Chapter 6
The yacht’s tender cut through black water. As the small boat bounced over the waves, its running lights bobbed in the darkness. Overhead, the sky was a riot of bright, shimmering stars that outshone the silver sliver of moonlight. Ahead, The Fakhar waited.
Seaspray misted Marielle’s face as she clutched the rail and stared at the massive vessel. Sleek and brightly lit, it looked like a floating fortress.
“There she is,” Idris announced unnecessarily. He stood on one side of Marielle, casually gripping an overhead bar for balance.
On her other side, Omar leaned against the railing, one hip bumping up against her.
Behind them, Brad and Poppy were wrapped around each other, wobbling from a combination of booze and waves, oblivious to everything and everyone else.
Hanna sat slightly apart from the others, perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, staring out at the dark sea.
The two security details sat in a row on a long bench, silent and sullen—or possibly just tired.
“How long have you had her?” Omar asked Idris, gesturing toward the yacht.
“Three years. My father had her commissioned when I got my MBA.” Something in his tone suggested this wasn’t quite the gift it seemed.
The tender pulled alongside the stern platform, where two crew members waited to help them board.
The transition from the dimly lit bouncing boat to the blazingly bright stable yacht platform was awkward despite the assistance, and Marielle, fiddling with her glasses, stumbled.
Omar caught her elbow, his grip firm and reassuring.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
She looked up at him, and, for a heartbeat, the mission fell away. His eyes held real concern, and she understood he meant something more than he wouldn’t let her fall. Then the first mate—Stefan, according to his name tag—was ushering them forward, and the moment passed.
“Given the hour, I thought you would prefer to go straight to your stateroom,” Stefan said as they entered the pristine main salon.
Even past midnight, not a cushion out of place.
“Breakfast is served on the aft deck at nine, but if you need anything before then, simply say, ‘Stefan.’ This is a smart yacht. Everything’s connected. ”
Translation: Big Brother is always watching.
They climbed the curved staircase one step behind Stefan. Marielle’s kitten heels were silent on the carpeted treads, and Omar’s hand never left her back.
Behind them, Poppy’s laughter and Brad’s sleepy voice overlapped with the murmur of his security details conversation.
Idris remained in the salon, giving instructions in Arabic to someone—either the crew or his bodyguards.
Marielle craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Hanna, who stood quietly by Idris’s side.
“Here we are.” Stefan opened a door to reveal a stateroom that belonged in a luxury hotel, not on a boat. “The ensuite is through there. Mr. Mahmoud asks that you make yourselves completely at home.”
Omar pressed a tip into Stefan’s hand—American bills, Marielle noted, not euros or the Tunisian dinar. Then a cold finger of worry ran along her spine: shouldn’t they be Canadian currency?
Stefan’s expression changed for an instant, and she held her breath, then she caught the flash of appreciation. “Thank you, sir. Sleep well.”
The moment the door closed, Omar moved to the center of the room and pressed a finger to his lips for an instant. She nodded. Then he smiled broadly and said in a voice pitched to carry, “This room is incredible.”
He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows while Marielle set down her clutch and slipped off her heels with an exaggerated sigh of relief.
As she rolled her neck, she said, “Today feels like the longest day in recorded history. But it was worth it. Wasn’t dinner amazing?”
“Hands down, the best paella I’ve ever had,” he agreed, still at the window. “And the company was even better than the cuisine.” He beckoned her over. “C’mere.”
She joined him at the window, and he slipped an arm around her waist, tugging her close to his side. So close that she could smell the almond-scented shower oil he used. To anyone watching, they were newlyweds admiring the moonlit Mediterranean.
His lips barely moved as he whispered, “Sweep for cameras.”
She pressed a kiss to his jaw—buying herself a moment to process her task—then pulled away with a small sigh. “I should wash my face before I fall asleep standing up. Where are the toiletries?”
“They’re in my dopp kit. I’ll unpack the rest,” he offered.
She retrieved the buttery leather bag from his suitcase and walked into the bathroom.
She hit the light switch to illuminate an enormous marble shower with two rain heads and more jets than she could count, a deep soaking tub, and, judging by the switches on the wall, heated floors and towel racks.
Any other time, she’d have taken a moment to revel in the luxury.
