Page 9 of Afraid to Hope

The doors opened and Bane strode in, carrying a paper sack and his messenger bag. “Sorry I’m late. Stopped at the bakery. Busy as hell.” A slow smile lit his features when he glanced at Natasha, his words taking on additional nuance. “I needed something sweet this morning. How about you, Doctor?”

Natasha swallowed, but not from wanting pastries. She bobbed her head, not trusting herself to speak, her heart racing, her body buzzing. She pretended to drink tea from her empty cup, which didn’t go unnoticed by him. Bane Rua was gorgeous—a walking billboard of tall, dark, and handsome. One hundred percent sexy, confident male, all encased in lean, corded muscle.

His smile grew cocky. Over his shoulder, he called to the outer office area, “Hey Tilly, can we get some more tea? I’d like a cup too please.” He settled himself in the chair next to Natasha, offering her first dibs to the contents of the now-open sack. “Parched, huh?” His eyes twinkled in his olive-toned face. “Me too.”

“Bane,” warned the director, his voice rising.

All mirth disappeared from his expression. Bane placed the sack on the director’s desk. “Emmet. Your favorite’s in here. Wasn’t sure what you liked, Doctor, so”—he ripped the bag open so that it lay flat, then sat back—“I got a few of mine, in addition to Emmet and Matilda’s.” Winking at Natasha, he said suggestively, “You can sample what I like.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. The man did not let up, and his words from yesterday had created a vivid dream where she had all kinds of sex with him. It was still fresh in her mind, and being in his presence was uncomfortable. Her sheets had looked like a tornado had torn through them, and she’d woken up wrung-out. If she were a blusher, Natasha’s face would resemble a ripe red tomato.

Emmet cleared his throat and glowered at Bane. “Where’s your binder?”

“In there.” Bane pointed to the messenger bag at his feet. “I brought my notebook.” He reached into the large pocket of his field vest, then leaned forward and helped himself to one of Emmet’s pens.

Matilda arrived with the tea, breaking the tension. “Here you are.” She placed an empty cup in front of Bane and filled it, poured fresh cups for the director and Natasha, and left the ornate teapot on the desk.

“Bane, you spoil me,” she said after taking her pastry. Delicately biting into it, she moaned before closing the doors behind her. “This will be my undoing.”

The director had opened his computer and was focused on the screen. Bane leaned over and whispered in Natasha’s ear. “What’s your undoing, Doc?”

“Someone else will be joining us at eleven hundred, so let’s get down to it,” Emmet said, his voice steely, glaring at Bane over his computer. “Questions?” He snapped the laptop shut and pushed it to the side, his eyes bouncing between them.

“I have one, sir. The information indicates we may be traveling quite a bit. Can you provide more details?”

Smirking, Bane put his notebook on Emmet’s desk and slumped back into his chair with two pastries and his cup. That was clearly not the question he’d expected Natasha to ask.

The director sat forward earnestly. “Such as, Doctor?”

“Mr. Rua, you and I function as INTERPOL’s first response team, command central, coordinating with local agencies who are involved in this case. Correct?” Striving to get the upper hand, Natasha gave Bane a hard stare that he returned with squinted eyes and an amused smile, as if he was swallowing laughter. She ignored him and continued, addressing the director. “The initial correspondence I received indicated the duration of this assignment would be open-ended. However, the details were not specific.” She scowled at Bane before opening her binder and flipping quickly through the pages. She stopped, her finger on a highlighted spot, peering at the director. “We may possibly be moving all over Morocco, sir?”

“That is correct,” Emmet replied.

“So actually, that leads me to another question. Of course I brought clothes, but I will require additional items. How long do I have to purchase them? I apologize. I realize that’s another question. So apparently I have a few.”

“Doctor, you are correct. Rafiq Nasir, our Moroccan liaison, will be joining us shortly. He can fill you in further. As to your questions, you have time to shop before departing and can be expensed. Please provide Simon or Matilda with your receipts. I advise purchasing a good rucksack if you didn’t pack one. At this time it seems you may be in the Atlas Mountains, and most likely in other regions of Morocco, as necessary for a successful outcome. I expect you may be moving around quite a bit. The movement of the American is amoeboid. We can be on top of the network, say, in Marrakesh, and then it vanishes and pops up in Tangier. I understand you spent much of your youth and teenage years in Casablanca, Doctor, but you should be prepared for time outside of metropolitan areas.” He glanced at her and back at Bane. “I realize you both are aware of this, but it is Standard Operating Procedure that I go over it. The more rural your travels are, the more modesty is required. This includes your dress and manners. Social cues and interactions. Be very mindful of proxemics, particularly touch.”

“Okay. Fine. Thank you.” She sat back and sipped her tea.

“Wow!” Bane guffawed, his mouth full of pastry. He took a large sip from his tea and swallowed. “That’s it? Thought you’d fight that harder. Glad to know our cover won’t be an issue.”

Natasha’s face twisted.

“Dr. Jordaan understands this cover is best for the success of a mission.”

Unease prickled within Natasha. She shook her head. “I have no idea what the two of you are referring to.”

“You read the binder, Doctor?”

“I did. I—” Her unease grew into foreboding.

Bane’s rugged baritone broke in. “I for one am relieved you don’t have an issue being my wife.” He pulled his notebook from Emmet’s desk and flipped it open. “I made a note of that. Page forty-three, second paragraph. First sentence. ‘Traveling as husband and wife—Mr. Bane and Dr. Natasha Rua.’”

Natasha’s hand jolted, spilling her tea before she set the cup back on the desk. Her wet fingers worked into the zipped compartment inside her bag and withdrew the navy passport Matilda had given her when she’d arrived this morning. American. She opened it. Dr. Natasha Rua. A few stamps, reflecting recent travel from Egypt to Morocco.No, no, no!She scrambled to reopen her binder. The sinking feeling became more like quicksand when Natasha realized two pages were stuck together, probably by the sticky honey phyllo that had flaked off the baklava she had eaten last night while reading.No!

“Damned baklava,” Natasha muttered loudly enough for Bane and the director to hear as she wedged her finger between the two pages at the bottom, gently prying them apart.

Her eyes skimmed the page she had passed over. Page forty-three. There it was, second paragraph, first sentence, just as Bane had said.Traveling as husband and wife—Mr. Bane and Dr. Natasha Rua.The sentences after it justified the undercover ruse. And the need for the same sleeping arrangements for the duration of the assignment.Surely not.The blood drained from her face.

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