Sheltered (Shenandoah Shadows #12)

Chapter 1

Walking hand-in-hand with Omar as she descended the Plaza Athénée’s grand marble staircase felt surprisingly natural. Marielle expected to feel self-conscious or awkward, but it simply felt right.

The friends and coworkers gathered in the lobby waiting for them seemed unfazed by the sight. Then again, they’d all been predicting this for years. She and Omar were probably the only ones surprised by the development. She laughed at the thought.

“What?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

“I was just thinking how surreal it is that we’re holding hands, walking down this staircase of this hotel in Paris, of all places.” She made a wide sweeping gesture with her free hand to point out the gold curved banisters and the plush red and white carpet.

“What has you buzzing? The hand-holding or the surroundings?”

“A little from column A, a little from column B.”

He smiled at her answer, and her heart smiled in return. She stretched onto her toes to kiss him softly.

Inevitably, this set off a chorus of hooting and catcalling from the lobby.

“Our friends are juvenile,” Omar said.

“We knew that, though.”

As they reached the lobby, a lilting soprano voice rang out from the seating area to the left of the stairs.

“Margaux! Oscar! Oh, it is you!”

It can’t be, Marielle thought, just as a mass of bouncing copper curls in a cloud of sweet perfume and champagne launched itself at her from the red sofa.

It was.

“Poppy? What are you doing here?”

Poppy Jones pulled her arms back and studied Marielle’s face. “I’m performing at Stade de France. You must’ve heard.”

“Uh, no, sorry. But that’s wonderful!” Marielle smiled broadly to make up for being out of the loop on all things Poppy.

“It really is. I have two back-to-back sold out shows. Second only to Beyoncé!”

“Wow,” Marielle said weakly.

Omar said nothing.

Way to let the desk jockey talk her way out of it, Khan.

Poppy scanned the lobby and pouted. Her full, pink-glossed lips shone under the lights of the massive chandelier. “But where’s Hanna?”

“Hanna,” Marielle repeated in a bid to buy time.

“Yeah, Hanna. Last seen on a wild jet ski adventure with you. You know, that Hanna.”

“Right.”

Before she could formulate a response, Poppy went on. “Idris was pissed. He sent his guys to look for her. I’ll bet those two are going to have a come to Jesus meeting once she’s back on the yacht.”

“Allah,” Omar finally spoke.

“Pardon?” Poppy asked.

“It’ll be a come to Allah meeting. I mean, probably.”

Poppy grinned. “Fair point. Either way, they have some serious relationship stuff to work out.”

Marielle seized on this topic to divert Poppy’s attention from the question of Hanna’s whereabouts.

“Speaking of relationships, where’s Brad?”

“Brad?” Poppy waved her hand. “That’s more of a situationship. We have a good time when we’re together, but it’s nothing serious.”

“Oh, I thought you were—”

“No. I mean”—Poppy twirled her hair—“I’m always busy, even when I’m not on tour. And his Secret Service detail is a real drag. I can’t imagine getting serious with him, at least not while his dad’s in office.”

Over Poppy’s shoulder, Marielle spotted Olivia standing in front of the lobby doors making a “wrap it up” gesture.

“It was great to run into you,” Omar said. “I wish we had time to grab a drink and talk, but we’re leaving. Our friends are waiting for us to go to the airport.”

He motioned toward Olivia, Trent, and Jake milling around at the front of the lobby.

She turned to look at them. Jake waved.

Poppy waved back, and then she gestured through the window to an enormous stretch limo hogging at least six standard-issue Parisian parking spots.

“My driver can give you all a ride to Charles de Gaulle. We can have that drink in the back of my limo.”

Marielle locked eyes with Olivia, who gave an imperceptible nod. There was no graceful way out.

“That would be amazing, but we’re actually going to the private airport,” Marielle said, hoping her feigned enthusiasm was convincing.

“Even better!” Poppy giggled and shimmied her bare shoulders in an exaggerated gesture.

Then she looped her elbow around Marielle’s and pulled her away from Omar.

The limo had just merged onto the A1 highway when Poppy placed her pale pink French blonde cocktail down on the table and turned to Marielle.

“You have to stay for my concert.”

Marielle sipped her drink and wondered how many French blondes Poppy had consumed before they ran into her.

“I wish I could, but we’re leaving the country. Remember?”

“No, you have to stay.”

Marielle caught Olivia’s eye across the backseat. Why is this superstar acting so needy?

Beats me, Olivia’s expression answered.

“Make it a girls’ weekend. Your friend can stay, too. I booked the royal suite at the Plaza Athénée. There’s plenty of room.” Poppy beamed at Olivia.

“I’m afraid they won’t be able to get off work for a girls’ weekend,” Jake said, stepping in to play the heavy and put an end to the conversation.

“Oh, you’re their boss?” Poppy asked.

“That’s right.”

“Then you must be the person the CIA contacted to hire Potomac to infiltrate the boat.”

The air crackled with tension.

“Come again?” Jake said, looking genuinely baffled.

“If you’re Jake West, then you’re who the CIA reached out to. What part don’t you understand?” Poppy’s tone was honey-sweet and upbeat, but her expression was sharp.

“I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but—” Trent began.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on. When I say Marielle has to stay, I mean she must stay. She’s staying.”

“Why?” Marielle managed to squeak.

Poppy leaned forward between Omar and Trent and tapped on the glass divider that separated the driver’s compartment from the rear. It lowered slightly.

“Yes, Ms. Jones?”

“Pull over to the side of the road.”

The limo driver asked no further questions. He raised the divider and slid across more lanes of traffic than Marielle cared to count. Undeterred by the chorus of horns behind him, he eased the long car to the shoulder and stopped, letting the engine idle.

Poppy, like the performer she was, waited until she had everyone’s full attention. Once all eyes were on her, she said, “Do you know who Josephine Baker was?”

“Sure,” Marielle said. “She was a Black American singer, who moved to Paris to escape the racism she faced in our country. She became a French citizen and was probably the most celebrated singer, dancer, and actress of her era. Ernest Hemingway called her the ‘most sensational woman anybody ever saw.’”

Where was Poppy going with this? She supposed her fame might be at the level of Josephine Baker’s, but Poppy didn’t have racism to contend with.

Then it hit her, and her stomach clenched.

“She was also a spy,” Marielle added.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!”

Poppy retrieved her drink and looked around the back seat with an amused smile.