Orange gold rays just beginning to streak through the window reminded him their pocket of time—this unexpected last chance to be together—was ending. In less than an hour, he would have to wake her so they could report for duty.
Report in to do their jobs in a world where missions like this one were becoming too frequent, near brushes with the possibility of a cataclysmic attack. How long could they keep dousing these threats? Was he wrong to hold out on committing to Stella because of what might happen when time was already so damn precious?
No, damn it. Because he did love her, too much to risk adding another ticking time bomb to her life.
He kissed her shoulder lightly, whispering against her freckled skin, “Love you.”
Easing from the bed to shower alone, he left her.
***
Annie leaned against the wall in the back of the cafeteria where eight classes of students had been gathered to watch news footage streaming out of Mogadishu today. The broadcast was subtitled. Her stomach knotted. The lingering scent of goat liver from lunch made her nauseous.
The room was packed with wooden tables and chairs, and she couldn’t stop the illogical thought of how the number of people would be a fire code violation back in the States. She just needed to keep reminding herself that a school, home, and regular meals were tough to come by for children in this region, much less for orphans. This concrete building with a cracked foundation and peeling paint was a godsend to these kids.
She was making a difference here. Saving lives rather than taking them. And yes, there were days she wanted to rage in frustration over the lost children, the stolen lives, and unbearably poor odds for a free future. However, she couldn’t turn away. Teaching here, spending her life, being as much of a mother to these children as she knew how—that was her atonement for the harm she’d caused in the line of duty.
For abandoning her own children.
An arm’s reach away, an eleven-year-old girl named Khaali leaned back in her chair. “Why do we have to watch this, Mrs. Johnson?”
Khaali had lost her mother to a post-childbirth infection. Her father left the infant with her grandparents and disappeared. The grandparents were killed in an uprising three years ago and she’d been brought here. She was one of the lucky ones. She’d had a fairly stable, well-fed first eight years and hadn’t ended up on the streets after her grandparents were killed.
Luck was a relative thing in a country that stoned women to death.
Annie knelt beside her. “Because I teach you English, I also teach you about English-speaking countries. This is a visit by a very important American woman. She is the wife of the vice president of the United States. Look at all the celebration in place. This is a big deal.”
The television screen was filled with images of the pre-ceremonies keeping the crowd entertained while they waited for the plane to land. Dancers performed in regional garb. The colors and sounds of local culture drew Annie now, just as it had when she’d left the States. She loved this country and its people. She turned back to Khaali.
“Boring.” The girl tipped her chair back and forth.
“She cares what happens to you.” Annie palmed the back of the chair, gently forcing all four legs on the floor again. “She cares about things that are happening to young girls and boys in this country.”
Khaali stared at the television, twirling the edge of her long yellow headscarf between two fingers. “Do you really believe the words from one lady, a lady who just happens to be married to someone important, will bring back our friends, like Ajaya?”
A sense of hopelessness washed over her because no, she didn’t think this political visit would make any lasting difference. It was a gesture. She’d been idealistic a long time ago, but not anymore. Now she was a realist. She lived one day at a time, ensuring that for today, these children were fed, taught, loved.
And telling Khaali that would not make her feel in the least secure or loved.
So Annie settled for, “I believe her trip here is a good thing, maybe even a start of something bigger.”
“I believe her coming will only start trouble.”
Wise child. Then old instincts tugged at her, making her wonder. “Why do you say that?”
Khaali traced a scratched word in the tabletop. “No special reason.”
Two rows up, the uptight math teacher—Mr. Gueye—shushed them and Annie rose, stepping back to her post on the back wall, by the rear exit. She bumped against—not a wall.
Gasping, she turned. “Samir?”
She eased away. Public contact between men and women was a tricky thing, even here. But their dinner together last night had been… nice. Really nice.
She’d expected some elaborate wooing, but he’d opted for a simple dinner he cooked himself, followed by watching a video. The normalcy of that appealed to her on a far deeper level. She’d had delicacies around the world.
Normal was actually more the non-norm for her.
He pressed a finger to his mouth and moved into the hall. She followed without even thinking—because she wanted to be with him. She wanted to sit across the table from him and just gaze at his handsome face with a strong jaw and the most adorable scholarly glasses. Oddly in some ways he reminded her of her husband with his calming quiet manner. But back in her youth she hadn’t appreciated that—and then it had been too late. Their marriage crumbled. Her chance to go home was gone. Now he was dead.
“Annie?” he asked, frowning. “What is wrong?”
She swiped a hand over her mouth and realized she’d been frowning too. “This isn’t the time. I should stay with the children and I want to hear the speech.”
“They’re fine with Mr. Gueye and Miss Veronique. You have time. The guest of honor’s plane hasn’t even landed.” His deeply melodic accent washed over her frayed nerves. “Now tell me. What’s wrong?”
She surrendered. For now. “I’m not sure.”
