by Ally Blake
If they didn’t stop, someone would hear them.
As if the girls had conjured him, Amal stiffened at Manny’s deep-timbred voice from behind them.
“Ladies,” he greeted them, breaking up the maids’ giggling. “It smells delicious in here.”
Amal had trouble straightening her face after Safia’s and Nima’s teasing. Her cheeks warmed as she turned and studied Manny.
He’d traded his suit for a collared T-shirt and cargo shorts. The crisply pressed shirt and shorts accentuated his toned arms and legs, and his corded, lean muscles flexed as he moved into the dim kitchen. Even in the weak sunlight, Amal could make out his attractive features.
A smile softened the angular planes of his long face, and at Safia and Nima’s giggled greetings he flashed another smile, his straight white teeth popping against his rich umber skin and the short black curls of a beard growing in. It was scruffily sexy—and not what she should be thinking about at all.
“Did you need anything?” Amal prayed he’d say yes. She needed a break from the girls. But Manny shook his head.
“Just looking for my mother. I thought she might be in here. She was always fond of the kitchen.”
Amal knew that much even with her amnesia. Mama Halima would be in the kitchen all day if Amal didn’t insist on relieving her. “She should be in her bedroom, if she isn’t in the living room. I could check—”
Amal made to stand, but Manny gestured for her to sit.
“I’ll find her myself.”
He left as quietly as he’d entered.
Nima and Safia traded knowing looks. The saucier of the two maids, Safia, winked at Amal. “So, when is the wedding?”
Somehow Amal managed to get through dicing the onions for the sambusa wraps. Then, discerning the hour, she poured a cup of spiced tea, prepared a plate of sour flatbread—anjero—and ladled tomato soup into a bowl.
She ignored the maids’ teasing about her organizing Manny’s late breakfast. It was only right she fed him; Mama Halima would have expected Amal to see to the comfort of any guest.
It was one of the things she loved about the older woman, aside from her abundant patience, kindness, and generosity. Mama Halima didn’t treat her like an invalid. Amal’s amnesia was a concern to Manny’s mother, but she didn’t handle her like she was fragile, expensive china. Quite the opposite. She believed Amal should be helping Safia and Nima with the household duties. And it was a great relief that she was allowed to be...normal.
Which was why the maids wouldn’t stop her preparing and traying Manny’s breakfast. On reaching his room, Amal noted the heavy oak door was ajar. She was about to set the tray down and knock when she stilled. Sharp voices spilled out, the words clearer now she was listening for them.
“Think about what you’re saying!” Mama Halima’s displeasure pulsed in each word. “You’re going to abandon us now, after you’ve traveled so far?”
“I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m no doctor. I can’t help her.”
Amal flinched at this brusque statement, her hands tightening painfully on the tray.
“I’m of no use to you and Amal. Better I leave. I have business in Addis Ababa anyways.”
Manny sounded exasperated and at the end of his rope. Amal knew it was because of her. They clearly hadn’t anticipated her hearing, or else they’d have shut the door.
“Mansur, please,” Mama Halima begged.
Amal hated it that Manny’s mother had to do it on her behalf.
“Please, don’t do this. Don’t leave us.”
“If it’s money you need I can wire it to you as usual. But I won’t stay here!” Manny stressed.
After that exclamation, the silence inside was deafening. It spilled out into the foyer, washing over Amal. She was nearly knocked down by the force of the burden she’d become on people who were her family, of sorts.
Family she’d forgotten. Family she was hurting unconsciously.
Unable to stand around and contemplate why she should feel so humiliated by her injury and uncertain recovery, Amal acted quickly. The watery heat burning her eyes hurried her movements. She wouldn’t cry—not openly, for anyone to happen on her tears.
Setting Manny’s breakfast tray to one side of the door, where he’d be able to find it and not step on it, Amal hurried away.
“Amal?”
She froze at Manny’s imploring tone. She’d lingered too long and he stepped out, catching her fleeing.
“Amal,” he said again.
When he called to her Amal rounded on him. She knew he could see her tears. His lips stretched into a grave line and his dark eyes were steely. They held zero comfort for her.
It was all she needed to hear and see—all she needed to know. Mansur was leaving. He wanted nothing to do with her. She’d overwhelmed him, and he was washing his hands of her memory problem, like most everyone had. It wouldn’t be too long before Mama Halima gave up hope, too.
“I have to go,” Amal said, her voice sounding choked by the tears she’d tried so carefully to hold at bay.
This time he didn’t stop her leaving.
Copyright © 2021 by Muna Sheik
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ISBN-13: 9780369712967
The Millionaire’s Melbourne Proposal
Copyright © 2021 by Ally Blake
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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