by Avery Laval
“Nothing,” she said quickly, with a dismissive wave. “Forget I said it.”
“I wish I could forget everything you ever said to me,” he said darkly. “All the promises we made.” He stopped himself before he gave away how badly she’d hurt him.
Marissa looked down, shamed no doubt by her behavior. Good. Then she angled her face upwards and said, softly again, “That’s all in the past, right?”
Khalid nodded, satisfied. “All in the past.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, just took each other in. Then he saw Marissa’s shoulders rise and fall—a deep breath—and she parted her lips to speak. “Maybe this—us running into each other—is a blessing in disguise,” she began. “We haven’t spoken in more than two years. Perhaps we should sit down, talk some things out.”
“Why would I want to do a thing like that?” Khalid asked harshly.
“Because,” Marissa replied quickly, her voice strong and resolute now, reminding him of how, when she really wanted something, when it was truly important to her, there was no use in denying her. “Because there are some things I need to tell you. Things I should have told you a long time ago. And I need the closure.”
Khalid felt his hands ball into fists. She thought she deserved closure? After what she had done the moment his back was turned? He thought the scowl on his face would be all the answer she needed, but then she took him by surprise. Reached out her hand for his wrist, and gently held him there, imploring.
“Please, Khalid,” was all she said, but he felt his resolve melt. The look on her face, one of regret mixed with beseeching, was exactly the same look that had been on her face when she’d sent him to Rifaisa all those years ago. At the time, he’d thought she’d parted with him so willingly because it was what was best for him. It was months before he’d realized the real reason she’d sent him away without a second thought.
Because she was in love with another man.
Well, then, Khalid reasoned. Let her talk to him. Tell him the truth she’d been hiding for so long. His heart was disconnected from hers now. She could cause him no further pain. He doubted anyone could.
“Fine,” he said, making sure his resistance was clear. “We’ll dine tonight, in my suites. Eight o’clock. I’ll have someone meet you in the lobby and take you where you need to go.”
“But,” Marissa protested, “wouldn’t it be better if we met on more neutral ground?”
“Perhaps it would be better for you. But I have a closely regimented schedule now. And I’ll need to be where I’ve said I’ll be to avoid giving my staff a security nightmare.”
Marissa looked around, perhaps noticing for the first time the guards stationed in three places through the room, watching them intently. “Of course,” she said after a moment. “Eight o’clock. I’ll see you then.”
Khalid looked deep into those blue-green eyes of hers, trying to get a feel for what emotion lay within them. She’d always been hard to read, her smooth surface rarely giving away much. But, he remembered, when she’d been overjoyed, her eyes had seemed to shimmer, as though the happiness was flowing right through her body and pouring out of them. Now, they were glassy and blank and told him nothing.
He hoped he was as inscrutable to her, he thought, as he turned and stalked out of the cavernous dining room, eager to put the past—at least as it applied to Marissa Madden—far behind him.
Walking into her luxury hotel room for the first time should have been a dazzling enough experience to take Marissa’s mind off of her encounter with Khalid. But despite the sweeping views of downtown Cairo and the beautifully decorated space, with its plush all-white bedding and sleek cherrywood furniture, her thoughts never left the sight of Khalid’s face standing next to her table, scowling at her.
She’d been so surprised by his reaction to her. She thought at best he’d be happy to see her—at worst, their meeting would be a reminder of a time before he was the powerful leader he was today. But instead he’d seemed almost angry. His brusque tone and lack of patience for her made her wonder if he was holding resentments against her. But that would make no sense. He was the one who’d left her alone in the States, waiting and hoping he’d come back.
So that she could tell him she was carrying his child.
Eager to distract herself, Marissa kicked off her shoes and went to check out the bathroom. A huge, glass-encased shower promised enough hot water and steam to wipe her brain clean of old hurts, so she slipped off her clothes and turned on the water. Once she was inside, the thick streams of water served their purpose, reinvigorating her, clearing away the film of travel. By the time she was finished, she felt so much better that she was convinced dinner tonight with Khalid was a good idea. She’d meet with him, break bread, and tell him about everything that had happened after he’d left. Then she’d get on with her business here and return home with a fresh outlook on her life. She’d finally close the chapter on Khalid.
