“You’re charming, Delilah. If we had met at another time, perhaps things might have been different.”
I don’t say a word, because there is no way I could ever convince him that I would be willing to allow his filthy, murderous hands on me.
“You’ve won my father’s affection, and Saher’s. Even Gray’s, which is impressive,” he adds. “But I’m not entirely sold. Beautiful women have been the downfall of many great men—especially women named Delilah.”
Really? I’ve never heard that before. “I’m a visitor in your country, your home. I have no interest in making trouble for anyone—men or women.”
He glares at me for some time, his face darkening as the seconds tick by. “Saher married a traitor. She carried the traitor’s baby in her womb. Like his father, he will grow up to believe that Amidane is rightfully his, and he will die a traitor, like his father.”
Jesus Christ.
“Saher is a prisoner of her own making. Don’t fill her head with fantasies that will never be hers. It will make her captivity more painful than it is already.”
“It’s not my place to tell others how to live their lives.”
“Of course it is. You’re an American—and a woman at that. You can’t help yourself. It’s in your genes.”
I fold my hands in my lap. This conversation isn’t going well. It’s not that it’s veered off track. It was never on a good path. “I’m not sure what it is you expect of me.”
He studies me for a long time, before placing a call from a phone on the end table beside him. It’s on speaker.
“Tell Gray where you are,” he instructs as the phone rings.
“Hello.”
My heart skips a beat when I hear his voice.
“Gray, it’s me.”
“Delilah? Where are you?”
“I’m with the crown prince. In his office.”
“Is anyone else with you?” His voice is controlled and brittle, with rage buttressing every word.
I glance at Ahmad, who is sitting there like he owns the world. “Just the two of us. We’re on speakerphone.”
Gray is deathly quiet. The prince is grinning. The combination raises gooseflesh on my arms. “Are you okay?” he asks cautiously.
“I am.”
“Is she okay, Ahmad?” Gray demands, with a fury I’ve never heard from him.
“She seems very well.”
“Delilah, go back to the room,” Gray says. “Right now.”
I get up, but the prince remains seated. “Miss Porter, ask my secretary to call Fatima. She’ll escort you back to your suite. Or perhaps you prefer Raksha.”
He wants me to know that nothing happens here without him knowing. Even something as simple as a maid being reassigned. Ahmad gauges my reaction, but I don’t flinch.
“Either would be fine,” I reply with a small, polite smile. “Thank you.”
“I expect an explanation, Ahmad. And it fucking better be a good one.” That’s the last thing I hear as the office door closes behind me.
I pause for a moment to collect myself, as the stress melts off me. I dodged a major one, but I might not be so lucky next time.
The prince’s secretary doesn’t bother with either Fatima or Raksha. He sends a young woman in the office to escort me back to the room. I’m so preoccupied with the thoughts racing in my head, I don’t really remember anything about the walk.
Raksha is dusting when I arrive. The compact that was in the abaya that I handed to Saher this morning is on the nightstand, with a note canceling the shopping we had planned for the afternoon. It’s on Saher’s stationary, but not signed.
I don’t know if Saher canceled the outing, or if it was canceled by the prince, or someone else. Raksha doesn’t know, either—although that seems unlikely.
The prince’s threats, and now this. My gut’s sending warning flares, but without any clear direction. I’m in limbo, and I hate the feeling.
What seemed like a great coup two hours ago is suddenly blowing up in my face.
41
Gray
I’ve had enough.
Enough bullshit. Enough tits shaking in my face every night. Enough of Ahmad. And certainly enough of fucking with Delilah’s head—sitting on the scales just right, so they don’t tip too far in one direction or the other—the relationship and the mission, teetering precariously while I hold my goddamn breath. Maybe it’s my head that’s been fucked with enough.
It’s time to go home. Let these stupid bastards with their fucked-up family dynamics clean up their own damn messes.
If only it was that simple.
I nod to Raksha, who’s become a fixture in the sitting room with her embroidery, and knock on the door to Delilah’s room, before entering.
“Hey.” Her face is washed out, and her shoulders slumped. I’ve never been more pissed at Ahmad. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
If she thinks she’s going to brush me off, she’s nuts. I put her in this position, and I’m going to take care of her. Her pain, her fears, and her anxiety are mine.
I place my hand on her upper arm, gripping gently. “What happened? I want the details. All of them.”
She shrugs, but’s not enough to free herself from my tightening grip. “I think the prince was testing me. Sending me a message not to fill Saher with Western ideas. He wasn’t hiding anything. It was his idea to call you.”
Only because he knew you would tell me about meeting with him. “How did you end up there?”
“It’s a long story. Fatima told me the king wanted to see me.” She glances up at me warily. She was tricked, and I’m sure she’s plenty pissed. “I asked Trippi to get a message to you.”
“By the time he reached me, I was already on the phone with you.” The bile rises in my throat every time I replay that call in my head. Her voice was controlled in the way it gets when she’s anxious. Ahmad was fucking with both of us.
“What are you doing here?” She pulls out of my grasp. “I thought you were busy on a project today.”
“Fuck that. I was doing Ahmad a favor. He can shove it up his ass.” I wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her flush against me. After a few minutes, her body still hasn’t relaxed one iota.
My eyes fall on the dresser, where a topaz, a ruby, and a sapphire sit side by side, as though she couldn’t make up her mind, or she didn’t have enough holes in her ears to wear all three.
I’ve run into a snag but I can handle it, I’m in trouble and need to talk, and it’s done. That’s what they signify, but what it means—at least how I read it—is that she’s in trouble…emotional trouble.
Fuck.
Jet lag, not enough time to fully prepare for something this big, that bastard Ahmad toying with her… I don’t give a shit what he said to me on the phone. He would have fucked her in a heartbeat if he thought he could get away with it.
I swivel her around, so I can reach her mouth, and ravage it with a long, rough kiss. Someone else might caress her gently as a way of saying I’m sorry. But that’s not us. And it’s not what she needs right now.