Demarco watched as more tears came. Abir wiped them away, frustrated. "My mother is the reason I am doing this. She is trapped in a loveless marriage that she was forced into. She just stays at home... miserable."
"Does she know? Have you told her anything?"
"No. But... yes. I think she sensed it. Before this trip, she smiled at me more often as if she knew... as if shewantedme to be happy. Perhaps she wants to live life through me. And I can be in contact with her through the Internet. Maybe not now, but later."
"Is there anyone else?"
"There was—" he started, and then the tears came again. Demarco squeezed him.
"It's OK. You don't have to tell me."
"No," Abir said. "I want to."
Demarco stared at the boy as he took a deep breath and steadied his emotions. I was in love... with a boy. His name was Hassan. We were happy... for a short time. We were discreet... but still, somehow word got back to my father."
Demarco sensed what was coming, but it was much more than he had anticipated.
"My father had him executed. He was beheaded."
"Oh, my God."
"He made me watch it on video. He told me that I was to blame... and that, if I chose to lead this life, the same would become of me."
The shock in Demarco ebbed, but simmered... bubbling from cold horror to white-hot anger. He squeezed Abir's hand and said, "OK, then. You're making the right decision."
When he exited the room, he was still both angry and shaken, the hair on his neck prickling. He closed the door quietly behind him and turned. The Secret Service agent was still standing there, suit snug and sexy. He looked at Demarco with scrutinizing, yet surprised eyes. He offered a slight smile and Demarco noticed the recess of a dimple within his stubble.
"That was quick," he said. "You've got time to catch another before the party is over."
Demarco didn't like his tone, but still found himself powerfully attracted to the man, especially his physique—firm, gym-sculpted beneath the crisp, dark fabric of his three-piece suit.
"I'll have you know, Mr. Suit, that not all of my liaisons are purely physical. Some men just want conversation."
He nodded, seeming genuine in his acknowledgment. "Good to hear. He's a little young."
Was that concern or shade?Demarco thought. The man was so hard to read.
"My name is Demarco." He extended his hand. "Demarco Alford... but you probably already know that."
The man ignored the comment and accepted Demarco's hand in a grip that was encompassing and firm, but not uncomfortably so. "Jack," he said. "Jack Keegan. You know he's royalty, right?"
"Yes, I do. He has a lot on his shoulders," Demarco said. "He needed to share some of that weight with someone."
Jack cocked his head ever so slightly. His eyebrows lifted and, for a brief instant, Demarco saw warmth beneath the professional facade. "I bet you're good at your job," he said.
Was that a barb?Impossible to tell.
"There's some psychology involved."
"Yeah," he said, agreeing. "Pretty much in any occupation... if you know what you're doing."
The conversation halted... one of those rare instances where Demarco could think of nothing to say. So, Jack spoke instead.
"You have yourself a good night, Demarco."
"You do the same, Jack."
Demarco offered a parting smile before heading back down the hallway to the elevator, all the way thinking...
