Page 6 of Afraid to Hope

“Guess it’s a habit.” He smiled mischievously. “I’ve never had a woman partner before.”

“I’m not surprised if you’re always like this.”

“Ouch. That hurt, Doc.”

The doors opened behind them, and the director’s assistant popped her head in the room. “Bane. Dr. Jordaan. Simon is waiting. Dr. Jordaan, your luggage and shopping items are in the boot.”

“We’re sharing a car?”

“Yes. Bane will be dropped off first.”

Bane drawled, “Aw, Tilly. If it’s not too much of a problem, let’s drop the doctor off first. She’s wiped from traveling.”

A girly smile broke over Matilda’s staunch features. She held up a finger to Bane and tapped on her earpiece, quietly issuing a change of plans to Simon.

Natasha’s temper was close to boiling over, but the words died on her lips. Bane winked at her, then gave her that devastating smile.

They rode in silence, Natasha snagging the seat up front with Simon to avoid sitting with Bane, who’d draped himself over most of the back seat. Her mind reeled from the knowledge that the American was a network. Actually, it was a brilliant deception. Why look for a network when the singular name clearly indicated the looting was the work of an individual? It made more sense when she reflected on the immense scope of the Guatemalan operation. It was impossible that Eric Schaus had orchestrated all that by himself. He had to have had substantial financial backing—from either exceptionally wealthy private citizens and organizations or from the coffers of countries. The team left in place in Guatemala would be figuring all that out.

So, did the network more closely resemble the mythical hydra? Had she helped to cut off one head of the network only to have it grow more? And if so, who or what was behind the American? What was Natasha getting herself into?Actually, check that.Her entanglement had begun when she accepted the previous assignment in Guatemala, and now she was mired in more deeply. Excitement and fear about what she might further discover played tug-of-war within her. Incessant drumming on the back of her seat pulled her from her musing.Jesus, what now?

Not bothering to turn, she snapped, “What do you want, Mr. Rua?”

“Wow, Doc. Where were you? I’ve been trying to get your attention for a few minutes. Maybe I should have clicked a pen.” He sat forward, his rough voice much closer now, his breath caressing her neck, sending delicious chills over its surface, reawakening the sparking electricity she’d experienced in the director’s office. “Are you up for dinner and studying together?”

Dammit. He was like some obnoxious little boy who wanted candy. She was not going to be his flavor of the month. Natasha dropped her voice and enunciated each word. “Listen carefully, Mr. Rua. I’m not into your games. I do not wish to be more than professional colleagues. So other than that, keep your distance.”

He moved closer, testing her resolve. “It’s Bane, Natasha. And you’re as interested as I am. I see it in the erratic pulse in your neck and the dilation of those fucking amazing eyes.”

“It’s anger, you ass.”

Bane chortled and sat back quickly, throwing his hands up in the air in surrender. “Whatever you want to call it, sweetheart.”

The car slowed to a stop.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Simon said, poker-faced, preparing to exit. “We’ve arrived, Dr. Jordaan. I’ll help you with your things.”

She sprang from the car, key in hand, slamming the door. Bane opened his, but she pushed back on it with her hip. “Stay in the car! I do not require your assistance.” To Simon she said, “I won’t need to be picked up in the morning. I’ll taxi in. Good night, Mr. Rua.”

“It’s early, but sweet dreams,” Bane offered, having rolled down his window, his expression oozing sexual confidence.

What an incorrigible ass. Speechless, Natasha ignored him and all but marched her way to theriad,pulling her red carry-on behind her. Simon followed; his arms laden with supplies. She paused in the soft glow of the lamp and inhaled deeply as she counted to ten, seeking calm, gazing at the Fatima door knocker against the freshly painted blue door—her favorite blue—the flash of annoyance at Bane dissolving to nothing. Her fingers moved over the knocker reverently before inserting the heavy key in the lock. Opening the door, she reached to her right to flip the switch, euphoria and sadness mingling as she stepped inside, beckoned by the warm lighting. So many memories.

“Please. You can leave it all here in thesetwan.” Natasha pointed to a spot just inside the door. “Thank you so much, Simon.” She stroked the Fatima wistfully again before closing the door and sliding off her sandals in the small and welcoming entry and sitting area. She continued through the short, angled corridorwith her bags, depositing them at the base of the stairs. Natasha turned and soaked in the elegant, beautiful space—herriad.Her home. The resplendent and traditional Moroccan elegance felt like paradise. Soon lantern light would illuminate the traditional red-pigmented Moroccantadelaktplaster walls, archways, and through openings in the intricately carved wood.

The late-afternoon sun played hide-and-seek in the clouds above the rooftop terrace, casting moving shadows over the atrium. The fragrance of jasmine mingled with scents of the lemon and orange trees and the trickling, sparkling water of thesahrîdjwelcomed her and soothed her frayed nerves. How often she had sat in this courtyard, dipping her hand in the tranquil fountain?After her parents and brother died, Natasha slept next to the fountain for weeks, its vital life-force providing peace and, eventually, balance. She blinked rapidly at unshed tears.

Tiles displaying different artistic interpretations of the Hand of Fatima had been inset in the four cardinal points of the base of thesahrîdj.Natasha rotated her left wrist. One of her tears dropped onto her only tattoo. The Fatima connected Natasha to an integral aspect of her Moroccan history—her grandmother. What was it Mémé had told her every time she asked about the Fatima? Natasha closed her wet eyes and allowed herself to drift back to her last visit with her grandmother.

She had stroked Natasha’s soft, sun-streaked brown curls. “The Fatima wards off negativity and evil, Tasha. Fatima’s hand channels good, healing energy. Always keep her with you, my darling heart.”

Then Natasha prayed in unison with Mémé, as she always had. “Let no sadness come to my heart. Let no trouble come to my arms. Let no conflict come to my eyes. Let my soul be filled with the blessing of joy and peace.”

Her grandmother died suddenly while Natasha was on assignment. As was her wish as a French expat, Mémé was buried in the Catholic cemetery managed by the French Embassy within twenty-four hours of her death, honoring the Muslim custom of the country she dearly loved. Unable to return to Morocco in time for Mémé’s burial, Natasha had wandered the streets of Phnom Penh, bereft. A blinking neon Fatima drew her into a tiny tattoo shop, where she had let go and mourned her grandmother, tears sluicing off her chin as the artist inked the tender skin of her wrist. It was the last time she could remember crying.

Natasha wiped at her eyes and nose and then walked the perimeter of the courtyard, peeking into each of the large rooms through the open ornately carved double doors—extra bedrooms, office, and baths, happily noting how cared for her grandparents’ home was.It felt lived in, warm, and inviting.

“No. My home,” she said softly, correcting herself.

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