Without a word to Sabeen, she headed for the exit, weaving her way between the tables. Her hands shook as she reclaimed her coat and slipped into it. The cold November air bit deep into her bones as she stepped onto the sidewalk. On the way back to her apartment her shivers grew in intensity despite the heat blowing from the taxi’s air vents. By the time she’d stripped off her finery and crawled between the sheets she was convinced she’d never feel warm again.
* * *
The harsh midday sun bounced off the pitted pavement and stabbed at Roark’s tired, dry eyes. He’d chosen a small round table by the window. A cup of coffee sat untouched near his elbow. Roark swiped at the sweat gathering on his forehead and scanned the traffic passing the café’s open door.
Worry rubbed Roark’s already short temper into something nasty. Smith was late. That wouldn’t happen unless something was wrong. The ex-military man had an uncanny sense of time. Halfway through their first tour together, Roark had labeled him a walking timepiece.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Roark’s first thought was that Elizabeth had responded to one of his texts. He’d sent her several since arriving in Cairo, asking how her evening had gone. Her reply had been nonexistent. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
At first he’d assumed Elizabeth was still mad at him for taking off so unexpectedly and at a time when she most needed his support, but then Vance had filled him in about what had happened at the gala with Sabeen.
His gut clenched. The first thing he intended to do after returning to New York was show Sabeen what happened to someone who crossed him. After that, he was going to apologize to Elizabeth and kiss her senseless. Providing of course, that she was willing to see him.
Slipping the cell out, he checked the message.
Outside
Cryptic bastard. The text was from Smith, not Elizabeth. Disappointment sliced razor sharp. He reminded himself that it was a little after noon in Cairo, 5:00 a.m. in New York. Elizabeth probably wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours.
Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Roark headed for the exit. Had he really expected that she’d be quick to forgive him after facing the exposure of their masquerade all by herself? Granted, Sabeen had only told Roark’s family and Ann Richardson. The story wouldn’t spread beyond them, but Ann couldn’t have taken the news well. And Elizabeth shouldn’t have had to face everyone alone.
Roark stepped from the café and spotted Smith leaning against the passenger door of a rusty brown Toyota, enormous biceps crossed over a powerful chest.
The six-foot-four-inch former marine pushed away from the car as Roark neared. “Get in.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
Another thing about Smith was his brevity. The man rarely strung more than four words together at a time. While Smith negotiated the Cairo traffic, Roark sent Elizabeth another text.
“Trouble?” Smith inquired.
Roark put the phone away. “Yeah.”
“What kind?”
“Female.”
Smith grunted. “Not like you.”
“This one’s different.”
Smith let one raised eyebrow speak for him.
“She’s doing me a favor and it landed her in some hot water.”
“Sleeping with her?”
This time it was Roark who let his expression do the talking.
Smith’s thin lips twitched. “Idiot.”
“Shut up.”
And that was last the two men spoke until Smith popped the car trunk. “Got Masler’s fence.”
They were alone in an empty warehouse on the outskirts of Old Cairo. The building was practically falling down around them, but for whatever Smith had in mind, this was the perfect location.