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She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes moving to his plate and back to his face. Junayd took another bite of the delicious meal. She returned to the table and refilled his wine glass.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She sank down onto her seat and played with the lightbulb, rolling it back and forth as if trying to decipher a major problem. He continued to eat, watching and waiting in silence for her answer. He lifted his napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth before lowering it to his lap.
“I’m nobody,” she finally replied, looking back at him.
“You're somebody to someone,” he replied.
Her eyes sparkled with humor again. “Smooth. I can see why the blondes like you.”
His eyes narrowed at the barely veiled insult. “You know my name. What is yours?”
“Midnight,” she replied. Her lips quirked as she waved a hand at the window and the darkness outside of it.
His mouth tightened with irritation. “And your last name is perchance Evening? Dawn? Afternoon?” he sarcastically inquired.
Low peals of laughter, muffled by the scarf covering her mouth, surrounded him like a sandstorm, churning inside him and whipping him until all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her, jerk down her scarf, and kiss her. Shocked by the intense desire to have her submit to him, he instead picked up his wine glass and drained it again. Her chuckles slowly died, and she refilled his glass.
“You should go a little easy on this. Rain. My last name is Rain,” she said, her eyes still dancing with mirth.
“Midnight Rain? Is that a stage name?”
Fire danced through her eyes as she carefully placed the bottle of wine on the table. For some reason, her anger excited him.
“What do you know about Bronislav and Colin Coldhouse?” she suddenly demanded.
Junayd stiffened. Those were not two names he was expecting her to say.
“How doyouknow them?” he countered.
They warily studied each other. He picked up the glass of wine, sipping it this time. She played with the lightbulb again. He noticed she had long, slender fingers and wore no jewelry.
“They attacked your brothers. Anderson Coldhouse was killed, but he was their weak link,” she said, rolling the lightbulb back and forth on the table in a hypnotic pattern.
“How do you know?” he demanded.
“How I know isn’t as relevant as the fact that I do know. What Iwantto know is why they are after your family.”
Junayd studied her eyes. Caution, suspicion, curiosity, and sexual tension reflected back at him.
He rose to his feet, wanting to see her face.
She matched his movements with her own graceful version. Her fingers trailed from the lightbulb to the table when he stepped forward and she stepped back. His nostrils flared at her nervousness.
“Bronislav wanted to create a war between Simdan and Jawahir," he replied. "He wanted to position certain people to rule, so he could control important assets within Jawahir.”
“I can see Kaffir working with Bronislav… for the right price. Zulfiquar Kaffir is a nasty piece of work. This is almost clean compared to how Kaffir made surehewould rule Simdan."
She absently rubbed her arms, a protective motion but also one of distaste. He took another step forward, and this time, she didn't step back. There was still too much space between them for his liking, but he could be patient. He stayed where he was.
"Hopefully, Kaffir won’t be in power much longer. But if the Saif-Ad-Dinswere dead, the one Bronislav would want is your cousin, Rashid al Hamid,” she murmured.
Suspicion flared inside Junayd. Whose sidewasshe on?
He stepped toward her again, and she backed up this time. He pursued her, keeping pace as she danced away.
“My cousin escaped from prison with help and hasn’t been seen,” he coolly replied.
