Page 230

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DESMOND DIDN’T WANTto credit Malik Ali for his insomnia that night, but the evidence, unfortunately, was damning.
Desmond’s team emailed information about Val’s husband to him within two hours. It was almost laughable, how quickly they were able to locate him. The fool hadn’t even been hiding well.
On paper he seemed harmless enough: Malik Ali of the Bronx, New York, married to Valentina Montgomery in Dubai, twelve summers ago. His lawyer had included a passport photo and a wedding photo. Desmond stared at the latter until his vision grew blurry.
So this was the kind of man that could get Val Montgomery to the altar.
In the picture, Val was wearing an ivory column dress in a style and cut that he recognized as being typical for her. A demure square neckline, her curves sheathed but not concealed in the least by the tight silhouette. Her chin was lifted and half her face was covered by a fascinator and net. Malik was tall, broad-shouldered, dark with an expression that gave nothing away. He didn’t look like the type that would abandon his wife and skip town while nearly two million dirhams in debt.
Then again, Desmond didn’t look like the type of person he was at heart, either. And when it came down to brass tacks, wasn’t it about money? The fact that his motivations were somewhat noble didn’t make him better than any other capitalistic grasper. And Val…
She was another man’s wife, no matter how unworthy the husband.
“Run me through it,” Desmond said to his agent.
The scope of the story was incredible, even though he was hearing it for the second time. She’d married him after a whirlwind courtship. There were debts in his name, with Val named as guarantor, and a period of nonpayment that had lasted a year, during which his visa had expired. He’d exited on a visa change to the United States, and hadn’t returned. And when Val left months later, presumably to look for him, she was scooped up in the airport by the authorities, jailed for a month, and released when Sheikh Rashid bailed her out.
“Find out where her husband is,” he said briskly. “Is there an Interpol case against him?”
“Presumably, yes. But he isn’t high on their list. They have slightly bigger things to worry about.”
Now Desmond eased himself from the crisp white sheets, barely disturbing them, then grabbed his laptop from its place of honor beside the bed. Out on the balcony, people were still up; he could hear chattering and laughter, could smell smoky green apple shisha and barbecue. He liked the bustle below him, liked to hear people’s conversations. It distracted him from the fact that he was completely alone, alone in the midst of many. Perhaps that was why he’d felt such a strong connection to Valentina Montgomery. They had debts that had separated them from the world, although, unlike hers, he could never pay his back. Nothing could match the cost of human life, could it?
And Val was somewhere on the ground floor in her bedroom, presumably asleep. His body stirred, despite himself. He remembered the smoothness of her skin against cool sheets, the curve of her hip as she lay on her side, her long lashes resting on her cheeks.
And heaven help him, he missed her. He attempted a breathing exercise to calm himself: breathe in for four, hold for seven, exhale.
It helped a little. Not enough.
Despite the lavish dinner they’d shared only hours ago, he felt his stomach rumble. Not bothering with a shirt, he headed downstairs. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, blinking at the warm, yellow light spilling out.
Val was standing at the kitchen island, pouring a glass of suspiciously dark red liquid into a wineglass. When the door creaked she jumped, startled, liquid blooming red on her shirt.
“Oh, no. No, no, no!” She unbuttoned her white linen shirt and thrust the soft material under the faucet of the granite sink. Underneath, she was wearing a blush-colored camisole of lacy pink—no bra, he observed when she finally turned, looking flustered.
“Eyesup,” she snapped, crossing her arms.
He was a little taken aback; then he laughed out loud, and the sound dispelled the tension in the room just a little. After all, hehadbeen looking. “Sorry.”
“At least you didn’t deny it.” For a moment, she looked as prim as possible, then she lifted her chin and slowly dropped her arms. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither could I.” He crossed over to the fridge and picked up a foil-covered tray that looked interestingly lumpy; when he lifted the corner he saw that it was indeed the lamb from earlier. “Leftovers?” He tossed the tray onto the island, pulled the first bone off and ripped into it with his teeth.
Val cleared her throat, looking much more flustered than when he’d surprised her. She self-consciously yanked up the neckline of her camisole.
He wanted to tell her not to bother. Her nipples were dark and swollen and looked as if they were trying their best to break the confines of the thin garment and, frankly, the sight was just as erotic as when he’d had her naked, spread open, touching and tasting her with lips and tongue. But he dragged his mind away from it and instead said the one thing he knew would kill the mood and kill itcompletely.
“I’m working hard on looking for your husband,” he said.
She startled to attention, her eyes wide as a deer’s.
“I have some updates,” he added gently. She looked at him, chewing on the soft fullness of her lower lip. “Have a seat. And don’t look so terrified, sweetheart.”
Between bites of cold lamb, garlickytoom, sweet ketchup and swigs of the bittersweet fresh pomegranate juice she’d been pouring when he’d entered the kitchen, the two talked quietly, side by side at the kitchen island, elbows and fingertips brushing occasionally. It felt incredibly domestic, even if neither allowed the conversation to veer in that direction. He kept his eyes on her face and she did not attempt to criticize any use of silverware, or lack of it. But the unspoken thing between them lingered like the woodsmoke from yesterday’s barbecue, and Desmond did not quite know how to make it go away.
She asked about Malik in soft dulcet tones, and Desmond told her what he knew. His new home, close to the Canadian border, in New York State. His return to the horse racing business. The fact that he’d be notified Monday morning by email of her intention to file for divorce.