Protecting His Princess

by C. J. Miller

“Are you disappointed?” he asked.

  Of the chaotic swirling emotions she felt, disappointment wasn’t one of them. “Of course not.”

  “We should be more careful,” he said.

  About letting it happen again? Or about letting it go too far? She couldn’t bring herself to ask.

  “I should get you back to the party,” Harris said.

  Now disappointment streamed through her. Their interlude was over as quickly as it had begun. It had irrevocably changed her. What was he feeling? She hadn’t thought about what she wanted her first kiss to be. It had always taken place in the context of her wedding night, with her husband.

  Not in the courtyard under the cover of night with an undercover FBI agent who, for all she knew, was playacting even now. “We can’t be seen together entering the compound,” she said.

  “I’ll follow in the dark. No one will see me. I want to be sure you’re safe.”

  She didn’t have anything else to say on the matter, her feelings a kaleidoscope of emotions. For the first time, her future wasn’t defined by what another man decided for her.

  Laila was deep in thought and jumped when she crossed into the path of two of the emir’s security guards. She didn’t dare look behind her to be sure Harris was well hidden.

  “What are you doing here alone?” one of the men asked.

  “Getting some fresh air,” she said. Harris’s jacket was slung over her shoulders. Would they realize she was wearing a man’s jacket? Had they recognized her as the emir’s sister? Her heart beat faster.

  “Women are not permitted to be out here alone,” the guard said.

  “Something bad could happen.” The leer the second guard gave her sent a shiver of fear down her spine.

  Harris was close, watching over her, and he wouldn’t allow them to hurt her. But if he had to defend her, if he was forced to reveal himself, he would risk both his cover and his stay in the compound. Mikhail would take the word of his guards over his sister and her German suitor.

  At least his leer told her that she hadn’t been recognized. The emir’s sister would garner more respect.

  “I’m returning to the party now,” she said, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders.

  They exchanged glances, perhaps considering questioning her further. They made the right decision and stepped to each side of the path allowing her to pass. Laila hurried into the house, hoping they hadn’t seen Harris or stopped to speak with him. Finding them both in the courtyard would raise questions she couldn’t answer.

  Chapter 4

  Harris should be tired. On the heels of a long flight and a day of surveillance, he should be ready to crash.

  And yet he couldn’t settle down and sleep.

  That kiss. The potent, amazing kiss he’d shared with Laila. He hadn’t expected it, and he shouldn’t have let it happen. Laila was a virgin. An untouched virgin. Harris hadn’t encountered a woman like her—and not just the pure-as-the-fallen-snow thing—in years. She was innocent and naive when it came to men, and he’d gone and kissed her.

  He blamed this mission and his terrible judgment when it came to women. He’d sunk too deep into character, worried he’d give himself away to the emir, and now he didn’t know where Harris, FBI Agent, began and Harris, German heir, ended.

  He couldn’t allow a kiss to happen again. Laila deserved passion and love from someone who could give her the life she wanted. Even before she had told him of her plans, his profiler training had her pegged as a woman who’d want it all: a successful career, a devoted husband and three adorable children. She’d volunteer at her children’s school and make friends with the other moms, give her husband attention and affection, and stay on the ball at work.

  If Harris got involved with her, he’d be risking the mission and breaking protocol, plus he had a messy history of getting involved with women who asked more of him than he could give, who expected him to be someone he wasn’t and who either betrayed him or let him down.

  He loved his job and sometimes that meant traveling at a moment’s notice. He’d had to cancel plans, miss vacations, be a no-show as a plus one at a wedding. The women he’d dated didn’t have patience for his excuses. They didn’t understand the work he did, and in many situations he couldn’t tell them much about it. They’d get frustrated and then disinterested. A few had become angry and vengeful. Harris always sensed when the breakup was coming. Once over email, twice over the phone, four times in person, he’d gotten the speech that started with, “I need a man who can be there for me. Be there when I need him.”

