Stepping into the ring was sort of like stepping onto a stage. Except that there wasn’t hard wood beneath her kitten heels. There was sand. It made soft hissing sounds as they made their way toward the center of the ring where the acrobats had left behind a thick mat. The thing was as big as three king-size beds, as thick as a pillow-top mattress, and covered in a dusty tarp that Angel whipped away and dropped into a pile along one edge.
“Have a seat,” he instructed, not waiting for her before plopping down. He leaned back on his hands and crossed his long legs at the ankles, looking totally at ease.
Gingerly, she sat on the edge of the mat a good two feet away from him. The leather—pleather?—fabric rustled against her black dress slacks. It wasn’t a bed, but it was close enough. Her throat closed up. Her heart went all giddyap. And when Angel moved, she held her breath, thinking he was going to reach for her.
He didn’t.
He lay back, putting his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling that was painted with colorful scenes of clowns juggling and spinning plates, of trained elephants rearing on their hind legs as the ringmaster doffed his top hat and smiled broadly. “After I set the explosion at the secret missile base in Tehran, my cover was officially blown. The Mossad had to act fast to get me out of the country,” he said, making her blink rapidly.
Right. His escape from Iran. She had asked him about that, hadn’t she?
What was that heavy feeling swirling around low in her belly? Was it fear?
She concentrated on it and realized no. It was disappointment. She’d thought for sure Angel would turn to her and set about seducing her. Now, the last thing she wanted to do was talk.
Chapter 19
Angel cataloged Sonya’s every move, her every gesture.
Even in the dim light of the circus ring, he could see her hands shake as she shrugged her purse from her shoulder and set it at her feet. He could hear her ragged breath as she carefully reclined next to him, folding her hands over her flat stomach. He could feel the tension vibrating from her like she was a piano wire, strung tight and recently struck.
She was having second thoughts.
Second thoughts about him. Second thoughts about them. Because, and this was the truly demoralizing part, he frightened her. Scary, that’s what she’d called him even though she claimed to trust him.
Fucking hell, he didn’t want her to be scared of him. He wanted her to take him as he was and revel in it, be excited by it, as she had before. Ten years ago.
But that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He wanted to let her go on believing he was the Prince of Shadows, and he wanted her implicit faith and trust because he was the same man she’d fallen in love with in Paris.
Tell her… His conscience cajoled.
Screw you, he cursed the idiot. If I told her, I’d lose her. She’d be devastated. She’d never forgive me.
The only way forward with her would be to retain his cover and never let her know Jamin “Angel” Agassi a.k.a. Majid Abass, “the Prince of Shadows” a.k.a. Mark Risa were all one and the same.
And that’s your plan? his conscience pricked. To move forward with her? To keep deceiving her forever?
Yes! he silently fumed, then swallowed jerkily because it was the first time he’d truly admitted it to himself.
He loved Sonya—heart, body, and soul. He’d already spent ten long years without her, and he didn’t want one more day to pass where she wasn’t by his side. If it meant being Angel Agassi, the Iranian formerly known as the Prince of Shadows for the rest of his days, then so be it.
He’d lived most of his adult life under an alias anyway. Was used to being someone other than his true self. This newest role wouldn’t be any different. And if it got him Sonya, it would be worth it.
You’re a bastard even to consider it.
Okay, that was it. He imagined his conscience as a little version of himself sitting on his shoulder. Then he visualized flicking the fucker away.
If Angel Agassi could win Sonya’s love the way Mark Risa had, if Angel Agassi could make her happy the way Mark Risa had, then what were a few lies in the grand scheme of things?
Nothing, he assured himself. They’re nothing.
Since his conscience lay in a heap across the room, Angel didn’t hear a peep of protest.
“How exactly?” she asked, her soft voice echoing in the cavernous space.
“How what?”
