Free Last Breath by Mariah Stewart

flowing like the dress she’d worn the day they’d almost met. Smiling, he’d put down his coffee cup and leaned over the railing.
    â€œPlease be you,” he’d said aloud. “Take off that silly hat so I can see if it’s you.”
    The hat remained on her head, so he grabbed his sunglasses and headed for the door. On his way across the lobby, he ran into a Jordanian he’d once worked with, one of his old field contacts. Trapped, he’d chatted politely, even while he watched a swoop of white move from the courtyard to the gate and disappear beyond the Villa’s outer wall.
    He’d caught Magda’s eye, and from the gleam he saw there, he knew that the woman in white was the woman he’d sought, and he knew, too, that she would be back.
    â€œYou win, Magda,” he’d said as she passed by on her way to the kitchen. “What time is dinner?”
    â€œThe corner table in the courtyard at seven-thirty. Perhaps you will have company.” She poked him in the ribs. “Then again, perhaps not.”
    She was already there at the table when he arrived, sipping water with a slice of lemon, looking as fresh as a flower after a gentle rain. She’d looked up at him with eyes the color of cornflowers when he approached the table, and all he could think of to say was a most unoriginal “Hi.”
    She’d extended a hand to him, and he’d smiled as he took it. Her appearance was very feminine and soft, despite her casual attire—khakis and a cotton shirt—and total lack of makeup. Her hands were hands that worked in the field, tough and calloused, the nails short and devoid of polish and she was deeply tanned from months in the desert. Images of every other woman he’d ever known flashed through his brain, but none were like her. She appeared to face the world without thought of fashion or embellishment, or even—he couldn’t help but notice—a professional haircut. Hers looked as if she’d cut it herself.
    Later, he’d been hard-pressed to recall much of the conversation, except that they’d talked about their families. He’d been surprised to learn that she, too, had lost a brother, but other than that, for the most part, he only remembered her eyes and the sound of her laughter.
    Fifteen minutes into dinner, he’d been trying to think of a way to make the evening last beyond the meal when they’d been interrupted. A message had been left for him at the front desk: a meeting he’d expected to attend the following day had been moved forward and would take place in one hour. He’d have to leave the Villa immediately in order to make it on time. There was no question that he’d keep the appointment; it was the reason he was in North Africa. He’d had to make his apologies to Daria and cut their evening short.
    He’d given her his card before he left, and asked her to call him when she was back in the States, or when she was planning on coming back to the Villa.
    â€œCall that number and leave a message, it will get to me,” he’d told her. “Anytime. Day or night. I’ll get the message.”
    It had been with great reluctance that he’d left her there at the table, alone, on a beautiful Moroccan night.
    He’d really expected that in order to see her again, he’d have to travel back to the Villa. But wonder of wonders, here she was, almost in his own backyard, just a little over an hour away. That she’d kept the card all these months, that she’d called him when she needed help, satisfied him deeply.
    She remembered me, and she called.
    He couldn’t remember the last time anything had pleased him more.

FIVE
    D aria stood by the window in Louise’s office and watched the sleek sports car park in the first visitor’s spot. Even before the door opened, she knew who was behind the wheel. The car looked like the man—sleek and dark, sexy and