50
"Remember," Tony had said in his deep southern accent. "It's this or the ship."
Amira had shook her arm from his grip, but entered the restaurant with grace and poise.
She'd taken a seat across from a silver-haired man with a tanned complexion and a tailored pin stripe suit. His name was Terence Rowbottom. Lord Terence Rowbottom. A jovial man with a refined manner.
Amira had spoken politely. She smiled through a light risotto. Feigned fascination in his stories about the House of Lords and the various people he knew.
She'd lied about where she was from—Lebanon—as instructed.
She'd also accepted Lord Rowbottom's offer of a large glass of white wine. Even forced herself to laugh along with his racist, sexist humour.
Now, it was time to return to the room, at Lord Rowbottom's sugges
