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  Moj could answer that easily.

  “Got called a punk for a long time when I was coming up. Said I wasn’t street enough. Called me a bunch of names. They’d say since I couldn’t write my own music, I had to fuck with other people’s. Yeah, I see your point.”

  “We can choose who we want to be,” she said. “It’s the law of attraction. So Manning and I are a lot alike. I pretend to be a pop star, and he pretends to be a spy.”

  “But you are pop star,” Moj said.

  Cloude broke out into a chuckle.

  “You should’ve seen me arguing with the pirates. I insisted I was famous and they laughed at me. It was sad, but then I forget how pretend my life is sometimes.”

  He shook his head. “Girlfriend, you’ve guest-DJ’d on Hits One. That definitely makes you a star, no matter what the haters say.”

  “And Manning is a spy.” She pointed a finger at Moj. “You and Rania walked away from the Maldives authorities in less than two hours after landing a drug empire’s airplane at their international airport. Manning knows people. He knows things.

  “And unlike a typical CIA agent, he helps people. He follows his own sense of justice rather than being an attack dog for a faceless government’s agenda.”

  A helicopter chopped through the air above them, heading east.

  “And that makes my point,” Cloude said casually, pointing in the air and giving Moj a long, know-it-all look.

  “Wish I was nineteen and knew everything,” he said.

  “What do you have on your troubled mind?” Cloude asked. “Something about you messing up big with Rania?”

  Moj lay back on the cushions, tipping his face to the sun.

  “I forgot she wasn’t on my payroll. She comes out of the bathroom and I grabbed her and told her what she had to do and how she was going to do it. That didn’t go well.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t shoot you.”

  He snorted a laugh.

  “She did some kind of judo hold on me and bam, I nearly hit my knees.” He then grew serious. “In the end, I have to decide what kind of story I want. For the longest time, I wanted to be a part of the music industry. I have that. Then I meet Rania, and I wonder if giving up my stupid celebrity story isn’t the right thing to do.”

  “Oooh!” Cloude erupted. “Now, we have the cliffhanger on your Behind the Music documentary. And that’s when Moj had to decide between the love of a woman and his love for his music. Insert commercial here.”

  “I want both,” Moj said.

  Cloude petted his leg like a patient mother.

  “Of course you do, Baby. Of course you do. Maybe your two nights on a romantic deserted island is all you get.”

  Moj sat back and thought about how he could reach out to Rania.

  The smell of something delicious wafted up from the galley. What was he thinking? He had access to a world-class chef, nay, the one and only Kitchen God.

  Moj always used every weapon at his disposal to get what he wanted and to make the world exactly how he wanted it to be.

  Like Cloude said, it boiled down to choices, and Moj was going to choose both Rania and his career. He would make it work. And he would convince Rania he could.

  * * *

  Three nights later, Rania walked up the companionway dressed in her evening gown, a sparkling low-cut dress with slits up her thighs.

  She had tried to decline the invitation, but everyone onboard the Bonnie Blue had begged her not to cancel. Tommy, Lindsay, even Devin Manning insisted she attend an intimate apology dinner with Moj. Just the two of them. The spy said it would be a personal favor to him, and he paid such favors back tenfold.

  Alton didn’t play fair. He hit her right in the stomach. He was going to serve his classic French haute cuisine menu which was cooking turned into art.

  The deliciousness would never end. Even Chewy had pleaded with her that he had never served such complicated dishes and he wanted the practice.

  It took everyone (sans Spike, Bones, and Javier), but finally Rania gave in.

  The Bonnie Blue hove to in the middle of the Indian Ocean, not a shoreline in sight. A full moon reflected off the still sea, giving the illusion of twin glowing orbs of pregnant light.

  A table had been set up near the bow. Candles flickered and then dripped wax onto heavy silver candlesticks.

  Moj was dressed in the purple shirt she’d seen before, at the concert in Goa. Tonight he’d paired it with an Armani black suit.