  Harris had shouldered a large portion of the blame for his failed relationships. He’d worked hard to make the breaks as clean as possible. He’d wished them well and moved on with his life. At least, almost all of them. His last girlfriend, Cassie, had been the exception. Her betrayal had left him for dead, and that he couldn’t forgive or forget.

  Part of him felt like a failure for being unable to maintain a relationship for more than a few months. His brothers—as wild as they were and as intense as their careers could be—had found and married strong, capable, beautiful women. Every time Harris visited with his brothers and their wives, he was reminded of what he’d given up by making the career choices he had and not finding the balance his brothers had.

  His mother had warned him that he might one day look back at his life and regret how he’d spent his twenties and thirties. On some level Harris agreed with her, and on another he thought the right woman would understand and not ask more of him than he could give. The right woman would stand by him when life was difficult.

  Tired of lying in bed unable to sleep, Harris got up and used the bathroom in his en suite. He cleaned his hands and then splashed some water on his face. The bed was comfortable, and the sheets were soft. Sleep should be easy.

  He returned to bed, and the indicator on his phone blinked red twice. A message. Pulling the phone into bed, he typed in his password, pressed his thumb over the fingerprint reader, navigated to the application masquerading as an e-calendar, where he typed another password and waited.

  Three full minutes passed, and he was prompted for a third password. And then he was in.

  He almost laughed at the CIA’s complex message retrieval system. Every message sent from his phone was encrypted and could only be decrypted at CIA headquarters with the proper software. Anyone who picked up his phone would have a terrible time getting his private messages, and even then they were seemingly innocuous. If his phone went missing, the CIA could access the phone remotely and wipe its contents. High-tech stuff, which he enjoyed, but Harris preferred working for the FBI. Harris didn’t like the overt paranoid thinking that the CIA operated under. His FBI team was straight shooting and open with him about issues related to the case at hand. Harris felt as if the CIA held back, giving him the bare minimum he needed to do his job. This joint mission with the CIA would bolster his FBI résumé with interagency experience and give him access to more opportunities in the Bureau.

  The CIA liked their covert rendezvous. Like the man in the souk who had asked about buying his shoes. An asset confirming Harris hadn’t been discovered nor did he believe Mikhail was suspicious of his presence at the compound.

  The text message waiting for him was in German from his “brother” Brady, also known as Tyler. “Mom wants to have steaks on the grill and try out some new recipes as soon as possible. Reilly has a new puppy. Mom doesn’t think he can handle it.”

  Harris translated the message easily. The CIA needed to set up a meeting with him to talk about another agent or asset they had inside the compound. The person wasn’t trusted by the team, and Harris suspected he or she might have been brought on due to circumstances, likely someone with access to the compound or a guest of the wedding.

  Harris wondered if the message referred to the American spy who had been captured by the emir or perhaps the man he’d sensed watching him earlier that night. He’d talk to Laila tomorrow, get the rundown of scheduled wedd
ing events and look for downtime to arrange a meeting. Harris didn’t want to miss an event where Al-Adel could appear. Once he had a good time to meet, he’d call back and leave a message.

  He stretched out in the bed and tried to get some rest.

  When he awoke, a mild headache pulsed at his temples. He looked at the clock. Nine o’clock. Laila may have slept late, as well, trying to catch up on the rest they’d foregone while traveling. He reached for his phone and dialed her. In addition to his room being bugged, it was possible for the calls to be intercepted within the compound walls, and she knew not to speak of anything mission related.

  She answered on the third ring. “Hey, you. How’d you sleep?”

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked, sitting up in bed.

  “No, I was up. I just got out of the shower. I’m getting dressed for breakfast with my mom. You’re welcome to join us.”

  His masculine brain caught and held the first part of what she’d said. Shower. Was she wearing a towel and nothing else? His body reacted to the image, and he was glad he was alone so no one saw his lower half saluting the idea. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll join you.”

