Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
J asmine chopped the onion, her eyes streaming. It was the first time she’d cried since this nightmare began. First Adam’s confession, then his suicide.
Finding him like that . . .
She shivered and shoved the memory out of her mind.
She was good at that—compartmentalizing.
It was a skill she’d learned young—growing up with an abusive father. She’d taught herself to shove the worst parts of her life into a little box, tie it up tight, and never open it again. At school, she acted like nothing was wrong. Smiled. Laughed. Pretended.
After a while, she’d almost believed it herself.
It had been the same with her marriage. She’d ignored the cracks. Turned a blind eye to the truth.
She had pursued her psychology degree partly to understand her father—to figure out what made a man do the things he did. Turned out he’d been suffering from undiagnosed PTSD ever since he came back from a peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan.
Post-traumatic stress disorder. Something she was now an expert in.
Yet, here she was, shutting out her own trauma. Refusing to face it. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Damn onions.
A door opened. Voices drifted down the hall.
She stiffened. Amir, and his cousin, Riad. The two of them had been holed up in Amir’s study for hours. It was completely soundproof, so she had no idea what they were discussing.
“I’ve never heard of them,” Riad was saying.
Amir laughed. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll be famous after this.”
Jasmine tossed the onions into the pan, stirring them into the hot oil. Then, she added the chicken, searing it as the spices filled the air. She was a good cook—one of her few skills outside of work. Her mother had taught her, and the kitchen had always been their refuge. A safe haven from her father, who never ventured in. He preferred his study. And a bottle of Scotch.
She’d wanted to pass on that love of cooking to her son, but he was away at boarding school. Even when he was home, he had no interest in learning any culinary skills. She smiled, just a little.
Ryan was a smart kid, like his father. He’d probably become an engineer or something equally brilliant. Boarding school was the right place for him right now. He didn’t need to be caught up in this. Too much upheaval. Too much danger.
“That smells good.” Amir came into the kitchen, drawn by the smell. She turned and pasted a smile on her face. That was another thing she was good at.
Lying.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
He put a hand on the small of her back. A possessive gesture, one of many he’d started using lately. An unconscious shudder slid down her spine. She couldn’t tell him how uncomfortable it made her.
“All this planning has worked up quite an appetite,” he said.
Planning? Planning what?
Riad slunk into the room and hovered by the door. He was a creepy man, always lurking in the shadows. She didn’t like him, and she sure as hell didn’t trust him. Not that she trusted Amir, but unlike his cousin, Amir needed her. That meant she was safe—for now.
“It’ll be on the table by seven.” She forced a cheerful note into her voice.
“Great.”
Amir grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, along with two glasses, then disappeared into the living room with Riad. A moment later, the TV clicked on.
NBC Nightly News. Amir never missed it.
She poured in the chicken stock, added herbs, then lowered the heat to let it simmer.
Then, she poured herself a glass of wine.
Amir didn’t drink. Neither did Riad. They were devout. But she’d made it clear—if she was staying, she would have her wine in the evenings. It might sound silly, but it wasn’t about the alcohol. It was about control. She’d take what small victory she could get.
He may have destroyed her life, but he hadn’t broken her.
Jasmine thought back to the incident in the restaurant earlier today. Who was that man who’d attacked Amir? Large, powerful, handsome in a rugged, physical way. She remembered how his eyes had burned as he’d glared up at Amir—tiger’s eyes.
She shivered.
They’d known each other in the past, that much was clear. And nothing in Amir’s past was good.
The stranger had been so angry, filled with an explosive, uncontrollable rage. Despite that, she got the impression he wasn’t a violent man. Something about Al-Jabiri had set him off.
With those broad shoulders, strong physique, and hardened expression—she was betting military. After twenty years of working with soldiers and being the daughter of one, she knew the type.
He’d tried to warn her about Amir. He’d asked whether she knew he was a terrorist.
Of course she knew.
Amir had told her that much himself, like he was proud of the fact. It didn’t change a damn thing. He still needed her.
And she still couldn’t leave.
But the rage in that stranger… the way he’d snapped, like a bomb going off. There were a lot of unresolved issues there.
What on earth had Amir said to provoke him?
One moment they’d been talking like civilized human beings, the next the fiery-eyed stranger had his massive hands around Amir’s throat and was throttling him. He would have killed him too, if those homeless men hadn’t come barging in.
She shook her head. The whole thing was surreal.
Jasmine didn’t for a moment believe they were homeless. Not fit young men like that. She’d also glimpsed their weapons before they’d hidden them under their dirty rags. No, they were undercover operatives.
Besides, she was sure she’d heard one of them call the stranger “boss”. If he was their commanding officer, then they were soldiers. Or Marines. Or spies.
Regardless of who they were, they had Amir under surveillance and were trying to figure out what he was involved in.
This planning has worked up quite an appetite.
She wiped her hands on her apron. Well, they weren’t the only ones.