by Paula Graves
“Not every night, but yeah.”
“So I guess I’ll wait a couple of hours and then go have myself a nice halal dinner.”
* * *
BY THE TIME Yasmin had to leave the apartment to get to her job at the restaurant, she still hadn’t heard from Dalrymple. Going on twelve hours since their last contact. Dal had always been the kind of man who lived on his own timetable, but he’d never taken this long to get back to her.
Unless something had gone wrong.
As she tied her apron above the swell of the baby, she glanced around the restaurant, trying to remember the feeling she’d had before while walking home from the doctor’s office. A tingle on the back of her neck that said, “Someone is watching.”
She supposed it was possible a lot of people were watching her. Pregnant women living alone weren’t the norm in a culture like Kaziristan’s. She had lived there with her mother for three years while her father was doing a tour of duty overseas. At least, that’s what her mother had told her, though she sometimes wondered if the Kaziristan years had come during a rough patch in her parents’ marriage.
They’d stayed with her mother’s brother and his family, and the experience had been eye-opening, not always in a good way. But during those years, she’d learned a lot about being a Kaziri woman. While a large swath of Kaziristan was cosmopolitan and culturally advanced, some of the rural areas were still deeply tribal, including the part where her mother’s brother lived. Those areas were patriarchal in a way people in the West couldn’t really comprehend.
But even in those parts of Kaziristan, women had ways of getting things done beneath the veil. It was a lesson she’d never forgotten, and she was banking on that lesson to get her through the next few months of her life.
“Yasmin?” The sharp voice of the restaurant manager, Farid Rahimi, jerked her back to attention. She turned to look at him, trying not to let her dislike show.
He was a short man, and lean, but she knew from observation that he was strong and fast. He was also mean, keeping his employees in line with threats and derision. He was a US citizen, which put him in a far more stable position than most of the people in the community, including all of his employees. Most were here on temporary visas or provisional refugee status, and he made sure they understood just how perilous their lives in the States really were.
“There are a couple of special guests coming tonight. They want the prettiest of the serving girls to wait on them exclusively.” He flashed her a bright smile before adding, “So Darya will be serving them. You’ll have to pick up her tables.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered in Kaziri, trying to ignore the flash of cruelty in his smile. One of the hardest things about pretending to be a Kaziri refugee was behaving as if she was resigned to being at the mercy of others.
In another life, she would have cut him in half with her words. And he’d be lucky if she’d stopped there.
“Speak English,” Farid added in a harsh tone. He waved one sinewy hand at her head. “And cover yourself.”
She reached up and straightened her roosari, tugging it up to cover her hair. It’s all part of the assignment, she reminded herself as she picked up her order pad and went to work, her teeth grinding with frustration.
The conversations she overheard as she worked were unremarkable. Despite its location in the heart of the Kaziri refugee community, The Jewel of Tablis was beginning to draw patrons from all over Cincinnati. In fact, most of the refugees Yasmin knew were too impoverished to eat out, though most of them shopped in the small halal food market attached to the restaurant. So far tonight, all of her diners were English-speaking Americans. Not one of them said anything that might have piqued Dalrymple’s interest.
She was beginning to wonder why he’d wanted her to move here to Cincinnati rather than simply relocating her somewhere out West, where she could live in solitude and see trouble coming for miles before it arrived.
“Darya!” Farid’s voice rose over the ambient noise of conversing diners, drawing Yasmin’s gaze toward the door where he stood. There were two dark-featured men, each wearing an expensive payraan tumbaan, the traditional long shirt and pants typical in Afghanistan, Pakistan and, these days, the Kaziri moneyed class. The intricately embroidered silk vests the two men wore over their shirts were definitely products of Kaziristan, adorned as they were with the brilliant-hued fire hawk of Kaziri folklore.
She didn’t recognize either man, though the taller man on the right looked oddly familiar, even though she was certain they’d never met. Maybe she’d run across one of his relatives during her time on assignment in Tablis, the Kaziri capital city.
She’d kept a low profile while she was there, playing a similar role blending in with the native Kaziris in order to keep an ear close to the ground during a volatile time in the country’s downward spiral toward another civil war. Strange—and alarming—that she’d been afforded more autonomy and respect as a woman in Kaziristan than she was as a woman in the insular Kaziri community in Cincinnati.
On the upside, being pregnant and makeup-free was working in her favor here. People saw the round belly first and never bothered letting their gazes rise to her face, especially with more nubile, exotic-looking beauties like Darya and her bevy of young, unmarried friends to draw the attention of Kaziri men. And the Americans as well, she noted with secret amusement, as the middle-aged male patrons she was currently serving kept slanting intrigued glances at Darya as she walked with sinuous femininity to the VIP table to take their orders.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed another customer enter the restaurant and take a seat at a table near the window. She delivered her most recent order to the kitchen and returned to the dining hall, grabbing a menu and pouring a glass of water before heading to the newcomer’s table.