  “No problem. I don’t want to make my mom wait, so why don’t you join us on the upper veranda?”

  Over breakfast he could ask about the day’s wedding events, a neutral, safe topic. “Sounds great.”

  Fifteen minutes later he strolled onto the upper veranda, scanning around him for Ahmad Al-Adel. He spotted Laila and her mother on the far side, their table shaded by potted palm trees. He hated to impose on their meal. Their heads were bent together in conversation, and both were smiling. When he drew closer, they looked at him, Laila with a smile on her face and Iba with a nod of acknowledgment.

  “Good morning,” he said, standing at the table and waiting to be invited to join them.

  “Harris, please, sit down,” Iba said, gesturing to the free chairs around their stone-topped table.

  Iba didn’t seem surprised to see him. Laila must have mentioned he’d be joining them.

  Harris wanted to tell Laila how beautiful she looked this morning, her face lit by the indirect rays of the sun and the smile on her face captivating. However, commenting on her appearance wasn’t the right thing to do. Especially not in front of her mother.

  Laila’s hand touched her lips, and Harris wondered if she was remembering the kiss they’d shared. It had been an amazing kiss. Explosive. Unforgettable, no matter how hard he worked to smudge it out of his memory.

  A waiter took his order, and without a menu Harris assumed anything was an option. Eggs, sausage, toast, orange juice, coffee and a muffin. Maybe food would chase away the dull jet-lag-induced headache that throbbed at his temples.

  The atmosphere on the veranda was much less formal than the dinner event the previous day. Guests arrived and left on their own schedules.

  “I’m sorry I slept so late,” Harris said. “I hope I didn’t miss anything important.” After seeing them together, he wished he would have delayed longer to give Laila and her mother time to talk.

  Laila shook her head. “Nothing wedding related is planned until later today. My mother and I are meeting Aisha and some other family for bridal henna.”

  Perhaps then would be a good time for his meeting with his CIA contact. “I can’t wait to see how it turns out.” He caught the words and rechecked. Was that the wrong thing to say? Was the henna for a husband’s eyes only?

  Iba laughed. “Relax. I understand you are not from Qamsar, and I don’t know how many of our customs my daughter has talked to you about. Given her love of all things American, I imagine not many. You don’t have to worry over every word.”

  Laila beamed at her mother. “Mom, did I tell you that Harris’s mother and father work together in the family business?”

  “No, you didn’t,” she said. “How do your parents keep business separate from family? My late husband’s job took his every waking minute, and I’d have to remind him that Laila, Mikhail, Saafir and I were here.” She spoke with fondness, and Harris got the impression her relationship with her husband had been balanced, less of a male-dominated marriage and more of a partnership. Was that relationship to credit for the changes in the Qamsarian culture in more recent years? Women had been given more rights, and while their status was not equal to men, it had improved from when they were treated like pets. If Mikhail had his way, he’d turn back the clock on the cultural progress in Qamsar. How did Iba feel about her ruling son’s stance?

  It wasn’t the time to question Iba. She had asked about his family. “My mother is a strong woman,” he said. His mother had been a CIA operative for most of her career, and had worked in the field on difficult and dangerous missions. “She keeps my father in check.” The truth. His father had been a navy SEAL, strong and resourceful, but when it came to his wife, he had a soft spot. Their marriage had sometimes been difficult with travel schedules and three sons, but they had worked at it and were enjoying their retirement.

  The waiter brought Harris his food. It smelled and looked delicious.

  “When Harris returns to work for the family business, he’ll help Qamsar,” Laila said. It was an angle the CIA had wanted her to play up when possible. “Harris’s company can help improve our imports and exports, maybe put some of our local specialties and crafts on the international market.”

  She was amazing. He didn’t detect a hint of the lie, and he was great at reading people. Maybe, like him, she was sinking deep into the part she was playing.

  Mikhail would see a side to the shipping connection others might not. If he was working with Ahmad Al-Adel, he could use shipping connections to move goods for the terrorist organization and call upon family loyalty to demand discretion.

