Page 66 of Afraid to Hope

Bane looked around the tiny space. A half dozen local men sat at the other round table, talking among themselves in a local dialect of Arabic, finishing their tea and blatantly observing Natasha and Bane. “Um. Not here,” he admitted with a bemused expression.

Natasha wiped food from her face. “Exactly. I’m doing my best.”

“We’ve already gotten their attention.” Bane cleared his throat and raised his brows at her, unseen by the men since his back was to them. “You catching any of this?”

“Yes. You?”

“Not all of it, and what I understand is nothing of interest. They’re speaking a local dialect of Arabic, right?”

“They are. I guess that makes me more fluent than you.” She laughed. “But you’re right, nothing of interest.”

“You did notice that Imsen has utensils? Probably to help those of us who can’t manage.”

“Yes, but I’ll still have the left issue.”

“Honestly, you should’ve mastered eating with your right when you were growing up here.”

She squinted at him and tried to look mad.

Bane chuckled softly. “Good try.” He sobered a bit before offering, “I’ll help you tonight if you promise to come to bed with me early.”

“You’re holding my eating challenges hostage?” she asked in mock anger.

“I just want to make sure we get enough sleep. We have so much more to explore, and we’re just getting started.”

His innuendo and sexy smile made Natasha weak in the knees. She was going to need help standing if Bane continued.

After lunch, Natasha and Bane walked for hours. Periodically, they stopped to talk with the friendly residents and artisansor wander into booths in thesoukto inspect merchandise and ask questions. Bane snapped photos of everything from people to architecture. Later, Natasha browsed in several shops outside thesouk,seeking priceless artifacts for her faceless, discerning clients who were willing to pay top prices for the privilege of owning unique pieces of culture and history. As always, she left her ART business card, asking the shop owners call if anything of significance came into their shop or on the local market.

“Bhalil claims pre-Islamic Christian origins and is believed to be founded by people from Volubilis,” she said.

Bane followed Natasha over another of the rock bridges connecting the narrow, steep streets that meandered along the seasonal river. “If I remember my research, Volubilis was Roman.”

“Eventually. The Berber tribal kingdom of Mauritania became a Roman client state after Carthage fell in 146 BC. Volubilis was its capital. King Juba II, married to the daughter of Mark Antony and Cleopatra, was installed by the Romans in 25 BC. Although he was Berber, his tastes were Roman. He built the version of Volubilis that people see in its ruins.”

“The history of Morocco is complex.”

“It really is. Invaders, empires, and countries have all left their marks.”

“I enjoy having you as a personal tour guide.” Bane scanned the buildings around him, looking through the camera lens. The camera clicked rapidly. “I want some photos of you.”

“Why?”

He viewed the photos he had just taken, then adjusted the lens setting. “Because tourists take them of each other. Because husbands take photos of their beautiful wives. Sweetheart, quit toying with me,” he said gruffly in response to the over-the-top sultry look she gave him.

Natasha burst into a fit of laughter. “Poor man.”

“Uh-huh. You’re playing with fire.” He snapped a slew of photos of her, then scrolled back through the images on the screen. His heart constricted. Natasha’s guard was down, and the transformation was breathtaking. Welcoming, playful, and relaxed. He looked up and behind her, adjusting his camera to capture the topography in the distance. “What’s that peak?”

“Jebel Kandar. From what I remember, it’s spectacular.”

“You’ve been here then?”

Natasha adjusted her shawl modestly around her bare arms; it had come loose as she walked. “And here, visiting with my family. My brothers and I were still in primary school. My father found Bhalil charming. Mama and Papa decided a hike would be a special reward for their three active children who didn’t enjoy traipsing through themedinaof Fes.” Natasha’s smile was sad. “Themedina.It’s really something else. Have you been?”

“No,” he said, watching her carefully.

“You should. We explored while Papa worked that morning, then met him back at the hotel. He had the hotel pack us a picnic. It was so much fun. And beautiful. We were exhausted that night.” She smiled wistfully, then glanced at her watch. “We should return. It’s six o’clock. Dinner is at seven.”

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