“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 do you know 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 I want to 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 sure he would 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-Dins were dead, the one Bronislav would want is your cousin, Rashid al Hamid,” she murmured.
Suspicion flared inside Junayd. Whose side was she 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.
“Yet,” she responded.
In the dim light, he saw the determined expression in her eyes. Desire flared in him again and his heartbeat slowed as he gradually backed her into a corner. Her back hit the bookcase.
“Tell me your name,” he demanded in a low voice.
“I told you. My name is Midnight,” she said softly.
“How do you know so much, Midnight?” he persisted.
She breathed in, her eyes locked on his lips. “I… I can’t tell you. But I need to know… if-if… you bring danger with you.”
He raised his hand to touch the scarf covering the lower half of her face. She covered his hand with hers, stopping him. Denial and regret burned in her eyes.
“No, I am no threat to you," he murmured, "but if you know of Bronislav and Coldhouse, you could bring danger to yourself.”
“Close your eyes.” Her voice was so soft, he wondered if he had imagined the request. She stared up at him with luminous eyes.
The fire in his veins flared. “Why?” he asked.
“Because I want to kiss you.”
With her other hand, she slowly covered his eyes. His fingers curled in her scarf, pulling it free. Her lips captured his in a passionate, desperate kiss. He felt her hand slide across his cheek until both rested on his shoulders. As the kiss deepened, she wound her arms around his neck, her soft breasts pressing against his chest.
The heat was an overwhelming out-of-body experience, billowing like steam, and then the world contracted to just her, everything was her, every sensation connected him to the woman in his arms like a transformation beneath his skin.
She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling loose the band he used to tie it back. His hands dropped to her waist, and he pulled her firmly against his hard body, wanting—needing—her to feel the effect she had on him.
She ran her tongue along his bottom lip, and his mouth opened for her. Their tongues tangled, dueling as the heat between them ignited. Moans filled the air, and they turned as they tried to get closer to each other.
His back hit the bookcase. He slipped his hands under her shirt. She gasped as he skimmed across silken flesh to her breasts.
She broke away from him with a breathless moan. The sudden absence of her beneath his hands and his lips was shocking. Their loud breathing filled the space.
“I have to go,” she said in a strained voice.
Junayd’s eyes snapped open, but she was already gone. He surged forward, his lips pursed in a grim line. A look at the foyer showed it was empty, the elevator doors closed. There was only one other exit out of the penthouse. He rushed to the kitchen.
Just seconds behind her, he saw her pass through the servant’s entrance. The door snapped shut behind her, delaying him as he impatiently punched in the code. A red light flashed. He struck the door with his fist, glaring through the small window as she opened the door at the bottom of the staircase.
Midnight turned when he struck the door again. She had covered her face with a royal blue scarf. His fiery gaze clashed with the regret blazing from her eyes. She turned away, and he struck the door a third time when she left, the door clicking shut behind her. Reaching for his phone, he dialed his security.
“There is a woman coming down. Black hair, black jacket, black jeans, and a blue scarf covering her face. Do not let her leave! Stop her before she exits the building and hold her for me,” he ordered.
“Yes, sire,” Issa said.
He retraced his steps to the foyer, grabbing his coat before jamming his finger impatiently against the elevator button. Stepping in, he hit the close button and the lobby. The journey took only a few seconds, but felt longer.
His head of security met him as the doors opened. Issa’s face was grim and he spoke tersely into his phone before he shook his head.
“Nothing yet, sire."
“Are all the exits covered?” he asked.
“Is there a problem, Your Highness?” the doorman inquired.
Junayd turned to the man, noting his name on the name tag. “Have you seen a young woman wearing a scarf across the lower half of her face?”
“No, Your Highness,” Franklin replied with a frown of confusion.
Junayd’s frustration grew. “Are there any other elevators leading down to the lobby?” he bit out.
Franklin shook his head. “No... but there’s a dumbwaiter used by the staff. It comes out in the laundry room.”
Junayd cursed. “Take me to it,” he ordered.
Franklin opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. Junayd followed the nervous man through a service door. Lights automatically came on when they entered the cramped room. Franklin waved a hand to the far wall.
Junayd threaded his way around carts, his eyes locked on the open dumbwaiter. A folded note was on the wooden floor of the small space. He picked it up, unfolded it, and read the single word.
Goodbye.