EPILOGUE
“So the wedding was a dream, the honeymoon was sublime, and you’re two months away from having Amir’s baby,” Carmen said, adjusting her sunglasses and leaning back in her chair. She reached for the glass of iced-tea and took a sip, smacking her lips before placing the glass back down on the black marble table in the courtyard outside the Eastern Wing of Johaar’s Royal Palace. “Could this fairytale have worked out any better?”
Lora glanced at the black marble tabletop and tried to hold back her smile. She almost told Carmen what had happened on that table—not once, not twice, but on many mornings since, most recently just a day ago, when the Sheikh gently positioned her pregnant body face forward on her knees just right so he could bring her to orgasm with his mouth sucking her clit and his fingers somehow deep inside her pussy and rear at the same time. No, she thought. Those moments are for me and him alone. To the outside world I will always be that wholesome wife and that elegant queen, and that makes it so much better when I choose to play the whore behind closed doors and drawn curtains.
“No,” she said nonchalantly, looking at her fingernails and then glancing back up once she’d suppressed her secret smile. “Though it would have been nice if my best friend and Maid of Honor had gotten me a wedding present.” She laughed when she saw Carmen’s expression change. “Ohmygod, I’m totally kidding! You know I wouldn’t have accepted anything! Just knowing that you weren’t injured after the way they pulled you from the car is all the reward I wanted! Carmen! What’s that look for! You know I’m kidding! Are you pissed?”
Carmen slowly shook her head, and it was clear now that this wasn’t her angry face. It was her smug face. Her “I’m-so-smart-and-I-have-a-secret” face. When was the last time Lora had seen that look on Carmen? She frowned as she thought back. God, it was around the time they’d had that fight about her making the decision to get Mark and his lawyer the money, wasn’t it?
“The only thing I’m pissed about is that your wedding gift didn’t arrive in time for the wedding. But better late than never,” Carmen said, pulling out her phone and tapping on it. “Read it, sister. And you’re welcome.”
Lora grabbed the phone and read the news article that Carmen had pulled up:
New Orleans Business Duo Jailed for Tax Evasion
Mark P., A New Orleans businessman, and his attorney, Luther M., have both been convicted by U.S. Federal Prosecutors on criminal charges of tax evasion, tax fraud, and international money laundering. The Internal Revenue Service and the Treasury Department cooperated in a months-long investigation into unreported foreign income rumored to be in the range of $21 million. A sentencing hearing is scheduled next week, but considering previous high-profile tax evasion cases have resulted in sentences ranging from 5 to 12 years for sums half as much, it’s safe to say that Mark and Luther had better . . . um . . . get their finances in order before reporting to the penitentiary.
Lora blinked in confusion as she put the phone down on the table. “How?” she whispered. “How the hell did you . . .”
Carmen shrugged. “I didn’t know for sure it would work. I just knew Mark, and I knew his lawyer, and I bet on the fact that although they’re shrewd, they’re also both greedy and arrogant. So I set up a scenario that would just be too tempting for them. I spoke to Amir and simply asked him to make sure the transfer was done in cash, in Zürich, Switzerland. That’s all.”
“That’s it? And how does that result in . . . oh, God, twelve years! Oh, no! Poor, poor Mark!” Lora said, her hands going to her cheeks even though she was laughing in shock. “But seriously, how does that get to . . . this?”
“Simple. If the transfer is done in cash, it’s all unreported income until Mark and Luther proactively report it to the IRS. And by setting the handover meeting in Switzerland, which has some of the strictest privacy laws, I made it so, so tempting for those two to hide the money. After all, if they reported it as income, they’d have to pay almost forty-percent of it in tax at that level. Can you imagine Mark writing out a check for $8.4 million to the government?!”
“Ohmygod, he’d get physically ill! I don’t even think he’d be able to do it! But what about the lawyer?”
Carmen shrugged. “The guy was an ambulance-chaser from Baton Rouge, Lora. I don’t know what kind of cut he was getting, but even ten percent is $2 million. Those two spend hours and hours each year trying to figure out ways to not pay taxes. I bet they already had offshore accounts with hidden income. It was just too much temptation for them. And they were arrogant enough to think they’d get away with it.” She took another sip of her drink and grinned. “And they might have gotten away with it, if not for an anonymous tip to the IRS hotline . . . from a very attractive woman with a fine New Orleans accent.”
“Carmen! You didn’t!”
“I most certainly did. Best wishes for married life, and you’re welcome.”
Lora took a breath and shook her head. She wanted to feel sorry for Mark, but really, she didn’t. She wasn’t thrilled at his misfortune—she wasn’t that heartless. But she was also comfortable with the fact that she didn’t give a damn that he’d spend the next decade in prison. And hell, he’d be going to a minimum security facility with other white-collar criminals, so it wasn’t like he was going to be . . . well, whatever.
So Lora raised her cup of jasmine tea and saluted, and Carmen did the same. Inside her the baby kicked a little like it was laughing along with them, and from inside the blue sandstone palace she could hear the giggles of young Damascus as he bonded with his new father the king.
The two friends sat in silence, two Southern American girls facing an Arabian desert landscape with their feet up on marble ottomans, a palace out of a fairytale in the background.
“Was this the dream?” Carmen asked quietly, looking straight ahead as her voice trembled a little. “Was this the dream, Lora?”
Lora shook her head, a lump forming in her throat as the magic—and the madness—threatened to overwhelm her once again. “Not even the wildest,” she said, reaching out and grasping her old friend’s hand as the tears rolled like fresh dewdrops on a Bayou morning. “Not even the wildest.”
∞