Even after the shower and preparing for her first meeting of the conference, she still had thirty minutes to herself. So she quickly booted up her computer. Within seconds, she was video-chatting with one of her best friends back in Las Vegas.
“Well, well,” said a man’s voice through her tinny laptop speakers, before the face on the screen even came up.
“Grant, is that you? I don’t have picture yet, but you sure don’t sound like Jenna.”
The man laughed, and then his smiling face at last appeared. “That’s a good thing,” said Grant. “I’d hate to think my phone voice could be mistaken for my wife’s.”
“I’ve got picture now,” said Marissa. “And wow! Is that a Vegas Golden Knights jersey behind you? Have you been making jewelry for the jocks again?” Owning jewelry made by Grant Blakely’s jewelry empire had become a favorite status symbol for their hometown hockey heroes—and the players’ girlfriends.
“You better believe it. Remember Brad Bradley, the sports agent that went to B-school with us? He keeps name dropping McCormick Diamonds to his clients. And did Knox tell you? We got together on a box for the Knights’ inaugural season in Vegas.”
Marissa shook her head and laughed. “Score one more for that Notre Dame MBA,” she said jokingly. “Just see that you boys don’t work too hard.”
“Hey, one does what one can when their job doesn’t send them on an all-expenses-paid trip to see the pyramids,” Grant teased. “How’s Cairo?”
“So far, eventful,” she said, knowing there was no point in hiding her news from him. Marissa had been close with Grant’s wife, Jenna, ever since Jenna met Grant. And they’d just gotten closer when an SUV had crossed the highway median and hit the car Grant and Marissa were traveling in head-on.
They’d been driving to Grant’s office that day to collaborate on an engagement ring for Jenna. With Marissa’s help, Grant had planned a romantic proposal, complete with Champagne and flowers, and all he’d needed was a ring he was sure Jenna would love. But in the end, Jenna had proposed to Grant in his hospital bed, where he’d been relegated after the accident with two bruised ribs.
While Marissa had recovered two floors away from an injury far more severe.
“What do you mean, eventful?” Grant asked, leaning his face closer into the computer screen, as if he could somehow read deeper into Marissa’s eyes, over the thousands of miles and millions of electrons that separated them. “What’s going on?”
“I saw Khalid,” she said. “He’s here, in the same hotel.”
Grant’s jaw dropped. “In Cairo at the same time as you? What are the chances?”
“I know,” Marissa said, shaking her head. “But maybe it’s a good thing, Grant.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “This may be a chance at the closure I’ve always needed.”
Grant pulled his head back, surprised. “Are you saying you’re going to tell him about the baby?”
Marissa sighed. “I think so. It just feels like the right thing to do.”
Grant was quiet
for a moment. “Are you sure, Mari?” he asked, using the nickname he’d borrowed from Jenna long ago. “That could bring up a lot of long-buried pain for you.”
She shook her head adamantly now. “Nothing is buried. I realized that the moment I laid eyes on him. It was as if the whole horrible thing had just happened days ago. It all came rushing back.”
“Losing your baby at 24 weeks has to be traumatic,” Grant said. “It’s normal for old memories to surface from time to time and feel just as powerful as ever. But they’ll fade, if you give them a chance.”
“Don’t you turn philosophical on me, Grant Blakely. You were there when it happened. You remember the accident as clearly as I do.”
“Of course I do,” he said softly. “If there were some way to go back and change that day, it would be the first thing I’d do. I know how much you were looking forward to being a mother.”
“And you know how strongly I believed that Khalid would be a wonderful father,” she said. “And he deserves to know about the daughter he lost that day. She was a part of him, too, even if he doesn’t know it.”
“I’m not sure what he deserves, given how he abandoned you.”
Marissa smiled wanly into her webcam. “I know you love to protect me, but let’s face facts. He didn’t so much abandon me as become a different person. With a different life. Far removed from the life we’d had together.”
