Page 13 of Veiled Fantasies

What was she to him? Nuisance? Or easy opportunity? Jill was slow to cross the threshold, advancing only because he held the door open.

The room was much swankier and fresher than the last one. The kind of place Jill could never afford and would never get a free voucher for. A suite, in fact, though this only meant that it had an unusually long hallway to accommodate all the luggage Jill didn’t have. One side of the hallway was covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors that teased her reflection all the way into the bedroom, whispering behind her back.

The bedroom was light and airy, with a long desk and a sitting corner. There was one chair, one coffee table, and three framed images of hooded hunting hawks. Jill eyed the two double beds, separated by the narrowest of gaps. A moat way too small to hold back her imagination.

All of it just a little too tight to be sharing with a perfect stranger. Even if he was perfect.

“I’ll take this one—” He turned, bumping into her.

“Sorry!” she took a step back and would have toppled onto the second bed if he hadn’t grabbed her, strong and firm. He settled her on her feet and let go with a warm slide that sent a lick of fire up her arm.

“I’ll take this one,” he repeated, edging away.

They maneuvered carefully around each other and laid claim to separate territories. Erik was all business, setting up a work space and opening his laptop. His briefcase opened and closed–another glimpse of the family. A reminder that she would be safe with him.

Such a pity.

She wanted to give him some space, but it was impossible given the small room and the mirror above the desk. Even when he faced away, he could see her. And she could see him. What to do?

She half-heartedly picked up the English-language newspaper that came with the room. The front page shouted the world’s problems—economic woes, armed conflict, poverty. The feature story seemed to be something about an arms dealer being transported to trial. She flipped past it, jumping to the sports and society pages instead. But even those didn’t hold her attention, and every rustle she made crackled through the room. She put the newspaper down, reached for her backpack, and stopped. The zipper would make a racket, too. What to do? She was an unwanted distraction, a welfare case.

Fine. She’d give him his space and figure out what to do next. That’s what she’d do. Grabbing her wallet, camera, and water bottle, she slid toward the door. “See you later,” she called softly.

Erik looked surprised. “Where are you going?”

No idea.

“Oh, see something of Dubai, I guess.” She tried to sound purposeful, like she already had a complete itinerary worked out.

He cocked his head. “What is there to see in Dubai?”

Her mind raced. There must be something. Museums, historic buildings, churches? Okay, maybe no churches. “Maybe the museum.”

“The museum.”

He was studying her. Unsure of something, or just eager for her to leave? Jill squeezed out a polite smile and stepped out the door, heart fluttering.

“Well, have a nice time,” he called softly, just as the door swung shut.

“You, too,” she replied and immediately winced. Like work was fun? God, she was so stupid!

The ping of the elevator was her summons.Time, Jill Bowden, to take a little control.She pushed her shoulders back and strode into the lobby, intent on building a little momentum.You’re in Dubai, so see Dubai.She’d managed perfectly well in Paris, Amsterdam, and Rome, hadn’t she?

She stopped short. That was Europe. This was Dubai. The Middle East. A Muslim country! She was a woman, alone. Didn’t they have laws against that kind of thing here? Her eyes darted around the lobby, half expecting uniformed officials waiting to lock her away. But the scene was calm, the lobby dotted with European faces. Lots of people vacationed in Dubai. She could do it, too. She’d already mastered the airport. Time to broaden her circle.

Faking a confidence she didn’t feel, she plucked a guide book from a rack in the hotel gift shop. One credit card transaction later, she stepped, blinking, into the raging midday heat. Her mouth went instantly dry, feet mired in sun-softened tar.

Maybe she should just hang around the lobby. Watch a little CNN. Count sheikhs. Make up stories about the people she saw.

Cut it out!

She squinted against the harsh desert light and studied the street. Everything came in shades of gray or tan, and it tasted the same as it looked—dull and sandy.

She tugged on her backpack straps and set out to the right.

An Indian restaurant offered one chance for an easy out. It looked inexpensive but clean, like any other Indian restaurant in New York or London. Or, she supposed, India. But then her eye caught the sign above the next place.Samovar, it said. A Russian restaurant. Now that would be good.

She entered and immediately felt more secure. Familiar menu, familiar language, familiar decor. The irony of it amused her. A Russian restaurant in Dubai? That deserved a postcard home.

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