“Your father will smooth the way for you.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “And once we are in London?” she asks with some skepticism.
“You’ll be protected by the British government. That’s all I know. This wasn’t engineered by the Americans. I promise you.”
“But we will be prisoners there, like here.” Her shoulders slump under the weight.
She’s right. But the Brits won’t have her and Amir murdered. “It’s your decision. But I’m not sure it will continue to be safe here.”
The saleswoman calls from outside the dressing room.
“We are not yet in need of assistance,” Saher replies quickly.
“I want to trust you, but Amir is my life. He is my reason for being.” The emotion in her voice is so tangible, so real, I could hold it in my palm.
The image of the Marshalls at Richie’s funeral pops into my mind. They were broken. Devastated beyond repair. I can’t push the grisly image away.
“Amir is a prisoner, but he is alive,” she adds, the gravity of her circumstances gripping us both.
I don’t make any more assurances, or encourage her to take the risk. Because honestly, I am one small cog in a big wheel, and I don’t know what’s in store for her—for either of them.
The saleswoman calls again, from outside the dressing area. She has shoes for us to try on.
Saher sighs as we leave the cramped room. It’s a deep, mournful sigh, of a mother whose child’s life hangs precariously in the balance. Her decision can save him, or doom him. Or as Saher knows too well, perhaps there’s no winning hand to be played.
43
Delilah
Boarding the plane is an adventure. Every bag, every electronic device, every article of clothing is swept for explosives and recording devices. Trippi and Gray are like men possessed, combing through every inch of our belongings. Baz and I repack bags as items are cleared.
It drives home the danger lurking in Amidane. I shudder, thinking about the implications for Saher.
When we got back to the limousine after shopping, the guard in the passenger seat informed Saher that the crown prince wanted to speak to her the moment she returned to the palace.
She didn’t seem surprised. While we hugged good-bye, I begged her to let me have Gray intervene on her behalf.
But she shook her head. “You cannot save me. No one can.” It’s the same thing Gray said, but it wasn’t any easier to hear it from Saher, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
“Delilah.” I finish zipping a small suitcase and glance up. Gray looks worn and edgy. We’re not out of the woods yet, and many a mission has gone sour at this stage, especially when people begin to let their guard down.
“We’re done here,” he says briskly. “Take a seat so we can get out of this shithole as soon as humanly possible.”
Ninety minutes later, the pilot announces in her very proper British voice that we’ve left Amidane airspace.
Gray visibly relaxes, and reaches for my hand. “You did great, Blue Eyes. You’re the hero.”
“Do I get the game ball?” I tease, trying to deflect the praise. Or maybe I’m trying to shield my heart from the reality that the mission being over means Gray and I are over too. I haven’t allowed myself to dwell on it much. I’ve been too worried about passing messages, and until a few minutes ago, our plane being shot out of the sky. But it hits me now with a profound sadness that makes my soul ache. Put it away for now, Delilah. You can wallow in your misery at home.
“Not the game ball, but I do have something for you.” His weaselly expression spells trouble.
“What?”
Gray starts toward the front of the plane, ignoring my question. It better not be some wildly expensive jewelry like those earrings he supposes I’m keeping. I don’t know where he thinks I go to wear jewels.
Although I do have to admit, it was fun pretending to be some glamorous high-society chick for a little while. More fun than I expected. I loved the intrigue, and the covert nature of the mission. I loved everything about it, even when it was hard, or in the end, when I felt lost.
Covert operatives are expected to experience a wide range of emotions. It goes with the territory. But that’s done too. The mission, with its clandestine opportunity, was one and done. I knew it when I agreed. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing there were more opportunities for covert work—with Gray.
He proved himself to be a worthy leader. I’d follow him into battle. That’s for sure. In truth, I’d follow him anywhere.
Before I get too carried away with my thoughts, Gray is sauntering down the aisle, carrying a tray. His boyish grin makes his eyes twinkle like a rascal. He sets the tray down in front of me and lifts the silver dome.
“Pop-Tarts!” I squeal like a child. The pale-pink icing is smoothed to a shiny glaze, with a sprinkling of pastel sugar crystals. They’re smaller and far more delicate than the toaster pastries from the box on a supermarket shelf. But they look amazing.
“Yep.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Take a bite, and I’ll tell you.”
I take a small bite of the strawberry-filled pastry. It tastes nothing like what I’m used to—it’s sweet and buttery and wonderful. “It’s delicious. Really delicious,” I add, taking another bite.
“They’re from a small bakery in Paris I love. The pastry chef is a bit of a snob, but when I explained that I was trying to win over a beautiful woman, he was all over it.”
The emotion winds its way into my chest, and it takes up so much space, I have trouble swallowing even another small bite. “Paris. Not exactly around the corner. Thank you. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble—for me.”
“You earned it. Besides, I would do anything for you, Blue Eyes. But those Pop-Tarts just took a phone call.” He reaches for his briefcase and pulls out a manila envelope. “This is a bonus for a job well done.”
“The government is handing out bonuses now?” I ask, opening the tiny clasp.
“That’s from me.”
His face gives nothing away, but God knows what he’s scheming. At least it isn’t jewelry.
I pull out the paperwork, and read until my brain stops firing. I glance at Gray. “Please tell me you didn’t sign over the deed to your beach house to me. Please,” I plead.
“I can’t tell you that.” The response is resolute. He’s dug in—I sense it.
Well, you’re going to be disappointed.
With trembling hands, I put back the paperwork, and shove the envelope at him. “I’m just going to pretend this didn’t happen.”
He places his hand on mine, lacing his long, strong fingers through my smaller ones. “It’s a gift.” His hand tightens around mine. “It comes with no strings.”
I’m having trouble breathing, and my first inclination is to fight, but I don’t. He doesn’t deserve the churlish response of a little girl who is embarrassed and overwhelmed, and doesn’t know what to do with her feelings. I can’t accept this outrageous gift, but he deserves a civil response from me.