“A different life, complete with a new wife,” Grant added bitterly. “Look. Jenna and I want you to be happy. If you think this will bring you closure, I can’t stop you from going for it. But be careful, and never forget how he hurt you.”
She nodded solemnly. “I promise I won’t forget. But maybe I can forgive.” Then she looked at her watch. “Okay, it’s time for me to jet. I’ve got a meeting in five downstairs, and after that I have three hours free, so I’m going to hit the Egyptian Museum and try not to think about Khalid the entire time. Wish me luck!”
“Good luck. Jenna will be back in a couple hours. I’ll catch her up then.”
“Send her my love!” Marissa closed the browser window, grabbed her purse, and launched herself through the door, ready to forget her recent past. Ancient Egyptian history seemed a lot more manageable today.
2
Three years ago, when Khalid had first arrived in Rifaisa, they’d called him the Son of the Prodigal Son. Funny, since he’d never gotten to meet his father, that it was his father’s reputation that stuck in the minds of the Rifaisi people.
But that misconception hadn’t lasted long. Soon enough, the whispers shifted, declaring how different he was from his father. After all, within just a few months Khalid had learned enough about the history and government of his new home to best many a native historian, and he’d stepped up to the job of assisting his grandfather in the exclave’s leadership with admirable competency. Where his father had been known for his interest only in the perks of a royal life, Khalid, if anything, erred on the side of being too serious for the tastes of his people. Over the years, his grandfather’s press secretary had spent hours with him, coaching him to appear less “stiff,” as she was in a habit of describing him. As his grandfather’s health declined, and it became clear that his retirement was closer than either of them had ever imagined, Khalid’s public image grew more and more important. As his advisors were constantly reminding him, Rifaisa deserved not just to respect their nation’s leader, but also to like him.
The sentiment drove Khalid to distraction. Wasn’t it enough that he had taken over so many of his grandfather’s duties—jobs Abdul-Malik had had a lifetime to learn and master—in just under three years, since his true identity had been discovered? Would they have preferred his father, a man so wrapped up in himself that he’d abandoned his own son as soon as the burdens of parenthood had begun to take time away from his social life?
He sighed and pushed himself out of the chaise he had been sitting on, turned his view away from the pyramids outside his suite’s windows to the large room where he waited for his next visitor to arrive. Near the door, his chief assistant glanced at his watch, then flipped his wrist over to type something into his phone. At the dining table, which was in use as a conference table at the moment, two advisors sat scrutinizing a stack of contracts. Since discovering his true identity, Khalid had gotten used to being surrounded by people at all times. But every now and then, usually when he was preoccupied with thoughts of what he’d left behind in the United States, he felt the old familiar irritation he’d first struggled with at his lack of privacy.
At a time like this, when he was drowning in memories of her, he wished nothing more than to be alone.
“Leave me, please, Amid, Jana, Mostafa,” He spoke in smooth Arabic to the two men and one woman who crowded his suite. “I must phone my grandfather.”
Without so much as a word, his staff rose from their positions and moved out of the suite, leaving him alone in the vast space of the living room. Buried as he was in his thoughts, even the enormous room, full of perfectly styled furniture groupings and the various flotsam interior decorators loved so much, felt too claustrophobic for him. He brushed through the dining alcove and onto the balcony without a second thought for his phone, which lay untouched on a glass curio table inside. He’d called his grandfather already earlier that day, as his staff well knew. He’d simply used the only acceptable excuse for privacy.
Outside, the warm, windy air and expansive view of Egypt’s beautiful landmarks instantly served as a balm on his ragged nerves. The sight of the botanical gardens in the foreground were a happy reminder of the royal gardens he took so much comfort in back home in Rifaisa. And the pyramids peeking out in the background, so magnificent and mysterious, were one of the few sights that could rival the sparkling blue Gulf of Oman he looked out on from his bedroom in the palace. Soon, he reminded himself, this deal would be done or lost, and either way he’d go back home and life would return to precision and order. Soon, Marissa Madden would go back to the past, where she belonged.
