Page 43 of The Devil Wears Orange
Later, after Anton hauls his line back down the elevator, Rashid pours me a drink. I take it and, lifting the glass to my nose, sniff the scotch. One sublime sip tells me it’s not just any old scotch. It’s sweet and smoky with notes of orange and rose. I consider taking the bottle to bed with me. It’s the best I’ve ever had.
“I was too harsh,” I say, before Rashid has a chance to admonish me.
“He needs to hear the truth. Besides, I promised his father I would finance him if you believed in him.”
“So, this is on me?”
Returning to the bar, Rashid fills half his glass with ice, then pours carbonated water into it. He sits opposite me, one leg crossed over the other, a cashmere sock exposed. I force myself to look away and take another swig. My eyes dart to the bottle on the shelf, and I decide that yes, I will definitely take it to bed. That bottle, plus the hotel’s 1,000 thread count of Egyptian cotton, equals heaven. I once dated a man, a boy really, who slept in black satin sheets, a throwback to the ‘80s, and I always found myself sliding off the bed during sex. No wonder I always thought sex with him was mediocre. Does the quality of the bedsheets improve the orgasm? Now there’s an idea for the magazine to sex it up a little.
“Did you manage to nap after your bath,” he says, eyeing me before adding, “no disturbances to keep you up?”
“Well,” I say, hesitate, then elect to show my hand, “someone was banging on the door with what seemed to be a pressing matter.” I neglect to mention the blood on the floor. Everything about Rashid – from his appearance, to his near-perfect English, to his manner – is controlled. He’s confident, assured, and moves with intent, unlike Jack, who seems to move through life unselfconsciously. So, it astonishes me to see Rashid’s cheek twitch.
Finally, he says, “It was a business associate with an urgent issue.”
Is that what happens to business associates? Am I technically one? An image of my blood staining the marble floor pierces my thoughts.Damn, I need Jack. Pushing that image aside and changing the subject, I say, “Do you know where I can buy a cell phone? Mine was accidentally destroyed.”
Rashid strides to a mirrored credenza and opens a drawer, pulls out a box wrapped in cellophane. “A company phone,” he says and extends the package to me.
“Wonderful. Well, I’ll get this all sorted out,” I say, referring to the new phone. Glancing at the computer on the desk, I say, “In the meantime, do you mind if I use your computer to access my email?”
“Of course,” Rashid says. “I’ll see to it you’re not disturbed.”
Before the door closes behind him, I hear Rashid laugh, saying, “Ultimate orgasmic high.”
“It’s true,” I call after him. “I know you’re feeling it right now.”
I kill the laughter once the sound of his footsteps recede. Time to get down to business. I pull out a flash drive from my pant pocket and insert it into Rashid’s laptop, my finger on the mouse dancing through files and copying them quickly. I’ve done this before. After breaking up with an old boyfriend, I realized I leftsome articles I had been writing on his computer and snuck into his apartment when I was supposed to be meeting him to return his key. I was in and out before he knew what was happening (much like our sex life, as I remember it). At the coffee shop, I handed him the key, gave him a peck on the cheek, and wished him well. He told me to drop dead.
Light footsteps sound on the other side of the door, and I suspect they belong to Hamed. Still, to be safe, I open my personal email account and work on that screen while downloading. As expected, my inbox has received an influx of emails. Sifting through a few nasty messages, I skip ahead and scan subject lines that seem to shout:We Want Your StoryandThief!andRot in Hell. Those I eliminate straight away, press the delete button as quick as I can, then wonder why leave room for more irascible emails?
One subject line stops me.
Where are you? from Jack Carey. I select the message and skim through –worried about you. Please call...and, fortunately for me, he leaves a contact number. I jump as the office door swishes open, and Rashid stands in the doorway, staring at me.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.
“You didn’t.” I shrug and give him one of my big, toothy smiles I would often give men when I was younger. Glancing at the computer, I note the copying is nearly done.
“We’ve been invited to attend the races this evening.” He takes a few measured steps towards me. “There are some people I’d like you to meet.”
“Absolutely,” I say, detecting a slight strain in my voice. The bar, indicating the copying status, moves forward on the computer.
“I’ll leave you to your emails,” he says and closes the door behind him. This time, I don’t hear his footsteps. Is he there,eavesdropping, or is it that I can’t hear anything beyond my heart pounding in my chest?
The computer beeps. All downloads are completed. I sign out of my email, erase the file history, and pull the flash drive from Rashid’s laptop. Holding it between my thumb and index finger, I kiss it for good luck and say, “Let there be proof.” My reputation is counting on it.
Chapter 23
Following a day ofmeetings (and after leaving two anxious messages on Jack’s phone), I sit in the limousine next to Rashid. He’s dressed in a gleaming whitedishdasha; front buttons hidden behind a fly front for a sleeker look, a flowing black cloak edged with gold braid. On his head is a whiteshemagh, the scarf secured by anegalin black. For myself, I chose a masculine pantsuit in white, a bright orange tie at the neck, but wonder if a hat or fascinator for this outing to the races is required. We’re not in England, so perhaps not.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my pant legs and then tighten them into a ball. Telling myself I have nothing to be nervous about, I lean over to lower the window. “Do you mind?” I say, turning to Rashid.
“No.”
Palm trees fly past as we make our way to a large hotel and racecourse entrance, the diamond-shaped green glass luminous in its wave-like design. It resembles something out ofTheJetsons. When the car stops under the canopy, a greeter is there to open the door.
“Welcome to the Meydan,” the man says, then guides us into the lobby.
