Page 26 of Roaming Holiday

We continue the discussion even as Nina gets up and wanders the garden. Jack switches the footage on one of the monitors for me. After a few minutes, Princess Beverly joins her.

Even with no set date for the introductory dinner, the three of us review the security plans.

“We’ll finish this later,” I say before we start reviewing the guest list. With a glance at the monitor, I spot the group rising and exchanging farewell hugs. When Mason and I reach them, I notice that Maia has made a good bond with Princess Vanessa. Nina doesn’t share their enthusiasm.

The sisters have a short conversation before Nina tells me to drive her to the heart of the city and park—the same thing we’ve been doing so she can explore on foot. Her sister doesn’t join her this time, and it’s just me trailing behind.

I analyze the vantage points from the windows of each road we walk through. The buildings are made up mostly of family homes, yet plenty of my assignments were in residential areas.

I close the distance between us the more crowded it gets. She doesn’t notice the number of men ogling her as she strolls through an outdoor market. One man, though, stares a bit too hard at her. He’s pale, Caucasian, five-foot-ten, with dirty blond hair and a long nose. He wears a white T-shirt and cargo pants with many pockets. He looks Nina up and down. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought he was watching her ass. When he steps beside her and fakes interest in the stall merchandise, he swipes her phone from her bag.

I reprimand Nina in the back of my mind. She made it too easy. In a blink, I hold the man’s wrist at an unnatural angle. He cries out and lowers his body, leaning into my hold. I pluck the phone from his hand, shake it in front of his face, and say in Maldanian, “Go find someone else to victimize.”

Nina gasps and snatches her phone. “How did he?—?”

The thief doesn’t have time to get angry with me. I release his wrist and shove him back. He stumbles to the ground, fleeing as soon as possible. I hear the zip of Nina’s bag.

I take her purse and shift it on her body. “Keep it in front of you at all times.”

She stiffens as if suddenly mistrustful of all the people around her. I follow her out of the market and onto the road. Another twenty minutes pass. I watch her shop and buy a souvenir—an espresso cup. She buys a cup of vanilla gelato and I buy a bottle of water. She buys another souvenir. This time, it’s a necklace. She slides it right over her head, so I know it’s not a gift. She stops at almost every street performer and tosses in a coin or two.

While this day is mundane to me, I notice her discomfort break apart at the small activities. Nina stops to get french fries from a vendor, and she gasps after taking the first bite.

“Oh my god.” She inhales another one. “These are delicious. You want to try some?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” she sings. “They’re the best I’ve had in the country so far.”

The corner of my lips quirks at her enthusiasm. “No, it’s your?—”

She plunges a crispy fry into my mouth, far enough to stop any protest. “You’re not really living until you’ve tried one of these.”

I chew the rest of it, savoring the salty and seasoned flavor. Pretty good, can’t deny. She chuckles at my expression, angling the paper cone toward me.

“Told you. Want another?”

This might be crossing a boundary—sharing food. But it’s really good. I shrug and accept one more.

“You have a lot of scars,” Nina blurts, and I notice her staring at the mark on my forearm.

I stiffen. “It happens.”

She points to the inch-long scar. “What’s this one from?”

I inhale a long breath, debating how honest I ought to be. “Knife fight in Lisbon.”

She points to another on my bicep, right under the sun and moon tattoo on my shoulder. “This one?”

“Fell from a rooftop in Amsterdam. No—Berlin.” The pipe I fell on had been less than a foot away from impaling me through the ribs. The three-inch scar doesn’t show justice for the physical pain I felt that day.

“And the one on your hand?”

I don’t tell her it’s the most recent one. If she has any knowledge of wounds, she might figure it out herself. I clench and unclench my fist, studying the pink flesh. “I, uh—fire. It was in a fire.”

“Sheesh,” she huffs. “No wonder you’re always grumpy.”

“I’m…” I want to protest, but I can only imagine how rigid I appear to the world. “I’m selectively pleasant.”

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