Connor’s words trailed off when she stepped into the room, the sight of her like a fist to his solar plexus.
Holy … shit!
He couldn’t stop himself from staring.
Gone was that stiff skirt suit. In its place, she wore a silk sari in hot pink and gold, her blouse a matching pink, her midriff bare, a long fall of pink and gold cloth spilling over one shoulder. Something about the sari accentuated her narrow waist and the sweet feminine flare of her hips, her dark, damp hair hanging down her back.
Good God, she was beautiful.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Segal and Isaksen, the only members of the team that hadn’t yet met Shanti, stood and introduced themselves while Connor tried to find his tongue.
“Lev Segal, Israeli Defense Force.”
“Thor Isaksen, Denmark’s Sirius Patrol.”
Get it together, dumbass!
“We were… uh … just starting.”
Shanti ate breakfastthe next morning in her bathrobe, savoring the fluffypooribread and the spice of the potato curry. She’d ordered scrambled eggs as well, something her grandparents, who had been strict vegetarians, would never have made for her. But it was the steamingchathat made her moan—hot milk tea with cloves, cardamom, ginger, and sugar.
No one made tea like Bengalis.
The taste filled her head, bringing back memories of meals on the veranda of her grandparents’ house, sheltered from the dust and noise of Dhaka and surrounded by the sweet scent of jasmine vines. Those visits had seemed happy and magical, her grandparents and their servants spoiling her and her brother, Taj, rotten. She hadn’t known until much later that her grandmother had opposed the marriage and couldn’t stand her mother.
While she finished her breakfast, Shanti checked her email. An email from her parents asking her how she was doing. A few emails from Bram. Junk mail. She replied to her parents, telling them only that she was really busy with work this week. Then she took her malaria pill, showered, and dressed, taking care with her makeup, hair, and clothing, choosing a long-sleeved blouse that covered her belly and a more conservative sari in dark blue and gold.
The Minister of Foreign Affairs would be here in an hour for a private meeting. It was just a formality, a courtesy call, the government’s way of welcoming a representative of the ICC to their country. Still, there were butterflies in her stomach as she buzzed Connor to ask him to have someone order tea and remove her breakfast tray.
He knocked before entering, the sight of him making her pulse skip. He wore a tailored suit, but he was different from the men she worked with at the ICC. Some of them were handsome, and some wore three-thousand-dollar suits. But Connor was bigger, more muscular, and he radiated a confidence they lacked, a sense of physical power, an air of danger.
His gaze moved over her. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate the traditional dress.”
“He might not like the fact that I’m not wearing a veil.” Except for when she was in the camps, she refused to cover her hair. The majority of Bangladeshis, including Dr. Khan, might be Muslim, but she’d grown up in a secular Hindu home.
Connor picked up her breakfast tray, carried it to the door, and handed it to someone outside before walking over to her once more. “I’d prefer to stay in the room with you. I’m sure he’ll have an entourage. We don’t know who they are, so we haven’t been able to vet them.”
She was about to tell Connor that she was sure she’d be safe. The Minister for Foreign Affairs and his staff weren’t going to murder her in her hotel room. But some part of her liked the idea of Connor staying with her. No, it wasn’t the fact that she found him attractive. It wasn’t that at all.
“That’s fine.”
“If you get the chance, ask him if he can help cut through the red tape around the drone issue. I’d feel a lot better with eyes in the sky.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Connor paused as if listening to something. “He’s on his way up. The tea, too.”
Shanti went to stand by the sofa and adjusted the pleats of her sari, heavy silk rustling as she moved, blue and gold cloth spilling over her right shoulder. She clasped her hands together, drew a deep breath, and let all emotion fade from her face.
The face is the index of the mind.
It was an old proverb her father had taught her when she was growing up. She had used it to remain composed through law school, in the courtroom, and at the ICC. It didn’t matter how nervous she felt. What mattered was giving the perception that she was in control of herself—and the situation.
“Hey, you’ve got this.” Connor gave her a reassuring smile. “He knows your father, and he went to Harvard just like you did.”
Shanti hadn’t known this. “Thank you. I was focused on the case and didn’t have time to prepare for this meeting, so that’s really helpful.”