Ten

Parisa surprised him with the awesome magnificence of her sundae: two scoops of ice cream—one vanilla, one chocolate—plenty of hot fudge, a couple of swirls of whipped cream, nuts and a cherry on the top. He'd thought by how slim she was, she might have either foregone the sundae or settled for a small scoop, but she was eating with pure pleasure, her dark eyes lit up, and dollops of whipped cream clinging to her lips with each spoonful.

He was so fascinated by watching her eat that he left his sundae untouched.

"Yours is melting," Parisa told him, as her tongue snaked out to catch a drop of hot fudge.

"You're really enjoying that," he said, scooping up a spoonful of ice cream.

"I love a hot fudge sundae. It's actually my favorite dessert."

"Then I made a good choice. It was this or the cheesecake."

"You definitely made the right choice. I'm going to need a run after this."

"Are you a runner?"

"I am—which is a good thing, since I also like to eat." She flashed him a guilty smile.

He grinned back at her. "So do I. Have you ever run a race?"

"I've done half marathons. Maybe one day, when I have more time to really train, I'll do the full version. What about you? Do you like to run?"

"I prefer cycling, but I also run and swim."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're a triple threat."

"I did the Iron Man triathlon in Hawaii two years ago."

"I'm impressed."

"Don't be. I finished out of the top 20 percent."

"That's still amazing. Or do you only feel successful when you're the best?"

"I do like to win. Not that I was expecting to win the triathlon, but I was hoping to make the top 10 percent of entrants."

"I like to win, too. I've always been competitive, and I have no idea where I get it from. My mom is the least competitive person I know. I can't seem to shake my drive to win."

"Why would you want to? It's part of who you are. Maybe you get it from your biological father. You really don't know anything about him?"

"I don't remember him, and my mom never talks about him."

"What about your biological grandparents?"

"I know even less about them. They apparently didn't like that their son married an Indian woman."

"Is that why he left your mother? Did he succumb to family pressure?"

"Maybe. My mother has never been forthcoming on that topic. I know he left her in a bad place. Her mother had died a year earlier, and her father had decided to move back to India after that. So, she was alone with a three-year-old. As I mentioned, she worked in the admissions office at a local university during the day, and she picked up tailoring jobs at night. She could sew anything. I did not inherit that skill. She used to lament that I couldn't even hem a pair of pants. But I didn't have the patience. Once she married Harry, however, she found a much easier life."

"How did they meet?"

"It was at the university. He came to a fundraiser. He said he saw her, and he was smitten."

"Love at first sight. Do you believe in that?"

"I do, because I saw it happen with my mom. She fell for Harry hard and fast. She tried to resist, because her first marriage had not gone well, and she'd lost confidence in her instincts. But Harry wouldn't take no for an answer."

"So, you started a new life with a diplomat. Where else did you live besides Bezikstan?"

"Singapore, Brussels, Rome, and Barcelona. It was a wonderful life."

"Where did you go to college?"

She hesitated for the first time, as if she'd suddenly realized they were getting closer to her more current past. He wished they could tear down the barriers between them, but to get her to open up, he would have to do the same, and he wasn't ready for that. It wasn't just about him. He had to think of the bigger picture.

"I went to Berkeley, in California," she said. "What about you?"

"I went to the University of Virginia."

"And what did you study? English? Journalism?"

"Among other things."

"Like…"

"Political science, international studies. I wanted to understand the world that took my mother away."

"Did it help?" She gave him a soft, compassionate look that almost undid him.

Why on earth had he told her about his mom? That had probably been a mistake. But he couldn't take it back.

"Not really," he said shortly, realizing she was still waiting for an answer. He finished off the last spoonful of ice cream and set his bowl aside. "Nothing can really explain away an act of terror. There's no good reason. There's no lesson to be learned from evil."

"I completely understand. I used to try to make sense of an attack that I lived through a very long time ago—the night my parents and I had to leave the Bezikstan embassy while under fire from rebels."

"Tell me about it."

"I was sixteen. I loved our life in Bezikstan. It's a beautiful country, magnificent mountains, clear lakes, colorful people—music, food, and dance. The country is tucked between India, Nepal, and Bangladesh and for hundreds of years it was a peaceful place. We lived at the embassy, and I became friends with the US staffers and also the native Bezikstani people who worked there—the cooks, the housecleaners, the administrative support. I felt like we were all one happy family."

