Page 42 of Dark Rebel's Fortune

Not ready to hit the sack yet, she walked out to the terrace, drawn to the panoramic view of the city.

Leaning against the railing, Fenella's mind drifted to the last time she'd ignored her instincts.

Bucharest, 1989.

She'd felt the same crawling unease then, the same sense of wrongness that had preceded every disaster in her life. But she'd had a job to do, money to make, and she'd silenced the warning voice within.

The game had gone sideways almost immediately, and she found herself with three angry men with knives who had every intention of making her suffer.

Her strength and quick-healing body had saved her from carrying a big scar across her ribs, whereone of the men had slashed her before she'd managed to break free.

If she hadn't been immortal, she would have bled out in that filthy shitehole.

Following that logic, though, Din was just as resilient as she was, probably more so, and he was perfectly capable of handling himself.

He would be fine.

20

KYRA

The marketplace pulsed with life despite the early hour, with vendors arranging their wares while early customers examined the fresh produce with critical eyes and nimble fingers. Kyra waddled through the narrow aisles, the fat suit making her sweat even though it was still morning and the night's chill had not dispersed fully yet.

"The fruit stand at the northeast corner," Max said in her earpiece, his voice eliciting a different kind of warmth.

They had spent the night in each other's arms again, too exhausted to do anything more than a chaste goodnight kiss. They'd slept less than three hours when Yamanu knocked on their door announcing that Parisa had left Soraya's house and had returned to her apartment early this morning with her four guards. After her sons had gone toschool accompanied by three of the guards, she left with the remaining guard, and they took a taxi to the market.

It was a great opportunity to corner her and have a talk with her rather than just showing up at her place while all four guards and her boys were there. Besides, the earlier, the better.

It had been a scramble to don the disguise and rush to the van. Thank God for Nadim, who'd made them coffee to go and a container with several pieces of Fatima's delicious baklava.

Kyra licked her lips and eyed a nearby stall that was selling it. The problem was that she didn't have any money with her. In her rush to leave the safe house, she hadn't thought to take a purse or stuff a few rials in her pocket. The lack of a purse was also a tactical mistake, as every woman in the market carried one regardless of her level of bodily concealment.

It made sense, as this was the only way the abaya- and hijab- or niqab-covered crowd could express some individuality and maybe even show off a little with a pricy handbag.

She spotted Parisa standing at a fruit stall, recognizing her face from the photographs Nadim's team had supplied. Kyra felt an unexpected pang of familiarity with the way she held up the fruit, turning it with just her fingertips and tilting her head to inspect it. That was exactly how Kyra shopped.

The lone guard stood several paces away, hisattention split between Parisa and the surrounding crowd, hand resting casually near his concealed weapon. He was clearly uneasy and vigilant with his task.

After the murder of Yasmin's guards and husband and the kidnapping of the family, the guards of the remaining sisters were on high alert.

Nevertheless, he wouldn't be concerned with a woman and stupidly wouldn't even consider that an abaya and niqab could hide a male assassin with ease.

Kyra moved closer, pretending to examine apricots at the neighboring stand. She timed her approach carefully, waiting until Parisa had moved slightly away from the guard before sliding into position beside her sister at the pomegranate display.

"These are much better than the ones at Masoud's stand," Kyra commented, keeping her voice pitched for Parisa's ears alone. "His are always overripe."

Parisa turned, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the traditionally dressed stranger. Caution flickered across her features, but good manners prevailed.

"I wouldn't know," she replied politely. "I usually shop at the Noori district."

"Of course," Kyra nodded, shifting her substantial bulk slightly to position herself between Parisa and the guard's line of sight. "This season's crop is excellent. Almost as good as the ones we had when I was a child in Shiraz."

Parisa's brow creased momentarily at the mentionof her childhood home. Kyra reached into her pocket, extracted the folded note, and slid it into Parisa's hand.

"Please read this," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the market's bustle. "Don't let your guard see it. It's from your niece."

Parisa stiffened, her other hand freezing over the pomegranate she'd been holding. "Who are you?" she whispered, not looking at Kyra but maintaining the pretense of examining fruit.

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