Chapter 5
Merde is right, Omar thought.
They’d stepped in it before the mission even got off the ground. Every undercover operation went sideways at some point—usually not at the outset. though. The presence of the sitting Vice President’s son and his Secret Service detail was an unexpected development, and not a good one.
They thanked the agents for the drinks and carried them across the bar to the small table in the corner, ignoring the agents’ twin scowls.
When they reached the spot, Omar set down his drink and pulled out Marielle’s chair.
As she sat, she looked up at him with a loving expression before shifting her gaze to the other occupied table.
Good. She understood why he chose that seat for her.
As a rule, he didn’t sit with his back to a door.
But in this particular instance, it was important that she have a clear line of sight.
Before they’d left for the airstrip, she’d dug in her heels and refused to trade her glasses for contact lenses.
The equipment team, knowing when they’d lost a battle, had hurriedly outfitted her with frames that would record when she pressed the button concealed in the screw connecting the frames to the left arm.
So while he studied the curve of her cheek and the sweep of her hair, she adjusted her glasses to surreptitiously start recording and studied the group across the aisle.
Once she’d captured everyone at the table, she readjusted the frames to turn off the recorder.
McCloud had drilled into them that they had limited recording space and would be unable to upload the footage before they reached Marseille. They had to be judicious about how they used the resource.
Omar lifted Marielle’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, registering movement in his peripheral vision as he did so.
“Idris is looking at us,” she murmured as he pressed his lips against her warm, smooth skin.
He nodded his understanding.
She raised her glass, and he mirrored the motion. “To us,” she said, just loud enough to be heard at the other table.
“To my exquisite bride,” he replied at the same volume, “and to the beginning of an unforgettable adventure.”
A faint flush stained her cheeks. Impressive. He didn’t know she could blush on command.
They clinked their glasses together and then sipped the pale yellow liquor, staring deeply into one another’s eyes. The tangy citrus was bright on his tongue and dangerously luscious. Uh-oh. Please, please nurse your drink, Elle.
Their performance had the intended effect.
Poppy slid off Hampton’s lap and tottered toward them in her sky-high heels.
“Are you on your honeymoon?” she cooed.
Marielle blinked up at her, feigning surprise. “Are you—?”
“I am,” the pop star confirmed before she could finish the sentence. “Poppy Jones, in the flesh. All of it.” She laughed, gesturing toward her micro-mini dress.
Marielle tittered. “You wear it well. I’m Margaux. Margaux Irfan. And this is my husband, Oscar.” She waved a hand across the table.
Poppy turned toward Omar, and he smiled. “Love your music.”
She beamed and then reiterated her question. “So, honeymooners?”
“No,” Omar said, reciting the background they’d been given, “we’ve been married for a year—well, almost a year. We’re celebrating our first anniversary.”
She squealed and turned to her friends. “Brad, it’s their anniversary!”
“Come, join us.” The statement, accompanied by an imperious wave, was more a command than an invitation.
Omar locked in on Idris Mahmoud’s profile. A slight tightness around his mouth was the only indication that he didn’t particularly appreciate Hampton taking charge. And, after a beat, the tightness vanished.
And when Marielle made noises of protest, it was Mahmoud who twisted in his chair with an open, friendly expression. “Please, I insist. We’d be honored.”
They picked up their drinks and moved to Mahmoud’s table. Marielle took the seat next to his companion, and Omar claimed the seat across from her. Poppy’s chair was next to his, but she left the seat empty. Instead, she draped herself across Hampton’s lap.
Mahmoud gestured around the table, introducing his companions. “You probably recognize Brad. He’s your VP’s son.”
“We’re Canadian,” Omar corrected. “But I do recognize Mr. Hampton.”
“Bradford—or Brad,” Hampton told him.
“And you’ve met Poppy.”
“Yes, although we also recognized her,” Omar replied.
“Heh, right. I’m Idris Mahmoud, and this is my girlfriend.” He waved a hand at the quiet woman sitting next to him.
Omar waited, but Mahmoud didn’t elaborate. Instead, he picked up his drink.
Across the table, Marielle flared her nostrils at the slight. She turned toward the girlfriend. “I imagine you have a name.”
The ghost of a smile crossed the woman’s full lips. “As a matter of fact, I do.” She took a beat to glance sidelong at Idris before extending her hand to Marielle. “I’m Hanna Ayari.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, How long have you and Idris been together?” Marielle asked.
Hanna’s shoulders stiffened before she answered in a quiet voice, “Not very long.”
“How did you two meet?” Marielle persisted.
Hanna took her time answering as if she was choosing her words with care. “Our families have some business dealings together.”
“What line of business are you in?” Omar asked.
Idris looked over and placed a hand on Hanna’s arm. She flinched almost imperceptibly.
“Business is boring,” Idris declared. “I make it a rule never to talk business in social situations. Right, Brad?”