She sat back in her chair, a smile of fond remembrance on her face. "The week before the attack, we'd hosted a party at the embassy. There had been champagne and music, laughing and singing. I wasn't allowed to be at the dinner; it was adults only, but I watched them from behind a heavy curtain. Jasmine and Anika were there, too. We even managed to steal a bottle of champagne. It was almost empty, but there was enough left for us to have a few sips." She laughed. "We thought we were drunk on the bubbles. We were just three silly girls."

"When did you know there were problems?"

"I didn't know most of it until the night we left, but my stepfather had been hearing rumblings for a while. Things were changing. There was income disparity. The government felt elitist to many of its residents. And they didn't like that America was having what they felt was too big of an influence on political matters. They wanted us gone. My stepfather didn't want to shut down the embassy. He thought he could win the diplomatic war if he could keep people talking. But they didn't give him a chance to talk more. They overran the gates one night. There were guns going off, grenades tossed into the courtyard. One of the Marine guards was killed. His name was Stan Sutherland. I still remember him. He used to give me licorice."

She drew in a breath and squared her shoulders, as if battling the pain of her memories. "Anyway, we had to leave through a tunnel. I know—the irony of another embassy tunnel has not escaped me. We ended up in a school yard. We waited there for the helicopter to come and rescue us."

"You were all together, or did Harry stay behind?"

"We were together until the last minute. The helicopter landed, and we were all running toward it. But I stumbled and fell."

He leaned forward, seeing remembered terror in her eyes. "What happened?"

"My parents were busy getting the staff and their families on board. They didn't realize I'd fallen. And then the rebels found us. They started shooting. I froze. I thought I was going to die. But someone grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. He ran me to the helicopter and pushed me on board, just as it was about to take off. He truly saved my life."

"Who was he?"

She stared back at him. "Neil Langdon—Ben's father."

He sucked in a breath. "Really?"

She nodded. "Yes. Neil helped us escape, but he didn't come with us. Neil was a British citizen, and Elizabeth's family lived in Bezikstan, so they felt safe to stay there. It was the Americans the rebels wanted out."

"So, you owe Neil your life." He found that fact to be disturbing. Would Parisa want to protect Neil's son because of what Neil had done for her?

"I do owe him my life," she agreed.

"And you don't want his son, Ben, to be a terrorist."

"I really don't. But…"

He was relieved to hear the word. "But?"

She met his gaze. "I'm not a sixteen-year-old girl anymore. And that bomb blast in Paris killed two people. If Ben knows anything about it, then he needs to share it with the authorities, so the bombers can be brought to justice."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. Because I did get a piece of information while you were sleeping."

She straightened in her chair. "What was that?"

"Sara Pillai used her former roommate's passport to enter the country. She arrived at JFK yesterday morning. She's here in New York City."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"I'm telling you now."

"Neil told us Ben was out with friends. Maybe he's with Sara."

"If they're together, they're in the shadows. I have no idea where Sara went after she left the airport."

Parisa gave him a troubled look. "Maybe we need to put more eyes on her. I think we should call the FBI."

"The FBI and various other agencies have been looking for Sara since the blast."

"Maybe not in New York City."

"Feel free to share that information, but I'd prefer if you didn't say where you got it."

"Fine. What name did she travel under?"

"Melissa Holmes."

She pulled out her phone and sent a text.

"I assume that the reason you decided to text and not call your friend is because you've already discussed Sara with the FBI?"

"Yes. I mentioned there could be a connection between the blast and the kidnapping, especially since the terror group originated in Bezikstan. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No. I figured you shared the information. I don't have a problem if someone else finds Sara and Isaac before I do. I just want them to be found. As for Ben, I think you have a better shot of getting information out of him than law enforcement."

"Possibly. Who are you working with, Jared?"

"I have someone who helps me with research."

"Is that a woman?"

"No, it's a man. Does that matter?"

"Just curious." She paused. "Do you have a woman in your life? This apartment has some feminine touches but nothing that personal."