“What Khaali said bothered you.” He touched her elbow so lightly she almost missed the contact as he steered her farther away from the cafeteria. “Why?”
The television grew softer, the low hum from other classes behind closed doors giving a muffled melody of their life, the same year in and year out—until Samir arrived.
She walked alongside him down the deserted corridor, their students in good hands with the half-dozen other staff members watching over them. “It’s just a feeling, like when I knew my children were lying or maybe even just holding something back.”
“You have children?”
She stumbled over her own feet. How had she gotten this comfortable with him after one shared meal of beef and rice, followed by watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon? “I did,” she answered carefully. “They’re gone now.”
“Why did you never tell me this?”
Because it was damn stupid to discuss her old life. “It’s painful to talk about the past.”
He tucked her into a supply nook, away from any possible prying eyes and nestled her among the stockpile of paper, paste, and pencils. “I would like very much for you to talk about your past with me, let me help share the pain so it is less.”
“When you speak, it sounds so poetic.”
He scowled, his proud cheekbones more pronounced. “You make me sound weak.”
“That was not my intention at all.” She touched his chest lightly and oh my, the scholar must work out. “It’s nice to be around a man who can express what he thinks.”
“The father of your children could not?” The scent of musk and sandalwood reached to her.
Exotic. Enticing. She felt so disloyal for wanting this man more than the one she’d married.
Her hand fell away from him and she clenched her fists by her side. “He was a good man and he put up with a lot from me.”
Sam cupped one of her hands in his, rubbing a thumb along the inside of her wrist until her fingers unfurled. “Where is he now?”
“He died a few years ago.” She gulped in bracing gasps of air, until the familiar smells of paste and paper helped balance out the scent of this man.
“I am sorry.” He squeezed lightly, offering comfort.
She accepted.
“Me too.” Any other words about that time in her life lodged halfway up her throat, loyalty and self-preservation holding them back. She needed to get away from Sam, now, before she did something she regretted. But she also needed a moment to compose herself before she faced anyone. “Waiting for the festivities to kick into high gear has the children restless. Perhaps I should get them a snack.”
“I will help.”
She looked back, guilt tugging her. “I really should stay…”
“Half the staff is with them.”
Her hand went back to his chest again. “Sam, I’m not sure this is…”
“I know.” He skimmed his knuckles down her cheek in the most sensual caress she could remember experiencing. “I am a poetic man, but I am still very much a man who is aware that you are very much a woman.”
Her knees already weak, she didn’t even pretend to protest when his mouth sealed over hers. She swayed into him, opened for him in a full-out kiss like she hadn’t experienced in… a long time, longer than even before she and her husband split. Sam tasted like cinnamon and felt like unmovable marble. Steady felt so very good after so long in a state of upheaval and fear.
The sharp bolt of desire that shot through her shocked her. She’d known him for a year, and yes, she’d been attracted to him. But this? This out of control, crazy need to tear away his clothes—have him peel hers from her body—the feeling blindsided her.
As much as she wanted to tell herself that her reaction came from years of abstinence, she knew better. Samir Al-Shennawi, the quietly reserved chemistry teacher, was kissing her socks off with a confidence and expertise that had her toes curling.
“Annie,” he said against her mouth, his broad hands cradling her face. “We need to stop this, dear.”
A cold splash of reality washed over her. Good God, this wasn’t the time or the place… She sagged back against the shelves of boxed school supplies. “I don’t know what I was thinking…”
“Shhh… I don’t mean that at all.” He tucked his shirt in quickly. Had she done that? “Someone’s coming.”
Oh. Damn. She smoothed her hands over her loose muslin pant suit, dimly registering voices swelling louder through the halls, along with the echo of racing footsteps.
“Annie?” a voice called. The school secretary, Veronique, had left her homeland of France for this job, to help in her mother’s old hometown. “Annie, Mr. Gueye and I need your help…”
Annie stepped out of the nook, leaving Samir behind her as she fast-tracked down the hall. Hopefully he would take the hint and stay behind rather than stir gossip.
Veronique ran to meet her, unlike the normally collected secretary who fielded childish antics without a wince. “On the television,” she gasped, looking every one of her seventy-plus years at the moment, “there’s some kind of disruption in Mogadishu. A riot or something at the airport, and the children are terrified. Your class needs you.”
Her racing heart stopped for a beat before picking up again. Of course the kids were petrified. Most of them had witnessed war. Some had even seen their own families gunned down.
A firm hand settled on her shoulder, slowing her. She looked back at Samir, his onyx eyes sharp, focused. “What’s happening?”
Annie shook her head. “Veronique?”
“I’m not sure of the details. Once the plane landed, explosions started. The news people were running for cover.” Veronique took her elbow and guided her back toward the cafeteria, obviously too distracted to even question why Samir was here with her. “But there are reports of shooting and tear gas… They say an attack has been made on the vice president’s wife.”
