alone, they would have to arrange a secret meeting.

With a bid goodbye, Laila’s uncle followed an attendant to his room.

Once she was escorted to her room, another attendant waited at Laila’s door, making it clear he wasn’t leaving her and Harris without a chaperone. Never mind that she’d been living in another country where she might have been alone with a man at any time, in the emir’s home, his rules applied. For that matter, in the emir’s country, his rules applied. She’d grown up with the same rules and restrictions, but in the last couple of years, she’d grown accustomed to freedom. Being here already felt stifling.

She was Qamsarian royalty and with that came intrusions into every aspect of her life. She’d been raised to accept that her life was not her own. Only since the death of her father two years ago and her subsequent time in America had she questioned that eventuality.

“I’ll unpack my things and take a shower. How about we meet in an hour?” Harris asked. “You can show me Qamsar. You’ve spoken so often about the souk, I’d love to see it. Maybe get a gift for your mother.”

She and Harris would be staying in rooms on opposite ends of the guest corridor. Laila wished he could stay closer. At least within shouting distance. She’d never spoken to Harris about the marketplace, but Laila nodded along. If he needed to go to the souk, she’d provide what cover she could.

She closed the door to her suite. What would she do for the next hour? She should call her mother to tell her that she’d arrived. Her mother was staying in the family’s country home about twenty minutes from the compound.

Nervous about speaking to her mother and giving something away, Laila stalled. She opened her luggage and hung her dresses and veils. The trip had pressed wrinkles into the fabric, but she could send them to be pressed later. She set her toiletries in the en suite on the counter.

She jumped at the sensation of hands on her waist. She whirled and found herself looking at Harris. His blue eyes were bright, and his full lips caught her attention.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I missed you,” he said, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

Her heart rate jumped. He had? They’d been apart for less than twenty minutes. She pushed his hands away.

“I need to check your room,” he said.

Disappointment plowed through her. He’d been teasing. Flirting with her. As part of their role or because he liked her? Before they’d left the States, Harris had made it clear, once he was in character, he stayed that way. It was easier to live the lie fully immersed, as opposed to switching roles. How much of his flirtation was the real Harris, and how much was him playing a role? It was their first day in this charade, and Laila was questioning their relationship. It was a disquieting emotional place to be.

“How do you know no one saw you come in here?” she asked.

“I was careful. I came in through the balcony.” He pointed across the room to the sliding glass doors.

She hadn’t heard him open the doors. Or land on the balcony for that matter. She needed to be more alert.

Harris walked around her room, fiddling with his cell phone. “I can’t get a signal.” He swung the phone in every direction. After several minutes, he stopped. “Your room is clean. Mine is not.”

Laila lifted her brow. He’d been using his phone to check for surveillance equipment. “Your room is bugged?”

“Audio surveillance. Probably not video, but I can’t be sure. I had to get creative with leaving my room. Good thing all of the balconies are close together.”

“Did you remove the bug?” she asked.

“And tip off whoever planted it that I found it? No way. I’ll wait for the right opportunity and have it malfunction. Closer to the wedding, when more guests are staying here, the staff will be stretched too thin to follow up on a broken transmitter. By then I’ll have won them over with my charm.” He grinned at her. His smile threw fuel on the crush she’d developed on him. Some men were too handsome for their own good.

“You won’t win anyone over if someone finds you in my room.” It would be a terrible breach of protocol and inappropriate at best.

His face reflected concern. “No one saw me. I needed to know you were okay.”

Whenever he looked at her that way, his eyes bright and filled with emotion, heat spread across her chest. Did he mean what he said? Or was he being the German boyfriend? She couldn’t bring herself to put it into words. It was too embarrassing and too needy to ask, “Do you like me or are you using me?”

It was better for both of them to assume the latter.

A knock at her door sounded and fear raced through her. Harris had to hide. If he was discovered in her room, she would be in serious trouble. Could he fit under the bed? Should he go out the balcony? Harris didn’t wait for instruction. He was nearest to the closet, and he pulled open the bifold door, gestured to her and the suite’s door, and then silently closed the door behind him.

