Page 60 of The Devil Wears Orange
“Good,” says Rashid and peers into the mirror to examine the wound. “It doesn’t look like any of the stitches opened. You’re an excellent nurse.”
I study the wound from a closer vantage point, my fingertips brushing the skin makes me tingle all over. I breathe deeply, and his scent makes me want to devour him. I once read an article on hot sex maneuvers and how to make your orgasm last 15 minutes. It was all bullshit with a click-bait headline, but right now, I think a 15-minute “O” isoh, so possible. I close my eyes. “Rashid.”
He responds with soft strokes along my hand.
Then I remember the photos and blueprints I scanned moments earlier. My addled brain fires a warning shot, reminding me of who I’m dealing with. My eyes fly open, and I pull away. “Who were those men?”
“I don’t know.”
Indeed, that may not be a complete lie. After all, Rashid may not knowwhothey are, but I’m sure he knows who they work for. Despite what I first thought, I don’t think he hired them to kill me. Something somewhere has gone wrong and smacked us in the middle of this maelstrom. I’d like to believe what Rashid told Jack earlier – that they were hoping to hold him ransom, but I know better.
“Have you seen them before?” I pull the backing off the new dressing and secure it over the wound.
He hesitates before answering. “Never.”
Chapter 35
“This is utter madness,”says Jack. We are in front of the safe in Rashid’s bedroom.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision on my part, but this afternoon, when an opportunity to check the safe presented itself, I pleaded with Jack to come up without explaining why.
“No, it’s not. Rashid will be gone for hours, and Hamed has stepped out,” I say, my words low and hurried. My voice sounds unusual, weak and anxious in my ears, and my stomach is tied up in knots. I’m supposed to be helping Jack retrieve the painting, but nailing Rashid for it doesn’t have to be part of the deal anymore, does it? He was genuinely wounded saving my life, and playing nursemaid to him last night has stirred up some feelings, confounding me. But then there was the blatant lie he told, and probably not the first time.
Jack says, “Who’s that man standing outside your suite?”
“Don’t worry about Omar.”
“Are you sure no one is around?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“What’s in the wall safe?”
“I don’t know,” I practically shout, my voice strained. I continue, “Secret stuff. We’re in this together, right? So, let’s take down that ugly unibrow guy and get to work.”
Jack turns to me, flabbergasted. “That’s an originalsignedPicasso print. Those are incredibly rare.”
My back stiffens, and my voice oozes sarcasm. “Really? You want to do this now?”
Jack averts my stare and clears his throat. He seems to admire the print and rubs his finger along the signature written in green crayon. Jack is in some trancelike state, wasting time.
“Do you want to be alone with him?” I say, arms crossed.
He shakes his head and delicately removes the print, leaning it against the wall on top of the dresser. “It’s rarer than the Picasso in his office,” mumbles Jack.
Sweat drips from his forehead onto his glasses, and he pulls them off, gently wiping them against his shirt tucked into–
“–Pleated jeans?” I say. “Did you iron your jeans?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. The crease is from the folding.”
My eyes glance over him. “I thought Jean burned your clothes.”
“Really? You want to do this now?”
I roll my eyes. “825974,” I say, memorizing the numbers from the video I shot.
Jack digitally taps the numbers and waits for a light beep.
