1
Shayma bint Amr Kahlan juggled the numerous Christmas packages in her arms, trying to free up a hand to reach for the door handle. In hindsight, she could’ve planned her day better. Perhaps she should’ve done her shopping after meeting her new friend Melody Ebons-Hascall for lunch, but she’d been too restless to just sit around all morning in her suite at the Plaza. Now though, seeing how she was at a grave disadvantage when it came to her mobility with all her purchases, a simple walk around Central Park might’ve been the wisest choice.
“Here, allow me to help you,” a gentleman said, reaching past her to open the door to Nerai, the trendy Greek bistro Melody had chosen. A brisk, wintery breeze nipped at her skin and sent shivers down her spine. She couldn’t wait to get inside and sip some nice warm tea.
“Thank you so much.” Glancing up at the chivalrous stranger with a polite smile, she took in his crisp suit and striped silk tie. He looked maybe mid-thirties, light brown hair, dark blue eyes. The man would’ve been attractive, if not for the darkening scowl on his face. Without thinking, Shayma took a step back out of self-preservation, not liking the way his posture was stiffening before her eyes or his white-knuckled grip on the door handle. Her psychology degree from Barnard College kicked into high gear. The man looked ready to murder someone, but surely it wasn’t her. She didn’t know him from Adam. Then she noticed his gaze was locked on something behind Shayma.
Slowly, she turned to see another man approaching. This one she knew. Her heartbeat stumbled, fell, then righted itself within the span of seconds. Oh, boy. This was not going to be good. Not at all.
Murphy Coen, Navy SEAL and her ex-fiancé’s good friend, strode toward them with the restrained, lethal grace of a trained killer. Hot anger sparked in his coal black eyes and for a moment, Shayma found herself hypnotized by him—all long legs and lean muscle wrapped in a solid package of sex on a stick. His faded tight jeans and black leather motorcycle jacket gave him a thug look that sent an illicit thrill straight to her girly parts. She’d always been a sucker for a bad boy. Maybe because she’d always tried to be such a good girl herself.
No, no, no. This was not happening.
If anyone was off-limits for her, it was Murphy Coen. He was too slick, too masculine, too close to the mess she’d just gotten herself out of. Besides, if she didn’t do something quickly, he’d be too incarcerated to date anyone other than the guy in the next cell block, if his steel-edged stare at the chivalrous stranger was any indication. She’d seen friendlier looks from the Egyptian protestors toward the Mubarak soldiers back at the Cairo protests in 2011.
In direct opposition to the cold war happening before her eyes, heat and the luscious smells of roasting fresh seafood drifted out from the still-open door of Nerai. Shayma quickly looked inside and the hostess gave her a peeved stare.
Behind her, Murphy was close enough now that she heard the steady pound of his heavy, black boots against the snow-slick pavement, and the suited man finally let go of the door. Fury pulsed off of him in waves and he appeared ready to burst, a vein in his flushed forehead thumping visibly beneath his mottled skin. If she didn’t act fast, an actual homicide might take place right there on the threshold of the bistro. Which wouldn’t do at all, especially since she’d just bought the pretty cashmere coat she was wearing. Blood tended to stain rather badly.
Another unfortunate lesson she’d learned that forbidden summer in Cairo.
Acting on pure instinct, Shayma waited until Murphy was close enough for the fog of his breath on the frosty air to tickle the back of her neck, then she turned suddenly. Bag and packages went flying everywhere and from the periphery of her vision she saw the suited stranger bolt across the street, dodging cars and honking horns as he went. The man ran straight for a black limousine parked at the opposite curb and clambered into the back seat before the car pulled away in a hurry.
>
“Well, shit,” Murphy muttered, running a bare hand through his windblown black hair. Given his coloring, she would’ve placed his origins in the Middle East, same as her. But Melody had mentioned that Murphy was, in fact, Irish of all things. He certainly had the temper for it, that much was certain. Still cursing under his breath, he crouched in front of her to gather up her scattered belongings, soft faded denim stretching tight over his hard, muscled thighs and perfectly formed butt. Not that Shayma had noticed. Nope. Not at all.
