An atmospheric love story …
Sara Meadows is an ambitious attorney who helps her mining-company client make billions, even if she has to bulldoze an ancient monastery and blackmail the opposition. Unsavory, true, especially since she once dreamed of a PhD in art history, but soon she’ll make partner at an elite firm. Not bad for someone raised on food stamps. A vacation to Morocco shouldn’t screw up anything.
Sara Meadows is an ambitious attorney who helps her mining-company client make billions, even if she has to bulldoze an ancient monastery and blackmail the opposition. Unsavory, true, especially since she once dreamed of a PhD in art history, but soon she’ll make partner at an elite firm. Not bad for someone raised on food stamps. A vacation to Morocco shouldn’t screw up anything.
It screws up everything.
Backpacking through Morocco, Sara meets an archaeologist who seems everything she is not: idealistic, spontaneous, and as down-to-earth as his digs. They explore fabled kasbahs and medieval medinas, sharing tales under Saharan skies. Over sips of mint tea, the two discover a mutual passion for history. And fall in love.
Sara’s newfound happiness would be perfect but for one tiny detail: the priceless monastery she’s demolishing is the same one the archaeologist is desperate to save. Navigating unexpected detours is hard enough. Betraying someone she loves is harder. The hardest part? Mustering the courage to defy her head and follow her heart.
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Excerpt
Prologue
He couldn’t breathe.
Not with a chokehold around his neck. Not when the vise tightened by the second. And certainly not while fists hammered his head like a nail.
He clawed at the arm crushing his throat but
failed to loosen anything except his own grip on consciousness. As his world
dimmed, stars sparkled where there shouldn’t be any. The assailant, too strong.
He, too weak.
In a flash, he saw a limp female figure being
carried away by another person, someone he trusted. She should be all right, he thought.
He surrendered, letting himself go slack. The
assailant shoved his face into the asphalt. A crimson pool fed by his mouth
formed around his cheek. With every shallower breath, life seeped out.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Days ago, he was living an unexpected
happiness with the woman he loved. Then the idyll broke. His rosy future became
no more real than a Saharan mirage. Now he faced death in a foreign land. Might
as well. He had already evaded the end for far too long.
When a kick slammed into his temple, the light
flicked off.
~
Arabic calls to prayer warbled through a haze to rouse
the man in bed. Nearby, a TV chattered. The stench of sickness and disinfectant
clashed in the air.
“Water,” he croaked, eyes still shut.
Someone propped up his head and held a cup to
his swollen lips caked with blood. He sipped the water, which tasted like
earth. “Where am I?” he asked in cracked words. Just saying that sentence
exhausted him.
“In a hospital,” whispered a woman. “Don’t
worry. You’re safe.”
“Sara?” he asked with an energy renewed by
hope.
Before he heard the answer, a scarlet pain
blazed through his skull. He groaned, fading back to black.
Three months ago …
Chapter 1
Three months ago …
In a gallery with paintings, sculptures, and
photographs, a woman’s face stole my attention. I approached her, reeled in by
the gaze of her emerald eyes.
On a video screen,
her face was trapped in an endless loop, morphing from normal to abstract then
back to normal. A placard identified this artwork as Shifting Visages by Sahra Azizi. Her name was like mine but with an
H.
A tall man next to me remained still and
silent, also captivated by the video. It was part of an exhibit called Art Behind the Burqa—Imaginations of
Contemporary Afghan Women.
“You know,” the man said in a disarming
Australian accent, “the Taliban threw acid on girls trying to attend school.”
I cringed.
“The artist was a victim when she was twelve,”
he said, eyes damp. “In her village, a dozen other girls were also attacked.
Gunshots, grenades, poison—they saw it all but kept returning to school. I met
them.”
“They should include the artist’s story on the
placard,” I said. “People would enjoy knowing that.” That came out wrong, but
there was no backspace key in speech. I scrambled for the right words. “Um, not
that people would be glad the attacks happened, but they would appreciate
understanding the history, the inspiration, the symbolism …” My thoughts
bunched up, scrunching my sentence. I sighed at my atypical rambling. “Sorry,
I’m not explaining myself very well—”
He glanced at me and tipped his head. “I get
you. Perfectly.”
His calm words ironed the fluster out of me,
so I smiled. Bashfully.
“Stories connect us,” he said, “because they
touch us a little deeper here.” He patted his heart.
I gawked at him. No one had ever, in a handful
of words and gestures, described exactly how I felt about an artwork. Not sure
how to respond, I simply nodded.
Outside an expansive window, neon streams of
cars wound through the 405, the busiest freeway in Los Angeles. The glowing
view was a masterpiece of art in itself.
With an outdoorsy complexion, scruffy brown
hair, and faint stubble, the stranger appeared out of place at this fancy
gallery. He tugged on his crooked bow tie. His strapping frame squirmed under a
too-tight tuxedo.
