“What a cute baby,” the waitress cooed without even looking at them. “I just love her little red Christmas outfit. She looks like an adorable elf.” She toyed with toes in tiny green booties.
“Thank you,” Mari said, then mouthed at Rowan, “Mama-flage.”
After they’d placed their order for swordfish with cachupa—a mixture of corn and beans—Mari leaned back in her chair, appearing far more relaxed than the woman who’d taken refuge in his suite the night before. She eased the sunglasses up to rest on top of her head.
“You look like you’ve had a couple of servings of grogue.” Grogue was a sugar cane liquor drunk with honey that flowed freely here.
“No alcohol for me tonight, thank you.” She lifted a hand. “My turn to watch the baby.”
“I don’t mind taking the night shift if you’re not comfortable.”
She raised a delicately arched dark eyebrow. “Somewhere in the world, a couple dozen new moms just swooned and they don’t know why.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful. You have the heavier presentation load.”
She stirred sugar into her coffee. “Are you trying to coerce me into kissing you again?”
“As I recall, I kissed you and you didn’t object.”
She set her spoon down with a decisive clink. “Well, you shouldn’t count on doing it again.”
“Request duly noted,” he replied, not daunted in the least. He saw the speeding of her pulse, the flush of awareness along her dusky skin.
He started to reach for her, just to brush his knuckles along that pulse under the pretense of brushing something aside—except a movement just out of the corner of his eye snagged his attention. Alert, he turned to see an older touristy-looking couple moving toward them.
Mari sat back abruptly, her hand fluttering to her throat. Rowan assessed the pair. Trouble could come in any form, at any age. The bodyguards’ attention ramped up as they stalked along the perimeter, closing the circle of protection. Mari reached for her sunglasses. Rowan didn’t see any signs of concealed weapons, but he slid his hand inside his jacket, resting his palm on his 9 mm, just in case.
The elderly husband, wearing a camera and a man-purse over his shoulder, stopped beside Mari.
“Excuse us, but would you mind answering a question?” he asked with a thick New Jersey accent.
Was their cover busted? If so, did it really matter that they went public a few hours early? Not for him or the baby, but because he didn’t want Mari upset, bolting away from the press, terrified, like the night before.
She tipped her head regally, her shoulders braced as she placed the sunglasses on the table. “Go ahead.”
The wife angled in eagerly. “Are the two of you from around here?”
Rowan’s mouth twitched. Not busted at all. “Not from the island, ma’am. We both live on the mainland.”
“Oh, all right, I see.” She furrowed her brow. “Maybe you can still help me. Where’s the Kwanzaa celebration?”
Mari’s eyes went wide with surprise, then a hint of humor glinted before her face went politely neutral. “Ma’am, that’s an American tradition.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Her forehead furrowed as she adjusted her fanny pack. “I just didn’t expect so much Christmas celebration.”
Mari glanced at the children finishing up their nativity play and accepting donations for their church. “Africa has a varied cultural and religious heritage. How much of each you find depends on which portion of the continent you’re visiting. This area was settled by the Portuguese,” she explained patiently, “which accounts for the larger influence of Christian traditions than you might find in other regions.”
“Thank you for being so patient in explaining.” The wife pulled out a travel guide and passed it to her husband, her eyes staying on Mari. “You look very familiar, dear. Have I seen you somewhere before?”
Pausing for a second, Mari eyed them, then said, “People say I look like the Princess Mariama Mandara. Sometimes I even let folks believe that.”
She winked, grinning mischievously.
The older woman laughed. “What a wicked thing to do, young lady. But then I imagine people deserve what they get if they like to sneak photos for the internet.”
“Would you like a photo of me with the baby on your phone?” Mari leaned closer to the stroller, sweeping back the cover so baby Issa’s face was in clear view. “I’ll put on my best princess smile.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t even know how to work the camera on that new phone our kids gave us for our fiftieth anniversary.” She elbowed her husband. “We just use our old Polaroid, isn’t that right, Nils?”
“I’m getting it out, Meg, hold on a minute.” He fished around inside his man-purse.
Mari extended her arm. “Meg, why don’t you get in the photo, too?”
“Oh, yes, thank you. The grandkids will love it.” She fluffed her bobbed gray hair with her fingers then leaned in to smile while her husband’s old Polaroid spit out picture after picture. “Now you and your husband lean in to pose for one with your daughter.”
Daughter? Rowan jolted, the fun of the moment suddenly taking on a different spin. He liked kids and he sure as hell wanted Mari, but the notion of a pretend marriage? That threatened to give him hives. He swallowed down the bite of bile over the family he’d wrecked so many years ago and pretended for the moment life could be normal for him. He kneeled beside Mari and the baby, forcing his face into the requisite smile. He was a good actor.
He’d had lots of practice.
The couple finished their photo shoot, doling out thanks and leaving an extra Polaroid shot behind for them. The image developed in front of him, blurry shapes coming into focus, much like his thoughts, his need to have Mari.
Rowan sank back into his chair as the waitress brought their food. Once she left, he asked Mari, “Why didn’t you tell that couple the truth about us, about yourself? It was the perfect opening.”
“There were so many people around. If I had, they would have been mobbed out of the photo. When the official story about us fostering the baby hits the news in the morning, they’ll realize their photo of a princess is real and they’ll have a great story to tell their grandchildren. We still get what we want and they get their cool story.”
“That was nice of you to do for them.” He draped a napkin over his knee. “I know how much you hate the notoriety of being royalty.”
She twisted her napkin between her fingers before dropping it on her lap. “I’m not an awful person.”
Had he hurt her feelings? He’d never imagined this boldly confident woman might be insecure. “I never said you were. I think your research is admirable.”
“Really? I seem to recall a particular magazine interview where you accused me of trying to sabotage your work. In fact, when I came into your suite with the room-service cart, you accused me of espionage.”
“My word choices may have been a bit harsh. The stakes were high.” And yeah, he liked seeing her riled up with fire in her eyes. “My work world just doesn’t give me the luxury of the time you have in yours.”
“I simply prefer life to be on my terms when possible. So much in this world is beyond anyone’s control.”
Her eyes took on a faraway look that made him burn to