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If these words had come from anybody else, it would have pissed him off, but Misha had a way of asking questions like this that made it feel like a favor to answer him. Bashir shrugged. “He shouldn’t have married who he did,” he said.
“What is so terrible about your father’s second wife?”
It took Bashir a moment to realize that Misha had only been his bodyguard since he went to London. He wouldn’t have known about the cheating. Bashir debated telling the man about it, and in the end decided against it. There were things that a bodyguard was not entitled to know about. “We have a difficult history,” he said, instead. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Of course, sir.”
The servant came out with a platter: boiled eggs, fresh fruit, a pot of mint tea, and sweet rolls. Bashir thanked the man and dismissed him. “So Misha,” he said, as he stabbed a chunk of mango. The cook had dusted it with chili and salt, just as he liked it. “What do you charge?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m planning on leaving Bahrain for good, and separating from my father if need be. This will probably mean the end of my trust fund, so if I want to keep you on—”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, just talk with the man!” Misha growled suddenly. “I’ve been the bodyguard to several rich entitled brats like you and they all make the same mistake of thinking that actions matter more than words.”
“Don’t they, though?” Bashir asked, feeling a little chagrined. His bodyguard, telling him how to live his life? That was simply not allowed, and yet, here they were, Misha giving him a veritable lecture—given that most of what he said was, “Yes sir,” and “No sir”—on what he was doing wrong.
“I’m Russian. Words are our life.”
He watched Misha take a roll and pour himself a cup of tea, wondering if it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to just let Misha go. Then he heard a woman’s voice calling him: Alya’s voice.
Misha lowered his sunglasses and got up. He made a short bow and said, “Sir,” before gathering his towel and newspaper and heading inside.
Bashir remained where he was. Alya took Misha’s place next to him, and helped herself to a cup of tea.
“Are you enjoying being the queen?” Bashir asked pointedly.
“Cut the crap,” she said. Bashir felt a burst of surprise rise in his chest. “I know you hate me, and I’m not expecting that I’ll change your mind now that your father and I are married.”
“So what do you want?” he asked.
She sipped at her tea for a while, blowing on it in a dainty, ladylike way. Bashir had to admit that she did have class, after all—but in his mind she was still inextricably linked with the grief she’d caused his mother. “To thank you,” she said, finally. “For not ruining the wedding yesterday. I know you wanted to, and—well, I can understand why.”
“No, you can’t,” he said.
“Yes, I can. Did it ever occur to you that I was once married, too?”
Bashir felt himself go red: no, the idea had never occurred to him. Nor had it ever occurred to him that her husband might have cheated on her, which was what she was implying. “Of course not,” she said, turning away to look out at the pool. “Because I’m just an evil whore who seduces good men like your father.”
He couldn’t say anything because she was right—he had thought those things about her. “You don’t get a pass on cheating just because your husband hurt you first,” he said, aware that he sounded exactly like a pouting five-year-old.
“I’m not asking for a pass,” she said. “I’m asking that you remember that we’re not all that different.”
“I am nothing like you,” he snapped.
She merely raised her eyebrow and got up.
What kind of crazy-ass bitch did my father just marry? He rang the bell, summoning a servant to come and collect the tray. He needed to make reservations and find a suit. His father would definitely disapprove of him going on a date. It was the perfect way to make a statement, regardless of what Misha said. And if Misha disapproved of him so much, well, he didn’t have to bring a bodyguard with him when he went back to London.
***
Technically, he supposed that borrowing the Bugatti without letting his father know was stealing. But then again, if his father had been against him borrowing the car, he should have said something. The valet had hemmed and hawed and said something about his job, but Bashir knew his father: the man would never fire a servant for the bad behavior of his children.
He was wearing a linen suit, the only kind of thing that was bearable in the desert heat. He liked the Bugatti—it was stylish and different without being flashy and showy—it was a rich man’s car that didn’t scream “money” and the steering was second-to-none.
He’d never been on a date before. Not like this, anyway: an unchaperoned outing with a woman, alone. He’d gone out plenty of times with friends in London, and several times as the sole guy in a group of women, but it’d never gone beyond drinks and dancing. There’d always been the idea that one day he’d come home and his father would tell him that he was going to marry someone, lingering in the back of his mind and tainting all of his interactions with women. He’d always told himself that he’d refuse, but until now he had no good reason to disobey his father. His father respected the fact that he didn’t like the idea of being married, so he respected his father’s wishes and didn’t get himself unnecessarily involved in romantic escapades. But now his father had basically gone and spit on their mother’s grave—so in Bashir’s mind, the more scandalous the romance, the better.
And there was the fact that he really liked Melinda, too. Her self-assuredness was something that he’d only rarely seen in women—that kind of quiet self-confidence that came from knowing things about knowing herself. Too many people spent most of their days ruminating about stuff they’d seen online, he decided. Not enough of them spent enough time examining the state of their souls. He was probably one of the ones who could use some more introspection.
