Sweet Peril (The Sweet Trilogy #2)(16)
His chuckle was dry, and he reached up to scratch his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I said, remembering my manners. “You guys sit down and then we can talk.”
I went into the kitchen, where Patti was already filling four tall glasses with iced tea. The guys took seats around our small dining table.
Dad pulled a large manila envelope from his jacket and opened it, setting a few pictures facedown, as Patti and I sat across from them.
“It’s still important to keep a low profile after that bout of interest in you, but I think it’s safe to move forward. It’ll be best not to give you all the details about my intel, but I have several trusted humans and spirits who have been gathering information about Neph worldwide. This is the first one I can say for certain does not have a heart for her father’s work and may be willing to help us.”
I smiled and bit my lip, excited and anxious. He flipped over a picture, showing an Arab girl in full garb with a head covering. Only an oval of her olive-toned face showed. In the next picture she was crouching in front of a child with a skinned knee who had fallen. It was obvious she was going to help him, but the picture had been taken at the perfect moment to capture her eyes giving the area a stealthy scan, as if making certain her act of kindness would not be witnessed.
“Her name is Zania,” Dad explained. “She lives in Damascus, Syria, with her father, Sonellion, the Duke of Hatred.” A chill shot up my spine at the name of her father. “They moved to Syria two years ago from the kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Syria’s had some civil unrest, but the area she lives in is still safe for the most part.”
“How long has Duke Sonellion been in the Middle East?” I asked.
Dad paused. “Going on thirty years, so his term’s about up. Being the epicenter of three major religions means tensions are already running high. Makes easy work for Dukes.”
“Have you worked out there?” Patti asked him.
“Not permanently. Only odd jobs here and there. They call me the traveling Duke.”
“Sounds like a bad country song,” I said.
He frowned when Patti giggled, and the corner of Kope’s mouth twitched.
“Just teasing,” I said, biting my lip.
He glared at me, but his eyes held way too much affection to pull it off.
“All right. Enough chitchat,” he said. “Back to business.”
We leaned in as he laid out a small map of the Middle East and pointed to the country of Syria on the Mediterranean Sea. “She recently turned twenty-five, and I believe they left Saudi Arabia when her identity was leaked as one of the girls in an illegal photo shoot. I have two of the less racy pictures here. Apparently they sparked a national outrage.” He flipped over a picture, which at first glance seemed innocent enough. And then I really looked and thought about them in context of the culture. In the first photo, taken in a nondescript room, she was completely draped in the traditional black burka, head and face covered with a thin slat for her eyes. But in one hand she pulled up the garment to reveal her knees, slim brown calves, and slender feet in black high heels. Her eyes glittered with rebellion.
I glanced at Kope, whose gaze darted around the walls of our apartment. It seemed like he was going to great efforts not to look at the picture.
I turned the first picture over and flipped the next one, which was slightly more revealing. This one was Zania from behind, still standing in the high heels, but the burka was lifted in both hands to the back of her thighs, her head and face coverings had been removed, and she was leaning backward. Her long ebony hair flowed seductively down her arched back. Her eyes were closed, and even though the top half of her face showed, it was not enough to give away her identity.
I saw more skin than that at my school on a normal basis, but there was something incredibly sexy about the small amount of skin she showed, and the way she posed, knowing it was a culture that valued modesty and sexual purity. I pushed the picture toward Kope, who glanced at it and nodded. I watched him for a moment, wondering if the pictures offended him, but he gave nothing away. Until he once again caught me staring. His light eyes seemed to dance with heat as they gripped mine. A blush crept up my neck into my cheeks until he lowered his lids back to the map. The pictures made him feel something, all right. Underneath all that self-control, Kope was still just a guy.
“There’s something else you should know about her,” Dad said, pulling out another photo. I took a drink, hoping to cool myself of the embarrassment. “You can’t see it in the pictures, just like badges can’t be captured on film, but Zania is an alcoholic. It seems she’s barely trying to control it. This is a month ago at a nightclub in Damascus.”
I leaned in at the picture of her sitting at a bar, wearing designer jeans and a tasteful short-sleeved blouse with her hair down. In the next picture the photographer had zoomed in and brightened the part that showed her pouring a bottle of something from her purse into her drink on the sly. My heart quickened, and I inspected the picture more closely.
“She’s not wearing a headscarf,” I pointed out.
Dad said, “Not all the women in Damascus wear them.”
“She’s supposed to be promoting hate?” Patti asked.
“Yep,” Dad answered. “Sonellion, her father, uses her to help further the cause of violence and hatred against women. Misogyny’s one of his favorites, but it’s more and more of a challenge these days.”