“Not your preferred attire?” I asked with a
light tone to lift the heavy mood.
He grinned sheepishly. “Suits always feel like
straitjackets to me. It’s a cheap rental. A bit snug, I’m afraid.”
His candor surprised me. Most guests at
charity galas were keener on name-dropping their labels. “You’re fine,” I
reassured him. “These days, you aren’t even hip unless your pants are too tight
to sit.”
“You like this scene?”
“Well … I’d be lying if I said the glamour
didn’t seduce me. It makes me feel lucky.” If overly plump and privileged. “My
firm sponsors this event, so I have to do my duty—pretend I care about art,
injustice, poor people, blah blah blah.” I rolled my eyes and waved my glass of
Pinot Noir. “You know, stuff that makes rich people feel better about
themselves.” I punctuated the end of my sentence with a wry smile.
“A sense of humor with a pinch of
self-mockery. I like that.”
I almost blushed. My clumsy jokes usually
elicited silence, not amusement. Over the years, I learned to be bland at
social events, but strangely, I wasn’t buttoned-up around this stranger. “Are
you sure I was joking?”
He surveyed the nearly deserted gallery. Of
the four other visitors, one was admiring the curves of his date more than
those of the sculptures. “I guess I don’t, but you’re actually in here, whereas everybody is outside
getting pissed.”
“What are they mad at?”
“Sorry, I meant drunk.”
An event staffer approached him and whispered
into his ear. He nodded.
“I have to go,” he said to me. “You should bid
on something at tonight’s auction. Maybe something fun, like a holiday.”
The gala’s program listed a Provence wine
tour, a Morocco luxury trip, and a Bora Bora yoga retreat. “What would you bid
on?” I asked while toying with my earring. Why did I care about his opinion?
“I prefer Aussie stouts to wine, and I’m too
stiff to do that dog pose—”
I cracked up. “The downward facing dog.”
“Yep, that.” He cracked up too. “I’d go with
Morocco. There are all these Roman ruins—”
My ears perked up. “Roman ruins?”
“Morocco was part of the Roman Empire and is
brimming with history.” He walked away but glimpsed back. “By the way, those
earrings are perfect on you.”
“They’re fake pearls,” I said, not sure why I
volunteered the truth.
“That’s why I like them.” He winked then
strode off.
~
The Getty Center, perched on the Santa Monica Mountains, was one of my
favorites because of its enviable art
collection. The place was a modernist sculpture, with angles and curves
formed out of glass, sunlight, and travertine. Tonight it hosted the first
fundraiser for the Institute of Modern Afghan Art. I left the art gallery and passed
through an airy rotunda soaked with sun.
I stopped at the threshold to the courtyard.
Before me, a sea of black tuxedos glittered
with couture gowns covering every color of a crayon box. Jazz floated out of a
saxophone to dance in the perfumed air. I retreated a step, imagining a hush
and everyone frowning at me like I crashed the party. I checked my new Marchesa
dress to make sure it hadn’t turned into Cinderella’s rags and reread my
seating card. Sara Meadows, Table 23,
the card reassured me. I took a big breath, smoothed my dress, and waded into
the crowd.
“Would you like some Aushaks, ma’am?” a handsome waiter said, offering the Afghan
appetizers on his tray. “Steamed dumplings with leeks and chives, and glazed
with mint yogurt sauce.” He was probably a struggling actor, a demographic
outnumbering Republicans in blue L.A.
“Thanks.” I snatched one. Delicious.
A zigzag descent took me to a maze of azaleas
rising out of water. A panorama of the City of Angels stretched over the
horizon. When I spotted a man sporting a tailored Armani tuxedo, I hurried to
him, bumping into the mayor and a Golden Globe Best Actress along the way. I
hugged the tuxedo from behind. “Sorry about the wait. I was eager to peek at
the art exhibit.”
My fiancé turned around. “No worries,” Nathan
said. “We must go talk to Steve. He’s a managing director and a huge player at
my firm.” That would be Alcatraz Capital, an elite private-equity firm that
specialized in buying distressed companies, turning them around, and selling
them.
“Sure.” Small talk was a chore, but it had to
be done for career advancement. I pulled up my strapless gown, whose high
empire waist was supposed to hold up the goods better. At least that was the
pitch the saleswoman gave me before I bought the overpriced dress.
Nathan escorted me by the elbow to lead us
toward Steve.
With his hair a distinguished silver, the managing
director exuded quiet authority when he shook my hand. “You didn’t tell me you
were engaged to a movie star?” he said before glancing at Nathan. Cheesy
flattery delivered with effortless charm. No wonder Steve rose to be a heavy
hitter.
