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“I can’t leave you alone here, señora.”
“I’ll be fine,” Callie said impatiently. She motioned to the busy souk. “There’s no danger here!”
The bodyguard lifted an eyebrow. Turning away, he used his cell phone and spoke in low, rapid Spanish. Hanging up, he turned to Sami with a broad smile. “Sí. I can take you home, señorita.”
“Thank you,” Callie said, surprised. He’d never been so reasonable before. “Would you mind taking these bags back with you?”
“Por supuesto, señora.” Garcia took her purchases, gifts for her parents, clothes and toys for Marisol, even a silver koumaya dagger for Eduardo. “Stay right here, Mrs. Cruz, in the open market.”
“I will.” Callie hugged her sister and whispered, “I think you and Brandon are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” Sami breathed fervently. “I love you, Callie.” Then she was gone.
Callie was alone. She took deep breaths of the exotic, spicy scent of the air, of the distant leather tannery, of flowers and musky oriental perfumes. No bodyguard. No baby. Not even her husband. Callie was alone in this exotic foreign market. After so many months, the sudden freedom felt both disorienting and intoxicating.
Smiling to herself, she ignored the shouts of sellers trying to get her attention and walked through the market, feeling light as a feather on air as she continued to shop for gifts. Who knew if she’d ever return to Morocco again?
Her eye fell upon a tiny star carved in wood. It reminded her of Brandon’s hobby that Callie found intolerably boring—astronomy. Thinking of him, a pang went through her.
Why didn’t he ever write me?
He did. I know he did. He showed me the letters.
With a ragged breath, Callie lifted her gaze to the sky, turning toward the fading warmth of the sun. Above the busy, crowded, chaotic souk, a bird flew toward the distant Atlas Mountains. The setting sun had turned the snowcapped peaks a deep violet-pink.
“Callie.”
She sucked in her breath. Slowly she turned.
Brandon McLinn stood in front of her.
Time slowed as he came toward her, tall and thin, standing out from the rest of the crowd in his cowboy hat, plaid flannel shirt and work-worn jeans. He stopped in front of her.
“At last,” Brandon breathed, his eyes wet with tears. “I’ve found you.”
“Brandon?” she whispered, her throat choking. “Is this a dream?”
“No.” Smiling through his tears, he put a skinny hand on her shoulder. “I’m here.”
“But what are you doing in Morocco?”
His hand tightened. “It took a miracle, all right,” he said grimly. His eyes narrowed beneath his black-framed glasses. “No thanks to that Spanish bastard.”
Callie gasped. “Don’t call him that!”
He blinked, frowning. “But you hate him. Don’t you? You said he was a playboy, that he had coal instead of a heart … that he couldn’t be loyal to anything but his own fat bank account!”
Hearing her own words thrown back at her hurt. She closed her eyes against her own cruelty. “He’s not like that,” she said over the lump in her throat. “Not really. He’s—changed.”
“Must be Stockholm Syndrome,” Brandon snorted then his voice grew serious. “I’ve been so worried about you, Callie. I just let him take you away. I didn’t save you.”
Callie opened her eyes in shock. “You felt guilty?”
“I swore I’d leave no stone unturned, until you and your baby were back home. Safe, and free.”
Smiling through sudden tears, she put her hand over his. “But we are safe. And free. I know our marriage had a rocky start, but he’s been nothing but good to us.”
“Good?” Brandon’s jaw hardened. “He’s had me followed for months.”
