Page 48 of Rescuing You

“I planned to go straight to Baghdad,” she said, “but I thought Heba would help us.”

“Who is Heba?”

“An old friend from school. She lives in a village about twenty miles south of the compound.”

“Last name? Husband’s name?”

She blinked as if surprised by the questions. For a moment, he thought she’d push back, but she didn’t.

“Heba Iyad. Her husband is Mustafa Aqeel.”

“She didn’t take her husband’s name?”

“Many don’t. Arabs are named for our fathers. Heba Iyad’s father is named Iyad Assad.”

Oh.

Wait.

Iyad Assad owned the compound where Leila and Jasmine had been held. And yet Leila had believed Heba would help her?

She continued, not reading his thoughts. “Her grandfather would be Assad… something. I do not remember.”

Michael had already understood Iraqi naming conventions but allowed her to explain, wanting as much information as he could get. “And you are…?”

“Leila Hura Amato.”

A smooth lie. Though, perhaps it wasn’t a lie. Perhaps she’d legally changed her name.

Which made sense, really. If she’d left Iraq as a refugee, maybe she’d left without her family’s permission.

Things were starting to come together.

He let his silence ask the obvious—what had her name been before she’d left Iraq? Because Amato was an Italian surname. Nobody would believe her to be Italian, certainly not after they heard her accent.

“You do not tell me your secrets,” she said, “but I am expected to tell you mine?”

He chewed on the question—and spit it out. “Yes.”

“Is that fair?”

“All things considered, yes.”

All things being the fact that he’d risked his life to save hers. He not only deserved to know the truth about her, but he needed to know everything if he was going to keep her safe.

She glared at him across the room, the furious look almost comical on her small face.

Even angry, she was breathtaking.

Long, silky hair, still wet from the shower. High cheekbones. Straight nose over full, very kissable lips. But it was her eyes that had first captured his attention. Big, beautiful almond-shaped eyes, black as onyx stones. They didn’t falter as he stared.

“I think not,” she said.

“Seriously?”

She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Close enough to the American idiom that he nearly smiled.