  He stood and deftly poured a glass of white wine. From the label, it looked ancient and expensive. Rania didn’t even want to ask. She kept her eyes off his face and felt a crushing discomfort.

  Without a word, Moj offered her a glass.

  She took it and drank; the first sip had a dry bite, though the aftertones were sweet.

  Moj motioned for her to take a seat. She did and placed her wine glass on the table. She touched the fine linen tablecloth and adjusted the glimmering silverware. Crystal goblets held sparkling water.

  He sat next to her. Both faced the open ocean and the moon, one in the sky and one in the sea.

  “I’m sorry, Rania,” Moj said. “I made a terrible mistake grabbing you like that and saying all that shit. And I apologize for Bronwyn as well. She is good at her job because she is not nice about it.”

  Rania finally found the courage to look him in the face. She didn’t know what to say. He’d ordered her around like a dog, and she had grown up watching men do that to women all the time. Bronwyn might be a shrieking harpy, but what she had done to Rania didn’t feel like a betrayal.

  And that was how Rania felt, betrayed. She’d thought Moj was different.

  He finally glanced away.

  “I guess I shouldn’t expect you to accept my apology. Maybe knowing my fingers still hurt might give you a little satisfaction.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Rania said. “It was my training.”

  Moj pierced her with a forceful gaze. “And I didn’t mean to hurt you because of my training.”

  Whispers behind them. Chewy, Tommy, and Alton were clustered at the mouth of the companionway, watching, gauging if this was a good time to deliver the first course.

  Rania ignored the comical trio.

  “What training?” she asked Moj.

  Moj took his wine and swished it around in the glass. “I started with nothing, Rania, nothing but a drunk mom and sporadic alimony checks from my dad. If my mom asked for the money, he would laugh her off. If I asked, he would send them, and I fucking hated asking. I hated how dependent we were on him. We needed money, but the only thing I loved in this world was music. I’d hear songs and know they weren’t quite right. How could I make a living off that?”

  “You did and more,” Rania said, trying not to scoff. “I still don’t see what kind of training you are talking about.”

  “Ouch,” Moj said, grinning shyly. “That one stung.”

  For a second, she saw behind his cool veneer. He’d let his guard down and got real with her, and she found it to be the most engaging, handsome, fragile beauty she had ever seen.

  “My training?” Moj said, exhaling. “My training was to play the game better than everyone else. To sacrifice more than everyone else. To force the world to recognize me, and not just recognize me… to worship the fucking ground I walked on because there was no other way.

  “You get me? There was no other way for me to make it in the music industry unless I was the best. Unless I convinced you and everyone else I was the best. The truth didn’t matter. Image, swagger, balls. That was the story, and people bought it.”

  “So far, I’m not impressed,” Rania said, putting on her toughest face. She felt herself folding, and she didn’t want to give in. She wanted out because it was becoming too much, too risky. As for training, part of her security education had been risk assessment. Getting involved with Moj and the paparazzi circus that followed him brought certain dangers she couldn’t manage even beyond Fayed.


  Her heart was on the line, and she wasn’t sure she could survive having it broken by such a man.

  “Ouch again,” Moj said, eyes closed for a second.

  And while Rania hardened, Moj let his vulnerability show.

  “Rania, back at the airport, I wasn’t thinking straight. I thought I had to play the game, tell the story, like I was still coming up and every news article had to go my way or it might be the end of my run. And without a music career, I couldn’t take care of my Mom. I forgot things are different. My mom’s dead. I’ve had my run, and I can play it any way I like. I certainly can afford to financially.”

  “No, Alton, not yet.” Chewy’s voice sounded from the companionway. “They are still talking very seriously.”

  “This isn’t eggs and bacon, dammit,” Alton whispered fiercely. “This is a highly coordinated culinary operation. Do I need to get Manning involved? I will. I swear to God.”

  “Damn,” Tommy grunted. “I think they heard us.”

  “You ready for the first course?” Moj asked.

  Rania nodded.

  “Okay, guys, let’s do this thing,” Moj yelled back. He turned to Rania and took her hand. “That’s my training. And I forgot about you in the process. I’m sorry.”