“Right,” Brad said. “No business, no politics.” He nuzzled Poppy’s neck.
“Of course” Omar said. “Forgive the question.”
“No need to apologize,” Idris said. “You couldn’t have known.”
Hanna smiled and asked, “How did you and Margaux meet?”
“That’s a funny story, isn’t it, ma minoune?” he said, drawing Marielle back into the conversation.
“It really is. Will you let me tell it?” She gave him a knowing half-smile.
He knew, of course, that it was part of their cover.
So why did it feel so intimate?
And why did his pulse quicken anyway?
“Please do,” he said thickly.
She beamed. “We were both living in Vieux-Québec, renting flats in this gorgeous eighteenth-century townhouse on an adorable cobblestone street.” As she warmed to the story, her hands danced over the table.
This, he knew, was not part of their cover.
It was hard-wired. She joked that if she ever wanted to take a vow of silence, all she’d have to do was sit on her hands.
“One evening, when I was walking up the stairs after work, the most divine aroma floated down the hall from my neighbor’s apartment.
Earthy, rich, warm. I’m not much of a chef, but I do love to eat—and I know coq au vin when I smell it. ”
Hanna laughed appreciatively. Idris leaned toward Marielle, waiting to hear the rest. Even Poppy and Brad turned to listen. Omar suppressed a smile. So much for his partner being a liability. They were eating from her palm.
“I raced to my place and grabbed a very good bottle of Chianti from my wine chiller.” She paused. “Sacrilege to pair that dish with an Italian red, I know, I know. In my defense, it was a 1999 reserve.”
Omar picked up the thread. “So I open my door to see a gorgeous woman holding an equally gorgeous bottle of red. And I’ve been making dinner for two ever since.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Poppy cooed. “It’s like something out of a rom-com movie.”
Marielle laughed. “And what about the two of you? I’m surprised I hadn’t heard about your relationship. You’d think it would be all over the internet.”
Poppy’s smile tightened. “It would be, but Brad’s babysitters”—she jerked her chin toward the agents at the bar —“have a habit of confiscating people’s phones and smashing them to pieces. It didn’t take too many instances for word to get around, so now we enjoy our privacy.”
Omar was fairly certain she wasn’t enjoying it at all and would have much preferred the notoriety that came with dating the maverick son of the second most powerful man in the world.
After the initial awkwardness, Poppy kept the conversation flowing, Lucia kept the drinks flowing, and the Secret Service agents kept a close eye on the three couples from their perch at the bar.
At some point, Idris decided they should give up their respective tables in the dining room.
His guards arranged for the chef to create a tasting menu and for their meal to be served in the bar.
It was a generous gesture, but Brad visibly chafed at Idris’s taking charge.
Omar filed this fact away as leverage to be applied later, if needed.
During the dessert course, Poppy wanted to switch seats with Omar so she could more easily chat with Marielle and Hanna.
As Omar slid into the vacant chair, he joked to Brad, “Don’t worry. I won’t climb onto your lap.”
“Not that kinda party, huh?” Brad slurred. He was propping his head up with his fist and was struggling to keep his eyes open.
Omar turned his attention to Idris. “Is the boat you’re traveling on—?”
“Yacht,” he corrected.
“Is the yacht you’re traveling on a local charter?”
Idris scoffed. “No, it’s my private vessel.”
“His father’s,” Hanna whispered behind her hand to Marielle.
Idris appeared not to have heard her, but his tensed cheek muscles and clenched jaw told a different story.
“That’s smart. Oh well, I was hoping you could recommend a reliable charter.”
Poppy arched a brow. “You didn’t make arrangements before you flew all the way from Canada?”
“No, no, we did,” Marielle assured her. “But the boat’s been delayed in Santorini, and we just don’t know if they’ll find a replacement.” She sighed, then pouted prettily. “It’s okay, though. As long as I’m with Oscar, this will be the best trip of my life.”
Hanna and Poppy ‘awwed’ in unison.
Idris was less enchanted. “Nonsense. I have plenty of room on my family yacht,” he declared, giving Hanna a dirty look. “You’ll travel with us to Marseille.”
“Oh, we couldn’t—” Marielle began.
“You must,” Hanna insisted.
“Pleeeease?” Poppy grabbed both of Marielle’s hands. “Margaux, it’ll be so much fun!”
“Yeah, these two are fun,” Brad mumbled.
“Unlike the buzzkills.” He waved an arm in the general direction of the Secret Service agents, who’d moved to the table Omar and Elle had vacated.
Their expressions didn’t change, but their eyes hardened.
Not, Omar thought, because of the inebriated insult.
No, they were assessing him and Marielle, apparently not entirely convinced that they were who they said they were—wealthy Canadian newlyweds on a romantic getaway.
“There. It’s settled.” Idris smiled.
“That’s very kind of you,” Omar said. “Thank you.”
Mission—strike that, step one of the mission—accomplished.