C.J. Miller - Protecting His Princess

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.”