  Rania tightened her hands in his. “I accept your apology. However, I don’t think I can live in your world. You say you want to change your story, but I’m not sure you can. For one thing, Bronwyn might kill us both if you tried to get out of the lifestyle now. You’re like a gangster, in those movies, where they want to get out of their life of crime, but they can’t.”

  Chewy walked over, holding a silver tray. On gold-edged china sat two fine layers of flaky white fish the size of a silver dollar covered with green herbs and nuts. The presentation was divine; art on a plate.

  And Chewy played his part to the hilt. With much pride, he announced, “Monsieur is beginning this celebration of food with a carpaccio of line-caught sea bass with chestnuts and celery. Bon appetit.”

  The plates clicked down in front of them. Chewy made a quiet exit.

  Moj didn’t let go of her hand.

  “So right out of the gate, you want me to choose between you and my career? I’m not sure I can, Rania. Don’t you think it’s unfair to ask?”

  “I’m not asking,” Rania said, shaking her head sadly. “I’m saying I can’t be a part of your life when it means cameras and news articles and that spectacle we had back at the Malé airport.”

  “Can you give me a chance?” Moj asked. “Like I said, I’m rethinking the kind of story I’m selling. You throwing my satellite phone overboard unplugged me enough to get some perspective.”

  Rania felt herself color as she laughed.

  “That feels like a lifetime ago. And maybe our island adventure also did something?”

  Moj nodded. “It did. You know it did. What about giving me the opportunity to show you how things might be if we were together?”

  Rania found herself lost in the brown of his eyes and the smooth lines of his handsome face. She nodded.

  “Okay. I will try. But no promises.”

  “No promises,” Moj agreed.

  “Eat my goddamn food!” Alton called from the companionway. “Less talking, more eating?”

  Rania and Moj exchanged glances and laughed.

  “Food might be good,” Moj said, “but the crude ambiance of this place definitely needs some work.” He gave her a slow wink.

  Before she picked up her fork, Rania touched his arm gently. “I don’t know. I think this whole experience is growing on me. The companionship certainly is captivating.”

  Moj smiled warmly. “If you think it’s been good so far, wait until you see what else I have planned.”

  Rania’s breath hitched. Suddenly, spending the rest of her life with Moj didn’t seem like such a chore.

  And the fish was simply amazing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Moj couldn’t relax. Things were not going as planned.

  He hadn’t meant to go into the early years of struggling to make it in Florida, and he definitely hadn’t wanted to talk about his mom’s passing. It had all come out in a rush.

  In truth, Moj had figured she would see him and the candles, taste Alton’s magic, and she would accept his apology and they would tumble into sex.

  Rania wasn’t just tough, she was hardcore. Yet she had experienced things growing up in Egypt he would never understand.

  However, overall, his plans were going well. The food was amazing, and the romance of the candles threw glittering lights on the dark waters around them. He was still keyed up and nervous, though. What if the rest of the night failed miserably? He had something special planned, but now he doubted himself.

  He was an expert at forcing his way through doubt. In the studio, he was always being second-guessed, sometimes by the artists he worked with, but mostly by his own self-doubt.

  Only one thing was certain: Alton had brought his “A” game.

  The sea bass melted in Moj’s mouth, and Rania’s eyes had fluttered at the first bite. Which sent a little tingle of excitement into his groin.

  The next course was an onion gratin peppered with diced apple and powdered with Parmigiano Reggiano. The whole dish was about the size of a quarter.

  Moj worried she might think the portion sizes were too small. “I know it’s only a little, but we get like twenty courses.”

  Rania rolled her eyes. “I know how haute cuisine works. I’ve done this before.”

  Moj winced. He still couldn’t find firm ground. He put on a mask and an easy smile.

  “I didn’t, not the first time. I was all pissed that we were only getting little bits of food. During the cheese course, I stuffed myself thinking I’d just spent eight hundred dollars and I was going to go away hungry.”