"The feminine touches are from the interior designer. And I'm currently single. You?"

"I'm also single. And I'm not unhappy about it. I have plenty of time for whatever else I may want."

"I wasn't going to suggest you're unhappy." He wondered about her defensive tone.

"Good, because I'm not, even though my mother thinks I need a man to complete my life."

"Which you don't."

"Damned right I don't." She got up and took her bowl and his to the sink. "Since you cooked, I'm going to do the dishes."

"You don't have to do that."

"It's not a big deal. And it's not like I don't have time."

He smiled. "We do have a rather long night ahead of us. What do you want to do?"

Her cheeks turned pink. "I don't know. Go to bed. I mean, you can use your bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

"All right."

She seemed surprised by his acquiescence. "Okay then."

"But I'm not tired yet, and I can't imagine you would be after your nap," he said.

"We could go on the computer and do some research."

"Sure."

"And then we could watch TV or talk."

"Or whatever," he added, just to see her blush again.

"We're not doing whatever. I already told you that."

"Well, if you change your mind—"

"I won't," she said, cutting him off. "Let me finish this and then we'll decide what to do."

 

* * *

 

Doing the dishes wasn't quite as good as a cold shower, but it was a nice distraction from Jared, who seemed to get sexier and more irresistible by the moment. Parisa almost wished he hadn't told her about losing his mom on 9/11. He'd painted such a vivid picture of that day, she'd felt like she was reliving it with him, and his heartbreak, his anger, had been palpable. His emotions had made him seem much more real to her, much more likeable, because he'd shared his pain with her.

She tried to tell herself that that had probably been the point of his sharing, that he wanted her to like him, to trust him. But that felt too cynical for this situation. While Jared clearly had secrets, his agenda felt patriotic, honorable. Or did she just want that to be the case?

Shaking her head, she finished loading the dishwasher and then turned it on, her gaze moving over to Jared. He'd put his laptop computer on the kitchen table and was intensely studying the screen. He always seemed to be simmering…burning to get to an answer or a truth. And she didn't think he ever willingly gave up.

But why was he so fixated on the Paris explosion? Was there something to it that she didn't know?

Jared looked up from the computer and gave her a nod. "You done?"

"Yes." She moved out of the kitchen and pulled a chair up next to him. "What are you working on?"

"Just checking the news," he said, as he closed the laptop. "Wondering if there would be anything about the kidnapping."

"Was there?"

"Nothing we don't know."

"So, why did you close the computer so quickly?"

He shrugged. "Habit."

"You're used to being secretive?"

"I'm used to guarding my information. You can't break a big story if there are too many leaks."

"Well, I'm not competing with you on a story."

He tipped his head. "Good point."

"At any rate, I was thinking that Brothers of the Earth sounds solidly male. Are you sure Sara is a part of it?"

"I don't know how involved she is. Only men are official members, but there are plenty of women around—wives, girlfriends, siblings. The fact that she worked at the targeted explosion site and called in sick that day leads me to believe she knew what was coming. She could have done something to warn the people she worked with, but she didn't. She's complicit in their deaths."

"Maybe she was scared."

"So what?" he asked harshly. "People died."

"I know it's not an excuse; I'm just trying to get a handle on her. One thing I'm curious about—you were watching Ben at the party. If you wanted to talk to him, why didn't you? Why did you wait?"

"Believe me, I very much regret that. I wanted to see if he was there to meet with Sara and Isaac, but I left it too long. It was a mistake."

She could see the anger in his eyes. "And you don’t like to make mistakes."

"No, I don't, not when there are lives on the line. This isn't over, Parisa. They're going to act again. And if they have a fifty-million-dollar diamond, plus another ten million in ransom coming their way, the results could be catastrophic. We have to stop them."

"We will. We'll find a way. Don't give up now, Mr. Confidence."

At her light jab, he blew out a breath, his tension easing at her words. "I'm not giving up. I'm just frustrated, and I hate doing nothing. So, what do you want to do? Watch television? Play cards?"

"Are those my only choices?" she asked.

He gave her a sexy grin. "I have other ideas, but unless you've changed your mind about getting a little closer…"

"I haven't," she said quickly. Or had she?