Page 97 of Notorious

A soft sigh and then, “Yes.”

He turned onto his side and propped his head on his hand. “We need to learn how to get along with each other—and not only in bed.”

Her lips curved into a slight smile. “I want to talk about your son, Samir.”

He felt his own smile stiffen. “Yes?”

“You said he was with a nurse—surely that is not the only person he lives with?”

Gabriel worked his jaw back and forth as he considered her question.

“He is living with some friends.”

He felt her shift and turn beside him. “Friends?”

Gabriel passed his hand over his face; he’d known this day would come, but had hoped it would not come so soon. They’d only begun to get over their last misunderstanding. But he supposed now was as good a time as any.

“Yes: friends.”

Tension inserted itself between them, much like a third person in their bed.

“Is it—well, is he living with your mistress, um, mistresses?”

“Who the devil told you about that?”

Her eyes were wide, and he realized he’d raised his voice.

“I apologize, Drusilla, I should not have spoken to you that way.” He closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. Why was he even surprised that she knew? His life appeared to be an open book; the entire world knew of his amorous relations.

“Yes. He has been living with Maria and Giselle. They are both French speakers and adore children so they were glad to take him in while I considered what I should do.”

Silence met his declaration.

Gabriel inhaled deeply and slowly let his breath out before sliding both hands beneath his head and forcing himself to relax.

“Will you tell me about him?”

He knew it was a reasonable request. Still . . .

He sighed. “It is a confused and rather sordid story. I’m not sure how much you care to know.”

“I’m your wife and he is your son. I would like to know what there is to know.”

He chewed his lower lip; he was asking her to bring a child into their home. Did she not deserve a little of his background?

“His mother and I were promised to each other from a very early age and—”

“You mean, you were married?”

“No, we were not. The ceremony was to be at the beginning of our cool season. Every year my father’s subjects would make the journey to Oran to pay homage.That year there was to be an added celebration: my marriage.”

“Marriage? But you couldn’t have been more than—”

“I was sixteen.”

She lay on her side, her head propped on her hand. “So young,” she said wonderingly.

“It is not much different from here. Some girls come out at seventeen—almost all by eighteen. And here you might only talk to a prospective mate a half-dozen times before you are betrothed. Fatima and I had known each other all our lives.”