Chapter 7
Omar woke to discover that Marielle Moreau was a sleep cuddler. Or, more accurately, a heat-seeking missile.
She was plastered against him. One leg was hooked over his thigh, an arm flung across his chest, and her face was buried in the hollow of his throat. Her even breath was warm against his skin, and, every time she exhaled, something in his chest tightened.
He’d been awake for nearly twenty minutes, lying perfectly still. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to disturb her sleep and not because he wanted to stay in this bed, in this position, with this woman for as long as he possibly could.
No, that’s not why. He was doing this for the cameras. Oscar and Margaux Irfan would wake up tangled together. This was good cover. It was professional. Strategic.
Except it didn’t feel professional. Or strategic.
Or, frankly, safe. It felt like something he could get used to.
Like something he’d been denying himself for years because he risked everything, every day, in his professional life, and he needed to have one thing he didn’t risk. By default, that was his heart.
But here he was, trapped in a stateroom with surveillance cameras and the woman who made him reconsider every sensible decision he’d ever made about keeping his personal and professional lives separate.
The same woman who actually had opened a bottle of 1999 Chianti the night he met her and proceeded to drink it while she was covered in mud, blood, and broken glass.
The one who’d helped save his sister and best friend, no questions asked.
And the one who’d stretched up on her toes to kiss him after that mission went sideways and they’d both ended up in the clink.
That woman stirred against him, and he felt the exact moment she woke fully—the slight stiffening of her body, the quick inhale as she registered her position.
“Morning,” he managed, his voice low and rough with sleep.
She tilted her head back to look at him, and her eyes were still dream-soft, her dark coppery hair a wild tangle across his shoulder. “Morning. I should have warned you that I turn into an octopus in my sleep.”
“I don’t mind.” The words escaped before he could stop them. Before he could remember that he was supposed to mind, that this was supposed to be just cover. He cleared his throat. “I mean it’s for—”
“The cover,” she finished for him in a whisper. She shifted away, and he immediately missed the weight of her against him.
Focus, Khan. You’re on a mission. With cameras watching your every move. And six armed guards. And Secret Service agents who don’t quite trust you.
He sat up abruptly and ran a hand through his hair. “We should get ready for breakfast. Stefan said nine on the aft deck.”
“What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “Eight-fifteen. Plenty of time. We’ll poke around for the drop spot later today.”
They moved around each other with awkward formality.
He took his turn in the bathroom first. When it was her turn, they sidled past each other in the doorway leaving too much space between them.
As if they were both afraid that if they touched in the light of day, without the excuse of sleep, something would shift.
When she emerged from the bathroom in a crisp white halter dress that made her look like she was born to sail around the Mediterranean on a super-yacht, he had to remind himself to breathe.
“You look nice,” she said, eyeing his linen pants and pale blue button-down.
“You look beautiful.” He said it before he could filter himself, then watched color bloom across her cheeks.
At the door, he caught her hand. “Ready?”
She laced her fingers through his. “Ready.”
As they climbed the stairs to the rear deck, Omar eased into character. Oscar Irfan was a successful entrepreneur, confident, madly in love with his wife. That last one felt a little too easy to inhabit for his liking.
The breakfast spread was obscene. He scanned the room, taking in the tropical fruits carved into elaborate shapes, the assortment of jewel-like pastries that looked like they’d been flown in from Paris, and the chef in whites standing behind a made-to-order omelet station.
Marielle bypassed the mimosa-filled champagne flutes and the Bloody Mary bar and beelined for the row of French presses filled with fresh coffee.
Omar catalogued exits, noted the positions of the two bodyguards stationed near the salon entrance, and registered the camera mounted discreetly in the rigging overhead.
Brad and Poppy were already sitting at a table. They each had a Bloody Mary and a plate piled high with food. And they both looked surprisingly fresh and well-rested considering how much they’d drunk the night before. Uppers, Omar guessed.
Brad wore board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to reveal his hairless chest. Poppy had poured herself into a barely there bikini with a sheer coverup that concealed nothing.
“Morning, lovebirds!” Poppy called out, her voice too bright for this early. “Sleep well?”
