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“Only once or twice.” He placed the dolmades down and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin.
Sarah had lit at least a dozen little candles throughout the lounge room of her tiny house. It was cosy and quaint, and somehow, it was the most beautiful room he’d ever been in. And that was saying something.
“Really? What for?” Her curiosity was natural.
Syed had been careful in the time they’d been dating; careful not to make slips that alluded to his other life. What had started off as a natural misunderstanding – how could he have known that Sarah hadn’t recognised him? – was now an intentional deceit.
“Oh, you know. Family pictures, that kind of thing.”
“I see.” Sympathetic anguish marred her features for a moment, as she moved to him with the kindness that he’d come to recognise was as much a part of her as those enormous eyes or the ready smile. “Do you have a photo of her?”
He knew instantly who she meant. “Of course.”
“May I see?”
Adrenalin pumped in his veins. Did he have one that wouldn’t immediately give away the truth of his identity? He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scanned through the selection of shots on his camera roll, guilt making his finger move quickly. The images of him and Zahir on their yacht; photos of Ashad’s last birthday party with the ten-tier cake. An official portrait of the brothers in their full crowns-and-gowns, as they jokingly referred to the ceremonial robes they wore from time to time.
Then, she was there. His mother, as she’d been at the party. Dressed in a beautiful gown, she hadn’t worn a crown. “A wig is enough,” she’d joked wryly at the time. “I don’t want to worry that a tiara is going to slip and reveal my bald head to all and sundry.”
“This is her about six months ago,” he said with a tight smile.
Sarah’s hand stroked his hair as she came to stand beside him, her eyes tracing the image carefully, seeing it as an artist, a photographer. She noticed the smile, the enigmatic expression on a stunning face, the tiredness in the eyes, and the colourful dress.
“She looks very nice,” Sarah said gently. “Just like her son.” She dropped a kiss against Syed’s thick, dark hair, and then nestled her cheek against him, holding him tight, breathing in his exotic fragrance. Desire kicked hard and fast in her gut.
“She would have liked you,” Syed said, and he knew it was true. Though Sarah’s background would have given anyone concern, his mother would have seen past that. She would have seen Sarah for her potential and integrity.
“I think I would have liked her too,” she murmured.
His hand lifted up, wrapping around her waist, his fingers stroking her side. Need gushed through her veins, stirring her body to a strange, new awareness; one he perhaps didn’t feel, as he pulled away from her easily and stood.
“Let me take your photo,” he said.
“Oh, no!” She shook her head, her pulse still raging, her heart thumping. “I don’t like being in pictures.”
“Why not?” He reached for her camera, feeling its weight in his hands, flicking the on switch easily.
“I’m better at taking them, that’s all,” she demurred, moving towards him and reaching for the camera.
He held it high, above his head, so that her whole body pressed to his as she tried to take it from him. “Besides, you’re a far better photographic subject than I am.”
“I respectfully disagree,” he laughed, but it was a thick, heavy laugh.
“Give it to me,” she insisted, reaching up higher.
“Let me take a photo first,” he insisted, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“No deal.” She shook her head and wrapped a hand around his waist, tickling his side with a giggle.
“Careful, najin. Do not dish out what you cannot take,” he warned.
Her eyes met his with a droll look of amusement. “You think I can’t take being tickled?”
“Not by a master such as me,” he grinned, bringing one hand down and finding the soft flesh beneath her arm.
“Stop,” she wriggled self-consciously, thinking of the h
ot day and the stickiness of her flesh.
