Page 26 of Veiled Fantasies

“What about your wife? Your family?” Her face was hot with anger and shame, directed as much at herself as at him.

Erik wore a startled expression, as if she’d suddenly switched into Arabic. “What?”

Suddenly his English was less than perfect? Jill put her hands on her hips, feeling absurdly like her mother. “You heard me!”

He stepped back and put up his hands up in a “stop” signal. “I don’t have a wife.”

“A girlfriend,” she insisted.

“I don’t have a girlfriend. A family.” He studied her face, going slightly pink himself. “Why would you think that?”

“The picture in your briefcase.” Clear as mud. She’d seen it herself.

Erik froze, realization creeping over his face, followed by a profound sadness. Jill watched as he leaned over the railing and peered wordlessly into the water. A dhow slipped slowly beneath the bridge, lit by a single oil lamp, one dim point of light against the inky water.

His answer came a long minute later, a whisper she had to strain to hear. “It isn’t me in that picture.”

Yeah, right.She almost said it out loud. He was just trying to cover up. Men!

“It isn’t me,” he whispered.

She walked away, no idea where she was going. Just away from yet another mess she had created for herself. She ignored his footsteps. When his hand touched her shoulder, she spun and slapped it away. What to say when you’ve been a complete fool? What to shout?

He reached for her hand. “Let me explain.”

What was there to explain, even in that soft, earnest voice? What was that in his eyes? She looked closely. It wasn’t anger or lies. More like pain. One part of her wanted to defy him, but another burned with curiosity to find out what that was behind there. Could it be the truth?

He reached out his hand, leaving it in the air so she could take it. His confidence was such that she knew she must be wrong. But if it wasn’t him, who was in the picture?

The walk back to the hotel was awkward and silent. And when Jill saw the picture up close…

Oh. Shit.

She took the photo he had pulled so carefully from his briefcase. Gingerly, like a grenade without a pin. One false move and everything would blow. Except that everything around her was already crashing down.

It wasn’t him. Just someone who looked a lot like him. Someone who could be his—

“My brother,” he said softly.

“Oh,” she managed, feeling utterly stupid. Damn it! But she hadn’t been completely hallucinating. It did look a lot like him. “But…why do you have a picture of your brother’s family in your briefcase?”

The desk lamp cast severe shadows over the contours of his face as he sat down, facing the city from their perch up on the eleventh floor. His reflection in the window was haunted and gaunt.

“It’s a long story.”

* * *

Erik wondered how much he might say. Or how little.

“My brother Martin died three years ago. A motorcycle accident.”

He’d never been good at storytelling, and this wasn’t one he liked to tell. It brought back the pain, and worse, left the listener with a window into his soul. Did he really trust her with that?

But he wanted Jill to understand. She was so quiet, sitting on the corner of the bed. So close he could feel the mattress shift. Was she still angry? Embarrassed? Forgiving?

Did it matter? For some strange reason, it mattered.

He raised his eyes to the window, hoping to lose himself in the darkness. But the city lights teased his reflection. He wished he could push his body to the background, behind the buildings and way out into the desert. All the way back until it was invisible.

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