Her Kind Of Trouble. Evelyn VaughnЧитать онлайн книгу.
her maid showed another woman, holding a notebook, into the room. “Jane. I’m so pleased you’re here.”
“Tala.” If the woman’s red hair, spattering of freckles, and blue jeans hadn’t given her away as a Westerner, the blunt edge of her East-London accent would have. I guessed her to be about my age, maybe a little older. “Father Pritchard, it’s good to see you again.”
I arched a look at Rhys. Father Pritchard? And here I thought he’d stopped practicing.
“I’ve been volunteering as a counselor when I have time off,” he explained, low. “I do have training, because of my previous work, and…”
And old habits were hard to break—especially habits one should keep, like helping others. I could get that, and tried to tell him with my smile that I understood.
In the meantime, Jane was asking, “Tala, where’s Kara?”
“She will be down shortly,” insisted our hostess. “Jane, this is Father Pritchard’s friend, Magdalene Sanger. The one I told you about? Mrs. Sanger, this is my daughter-in-law, Jane Fletcher.”
“It really is Ms. Sanger.” I offered my hand. “Or just Maggie. The ring is a bluff.”
“And I’m an ex-daughter-in-law,” Jane corrected, though her grip on my hand was friendly enough.
“My ex-stepdaughter-in-law,” clarified Dr. Rachid, just to confuse matters more. “It is on her behalf that I request your assistance.”
Rhys frowned. “Dr. Rachid, Jane, I understand how desperate you are, but this is hardly fair to Maggi. This is a…a…”
“A bait and switch?” I suggested. “You get me here by promising the secret of the Isis Grail, then demand that I earn it first?”
“Please, call me Tala.” Our hostess’s dark eyes showed no contrition at all. “And is not the secret of the Isis Grail worth earning?”
Intellectually, I knew the drill—how many of the heroes in myths and fairy tales first have to prove themselves in a series of trials before they get rewarded with the golden apple, the kingdom or true love? But in reality…
In reality, my head was swimming. I’d never set out to be a hero. I just wanted to collect the goddess chalices before the Comitatus could destroy them.
And yet…. Damn it. From either curiosity or kindness—or both—I couldn’t ignore the pain in Jane Fletcher’s eyes, either.
“It couldn’t hurt to tell me what’s going on,” I said, slowly. Reluctantly, even.
Dr. Rachid—Tala’s—smile was, as ever, gracious. Jane raised a fist to her mouth in a failed attempt to smother a hopeful, desperate laugh of relief. But it was Rhys, blue eyes more solemn than usual, who worried me.
And I’d thought I was in over my head when I fell into the Alexandrian harbor!
“Have you ever fallen in love with the wrong man?” asked Jane.
The only man I’d ever loved, besides my father, had been living a secret life the whole time. The only man who’d come close to distracting me from him was sitting right here—and he was a priest. I chose to say nothing and just looked interested.
“I did,” she assured me, opening her notebook. The first page showed a color copy of a wedding photo. “Him.”
I looked. “Sinbad!”
“What?” Rhys looked, as well. “You are right, Maggi. It’s the man from the airport.”
Airport, hell. “And the bazaar!”
He looked at the other ladies. “This is Hani Rachid?”
Tala and Jane exchanged worried looks. Then Jane proceeded with her tale, flipping to more photocopied pictures and then newspaper clippings as if to prove her truthfulness.
She’d been working as a flight attendant. Hani Rachid had attended college at Oxford, the epitome of tall, dark and exotically handsome. Even now, Jane’s gaze softened as she described their courtship. “He was wealthy, and protective. He showered me with gifts and compliments. And he was such the gentleman. He waited until we were married before he would…well…” A small frown marred the bridge of her nose. “I think my virginity meant more to him than ever it had to me. He later told me that if I hadn’t been pure on our wedding night, he would have killed me. I laughed at the time, but…”
He wasn’t the man she’d thought she’d married, at all.
Relieved of the need to win her, Hani had become dominating and chauvinistic. His disdain for the law became increasingly apparent. Not long after the birth of their daughter, Kara—that picture, of course, was adorable—their marriage imploded. Jane divorced him and, because he threw such a public fit of temper over that, she got custody. Infuriated that he could only have supervised visits, Hani moved back to Egypt.
“He visited Kara twice a year, and he did quite the job at controlling his resentment, but I could tell he hated being monitored with her. And then—” Here Jane hesitated, desperation darkening her eyes. “Then, a year ago, I got called onto a flight while he was visiting. My father thought there would be nothing wrong with letting Hani take Kara out for ice cream…but they never came back. Of course my parents were frantic. The first thing I did, when I found out, was call the airlines…”
I had the strangest feeling I’d heard this story before—probably because she wasn’t the first person it had ever happened to.
“He’d taken her home with him,” Jane said, voice breaking. “She was only eleven years old, and he stole her away to Egypt—and nobody in this godforsaken country will give her back!”
A human interest article, including pictures of a too young looking Kara, and copies of letters to and from different officials confirmed this.
“Egypt’s laws do not allow a child to leave the country without her father’s permission,” Tala explained simply, when Jane’s voice deserted her. “Unless my stepson signs papers—but of course, he will not sign. He has become increasingly angry, increasingly rebellious. His business activities…” But she shook her head.
Unsure what else to do, I took one of Jane’s trembling hands in mine.
She inhaled deeply, strengthened either by the goddess energy or just the caring, then raised her face and continued. “At least tradition frowns upon Kara living with Hani, as long as he remains unmarried that is. She lives with Tala, and I spend as much time here as I can afford, more than he does! But it’s not the same as having her home, and I’m afraid…”
Whatever she was afraid of, she couldn’t make herself put it in words.
“After the divorce,” Tala said, “my stepson became involved with other men urging the return of old-world values. Particularly the domination of women. He is not,” she clarified, “a Copt.”
As if any particular religion wholly prevented male domination.
Jane turned to a newspaper article in Arabic—I recognized only her picture. “I tried to smuggle her onto a ship, to get her out of the country, but I suppose he’d been watching for me to do it. He has contacts everywhere. Suddenly the police were there, and they dragged Kara out of my arms and arrested me, and she was screaming…” Jane shuddered and squeezed my hand, as if for strength. “Egyptian jail was horrible! I’m still surprised Hani dropped the charges. I could be in prison right now.”
“It would have been even more of a scandal,” Tala explained, “for a man to need the law to control his wife.”
Jane’s chin came up. “Ex—wife.”
“Especially a man who has so little respect for the law, unless he is using it to his own ends,” Tala continued, which wasn’t encouraging.
“Anyway,” said Jane, “that’s how I