Page 7 of Afraid to Hope

Clara and Oliver—her grandparents’ longtime help—lived in the small home on the back of the property. Their part-time responsibilities had morphed throughout Natasha’s life, depending on what the property or her grandparents needed. After the tragic deaths of her parents and brothers, the couple were more present asMémé and Pépé grieved and focused on Natasha,particularly Clara. Natasha had grieved for her family with Clara, believing that sharing her pain with her grandparents was too much for them to bear on top of their own grief.

Natasha suspected Clara and Oliver had made extra preparations ahead of her arrival, beyond what she had requested, after she called them from Cape Town. It had been wonderful to hear their voices after months of no contact, and she was eager to see them again.

Natasha paused in the kitchen. Like the rest of theriad,it was just as she remembered. It wasn’t large, but it was functional. Her eyes traveled over the Moorish-inspired carved cupboards and open shelves. Cubbies made of the same red-pigmented plaster that formed the walls and ceiling were laden with tableware and serving dishes. Vibrant blue, yellow, and white tiles of differing patterns created a backsplash behind thesink, andlarger deep blue and white tiles covered the floor, playinginto the warm color scheme. Small collections of brass lanterns hung from the ceiling in three of the corners, and there was one to the side of the french doors that led out to the tranquil gardens and large lawn. How many times had she andMémé prepared food and pastries in the kitchen with ingredients from the gardens?

Natasha walked back to the front of theriadand climbed the steps to the second floor with her luggage. The first door on her right was her grandparents’ master, and it took up the majority of this side of the house. She flipped on the light. Per her instructions, all the bedding and towels had been replaced. Clara and Oliver had outdone themselves in the master. How well they knew her.

Joyful reds, blues, oranges, and pinks, and layers of patterns and textures should have clashed, but they worked beautifully against the architectural detail, delighting Natasha, making her feel very much at home; she could not wait to crawl into the lush bed and sleep deeply after addressing her assigned homework.

Among the pillows was a note card addressed to her. It was brief, from Clara, welcoming Natasha home and inviting her to come see Oliver and her after she got settled. Natasha smiled, warmed by their thoughtfulness.

She did a cursory check of the rooms on the other side of the open corridor until she reached the room her parents used when they’d visitedMémé and Pépé. After the bombing, Natasha had not entered that bedroom or the one her brothers shared next to it. She stepped back and considered. It was time that she found the courage to face her long-buried grief. But not today.

Reacquainted with her surroundings, Natasha made her way downstairs and moved to the fountain, spray from the trickling water wetting her skin. She had stood there so many times, dipping her fingers in and out of the water until her grandmother called her out to the gardens. She could almost hearMéménow. “Tasha! I would love your company, darling heart!” Natasha wiped a tear from her cheek and hugged herself.

They used to have tea parties with her troop of stuffed animals when Natasha was little and, as she grew older, lunch made with garden treats amid adult conversation. Sometimes she andMéméwould slather on the sunscreen andlounge on the rooftop terrace, shrieking and giggling like young girls when they jumped in the unheated plunge pool in the late spring and early fall, avoiding the scorching summer sun.

She could do this. She would use the house as her base while she was working in Morocco and rely on Hama’s Prayer to help heal her shattered soul.

The amplifiedadhan,the call to prayer, flowed over the rooftop from minarets in every direction. Although not Muslim, Natasha’s body vibrated in response to the magical and melismatic tones. Completely overcome, her heart melted at the familiar and beloved sound of home.

Weariness overwhelmed Bane as he unlocked the door to the company apartment. Three months of reconnaissance had taken its toll. After turning on the lights and walking inside, he shed his boots and tossed his messenger bag to the couch in the living room, noting again how sterile and devoid of natural light the space was. Furniture blending into the cream-colored walls and floor, absent of any Moroccan architectural features or art, something that had not bothered him until now.

Maybe at the age of thirty-six, Bane was getting tired of the grind, of twelve years of collecting intelligence undercover. It felt like a lifetime. Losing Atticus, his partner and trusty German shepherd, six months earlier while working in Syria had affected him. This wasn’t the first time he had mulled over wanting a change—like a new focus, a place to call home, and a meaningful relationship.

Bane had missed lunch, but military training had taught him to ignore his hunger pangs. In the small, functional kitchen, he took a plate and fork from the dish rack and cracked open a cold beer, pulling deeply while patiently waiting for last night’s leftovers of stewed chicken and lentils to reheat. Once in the living room, he settled himself on the couch, his thoughts turning to the enigma of Dr. Natasha Jordaan as he ate by the meager light from the kitchen. She was a stunning package but with an invisibleDO NOT APPROACHsign flashing. Perfectly arched brows and fringes of dark lashes framed gunmetal-gray, cat-shaped eyes. They flashed silver when her emotions ran high. That intrigued him. Very much so, and he hadn’t missed how her pupils dilated and the nostrils of her dainty nose flared slightly, reacting to his nearness. It wasn’t fear. It was heat. A lot of it. She was molten under that icy splendor. He’d bet his life on it.

