Lost in Thyme

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Petra ran to catch the elevator before the doors closed. She edged next to a woman in one corner and dug into her bag for her lawyer’s business card to check the floor number. Twentieth. She addressed the tall man blocking the keypad.

“Eshreen, law samaht.”

Dressed in a finely tailored black suit, the man ignored her request.

Had she not correctly pronounced the Arabic number? Petra connected eyes with the other woman, who asked for the fifth floor.

The man stepped to the side and faced them with unmistakable nervousness, jaw muscles pumping fast, eyes shifting from side to side.

“Sorry! Could you say that again?”

His voice sounded coarse, as if something was stuck in his throat. Judging by his accent, the man was American. Seeing that floor number twenty was already pressed, Petra waited for the other woman to repeat her request in English. She did so, he obliged and the elevator jolted upward. The American inched closer to the doors, his nose almost touching the reflective surface, hands tapping the sides of his thighs. His stance reminded Petra of Elias on his way to a birthday party, ready to bolt from the car as soon as it came to a stop. She winced at the foolish thought, comparing the grown man to her six-year-old son.

Petra shifted her gaze to the woman beside her to see if she, too, sensed something was off with this man. Clad in an Yves Saint Laurent head cover that matched her bag, the woman kept her eyes fixed on her mobile phone. Petra looked down at her aching feet and suppressed a groan. She must have scuffed her left shoe when she got out of her car. She had bought the pricy pumps just yesterday. No point fretting about it now. She tried to relax.

Over the past two days, she had considered numerous possibilities for this meeting. Ever since receiving a phone call from the Vaughn fellow, she had dug through her father’s papers to figure out the connection. At first she thought it a case of mistaken identity, but when Vaughn insisted on a meeting with her and a lawyer, she felt that she couldn’t afford to brush him off. Vaughn might have news of her father. Was it possible he was alive after all these years?

The elevator stopped at the fifth floor. The American dashed out while the doors pulled apart. He lifted his head and inflated his chest, unclenching his jaw in obvious relief. He stretched out a hand to stop the doors from closing and waited for the other woman to exit.

Petra hid her surprise by feigning interest in her bracelet. He must have been holding his breath the entire time. She dipped her nose to her shoulder and sniffed her cotton dress. She had dabbed droplets of rose water fused with a mix of aromatic oils behind her ears this morning as usual. The mellow scent lingered. And that woman wore oud wood essence, for sure. Many affluent Kuwaiti women used the aroma-rich oil to perfume their clothes and hair. Petra recognized the sweet exotic fragrance as soon as she entered the elevator.

What offended the American’s senses, then? Why did he hold his breath?

He stepped back in and let the doors close. This time, he kept his dark eyes on the ceiling fan. Petra couldn’t look away, fascinated to see if he would hold his breath to the twentieth floor. Small beads of sweat gathered on his creased forehead below short, dark bangs. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, stretching tanned skin with a copper tint, not the dark brown shade she was accustomed to seeing on most men here. Lighter shades spread out in thin lines from the sides of his eyes, suggesting he spent too much time outdoors without sunglasses.

He pulled back his broad shoulders and stiffened, stretching his white shirt enough to show tight muscles underneath. His build defined raw masculinity. He must have made the gesture to show off. This fellow knew how to highlight his assets. He flexed his hands a couple of times before shoving them into his trouser pockets. The trousers wrapped round him well.

Fearing her cheeks were about to flame, Petra snapped her gaze to her feet. She jerked her bag open and pretended to search for something. Good thing that ceiling fan fascinated him so much—perhaps he hadn’t noticed her shameless gawking.

Why was this elevator so slow? And what was wrong with her today, acting like a lustful teenager? She was a thirty-year-old mother. A respectable teacher, for heaven’s sake.

The doors parted at the twentieth floor. She shot out and hurried down a long hallway, looking for suite 2026. She was a good half-hour early. She picked up her pace anyway, trying to distance herself from the intriguing male specimen behind her. Her senses were on high alert and she needed a clear head for this meeting.

Entering her lawyer’s office, she came face to face with a young woman. Pitch-black hair pulled back from unblemished creamy skin in a tight bun. Kohl-framed dark, intelligent, questioning eyes stared steadily, not a hint of a smile on her stunningly beautiful face.

Petra introduced herself using the few Arabic words she had so carefully practiced. “Sabah elkhair. Ana Petra Haddad.”

“You are early.” The woman spoke English in an accusatory tone. Dismissing Petra’s good morning wishes, she checked her computer screen and clicked the mouse several times. “We are not ready.” She rearranged a stack of papers on the desk. “Do you want to drink something?”

“No thank you,” Petra mumbled, deflated after the effort she had put into correctly pronouncing the difficult Arabic words. This was not her lawyer. She had talked to a man over the phone, and he was nicer, not so bossy.

“I’ll be back.” Petra left the office and followed signs to a public restroom. She checked her reflection in the longest mirror. Nothing out of place. The blue cotton fabric of her dress was thick enough, none of her lingerie showed beneath. The pencil-cut dress was modest and simple, it did nothing to accentuate her figure. Twisting her arm behind her, she felt for the zipper, secure in its place. She never wore makeup during the day, so no mascara, and no eyeliner ran under her eyes. If only she could carry a small bottle of perfume in her bag like every woman she knew, but her allergies deprived her of such indulgence. Her sensitive nose and skin could only tolerate aromatic chemical-free oils, and she smelled the fragrance of her special blend clear enough on her clothes and hair. Using her fingers, she combed down her bangs, making sure they completely covered her forehead. If that woman found offense in what she saw, that was her problem. Petra gave her reflection a firm nod and returned to the office.

Not bothering to hide her rolling eyes, the woman ushered Petra into an inner office this time around and introduced her to the head lawyer. Mr. Faisal fit the image in Petra’s head. Old, fat and loud. He spoke English with a proper British accent. The authoritarian woman turned out to be his assistant. When she left the room, Petra breathed a sigh of relief. She took a chair and followed instructions to sign representation documents explaining how she should deal with Vaughn and his client Sami Amara.

At exactly nine o’clock, two men walked into the office. Petra bit the side of her lip. Sami Amara turned out to be the intense man she had encountered in the elevator. That might explain his odd behaviour. Was he dreading this meeting as well? And what kind of name was Amara?

He extended his hand. “Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice.”

She shook his hand and found herself anticipating the moment he would clear the scratch in his throat. The moment never came. That was his voice, rough and weathered.

Things grew stranger after the introductions. While the lawyers exchanged papers and talked business for several minutes, she withstood Sami Amara’s blatant stare. He didn’t try to hide his visual examination of her, and she squashed her irritation. She had done the same to him during their ride in the elevator. It was only fair to give him a similar chance.

She swept her eyes upward from his polished leather shoes to a slightly oversized silver belt buckle. His tie matched the exact charcoal shade of his Armani suit. This man seemed well put together, but he was far from composed. He radiated tension, and her feminine antennae did not have to be finely tuned to pick it up.

She met his gaze, daring him to back down. She inserted her sunglasses through her hair to pull back her bangs, exposing all of her face, freckles included. Nothing to hide.

A heartbeat passed.

Sami clamped a fist to his mouth and dashed out of the office.

Petra arched one brow at the closing doors. What was that all about?