Page 44 of Past Due

He chuckled. “Well, yes, that too. Although, fleeing Houston in the middle of the night for Albania where I won’t be extradited will be more complicated once we’re married.”

The more we talked, the more I was beginning to understand how much we still needed to discuss. As if reading my mind, he said, “We need to sit down tonight and figure some of this out.”

Another troubling thought struck. “What if the embassy wants to do some kind of interview before they’ll sign my paperwork?”

“This isn’t a green card marriage, Marley. They won’t care.”

“What if they think you’re trying to jump the line on citizenship?”

“If I wanted to do that, I would have done it years ago.” He reached over and gave my thigh a gentle squeeze. “Stop worrying, baby. No one is going to hassle you.”

He seemed pretty sure about how this would go. It suddenly occurred to me that he might have a much more complicated romantic history than I had imagined. Nervously, I asked, “Have you been married before?”

He laughed. “No.” Then, teasingly, he asked, “Have you?”

“No!”

His lopsided smile made my heart do a funny little flip. “Until the first time I saw you, I thought marriage was a prison sentence. Then, you smiled at me from behind the counter at Abby’s pawn shop, and I left there thinking that if ever there was a woman who could tempt me to settle down, it was you.”

My heart did another little flip. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” A flush crept above his collar and stained his neck red. “I was so fucked up from that one encounter with you that I tripped over the curb outside the shop and almost ate the front end of my car.”

“No!”

“Yes.” He slowed down and exited the highway toward a residential area. “What about you? What did you think the first time we met?”

“That you were trouble,” I admitted and drew a another laugh from him. “And, that if I wasn’t careful, I was going to end up completely and utterly heartbroken.”

“Marley.” He spoke my name in a tender way and reached for my hand. “Baby.” He lifted my hand and kissed the back of it. “Is that...,” he started and then stopped. “Is that why you left? Why you came to Europe? To here?”

Embarrassed, I confessed, “Yes.” Before he could say anything, I hurriedly added, “I know it’s pathetic and—"

“Stop,” he commanded. “There’s nothing pathetic about it.” He kissed the back of my hand again. “When Aston told me you were here, I was shocked and then I was more hopeful than I have ever been in my life. I pushed you away, and you ran—but not away from me. You ran right to the heart of who I am and where I came from. I realized you wanted to know me, the real me.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To understand you,” I explained. “To know you in a way that no one else ever has or ever will.”

His expression of tenderness swept over me like sunshine. “You should write that down. Like the woman from the book you carry around,” he said. “Keep a journal off all the pretty thoughts you have.”

I tried not to laugh as I asked, “Do you know how her story ends?”

“I didn’t get that far last night.” He turned down another street that looked freshly paved. “Why?”

“No reason,” I said, deciding now wasn’t the time to break the news about Sylvia Plath’s tragic end.

He shot me a suspicious look as we headed down a street lined with newer homes. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to have to apologize later?”

“I won’t expect an apology,” I promised. Looking around the street, I commented, “This reminds me of those luxury subdivisions popping up all around Houston.”

“Progress,” he said dryly.

At the end of the street, he stopped in front of a heavy black gate. He didn’t even bother punching in a code at the keypad because the gate opened immediately. He pulled through, and on the other side of the gates, there were two men waiting. They nodded at Besian as he drove by, but they didn’t return my smile.

The driveway was lined with freshly installed landscaping, but I could see how nice it would look once the trees and plants matured. Up ahead, at the top of the small hill, sat a white villa with lots of windows. The ultra-modern villa would have looked perfectly situated among the mansions of Los Angeles.

“That is a beautiful house,” I said, sitting forward for a better look at the third floor. “Is the architect local?”

“He’s from here, but he went to school in America.”

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