He had observed the gorgeous doctor from the corner of the room when she had first entered, his eyes raking up and down her luminous golden-brown skin. Tall. Volumes of sun-streaked, tousled dark hair, long enough for him to run his fingers through and hold on to when he lost himself in her. Full, kiss-me lips and an elegant neck begging to be nuzzled and bitten.

The flowing silk skirt and loose, sleeveless tee had done little to conceal her long, willowy form. If anything, her clothes had whetted his appetite, as had her sexy, hard-to-pin-down accent. The sunlight streaming through Emmet’s office window provided an enticing silhouette of her lean body, and later, when she had unconsciously licked her bottom lip and bit down on it, his body revved in response. He’d had to shift to make more room for himself.

Bane had resorted to teasing, testing Natasha and her guard, challenging her focus eye-to-eye, concerned that she would realize the state of his arousal. That she stood between Emmet and him was fortunate. Although Bane was sure Emmet knew he was interested in the lovely doctor, he didn’t wish to display his body’s telltale interest in her. He washed down his final bite with the last of the bottle, then reclined and closed his eyes. Visions of her naked limbs entwined with his replayed over and over in his mind. He grew rock hard.

“Fuck,” he muttered, opening his eyes, standing and stretching his arms up toward the ceiling. Thinking about Dr. Natasha Jordaan was getting him nowhere but unfocused; he had a lot to read through before tomorrow’s meeting. Bane prided himself on being ready. He chucked the bottle, fork, and trash and headed to the bathroom.

Bane stripped and then studied himself in the mirror while he waited for the water to get hot. His thick dark hair was in need of a trim and his beard needed to be shorn back to the heavy stubble he preferred. He was tall, six foot four, broad shoulders and narrow through the hips, the build of a linebacker—the position he had played in high school. A series of tattoos covered his left side, from his shoulder and chest, cascading down his obliques, and stopping at his flank. What stories did her body hold? The image of Dr. Jordaan had his erection hovering at his navel, nestled in the flat planes of his abs, aching for attention. He smiled to himself. She could probably accommodate his length and girth with no problem.

He hardened more at the thought, then fisted himself and stepped under the spray, his other hand bracing against the shower wall while he stroked roughly, his release quick and explosive as he thought about sinking into the beautiful Natasha, riding her deep, and the pleasure they could have. After his heart slowed, he toweled off and slipped on a pair of joggers and a tee, then headed into the kitchen for another beer. Time to review their assignment.

Bane adjusted the lamp next to the couch and pulled Emmet’s binder from his messenger bag. He read the short, dull bio and studied the poor-quality black-and-white photo, which did nothing to describe or highlight the evocative and mercurial woman he had met earlier in Emmet’s office. Her credentials were impressive, but he was sure there was far more under Natasha Jordaan’s hood, possibly more than even she realized. As Bane suspected, the majority of what he had discovered the past three months had found its way into the material, along with his and others’ analyses of the American.

Their assignment was delicate, and that Eric Schaus had been identified and apprehended in Guatemala made infiltration and success far more difficult. Suspicions ran high. It had taken him months of work through layers of intermediaries throughout Northern Africa just to acquire names and contacts.

The American used violence to keep others compliant. Many assumed to be connected to the network stayed mum, had been found dead, or had simply disappeared. Surgical precision was imperative.

He and Natasha were in place and ready to proceed to the next step of the operation, which he hoped was efficient and quick. Bane was overdue for time off and a visit home to see his family in the States.

He read for a while, finishing his beer while mulling over the information about his thirty-six-year-old partner and the mission they were undertaking. Bane opened another bottle and continued reading, going slowly over the finer details of the assignment, occasionally closing his eyes and thinking through the material, committing specifics to memory. He returned to reading. The next page brought him to a stop. Bane burst into laughter, scrubbed at his beard, and ran his hand over his damp hair. The cool, carefully controlled Dr. Jordaan was not going to like this. Not one bit.

Natasha shook herself awake. She felt grounded in a way she had not experienced in far too long. She had relaxed in the chaise, captivated by the sky’s retreating watercolor of pink, orange, and yellow, theadhanfinishing as twilight disappeared. The night was pleasantly warm. At peace, Natasha closed her heavy eyes, intent on doing so for only a few minutes.

She glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes had passed. The heavens above were now dark and awash with stars, but their brilliance was diminished in Casablanca’s lights. Natasha sat more upright and stretched her arms up, yawning deeply. She reflected on the decisions and issues facing her.

Cape Town served nothing by being her home base. She was alone except for university colleagues. Her father’s family had not exactly welcomed her upon her move there, and since she traveled so much, the chances of her being accepted by them were likely nil. That hurt. It more than hurt.

Natasha wanted more. She yearned for connection and belonging. She loved Morocco. She had retained her citizenship, along with her South African status. Possibly she could negotiate with INTERPOL to help her move back and inquire about becoming a visiting professor or adjunct. While the assignments were exciting and stretched her in a way teaching did not, Natasha missed working with and mentoring students at university level.

There was also the issue of Bane Rua. He was a force to reckon with, and she was more than drawn to him. That was a problem. Natasha sat up fully and crossed her legs, her hands securing her thick hair into a ponytail with a hair band from her wrist.

---