A burst of laughter from the VIP table drew her attention in that direction. One of the men was flirting outrageously with Darya, who was eating up the attention with the confidence of a woman who knew her appeal.
Swallowing a sigh, Yasmin turned her attention back to her new customer. He lifted his head, pinning her with his blue-eyed gaze.
Her stomach gave a lurch.
The glass slipped from her hand, but the man whipped his hand out and caught it on the way down. Only a few drops of water splashed across the dark hair on the back of his hand.
He set the glass on the table, still looking at her.
“Hello, Risa,” Connor McGinnis said.
Chapter Two
Connor focused his gaze on Risa’s pale face, trying to read the snippets of emotion that flashed like lightning across her expression. Within a couple of seconds, her pretty features became a mask that hid everything from him.
“Yasmin,” she said quietly as she mopped up the spilled drops of water from the table using a rag she pulled from her apron pocket. Her voice, almost as familiar as his own, came out in a heavy, convincing Kaziri accent. “My name is Yasmin and I will be your server tonight. Would you like to try the mint tea?”
So it wasn’t amnesia. There had been a part of him that almost prayed it had been memory loss from the plane crash that had kept her away for so long, but those hopes had been dashed the second her eyes met his. They’d widened, the pupils dilating with shock, before she’d lowered her gaze and set about hiding everything she’d briefly revealed.
He knew what that Kaziri accent hid—a South Georgia drawl as warm and slow as a night in Savannah, where Risa had been born and her parents still lived.
They’d mourned her, too, he thought.
How could she have chosen to disappear the way she had, letting everyone who knew and loved her think she was dead?
He struggled to keep the anger burning in his gut in check, careful not to let it show in his expression. He, too, was good at wearing masks.
“W
hen does your shift end?” he asked quietly.
She pretended not to hear the question. “The special tonight is lamb kebabs with rice.”
“We have to talk, Yasmin.” He put extra emphasis on her alias.
“No.” Her hazel eyes lifted to meet his gaze before she added, “Sir.”
“You don’t think I have a right to ask a few questions?”
For a second, her mask faltered, fierce emotion burning in her eyes. But she looked away quickly. “Take your time to study the menu. I will return in a few minutes. Would you like something to drink while you are waiting?”
“Mint tea,” he said finally.
She gave a nod and walked away. Her gait was subtly different, her back arched from the weight of her pregnant belly. He realized with some surprise that he’d never before imagined what she’d look like pregnant.
How could that be? Why had they never thought about children, about a family?
A few tables away, a slender young woman in a simple, shape-hugging dress and a matching peacock-blue roosari was taking orders from two middle-aged men. The one nearest was dressed in an elaborately embroidered payraan tumbaan. Connor couldn’t get a good look at his face. His companion, however, sat facing Connor, though his gaze was lifted upward to smile at the pretty server. Connor didn’t recognize him.
But there was something about the shape of the other man’s head, the slight wave of his silver-flecked black hair, that tugged at Connor’s memory.
How did he know the man? Was it from those years he’d spent in Kaziristan? Or was the acquaintance more recent?
He sensed more than saw Risa’s approach and turned his gaze toward her, watching her walk to his table. She carried a small tray with a glass of iced mint tea, even though he hadn’t indicated whether he wanted it hot or cold. She placed the glass of tea on the table in front of him and started to turn away.
“I didn’t ask for my tea to be iced,” he murmured. But of course, she’d given him ice because she knew that’s how he liked it.
She froze in place for a second before she turned and lowered her gaze. “I am sorry. I will bring you another cup.”
He closed his hand over hers as she reached for the glass. “Washington Park. Are you familiar with it?”
For a moment, her fingers flexed beneath his grip. But she gave a tiny nod.
He dropped his hand away before they drew unwanted attention. “I will be on a bench near the bandstand by the water park. Tomorrow morning at ten. If you want to talk.” He handed her the menu. “Tea will be all. Thank you.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “The table will be needed once the dinner crowd picks up.”
“Understood.” He took a couple of drinks of the cold mint tea and realized she’d added a packet of sweetener, the way he liked it. “Thank you for the tea. It’s perfect.”
She averted her gaze but didn’t move right away. He thought he saw a hint of moisture glimmering in her eyes before she finally walked back to the kitchen area.
He released his pent-up breath and glanced at the table nearby where the two Kaziri men continued flirting with the young waitress. It was at that exact moment that the second man turned his head, giving Connor a good look at his profile.
A ripple of unease darted through him. He didn’t recognize the man, but something was ringing alarm bells in his head. He felt as if he should recognize him somehow. But why?
He looked at the phone lying on the table in front of him. Unhurriedly, he picked it up and swiped the screen to unlock it. Glancing toward the other table, he pushed the camera application button, bringing up the viewing screen, and slowly angled it toward the men at the other table.
Pretending to send a text, he snapped a quick shot of the man facing him. He waited for the other man to turn again, but he was looking up at the flirtatious waitress, who seemed to be regaling them with a story in rapid-fire Kaziri.
