NINE
My mouth was still hanging open when the polite ding of the elevator sounded from down the hallway.
“Showtime,” said Rafiq. He slid a strong arm around my back, his hand pulling me close into his body. “Don’t let the security detail startle you.”
“The what?”
The doors slid open and immediately, two huge men in black suits and sunglasses emerged. From their ears, the twisted white wires of their earpieces dangled, like they were wearing pieces of pasta for earrings. Stone-faced, they hustled down the hallway, eyeing the ceilings and dark corners. They split when they entered the living room to continue their inspection around the apartment.
What they were looking for, I could only imagine. It seemed strange for the Sheikh to fear trouble in his own son’s apartment, but then again, there was a great deal about Rafiq’s world I didn’t understand.
Walking behind them was a man who looked so much like Rafiq, I did a double-take. Although the gentleman coming down the hallway was older and a few inches shorter, he had the same sharp features, flawless bronze skin, and stern darkness of his son. I would even wager that, behind those huge dark sunglasses, he had the same quietly soft brown eyes.
He proved me right when he came to a stop at the end of the hallway and removed them. He stood there and waited, letting us take him in, an entrance that couldn’t help but inspire respect—or at least a little fear. Forgoing the traditional wear of his homeland, he was dressed in a fine tailored, dark brown pinstripe suit. Gold rings sparkled on several of his fingers, and his black hair was graying at the temples, which only made him look more dignified.
“Welcome, father,” said Rafiq. “Did you have any trouble on your flight?”
“More than some; the private hanger at O’Hare is still terribly inefficient,” his father replied. “Is this she?” He was looking at me expectantly, and I tried not to shrink beneath his gaze. I immediately understood why Rafiq felt the way he did about his father—the man was naturally intimidating.
Rafiq smiled down at me and squeezed me into his side. “Yes, this is the woman who has stolen my heart, Evangeline Pryce. Evangeline, this is my father, Sheikh Mehmet Al-Zayn.”
“Please, call me Mehmet, my dear,” his father said immediately. “After all, we are to be family.”
Family?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you sir,” I said, and miraculously my voice came out steady.
“My goodness,” said Mehmet in a smooth voice. “My son has always demonstrated capability for great taste; it’s good to see he has finally put it to use when it comes to women.” He moved across the living room with sure steps straight toward me, while behind him, the bodyguards snooped around the room like curious cats. “My beautiful new daughter, I’m so pleased to meet you.”
There were so many millions of thoughts running through my mind that I could only stand there and stare, smiling tightly at Rafiq’s powerful father. I was terrified I was about to blow our cover, but also furious at the realization that Rafiq had already planned our “engagement” long before this moment. I had thought his move with the ring was a spontaneous fail-safe, a last-minute decision he might have made in panic. But no; he’d been planning this all along, and just hadn’t bothered, or hadn’t wanted, to tell me about it.
“Thank you….father,” I said. “My fiancée is certainly full of surprises, isn’t he?”
I turned and looked up at Rafiq to make sure he could hear the sarcasm dripping from every word. Judging by the look in his eyes, he heard it just fine, but he only smiled back and dropped a kiss on top of my head.
“I’ve got a tea service ready,” said Rafiq. “Why don’t you two take a seat while I go collect it?” He gestured to the couches.
Mehmet moved to one of the couches, and sat down square in the middle. I took the edge of the adjoining love seat, figuring it would force me and Rafiq to sit close to one another. As angry as I was, we were supposed to be in love.
Over the sounds of Rafiq gathering the tea service in the kitchen, Mehmet lightly dropped both hands on his knees and said, “Well, Evangeline, it is very exciting to finally see this day arrive. I was beginning to worry that Rafiq would never find a suitable woman to settle down with, but it seems I was mistaken, and for that I’m happy.”
“Yes, it’s exciting for me, too. Rafiq has been a big improvement to my life,” I said with a tight nod. My cheek muscles were starting to ache from the strain of the smile I was forcing on my face. “I’m… I can’t believe I get to share my life with him.”
The lie felt strange coming out of my mouth, but Mehmet didn’t seem to notice.
