Page 33 of High Treason
“I apologize for sleeping yesterday in the limo.”
“Not at all. You need rest.”
“My son said you’d be helping Kord.”
“I’m honored,” Monica said. “It’s a wonderful opportunity to learn from the best.”
“He’s been such a good friend to Omar.”
“We all need friends to walk through life.”
“I will remember your words.”
“Princess Gharam, I’m praying for you.” Healing, physically and spiritually.
“Thank you.” A wisp of Fatima and Yasmine graced her smile.
Monica sensed relief the woman hadn’t questioned the origin of her beliefs. So hard to choose when to announce her faith in Jesus and when to establish friendship.
“Princess Gharam,” Kord said, “we can stay but a few minutes. You need your rest, and Prince Omar will be here soon. Promise me you’ll do all you can for the days ahead.”
“I’m fighting. I want to look happy for Omar and my daughters. It saddens them when I’m weak and in pain.” She hesitated and a wave of discomfort passed over her face. “I want to hear what the treatments will be. Not knowing is a little frightening. I’d rather be prepared for what’s to come.”
“Overseeing your care shows Prince Omar’s love.” Kord spoke tenderly. “If you like, we can visit you another time.”
“I’d enjoy that very much. Perhaps I’ll feel better when you see me again. I miss my daughters today. Every moment is precious.”
Monica kept her composure despite the sadness and ultimate reality of the woman’s illness. What would she do in the same situation? She thrived on good health and despised the idea of being bedridden.
THE MOMENT PRINCE OMARentered the room, Monica sensed his presence, an essence of confidence and authority. He moved to his mother’s bed, and Monica and Kord stepped back with Consul General al-Fakeeh and three bodyguards. Princess Gharam’s eyes glistened in pure adoration for her son, and the sight gave Monica pause to observe the power of love. Since the beginning of time, families had shared a bond that stepped beyond the boundaries of culture to a special place in their hearts.
Monica waited for Kord to act. He excused himself from the room, and she followed. Two additional bodyguards were posted outside the door, and a third stood near the elevator. Kord chose seating where they could keep an eye on anyone exiting the elevator or moving toward Princess Gharam’s room.
“You put on a good show.” His tone cut like a razor.
What had crawled under his skin and laid eggs? “Excuse me? A show?”
He glared at her. “Your statement about praying for Princess Gharam. Were your words supposed to put you into the inner circle? I heard you speak the God thing to the prince and the janitor. But trust me, Prince Omar’s God and the janitor’s aren’t the same.”
Was he grieving Zain’s death, tired, or an atheist who’d just confirmed his new partner placed God in the center of her life? He could deal with it. “You’re mad because I told a sick woman I’d pray for her. I have been and will continue to pray for her healing, not to Allah but the Judeo-Christian God. If you have a problem with my faith, that’s your issue, not mine.”
“Am I talking to a God-fearing Texas gal?”
“Is this a stumbling block for you?”
“Only if the God thing gets in the way of job performance.”
She longed to laugh, yet how regrettable he didn’t know the God who ruled the universe. “Faith just might be in your best interests considering what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.”
His features tightened. “Let me get this straight. A shooter has a weapon aimed at you, and you’re going to ask him to prayerfully think before pulling the trigger?”
“Take another look at my résumé.” She pointed to the phone in his hand while a rush of memories punched her hard. “I can hold my own in a firefight. We had this discussion earlier. Nothing stands in the way of my job performance.” She wished she believed her own words.
His scowl seemed permanent while he scrolled through his phone. Ignoring him, she calculated how many steps from the elevator door to Princess Gharam’s room and how fast she could intercept a potential shooter. Although her legs were short, she had the marathon-running gene, a trait she shared with her four brothers that was handed down from a dad who played pro ball for the Yankees.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Kord continue to read. She might have exaggerated her qualifications, but she had a few accomplishments under her belt.
“Monica.”
