Chapter 14
Lunch was awful as Omar had anticipated.
Brad was too loud, his jokes increasingly crude as he drank.
Idris was too quiet, his eyes constantly tracking his guests with cold calculation.
The Secret Service agents sat at a nearby table, close enough to respond to threats but far enough to maintain the pretense of privacy.
And then there was Hanna, sitting next to Idris in a cream-colored dress, picking at her food, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller.
Marielle had changed into a simple black dress and pulled her still-damp hair into a low bun. She’d apologized profusely for the pool incident, laughing at herself while batting her eyes at Omar. Playing the slightly tipsy, apologetic wife to perfection.
“I can’t believe my compact got ruined,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “I loved that compact.”
“We’ll get you a new one in Marseille,” Omar assured her, playing along.
“It won’t be the same.” She pouted prettily.
Poppy leaned over. “Was it expensive?”
“Not really. But it was a gift from a friend.”
Omar watched as Marielle skillfully steered the conversation away from the incident, asking Poppy about her upcoming tour, complimenting Hanna’s dress, even getting Brad to crack a genuine smile with a story about their fictional honeymoon.
She was good at this. Better than he’d given her credit for.
Midway through the main course, Omar knocked over his wine glass, sending a cascade of red across the white tablecloth and across Hanna’s dress.
“I’m so sorry!” He jumped up, grabbing his napkin.
“It’s fine, really—” Hanna started.
“No, it’s not fine.” Marielle was already on her feet. “Come on, let’s get some club soda on that before it sets.”
She took Hanna’s hand and pulled her up before Idris could object. “We’ll be right back.”
Omar watched them go, then turned to Idris with an apologetic grimace. “I’m such an idiot. Please, let me pay for the dress—”
“It’s nothing,” Idris said, but his jaw was tight. He didn’t like his girlfriend being pulled away, even for something as innocent as stain removal.
Brad, oblivious or uncaring, launched into a story about the time he’d spilled champagne on a senator’s wife. Omar laughed in the right places, kept his body language relaxed, and counted the minutes.
In the lounge, Marielle grabbed a bottle of club soda and a napkin from the bar and dabbed at Hanna’s dress. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.” Hanna’s voice was quiet. “It’s just a dress.”
Marielle pulled a pen from her clutch and scrawled quickly on a second napkin:
Where is the intel? We’ll try to get you out.
She handed it to Hanna, as if passing her something to help with the stain.
Hanna’s hands shook as she read it. She looked up at Marielle, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and terror. Then she grabbed the pen and wrote back:
Try hard because the intel is in my brain. Only way to get it is to take me.
Before Marielle could respond, a crew member appeared in the doorway. “Can I help you ladies with anything?”
“No, thank you,” Marielle said brightly. “We’ve got it handled.”
The crew member nodded but didn’t leave immediately. He was young, maybe twenty-five, with nervous eyes that kept flicking between them.
Marielle forced herself to keep dabbing at the stain, to maintain the charade. After what felt like an eternity, he finally left.
Hanna grabbed Marielle’s wrist. “Please,” she whispered. “Please get me out of here.”
“We will. I promise. But you have to trust us.”
Hanna nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.
They returned to the dining room, where the men were deep in conversation about yachts and cars and other expensive things. Idris’s eyes tracked Hanna as she reclaimed her seat, his hand immediately finding her thigh under the table.
Possessive. Controlling.
Marielle caught Omar’s eye across the table and gave him a slight nod.