But she had a job to do.
While she arranged their washes, gels, pastes, lotions, and potions on the oversized double sink vanity, she scanned the room.
She’d been trained to conduct a sweep all those years ago at The Farm.
And although she’d never expected to use the skills outside of training exercises, her memory was, as always, impeccable.
Cameras need three things: a power source, a clear line of sight, and adequate concealment. She started with the obvious places.
The ceiling vent was too obvious, but she checked it anyway. Nothing.
The smoke detector, newer than the surrounding fixtures, was slightly misaligned. And there it was. A tiny lens, practically invisible unless you knew what to look for. She kept her expression neutral, continuing her examination as if she were simply admiring the fancy bathroom.
She tested the towel warmers, examined the light fixtures, even checked inside the decorative shell arrangement on the counter. When she returned to the main stateroom, her heart was pounding, but her smile was easy—she hoped.
“This bathroom is ridiculous,” she announced. “There’s even a TV in the mirror.”
Omar had finished unpacked—both bags were empty. The closet stood open, and their clothes hung from the bar with their shoes lined up below. He’d used the activity to conduct his own sweep, she realized. His eyes met hers, asking the question.
She moved to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her face into his chest. Against his shirt, barely audible, she murmured, “One in the bathroom smoke detector. You?”
His arms encircled her. One hand stroked her hair; the other rested on her hip. His lips brushed her temple as he breathed, “Three. Light fixture above the bed. Crown molding by the window. The cleverest one is set into the door’s peephole.”
Four cameras total. Every angle of the bedroom was covered, but the bathroom presented an opportunity.
She pulled back to look up at him even though she immediately missed the comfort and warmth of his body pressed against hers. “I’m exhausted,” she said at normal volume. “But I’m too wound up to sleep. Take a bath with me?”
His eyes widened slightly as he cycled through emotions—surprise, understanding, appreciation for the suggestion.
The white noise of running water would cover their conversation. The tub’s position, if she remembered correctly from her scan of the bathroom, offered a blind spot from camera. The only drawback was the prospect of, well, taking a bath together.
“Perfect end to the night.” His voice sounded … weird. She gave him a close look, but he smiled reassuringly.
In the bathroom, she ran the water in the enormous tub while he turned the hot water on full blast in both sinks and the shower. Steam began to fill the space, clouding the mirror-TV and, she hoped, obscuring the camera’s view.
Omar shed his shirt in view of the camera, and Marielle tried not to notice his defined abs, already glistening with moisture from the hot steam. They sat on the edge of the tub, close enough to speak quietly under the cover of running water.
“So,” she said quietly. “Four cameras that we found. Could be more.”
“Could be,” he agreed. “Probably are. Even if not, at a minimum, they can see and hear everything we do in the main room.”
“Which means we can’t plan. Can’t discuss the mission. Can’t even have a real conversation without an audience.”
“No.” His jaw was tight. “We’ll have to stay alert for opportunities. And we have to stay in character at all times, play our parts so well they never suspect we’ve noticed.”
“For how long? We dock in Marseille what, late tonight or early tomorrow?”
“The day after.”
“Two days? Why?”
“We’re in a hurry, but they’re having a leisurely boating trip. Idris isn’t going to push it.” He met her eyes. “Can you do this for two days?”
She considered. Forty-eight hours of constant performance, constant awareness, no privacy, not a moment to let down her guard.
Forty-eight hours of pretending to be in love with Omar while sharing a bed with him, touching him, kissing him when the performance required—all under the watchful eye of the cameras, six armed bodyguards, and two highly trained federal agents.
Marielle the data geek would have said no, argued for aborting the mission, or demanded they find another way. Marielle the undercover operative smiled. “Piece of cake.”
But she wasn’t thinking about the data they’d been sent to find.
She was thinking about Hanna’s downcast eyes, the way she flinched when Idris touched her, and the careful, measured way she chose every word.
Marielle had once watched someone she loved fall into an unhealthy relationship, and she’d promised herself she would never again make the same mistake.
While her reasons for seeing this assignment through might not be the same as Omar’s, her commitment was just as real.
“I can do it.”
“Elle—”
“I can do it,” she repeated, more firmly. “But we need to check in. The covcom in your bag—”