The clatter of silverware nearby drew his attention away for a moment, until he spotted the toddler at a table near the door who had thrown his spoon on the floor. As the mother shot a look of apology toward the approaching server, Connor looked back at the table where the two Kaziri men sat. The second man had turned in his chair to watch the young mother and child, his expression harsh with disapproval.
He was perfectly framed in the phone’s viewer screen.
Connor snapped a couple of photos before the man turned his back again. While he was at it, he took a few other shots, one of the dark-haired man who seemed to be the restaurant manager, another of the pretty young waitress attending to the table where the Kaziri men sat, and finally, carefully, a shot of Risa as she served a nearby table, her roosari sliding backward to reveal her dusky hair and delicate profile.
After one more shot, he pocketed his phone and retrieved his wallet. He put a twenty on the table next to the half-empty tea glass before he walked out the door, careful to keep his face averted from the two Kaziri men.
Outside the restaurant, the night had turned bitterly cold, the last fluttering of snow drifting silently from the winter sky. Tugging up his collar to guard his neck from the icy wind, he hurried down the block to a coffee shop angled across the street from The Jewel of Tablis.
A blast of heat welcomed him as he entered. A freckled waitress with straw-blond hair and bright red lipstick greeted him from the counter. “Take a seat, sir. I’ll be with you in just a sec.”
Connor sat at one of the tables by the window, not entirely happy with the view through the plate glass. The bright interior of the diner reflected back at him, making it difficult to see much of the street outside, though the colorful lights of The Jewel of Tablis were just visible through the reflection.
He pulled out his phone and opened the photo gallery, studying the images he’d snapped at the other restaurant. He’d gotten a good shot of the younger man who had sat facing Connor’s table. He texted Maddox Heller a quick message and attached the photo. Then he picked out the best shot he had of the older man and sent the image to Heller as well. Does this man look familiar?
As the waitress arrived with a pot of coffee and a menu, his phone hummed. He took the menu and checked his messages. There was a text from Heller.
Not sure, Heller had written. The image isn’t clear. Can you track? Get a better shot?
Will try, he texted back and set his phone on the table in front of him, peering through his reflection at the door of the restaurant down the street.
* * *
PANIC BURNED IN her chest, stealing her breath. She forced herself to slow her breathing, to concentrate on staying calm. Thanks to the pregnancy, her blood pressure was a little higher than normal, so she had to deal with the stress for the baby’s sake as well as her own.
Don’t think about Connor. Don’t think about anything but the job.
“Are you okay?” Darya’s voice startled her, setting her nerves rattling. Darya had been born in Cincinnati and spoke Kaziri with an American accent.
“I’m feeling a little tired,” Yasmin answered, her own Kaziri as authentic as a native’s, thanks to her mother and those years spent in Kaziristan, first with her mother’s brother and his family, and then undercover with the agency.
Her gaze drifted toward the VIP table. Maybe that’s why she’d thought one of those men looked familiar? Had she seen him before in Kaziristan?
Darya followed her gaze and lowered her voice to a soft hiss. “Pigs,” she said with a viciousness that caught Yasmin by surprise.
The younger woman’s parents put great stock in tradition and they had raised their daughter to observe their customs, but perhaps Darya had a rebellious side. Despite her flirtations with the VIPs earlier, Yasmin now noticed a pinched look around the girl’s eyes and mouth that suggested she had found her role vexing.
Not worth the tips they would l
eave when they departed?
“I think that handsome customer you served earlier liked you,” Darya added, her voice back to its normal, teasing tone. “The one with the leather jacket? Very manly.”
“I am pregnant and hardly looking my best,” she countered, trying to forget the look of betrayal in Connor’s eyes. A pain began to throb behind her forehead. “You were right. I am not feeling well.”
She had to get out of here. Go somewhere to think. Figure out what to do next. Try to reach Dal again.
“Go. Your shift is nearly over. I will tell Farid you became ill and left.”
Yasmin glanced at her watch. It was eight forty-five. The restaurant closed at nine. “I’ll tell him,” she said, already heading toward the kitchen. Farid would probably dock her the final hour of her pay, but money was the least of her problems at the moment.
How had Connor located her? What kind of game was he playing?
She found Farid in his cluttered office behind the kitchen and told him she was feeling unwell.
“You’ll get an hour less in your paycheck this week,” he warned her. “Unless you can pick up an hour later this week.”
“I will do that,” she said, not at all certain she’d be back to the restaurant at all.
Instead of going out the back door into the darkened alley behind the restaurant, she chose the relative safety of the well-lit front exit. As she left, she spared another glance at the two men sitting at the VIP table. They leaned toward each other over the table, deep in conversation. The older man’s demeanor seemed angry, while the younger man looked tense and worried. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see the older man’s face, but there was something vaguely familiar about the way he held himself erect, about the shape of his head and his slim but masculine build.
Flicking her gaze toward the front exit, she realized she could see the older man’s reflection quite clearly in the window. Clearly enough that she was now certain she’d seen him before. But not in person.