Rania Algafari never asked to be different, and when she escaped the war in Syria and moved to the UK, her only goal was to live her life in peace. Get up, go to work, avoid talking to the dead - that sort of thing.
But not everyone dies quietly, an...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
When I'd explained my plan to Rania in the car last night, her long silence followed by a quiet, "There's no other way?" told me what she thought of the idea.
But here she was beside me, dressed in a hastily purchased shift dress that did everything for her ass and nothing to calm the half chub I got from looking at her wearing it. High heels, a string of fake pearls, a twinkling cubic zirconia ring, and RJ's Porsche completed the illusion of a young but well-to-do couple out for brunch.
The dining room at Lanefield Park could blind a man if he looked directly at the lights. Heavy chandeliers hung at intervals, glittering like the eyes of the gold-digging trophy wives hanging onto the arms of their geriatric meal tickets below. Rania's hand shook in my grip, but thanks to my parents' influence during my formative years, I'd had plenty of practice at putting on the snooty, entitled air required to dine in an establishment like this one.
"Table for two, sir?" the maître d' asked.
"I have a reservation under Lawson."
"Certainly, sir. Please follow me."
I should have booked in RJ's name—I bet a double-barrelled surname like his would have got us a top-notch table. As it was, we ended up in the far corner next to the kitchen with waiters walking past every twenty seconds, their steps silent on the plush carpet.
But no matter. The scrambled eggs and toast topped by artfully arranged slivers of smoked salmon were merely the entrée, and I doubted we'd be dining here again.
"Food okay?" I asked Rania.
She'd only taken a few bites.
"The food is fine."
Fine. A word to strike fear into any man's heart, but her answer didn't surprise me, not when her posture was stiffer than a corpse. I forked a mouthful of eggs into my own mouth, but Rania was wrong. It didn't taste fine at all. I might as well have been chewing RJ's three-day-old socks.
Usually, I got a thrill out of undercover work—the buzz of hiding in plain sight while I balanced on a knife edge between getting paid and getting caught. But today, with Rania dragged into the mess? I just wanted to take her home and spend the day watching lousy game shows while we cuddled on the sofa.
Yeah, cuddled. I wasn't normally the type, but with the right woman...
"I can't eat any more," she whispered, dropping her fork on her plate with a metallic clatter. "Can we just get this over with?"
I pinged a quick message to RJ: In place?
When he returned a thumbs up, I nodded. "Let's do it."
I braced my hands on my thighs, fingernails digging into my trousers, but the sting of her palm against my cheek still hurt like hell. Yes, I'd told her not to hold back, but the force of her slap still shocked me.