“My son tells me you are a successful artist,” said Mehmet. “That is wonderful to hear. Our family has a great deal of history in the arts.”
“Oh?” I turned with surprise toward the kitchen, as if Rafiq could see me, and respond to my questioning expression.
“I was once a painter,” said Mehmet. “Though I could never quite find my place in the art world the way I did in business. I’m surprised Rafiq didn’t mention it to you before, given your occupation.”
“Oh, well,” I said, scrambling in my head for a response. “You could say we’ve had a bit of a whirlwind romance.”
“I see... How did you meet?”
“Rafiq stopped into my gallery to view my paintings some time ago, and ended up purchasing one. We got to chatting and, well…one thing led to another, and here we are.”
I was getting good at thinking on my feet. Why hadn’t Rafiq planned a cover story for how we met? He really hadn’t thought this grand scheme through, it seemed.
Thankfully, Mehmet nodded in approval. “I’m very pleased he has found someone who understands the arts and who has found success in such a noble field.”
I cleared my throat, bashful, and shifted in my seat. “Oh, well, I suppose I do all right. I haven’t had any major gallery showings in a few years now.”
“Bah,” said Mehmet with a wave of his hand. “That’s not the point, is it? The art world is as corrupt as politics and has no monopoly on judging talent. Rafiq has told me that you have a very special gift. It’s exciting for me to see him with a woman of passion, and artistic integrity.”
“I guess this is not a typical romance for him, then?” I said with a self-effacing laugh.
But it seemed that Mehmet was being serious. “Rafiq is a…capable man, but with women, he has always tended to take the path of least resistance,” said Mehmet without a hint of worry about discussing such a subject with me. “He has not learned the truth of love yet.”
“What truth is that?” I asked.
“A love that doesn’t challenge you to become your best self is no real love at all.”
Mehmet’s words fell heavy on my heart, even though I didn’t fully understand why. “That’s very beautiful. I hope… I hope I can be that for Rafiq. And that he can be that for me.”
“You would not be here otherwise,” said Mehmet with a knowing smile. “You must be bringing out the best in Rafiq, finally challenging him as I have always tried to do, to become his best self.”
I could feel eyes on me, and looked up toward the kitchen to see Rafiq standing in the doorway. His face was lit up with a brilliant smile as he sat there watching me talking with his father. A deep, unexplainable warmth began to fill my chest.
“Is this yours, Evangeline?” said Mehmet to my side.
I turned to see he was pointing across the room, at the new painting Rafiq had hung on the wall between my rooms—the painting of Rafiq, shirtless, sleeping on the couch, and enveloped in warm light.
Instantly my face went red, terrified I had offended Mehmet with the painting. As sincere and loving as I found the portrayal of my “fiancée”, I also hadn’t skimped on the honesty of the scene, including the clear signs of hedonistic revelry that surrounded Rafiq’s sleeping form. It might as well have been a snapshot of proof that his son wasn’t living the life the father w
anted for him.
“Oh, uh… yes, I…” I couldn’t think of what to say to fix this.
Concerned, I turned to Rafiq as he approached, balancing the empty tea glasses and steaming pot on the tray in his hands. The look on his face said he wasn’t quite sure what was about to happen, either.
“Yes,” answered Rafiq in a firm voice. “Evangeline finished that one just this morning. It’s her newest masterpiece—a requiem to a past life, it would seem.” He looked down at me with a smile and winked.
As his son set the tea service on the coffee table, Mehmet rose from the couch and walked over to get a closer look at the painting. Rafiq and I exchanged heavy glances before turning to watch his reaction.
For a few moments, Mehmet said nothing, as he studied the painting from different angles, twisting his head, and blocking the strong light from the window with his flattened hand to get a better sense of the tone of the colors. He got close enough to see the strokes.
When he turned finally, I was sure he was about to scold us both for willingly displaying this side of Rafiq’s life, even if his father believed it was long over.
Instead, Mehmet clasped his hands together and said, “My dear, you are a born artist. This is truly exceptional. I can see Rafiq was not exaggerating about your abilities.”