Busy New Yorkers continued to bustle around them in the hazy December sunshine. It was only two weeks until Christmas and the city was aglow with lights and decorations and about as much cheer as one could hope to find in the world’s largest metropolis. Which was to say, not much.
“Watch it, lady,” a portly man who looked like he’d walked off the set of the Sopranos shoved his way out of Nerai and nearly barreled over the top of Shayma. “Idiot tourists.”
Shayma stumbled back a step, only to feel Murphy’s steadying hand against the small of her back. Warm tingles radiated outward from the point of contact before she could tamp them down.
Murphy gave the guy a dark stare, one brow raised. “Apologize to the lady.”
“Huh?” Mr. Rudeness scrunched his nose. “You talkin’ to me?”
“Apologize,” Murphy growled low, the threat evident in his tone. “Last chance.”
Flustered, Shayma shook her head and forced a tremulous smile. “It’s okay. Really. No big deal.”
“See?” the rude man said. “She doesn’t care.”
“I care.” Murphy tensed behind her and Shayma’s breath caught. Seemed she’d averted one disaster only to rush headlong into another. “Say you’re sorry,” Murphy snarled.
Grumbling, the guy gnawed on his toothpick as he turned away. “Sorry.”
After a final glare in the rude man’s direction, Murphy crouched again to grab the last of her packages before shoving them at her one by one. “You shouldn’t let people treat you that way.”
“What way?” she asked, doing her best to hold all of her items again. At least they didn’t look too worse for the wear from her impromptu collision. “I’m pretty sure a thank you is in order.”
“Okay.” He handed her the last bundle then crossed his arms. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?” It was Shayma’s turn to frown.
“My thank you.”
She snorted. “Wait a minute. You’ve got that backwards. You should be thanking me. If I hadn’t stepped in there and stopped you from clobbering that poor man who opened the door for me, you’d be in the back of a police car right now, headed for jail.”
“Wrong.” His dark gaze narrowed. “If you hadn’t stopped me, I would have finally gotten my hands on one of the bastards who kidnapped my sister.”
* * *
“Excuse me?” Shayma asked, her flawless mocha skin somehow still managing to remind him of lush tropical nights despite the frigid temps. “What happened to your sister?”
“Never mind.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and started to walk away. He should’ve brought gloves, but he’d been in such a hurry to catch that EnKor guy when he’d left for lunch that he’d forgotten them back on the rooftop where he’d been stationed all morning. “I need to go.”
“Wait.” She pursed those cherry red lips of hers, making him focus on her mouth again and think of all sorts of improper thoughts about the things that mouth could do for him, where it might drop kisses on his body. Christ, he must be harder up than he thought if he was fantasizing about his best bud’s ex like that. Shayma adjusted all those packages again and gave him an imploring look. “Please. You were right. I should thank you, at least for picking all this stuff up for me. Let me buy you lunch. It’s the least I can do.”
Murphy Coen was really not in the mood for a frou-frou lunch in a fancy bistro, but damn it was freezing outside and he needed a warm place to thaw his fingers out so he could call his buddy Heath and let him know he’d seen Frank Kent, the head of EnKor, and that the guy was still on the loose.
She stood by the doors to Nerai, her gaze darting between him and the entrance, and damn if his good manners didn’t win out in the end. Reluctantly, he walked over and held the door for her then followed her inside the restaurant. Thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as fussy as he’d expected. Busy? Yes. All the white-linen clad tables appeared to be filled. Near the back of the long narrow room was Melody, Daveed’s new fiancée, waving them over. Seemed a bit odd to him that Shayma and Melody were friends, considering one had basically stolen the other one’s man, but then it wasn’t his business to say. Not like he was an expert on love anyway.
He’d learned long ago from his father that women were fine to have a fling with and admire, but they were not to be trusted. That lesson had been driven home for him when his own mother walked out on them. Since then, he’d been fine playing the field and notching his bedpost, never getting too serious, never making the same mistakes his father had all those years ago. And if his life was a bit lonelier for it, well it was a small price to pay for keeping his heart intact.