Laila steadied her nerves and opened the door to her room. Mikhail was on the other side, hands clasped behind his back, a somber expression on his face. He stepped into her room and looked around. “Do you find your accommodations pleasing?” he asked.

Did he know something? Mikhail was her brother, but her nerves tightened, and her mouth went dry. He’d never been easy to get along with, and since becoming emir, he was more difficult, his temper on a hair trigger.

As a child, Mikhail had been hot-tempered. As a young adult, he’d had an elitist, entitled attitude. Growing up, Mikhail had been close with her uncle, her father’s youngest brother, Hakim. Hakim didn’t believe in changing Qamsar’s culture or in civil rights for minorities or the poor. He supported the old ways and believed that power was best placed with the royal family, and everyone else should do as commanded for the betterment of the country. Hakim was killed in a sandstorm when he was thirty, and his death had affected Mikhail deeply. Mikhail had admired him and his beliefs about preserving the culture of Qamsar. If Al-Adel was feeding into Mikhail’s ideas, perhaps Mikhail had found the coconspirator he’d been missing since Hakim had died. It was the best explanation she could come up with for why her brother was so different from their father and her other brother, Saafir.

Instead of the guest suites, Laila would have rather stayed in her old room, but Mikhail had remodeled that part of the compound, and her and her brother Saafir’s bedrooms had been repurposed. “Yes, thank you for your hospitality.” Her decorum with her brother lacked warmth, but that had been the case for years. Despite her father’s insistence they behave amicably with each other, they’d never developed a close relationship, and with the shadow of the car bombing looming, anxiety in her brother’s company was high.

Mikhail lifted his chin, looking down at her. “I was surprised to learn you’d attend the wedding. You gave the impression you had too much work to do in America.” The last word of his sentence sounded like he was spitting bile.

“I made arrangements. I wanted to be part of your special day. I know how important this is to you and Qamsar.” She hated lying. Was her face turning red? Heat flamed up her body, and her cheeks felt hot.

Mikhail nodded his approval of her decision. “I was worried you were turning into a liberal Yank.”

Mikhail’s dislike for America wasn’t a secret. He wanted to move the Qamsarian economy forward and bring more wealth to the country. He saw America as both an impediment and a necessity to that end. Negotiating with the American government frustrated Mikhail. He was accustomed to having power, and as the smaller country with fewer resources, he had to compromise his goals to gain the support of the larger country. Turning away from working with America wasn’t an option unless he could build a lucrative alliance with another country. The people of Qamsar wanted those connections, those protections and those ties to market their products internationally.

“Of course not. I am loyal to my country.” She was betraying her brother by being here, by allowing Harris to spy on Mikhail’s wedding and within the compound to find Al-Adel, but she was doing what was right for Qamsar.

“I heard about your car trouble in America,” Mikhail said.

Her car trouble? Was he referring to the attempt on her life? Harris had discussed with her how to play it. “The authorities are looking into it. I am sure they will find the guilty person.”

“Probably some hateful, anti-Middle Eastern American with too much time on his hands. Maybe you should take it as a sign to come home,” Mikhail said.

Laila studied him carefully, looking for indications of guilt. Would he say more on the topic if she remained quiet? Mikhail wouldn’t have set the bomb to force her to return to Qamsar. There were easier, less deadly ways to get her to leave America. Would he insist she move back? “I am enjoying my studies.”

“Father always said you had an inquisitive mind and should be kept busy. That belief is the reason I haven’t made you return.”

At the mention of their father, grief brought tears to her eyes. Mikhail permitting her to study in America was out of deference for their father. She hadn’t considered that.

Mikhail looked away. “We need to talk later about the man you brought to the compound.”

He knew! Laila schooled her expression as panic raged inside her. Had she given herself or Harris away? Watching Mikhail’s face, Laila didn’t see signs of anger or danger. She calmed her racing thoughts. Her brother wanted to talk about the man who she’d brought home. If Mikhail believed Harris to be a spy or an American, they wouldn’t have been allowed to enter the house.

A creak sounded in the closet, and Laila forced herself not to turn. Did Mikhail hear it? Her heart beat a nervous staccato. “We can talk about it now if you’d like.” While Harris was close enough to protect her. Did Harris understand enough Arabic to follow their conversation?

“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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