Born In Secret. Kylie BrantЧитать онлайн книгу.
He must have seen the expression on her face, because he cut his words short. “But I don’t want to tell you how to do your job.”
“Yes, you do. And quite frequently.” But she was finding that habit of his far less provocative than his frequent reminders of the time they’d spent together. “I will be more than willing to listen to your advice if I am allowed to tell you what you should do while the party is going on.”
“Point taken,” he responded dryly. “You tend to your business tonight and I’ll tend to mine. We can compare notes tomorrow, unless it’s urgent. Do you know where my room is?”
She nodded and looked away, feigning an interest in a nearby street vendor displaying his wares to some Malounian women. A situation would have to be urgent indeed to convince her to go to Walker’s bedroom in the middle of the night. Jasmine had a strong commitment to duty, but her sense of self-preservation was equally powerful. She could imagine few scenarios so critical that she could be convinced to approach the man while he was in bed.
The color she felt rising to her cheeks could be blamed on the afternoon heat. It would be more comfortable to believe that she was indifferent to him. Until a day ago she’d almost convinced herself that she was. But an innate sense of honesty forced her to admit, at least to herself, that indifference was the last thing she felt for him.
And therein lay the real danger of this assignment.
Chapter 3
The dinner party was to be formal. Although Walker was most comfortable in the basic black worn for breaking and entering, he had packed a dark suit jacket and tie. He wore it now, as he lingered in a corner of the gathering room, observing the steady trickle of guests entering the prime minister’s home. Most of the them wore traditional Maloun garb—flowing white robes for the men and brightly colored caftans for the women.
The presence of the females at the dinner gave the appearance that this was purely a social event, but Walker knew differently. Where politicians were involved, socializing was business. Some of his most lucrative tips had been picked up at parties much like this one.
But it would be Jasmine’s job to elicit whatever interesting information was to be had tonight. After dinner, he had other matters requiring his attention.
Of its own volition, his gaze sought her out now, standing in the center of a small crowd, smiling brilliantly at a swarthy man who was bending over her hand.
The kick in the stomach he experienced at the sight was most easily blamed on the bitter tea he was drinking. In her brilliant blue caftan she resembled an exquisitely crafted Madonna he’d once stolen from the Boston home of a wealthy shipping magnate. The memory filled him with something close to nostalgia. The piece was one of the few fruits of his earlier career that he still owned. He knew he’d never look at it again without thinking of Jasmine.
She’d done something to her eyes before this trip to disguise their shape. The makeup made the upper lids look heavier, as though she’d recently climbed out of a man’s bed.
The thought brought him no pleasure. He, better than anyone, knew how deceptive her looks were. They were a tool, one she wielded with skill. Right now they seemed to be working quite effectively on the man who hadn’t yet released her hand as he rattled off a spate of Arabic.
Gripping his cup more tightly, he tore his gaze away. The women had gathered on one side of the room, leaving the men and Jasmine on the other. Voices, conversations mingled, broken by an occasional burst of laughter. Walker found he was able to interpret much of what was said. Jasmine had been following the script when she told El-Dabir he spoke only English. Although not fluent in Arabic, he was able to understand quite a bit of it. He’d spent a fair amount of time in one Middle Eastern trouble spot or another.
He strolled closer to the group surrounding Jasmine. Pausing in front of a rather bad portrait of the prime minister, he pretended to admire it until they were all seated for dinner. Mentally he sifted through the snippets of conversations flowing around him.
“…until he is weaned, and then I shall…”
“…perhaps we will have to let him go. He no longer…”
“…not depart from what we discussed.” Instinct had Walker’s inner radar honing in more closely on the last sentence. With a skill born of long practice he ignored the rest of the talk and focused on the dialogue that had caught his interest.
“I will do exactly as instructed. You will not be disappointed.”
Walker recognized El-Dabir’s ingratiating tones, but the other voice belonged to a stranger. Not daring to turn around at the moment, he contented himself with listening.
“There should be no problem. She is only a woman.”
Inwardly amused, he wondered what Jaz would have to say about the man’s assessment. There was no doubt in Walker’s mind that the conversation concerned her. People drifted by, making their way into the dining room, and he shifted closer to the pair of men, as if politely making room for the guests.
“…have a hand in his own destruction.” The noise from the people passing by them had covered all but the last of the sentence. Walker found himself wondering just what he’d missed. The room was clearing out and there was no longer any reason to linger. He made his way into the next room and turned, scanning the area for an empty seat. From the corner of his eye he watched the men he’d been eavesdropping on as they entered. As he’d suspected, one was the prime minister and the other a short man in his mid-sixties with a weather-beaten face. He made a mental note to ask Jasmine about him later.
Even as Walker slipped into a seat at the end of the table, El-Dabir’s companion made his way to the table head. Jasmine sat across and down the table from Walker, flanked by the prime minister and a sleekly polished man on her left. Keeping his attention trained on the dishes placed in front of him, he listened carefully as the stranger monopolized Jasmine’s attention.
“You are too young and beautiful to be a widow, Madame Mahrain. How long ago did your husband die?”
“Two years,” Jasmine answered with just the right amount of sorrow in her tone. “He was killed in a car accident.”
“Allow me to express my regret for your loss.” The stranger reached out, stroked the back of her hand for an instant. “Had you been married long?”
Walker held his breath, but he needn’t have worried. Jasmine had perfected her lines before they’d left Tamir. “We had been married for ten years, and engaged for two years before that.” Her smile was hauntingly sad. A man would have to be made of granite not to respond. The stranger by her side, Walker noted, did not appear to be made of stone. He stared at her with an expression all too easy for another man to recognize.
The man leaned toward her, lowered his voice. “I hope I will have the opportunity to banish some of the sorrow I see in your beautiful eyes. I would like to show you some of our country before you leave.”
“That is a kind offer, Mr. Abdul.”
“Please.” Again he touched her hand briefly, then reached for his tea, his gaze never leaving her. “You must feel free to call me Tariq.”
Jasmine hesitated, her gaze dropping to her plate. “Tariq. I do not know that I will have any free time. The business that brings me to Maloun is very serious.”
“In any business, madame, there must be time for pleasure.” The man showed his teeth in a brilliant display, clearly unwilling to give up. He appeared to be a man used to getting what he wanted, Walker thought narrowly. People acquired that kind of confidence from money, position or power. He didn’t know which fit Tariq Abdul, but he’d find out.
The voices from the guests were a distant hum. Walker paused outside the only door on the lower floor that he’d found locked. It was safe to presume it was the prime minister’s study.
Keeping a careful eye out