I smiled self-consciously, not sure how to
hold my champagne flute anymore.
“What kind of work do you do?” Steve asked.
“I’m an associate in Huntington Blake’s
Government Practices Group,” I said.
“You must’ve graduated top of your class.”
“Sara was number three at Stanford Law,”
Nathan chimed in. “I’ve already credited our future children’s good looks and
high SAT scores to her.”
The blush I applied earlier must’ve been
superfluous now. “I only got hired because I was nerdy enough to tell the
difference between an italicized comma and a non-italicized one.”
Steve laughed. “I never would’ve made it.”
As the men’s conversation turned to the
Federal Reserve’s bond purchasing program, I thought about the video again as
if its story still held me hostage.
~
For dinner, we sat at a
terrace under the inky sky. The emcee wore a vintage blue strapless,
tasteful yet decadent enough for a wink of tart. “After dessert we’ll have the
live auction to benefit the scholarship fund,” she said as waiters served
arugula and pear salads.
“Has anyone seen the art exhibit yet?” I asked
the guests at my table.
Their blank looks answered my question.
John, a real estate mogul, mentioned golf.
“Mitch, did you catch the Masters Tournament last week?”
Mitch lit up. “That birdie on the second hole.
Amazing.”
“I’m going to Augusta next week,” John said.
The exclusive golf club in Georgia hosted the Tournament and didn’t admit women
until a few years ago.
The men continued to fawn over John as if he
were flying to the moon.
I finished my meal in silence, wishing golf
had never been invented. I wiggled Nathan’s arm. “Hey, you wanna go see the
exhibit with me—” The apathy in his eyes punctured my enthusiasm. He had as
much interest in art as I had in mortgage-backed securities.
“The auction for the big prizes is about to
start,” Nathan said. “I’m thinking about bidding on an expensive item. A
generous donation would really impress my boss.”
“How about a vacation,” I joked. “That’d be
pricey.” We both worked gulag-like hours and had never taken a long trip
together. I expected him to say no.
“Okay. Where do you want to go?”
I drew a blank. “Tell you what. I’m going back
to the exhibit. Surprise me. Maybe something adventurous.” Why did I say that?
Adventurous was so not me. I’d been
doing yoga for years, and Nathan loved wine. Obviously he would bid on the yoga
retreat or the wine tour. That was why I was marrying him, the three Ps:
pragmatic, predictable, and prudent. Like me.
The emcee introduced a new guest speaker as I
left my table. “Please welcome our special friend … Kai Rissdale. The
archaeologist has been a tireless ambassador for the Institute—”
The audience erupted with applause. I glimpsed
back at the stage and froze. Him! The emcee hugged him, if too tightly and too
long.
“He can dig for my treasures any day,” a woman
quipped at a nearby table.
“I’ve got some relics for him to uncover,”
said an older brunette in a prim dress.
Other women joined the drunken chorus to sing
fresh praises for the archaeologist.
Ridiculous. I headed to the gallery, leaving
the brouhaha behind.
~
When I returned to
Nathan, the gala’s program had ended. The attendees were dancing to
Frank Sinatra, surrounded by hanging vines of silvery-blue lights that reminded
me of fireflies. I kicked off my four-inch heels, which turned out to be
completely invisible under my long dress. My feet finally happy, we danced too.
“Guess what,” Nathan said.
“What?” I said, leaning against his chest.
“I won an auction.”
“Really?” I pictured the two of us cycling
through the French countryside or swimming in the turquoise waters of
Polynesia. Either way, it couldn’t go wrong.
“We’re going to Morocco.”
I stilled. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.” Nathan deflated. “I thought you wanted
adventurous, so I figured Morocco was more unusual than Bora Bora or France—”
“No, no. It’s fine.” My palm pressed against
his lapel. The deal was done, so the practical response was to make the best of
the situation. I recalled the riveting tales from One Thousand and One Nights and decided that Morocco with my prince
could be fun after all. “Morocco is an excellent choice.”
“I was worried there for a second.” Nathan
exhaled. “Did you have a good time tonight?”
Fantastic venue. Famous guests. Fine food.
Ending with a slow dance to romantic music under the moonlight. What was there
not to like? For someone who grew up on food stamps, I overachieved. Sure, I
didn’t quite fit into the club, but I had to be patient.
If I try
hard enough, I will fit in. Someday.
In the recesses of my mind, the acid-scarred
artist haunted me, and I harbored a regret that I would never see the stranger
again. “I get you,” his words replayed in my head. In those three syllables, I
heard his nod and smile.
Stop,
Sara.
I evicted the stranger and hugged Nathan
closer, letting his warmth compensate for my skimpy dress. “I had a great
time,” I said at last.
“Good,” my fiancé murmured into my ear.
“There’ll be many more of these.”
This is
what I want. Right?