  Rania laughed and sipped her wine, a #5 Domaine Ramonet Montrachet Grand Cru, which Moj had been proud to serve. Rania had merely glanced at the label once. It was over a thousand dollars a bottle, but she didn’t care.

  Money didn’t impress her.

  Moj knew what did. Honesty, integrity, and respect. She was more than capable of taking care of herself, and in some ways, Moj felt himself not up to the task of joining her as a partner.

  Fiona had needed him with a capital “N”. And Moj liked to feel needed. Rania didn’t need him at all. End of story.

  Or the beginning of a new story?

  Chewy served the next dish with a smile.

  “The chef hopes you don’t mind. He has another onion dish, but this one is special. It’s an onion gratin with a very sweet surprise.”

  Little brown-crusted buttons sat on square dishes of gleaming china.

  Moj eased one of the buttons into his mouth. Inside was a sauce, liquefied sweet onion, and Moj could’ve eaten nothing but the little buttons for the rest of his life.

  “How does he do this?” Rania asked, sounding mystified.

  “Not sure,” Moj said. “Maybe this is what you get when you give a world-class chef three days. I wanted to do this two nights ago, but Alton said it was a minimum of three days to plan and prepare.”

  “The helicopter,” Rania said. “Alton had Manning do some shopping for him, didn’t he?”

  He grinned. “He did.”

  She nodded. “Manning’s UH-60 Black Hawk was fitted with an extra fuel tank, which gives it a range of 1200 nautical miles. Easy to bop over to India, do some grocery shopping, and bop on back.”

  “Bop,” he said teasingly, “you speak American good.”

  “Well,” she corrected, and her mouth opened in a soft smile. “Moj, I’m having a wonderful time. The food is magic, and I like you off your game.”

  “How so?” he asked, surprised. He’d been playing it cool, or at least he thought he had.

  “You keep giving me these looks, and when I named the helicopter, you widened your eyes.” Rania paused. “On the island, you were Mr. Cool, and at the airport, you were Mr. Cont
rol, but here, you seem like Moj, confident, but not overly so, and somewhat tentative.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I have to admit, I thought you’d accept my apology right away and we’d move on. Seems like you’re going to be a harder case than I thought.”

  “I hope I’m not hard,” Rania said. “I’ve seen people whose souls turn to stone from the violence and treachery in this world. I never want to be like that.”

  “You’re not,” Moj said. “But you are tough. There I was, pouring my heart out, and you were like, ‘I’m not impressed, mister. Do better.’”

  “And you did,” she said kindly.

  “I hope I did.”

  More food followed. A whirlwind of dishes, all tiny and amazing. Butternut squash with bread mousse followed by marinated sea scallop with sea urchin and coral crumbles in a lichee sauce. Then a Bretagne caillette topped by a “cake” of sea scallops in a broth of Jerusalem artichoke with tapioca.

  “Not like Safeway tapioca.” He loved the texture and richness of the sauce.

  Next came a poularde roasted with caraway, tamarind jus, and green lentils. Moj thought about telling Rania what a poularde was, but stopped himself. She didn’t need him mansplaining things to her. If she asked, he would tell her. Until then, they could just enjoy the food.

  The chicken was a perfect blend of texture; the crust of spices gave way to the moist spiced center.

  An array of cheeses followed.

  Rania sighed happily.

  “I’m so glad they don’t start with the cheese course. I would eat nothing else. Now, I’m so full, I can’t stuff myself with these French treats. Do you know what Winston Churchill said of France after the Nazis invaded?”

  “Tell me.” Moj loved how her face glowed from the conversation, the wine, the food.

  “He said, ‘A country producing almost three hundred sixty different types of cheese cannot die.’”

  Moj laughed. “That’s funny. I’d forgotten he said that. I read a big, thick biography of Winston Churchill. Bronwyn insisted I couldn’t let on how much I liked to read. She said it would hurt my street cred. Like my Italian. It’s why I don’t speak it very often, I got a ton of shit growing up for it in Tampa. A young black man in Florida shouldn’t speak fluent Italian, or so the story goes.”