“Are you serious?My father is the freaking Vice President.So maybe you should watch yourself.”
A pause.Then Idris, dangerously quiet, said, “Is that a threat?”
“Take it however you want.”
Footsteps.Brad stormed past the stairwell, red-faced.The Secret Service agents followed, their expressions stony.
Omar waited another minute before emerging.Idris stood at the rail, his hands gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white.He didn’t turn when Omar approached.
“Trouble in paradise?”Omar kept his tone light, conversational.
“Brad Hampton is a spoiled child who doesn’t understand how the real world works.”Idris’s voice was flat.“I apologize if the noise disturbed you.”
“No apology necessary.Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine.”But Idris’s jaw was clenched.“We’ll be docking in Marseille this evening.I trust you and your lovely wife will join me for a late lunch before we do.”
It wasn’t a question.It was a command—and a dismissal.
“Of course, we wouldn’t miss it.”
Omar returned to their stateroom to find Marielle putting her shoes on, her hair pulled back, her face set with determination.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.“I can feel it.”
He led her out to their private balcony.They couldn’t keep running to the bathroom, eventually even Idris’s musclebound guards would get suspicious.
They stared out at the endless blue sea, shoulder to shoulder.He spoke in a low voice, “Brad and Idris just had it out.Whatever deal they had going is falling apart.”
“Which means they’re going to be on edge.Paranoid.”She met his eyes.“We’re running out of time.”
“I know.”
“We need to search Idris’s stateroom,” Marielle whispered.
“Not his private office?”He gave her a curious look.
“No.Now that we know Hanna is the asset, we should assume she’s hid the information in her room.It’s not like she exactly has free rein.”
He nodded.“That’s a good point.But we’re not going to be able to get in there.There’s no way.”
She grabbed his hand.“We have to try.Once we dock, it’s over.Hanna gets dragged back to Tunisia, we go home empty-handed, and the CIA gets away with abandoning their asset.”
She was right.He hated it, but she was right.
“We need a distraction.A big one.”
She beamed at him.“I have an idea.”
12
Marielle stoodin front of the mirror and applied her makeup with extra care.Smoky eyes, dramatic lashes, dark red lips.She slipped into a short gold cocktail dress and strappy heels that were absolutely impractical for a pre-lunch drinks on a yacht.
Perfect.
Omar watched her, his expression troubled.“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”She turned to face him.“How do I look?”
