‘But...even if some newspaper did track me out here into the middle of all this nothing, those gigantic fences and armed guards mean there’s no chance of a picture ending up in some tabloid with a fabricated story. I just hoped that maybe I could ease back a bit on the rules this trip. Since no one knows who I am out here. You know, relax.’
His steady regard made her fingers twitch, and she curled them subtly into her fists. It only seemed to drive the flutters inward, just below her sternum.
‘No one here knows you,’ he said, still without blinking, ‘but everyone knows me. These are my colleagues.’
The flutters fell to the floor of her gut and died there. That was right. Her plea for some latitude was essentially asking Brad to compromise his professionalism.
Remorse congealed in her blood.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’ Well, she was...but not about him. ‘Maybe you should—’
He stopped her before she could send him away.
‘Leaving again is going to draw more attention than me staying,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s just finish lunch, yeah?’
But having achieved the company she’d set out to secure, Sera suddenly found herself struggling for a single fascinating thing to say. And he was apparently not about to help her out.
‘So, you’re ex-military?’ she finally guessed, though she wouldn’t win any prizes for intuition. Everything about him screamed Defence Forces.
‘Ten years in the Specials.’
Ten years? She was just a kid when he was first heading into danger. Was that why she felt so breathless around him? Like some sixteen-year-old? She was a mere teen, compared to his life experience. ‘You seem to know a fair bit about deserts.’
He paused, his fork halfway to his lips. ‘More than most.’
‘Were you posted to the Middle East?’
‘My unit provided support to the United Nations. Mostly based in the capital. But I got out in the sand often enough.’
That brought her eyes back up. ‘That sounds interesting.’
‘If by “interesting” you mean political and volatile, sure.’
‘When did you leave the UN?’
His eyes darkened over. ‘Two years ago, now.’
‘What made you leave?’
His eyes flicked out to the horizon.
‘A mistake,’ he murmured, discomforted. ‘My mistake.’
She wanted to quiz him further but every question she posed made her feel like that cougar that he’d mentioned; the rare Snoopy Desert Cougar.
‘And you’ve worked for the Sheikh since then?’
‘As soon as the opportunity came up. I held out for his team.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged massive shoulders. ‘They’re the best.’
‘Must have been competitive,’ she murmured.
‘So am I.’
Did he have any idea how intriguing that twisted thing he called a smile was?
‘And you’re always based out here?’
‘Not always. But Al Saqr is the gem in Sheikh Bakhsh Shakoor’s crown. All his guests come here at some point, which makes for pleasant work.’
She leaned back in her seat and smiled. ‘How many of them couldn’t leave again without risking deportation?’
He fought a proper smile, but failed. As with the last glimmer she’d had of it, it transformed his face. ‘You have the honour of being the first. My first, anyway.’
The idea of being Brad’s first anything resurrected all those butterflies lying prone in her gut and they lurched back to life. She fought to focus on their conversation.
‘Who was your most challenging client?’
‘It would be unprofessional of me to comment.’
‘No names, obviously.’
He stared in silence. Until she realised.
‘Truly,’ she gasped. ‘I’m your worst?’ How few had he had?
‘You didn’t say worst,’ he was quick to reply. ‘You said challenging.’
‘We’ve been here three hours. How can I possibly challenge you already?’
For the first time, she got the sense that he wasn’t saying exactly what was on his mind. ‘Do you think I improvise immigration incidents every day?’
‘Well, you didn’t seem the slightest bit troubled by it.’
Irritated, yes...
‘It’s my job to appear in control.’
Seriously? Did he have to remind her every five seconds that he was paid to be here?
A beautifully dressed young woman appeared at their table with two flat stone platters dotted with pretty little desserts. She placed them down with a gentle smile, enquired after their needs and then tiptoed off again. Brad’s eyes glanced after her.
For no reason at all that made her grumpy.
‘So, are we okay to get some photos this afternoon?’ she said, drawing his focus back to her. ‘Once it starts to get cooler?’
‘Whatever you need.’
He inclined his head, waiting politely for her to lift her dessert fork. She was happy to oblige, tucking into a mysterious, bluish sticky morsel—totally foreign to her but scrumptious—and the next ten minutes were all about eating in silence. Until he broke it.
‘What’s the story with the photography?’ he asked. ‘Hobby or job?’
Here we go. He wasn’t the first person to assume that someone with money didn’t want or need to work.
‘I don’t know that I’ve sold enough shots to truthfully call it a job,’ she said. ‘But I take it much more seriously than a hobby. Maybe we could settle on it being a...pastime?’
‘How’d you get into it?’ His interest seemed more than just polite.
‘I don’t remember whose idea it was, but I remember the excitement of the day my tutor took me shopping to buy my first equipment. And Friday afternoons when a professional photographer came out to teach me how to use it with any skill.’
‘Do
