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“Are you sure you’re not the emir around here?” she muttered under her breath as she did as he bid.
Apparently, he heard her, because he laughed, the sound startled. “You are no shrinking violet, I’ll give you that, Amari.”
“My name is Aaliyah, though I usually go by Liyah.” It sounded more American, even if the spelling was pure Mi
ddle Eastern.
“We are not on a first-name basis,” he replied with a return to his superior, if wary, demeanor of earlier.
She nodded acknowledgment even if she couldn’t give verbal agreement. He was her father; they should be on a first-name basis.
He led her into a posh living room with cream furniture, the walls the same saffron as a great deal of the hotel. Recessed lighting glowed down from the arched ceiling and a fire burned in the ornate white marble fireplace.
“Please, sit down.” He indicated one of the armchairs near the fire before taking the one opposite.
She settled into the chair, her hands fisting against her skirt-covered thighs nervously. “I’m not sure how to start.”
“The beginning is usually the best place.”
She nodded and then had a thought. Taking the locket from around her throat she handed it to him.
“This is a lovely, antique piece of jewelry. Are you hoping to sell it?” he asked, sounding confused rather than offended by that prospect.
“No. Please open it and look at the pictures inside.” One was of Liyah on her sixteenth birthday and the other was of Hena Amari at the same age.
She wouldn’t have looked appreciably different at eighteen, the age she was when she had her short affair with Gene Chatsfield.
He looked at the pictures, his puzzled brow not smoothing. “You were a lovely girl and your sister, as well, but I’m not sure what else I’m looking at.”
“The other woman isn’t my sister. She was my mother.”
He looked up then. “She’s dead?”
Liyah nodded, holding back emotion that was still too raw.
“I am very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. She didn’t tell me about you until just before she died.”
He frowned, his expression growing less confused and more cautious. “Perhaps you should tell me who she is and why she would presumably have told you about me.”
“You don’t recognize her?” Even after having time to really look at the picture?
It was small, but the likeness was a good one.
“No.”
“That’s…” She wanted to say obscene, but stopped herself. “Disappointing.”
“I imagine, if you are here for the reason I believe you are.”
“You know why I’m here?” she asked, a tiny bud of relief trying to unfurl inside her.
“It’s not the first time this has happened.”
“What exactly?”
“You’re about to claim I am your father, are you not?”
