C.J. Miller - Protecting His Princess

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.”