But first she wanted closure, he remembered with a groan. Perhaps what she was after was a chance to confess. Or maybe she would continue to pretend she’d never done anything untoward, as she had right up until she’d stopped returning his calls and letters, just three months after he left. At first he’d told himself there was some reason for her neglect. Perhaps, as his grandfather had suggested, she was angry with him because he was unable to return to the States as quickly as he’d first hoped. But that had been totally out of his control, as he’d explained in a series of unreturned emails. Processes had moved more slowly in Rifaisa than he’d anticipated. And political issues had required him to show his commitment to his new country. Rushing back to America would have spelled great doubt and upheaval. More upheaval, he feared, than his small exclave could handle.
Now, happily, conditions were much more stable, in large part because of the steadying influence that Khalid himself had had on matters of state. With a clear heir in place, the exclave was again ready to plan for the future, and they trusted Khalid to take them there.
But three years ago, leaving would have been too great a chance to take. Marissa should have understood that. Clearly, her attentions were elsewhere.
As he discovered when, after five months in Rifaisa, he scheduled a trip to Las Vegas. By then, Marissa had been uncommunicative for so long that he’d felt he had no other choice but to go to her in person, no matter the cost to the political situation in Rifaisa. But when, during his layover in Chicago, he’d seen Marissa’s face on the cover of a trashy tabloid magazine, he’d stopped in his tracks. Inside, in a small sidebar story, was the scintillating tale of how McCormick Diamond’s CEO Grant Blakely was on the prowl again. The notorious playboy, the story went on to report, had been in a car accident with his new girlfriend, Marissa Madden, en route to a planned shopping spree at his famous jewelry company.
First, Khalid had panicked. His Marissa was in a car accident! But after he’d ascertained from fri
ends in Las Vegas that her injuries had been not at all life-threatening, he’d gotten the seedier details. Grant was a notorious Vegas playboy he’d met at a few business events long ago, and a friend of Marissa’s brother Knox. He always had a new woman on his arm. But not long before the accident, he had abruptly disappeared from the Vegas nightlife scene. That disappearance had coincided to the day, not coincidentally, with Khalid’s trip to Rifaisa.
Apparently, since his departure, Blakely had neatly filled in Khalid’s place in Marissa’s life. Sure enough, Khalid discovered with a simple phone call, the jewelry company’s main suppliers had just shipped them several high quality diamonds for their consideration. All were stones meant for an extravagant engagement ring.
The realization was humiliating: Marissa wasn’t answering her phone anymore because she was too busy enjoying her new, high-flying lifestyle—not, as Khalid had let himself imagine, because she was trying to force him to return to her. She’d moved on, and with a great deal of relish, too.
Meanwhile, he’d been doing his duty to his new homeland, thinking of her each day and night, counting the minutes until he could see her again.
Coming back to the present with a start, Khalid realized he was gripping the iron railing of his balcony with enough force to make veins stand out on his hands. His teeth were gritted, and the beautiful view before him had faded from his sight, replaced instead by the vision of that crowded, noisy Chicago airport where he’d put all the pieces together. That day had been one of the darkest in his life. Until then he’d never thought a woman like Marissa—so seemingly clear-eyed and optimistic no matter what life handed her—could be capable of such a betrayal. Now he knew the truth. Just as his father had abandoned him at the first sign of an obstacle, so too had the only woman he’d ever loved.
Khalid pushed a long dark strand of hair out of his eyes and forced himself to release his hold on the railing and turn back toward his suite. By now his staff would be in full gossip mode, whispering to each other about their stern boss, and his constant—and curious—demands for privacy. Or perhaps they’d have already heard from his security personnel of how he’d been in a heated conversation with an American woman in the hotel dining room. He could practically hear their exaggerated expressions of surprise at the news. “Sheikh Abbasi? Affected by a woman? Impossible,” he imagined them whispering. And it was impossible. Marissa Madden would not overturn his emotional apple cart again after all this time. Whether she wanted to see him tonight for absolution or simply to carry on with her deception, he did not care.