  “It’s been difficult at times,” Iba said. “My late husband wanted to improve the country’s construction programs. We’re restricted by the international marketplace. When we can’t get the best or least expensive materials, we’re forced to shoulder higher costs.”

  Iba wasn’t a wife who had let her husband work while she stood by idle. Harris got the impression that, publicly acknowledged or not, Iba had taken an active role in her husband’s career. It had to be difficult for her to lose control of that power in addition to losing her husband.

  “Perhaps after the wedding, we can talk about some options,” Harris said, feeling a twinge of guilt in knowing that, by then, they would be in America and his lies exposed.

  Though Laila knew the truth about him and what he was doing in Qamsar, Harris couldn’t stop thinking about how, post-mission, their relationship would be over, as well. She’d have a new life in America, and he’d be onto the next assignment.

  Though it had always been the case, the more time he spent with Laila, the less he liked the idea of never seeing her again.

  Harris remembered he’d brought the worry beads to give to Iba. “Laila and I picked something up for you at the souk.” He took the decorated cloth bag out of his suit jacket pocket and handed it to Iba.

  Iba looked from it to him with an expression of genuine pleasure on her face. “Thank you, Harris. You didn’t have to buy me anything.”

  Sure he did. The pleased expression on her face alone made the small effort worth it.

  She opened the bag, and after a moment of staring at it, she lifted her face, her eyes misted with tears. “My late husband collected worry beads. I guess Laila told you that. He marked every special occasion with them. When we were married, though it wasn’t a traditional gift, he gave me a beautiful set. This is wonderful. Thank you so much.”

  Laila squeezed her mother’s hand, and the look on her face when she smiled at Harris made him feel like a hero.

  * * *

  After breakfast Harris sent a reply message to his CIA contact indicating he could meet that afternoon around 2:00 p.m. in the souk. The confirmation came almost instantaneously.

  In the meantime Harris had to get the monitoring devices placed through
out the compound. Laila knew her way around, and she’d agreed to help him. Some locations would be more accessible than others. Placement in the main dining area would be easier than getting close to Mikhail’s private quarters.

  If Ahmad Al-Adel was attending the wedding, Harris guessed he wouldn’t arrive too early, or if he did, he would lay low. Being an internationally wanted man, Al-Adel would be cautious. Making an appearance at the emir’s wedding would be a calculated risk, but one he might take to show Mikhail that he trusted their relationship.

  Harris had read everything he could find on Ahmad Al-Adel, and he didn’t believe the man was capable of giving respect to another human being. If Al-Adel showed up, it was because he needed Mikhail. With so many countries unwilling to negotiate or assist Al-Adel, Mikhail was one of his last remaining allies. In return Mikhail got unlawful muscle to enforce his will, even if what he wanted was outside Qamsar law. The money Al-Adel funneled into Qamsar was another bonus.

  Harris met Laila at the entrance to the main dining room as they had planned. Though he had hesitated about involving her, the CIA hadn’t been able to acquire the floor plan of Mikhail’s private quarters, and Laila gave him a cover if anyone spotted him. Though it was a stretch, Laila had slightly more reason to be in the emir’s private quarters than Harris did. Pretending to be lost would never work.

  “Let’s position the simplest ones first,” Harris said. “Then we’ll try the difficult ones.” Even if they couldn’t get access to Mikhail’s private quarters, the CIA would have electronic eyes inside the compound.

  Laila nodded. “It’s too bad you’re not a woman. Women are overlooked. You and I could walk around freely.”

  He wouldn’t ask Laila to place the devices without accompanying her. He couldn’t put her at additional risk. Was she implying he should go undercover dressed like a woman? The idea didn’t thrill him, but he would do what he needed to do. “Wouldn’t my build give me away?”

  Laila shrugged. “Might make someone think you’re a rather large woman, but generally, you’d be okay.”