“Like the dead,” Omar said, pulling out a chair for Marielle before taking the seat beside her. Under the table, he rested his hand on her knee—possessive, affectionate, exactly what Oscar would do. The tremor that ran through her leg was so slight he almost missed it. “That bed is incredible.”
“Right?” Brad forked a piece of French toast into his mouth. “Idris’s old man doesn’t do anything halfway. Wait until you see the toys.”
“Toys?” Marielle asked.
“Jet skis, paddle boards, scuba equipment, there’s even a whale harpoon.” He grinned. “The Secret Service won’t let me use that one. Apparently, it’s a ‘security risk.’”
As if summoned, the two agents appeared at the top of the stairs. They’d ditched last night’s khakis and polos in favor of tactical shorts and moisture-wicking shirts, but their vigilance was unchanged. Their eyes swept the deck, catalogued threats, and settled on Brad.
Omar clocked the assessment in their gaze—they were evaluating him and Marielle, too, constantly recalculating whether the Canadian newlyweds were who they claimed to be. He’d worked protective details. These guys were good.
No, they were among the best. Of course they were. They’d been chosen to protect the Second Family. Which made them dangerous, even more so than the half-dozen armed men inexplicably clustered together on the top deck.
Robbie—the one who’d tried to buy them drinks at the bar—gave a curt nod before both agents retreated to hover near the salon entrance. Close enough to respond to threats, far enough to give Brad the illusion of freedom.
“Pair of doom merchants,” Brad muttered into his coffee.
“Where are Idris and Hanna?” Omar asked, keeping his tone casual while his eyes tracked the guards’ positions, the agents’ sight lines, and the best route from this deck to the tender platform if they needed to evacuate quickly. Always assessing.
Poppy rolled her eyes. “Idris is on a business call. Hanna’s probably waiting for permission to breathe.” She caught Marielle’s expression and laughed. “Sorry, that was bitchy. But seriously, have you noticed how he treats her? Like she’s a pet. A really expensive, really pretty pet.”
Omar felt Marielle tense beside him. He squeezed her knee gently—half warning, half reassurance.
“She seems sweet,” Marielle said carefully, and Omar wanted to kiss her for gracefully sidestepping the potential mine.
“Oh, she is. That’s what makes it sad.” Poppy lowered her voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “Their families arranged it. Super old-school. Her dad runs some kind of investment firm—works with Idris’s dad. She didn’t have a choice.”
Brad shot her a look. “Maybe we shouldn’t be discussing other people’s relationships.”
“Why not? It’s not like it’s a secret.” But Poppy turned back to Marielle and changed the subject. “Anyway, you two seem like the real deal. How long did you say you’ve been together?”
“Oh, two years, I guess. Married a year,” Marielle said.
“A year of pinching myself,” Omar said. “She’s way out of my league.”
“Stop.” She swatted his arm playfully, then caught his hand and laced their fingers together.
The gesture was part of their cover. He knew that. She knew that. But the way her thumb traced small circles on the back of his hand felt like something else entirely. Something real.
He was in trouble. So much trouble.
This dire realization was interrupted when he registered movement near the salon. Hanna stepped onto the deck. Idris followed close behind, his phone pressed to his ear, gesturing sharply as he spoke rapid Arabic.
Omar’s Arabic was more than passable—it was fluent, despite Jake’s backhanded compliment—and he caught enough of the conversation to understand Idris was arguing with someone about shipping schedules and customs documentation. Nothing obviously suspicious, but worth filing away.
Hanna’s eyes found Marielle’s across the deck, and she took a tentative step toward them. Then Idris finished his call, snaked an arm around her waist, and pulled her back to his side. Hanna turned up the corners of her mouth in a practiced smile.
Idris’s grip on her waist was tight. A bit too tight. Omar had seen that particular hold plenty of times—in trafficking cases, in domestic violence case, and even in the occasional hostage situation. The message was clear: You belong to me.
His jaw clenched involuntarily, and he worked it in an effort to loosening.
“Good morning,” Hanna said as the couple approached. Her voice was soft, musical, carefully modulated. “I hope you’re all enjoying breakfast.”
“It’s amazing,” Marielle said warmly. “Are you going to join us?”
Idris answered before her. “We’ve already eaten. We’re going to take the jet skis out.” His smile was cold. “You’re welcome to join us if you’re up for it.”