Sweet Peril (The Sweet Trilogy #2)(19)

I tried to put all that from my mind.

During the movie I liked taking peeks at Kope as his eyes darted around the big screen and he laughed at the funny parts, the dimple softening his cheek.

I found myself wondering if Kaidan ever went to the movies. Did he take girls and sit in the very back where it was dark and private? I crossed my legs and arms, then glared at the screen. Sometimes an imagination was an impediment.

After the movie our moods seemed to unwind in the warm night air. I’d parked around the side of the building.

“What are you doing?” Kope asked. He motioned toward my hand clutching my purse, the other hand partially inside. It must’ve looked weird.

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it. It’s part of my self-defense training.” I pulled out the hot pink pepper spray.

Kope gave me a half grin. “I am glad to see you are prepared to defend us.” He said it jokingly, like he didn’t really think I could.

I stopped in the middle of the lot and faced him. Nobody was around. I felt a little punchy after all the tension in the theater and the giant soda. I shouldn’t goad him, I knew better, but I so wanted us to be friends. And friends had fun.

“You don’t think I can fight, do you? Try to take me,” I dared him.

His dark eyebrows came together in surprise and he chuckled.

“We are in public.”

“So?” I said. “Nobody’s around.”

“The asphalt is rough. I do not want to hurt you.”

I put my hands on my hips and scoffed, “Whatever. You’re afraid of a girl. I see how it is.” I wouldn’t push him to play along if he didn’t want to. It had been a bad idea, anyway.

I reached into my purse for my keys so I could unlock the car. During that second of distraction Kope pounced. I yelped as he pinned my arms behind my back, hardly exerting any energy at all while I squirmed. The hold he had on me felt different from the ones my instructor used, so I was frantic for a moment as I tried to decide how to get away.

I went for the foot stomp. His pained grunt showed he hadn’t been expecting it, and he widened his stance to protect his feet. I threw my head back, but his face was turned to the side so I only caught the side of his jaw. He chuckled low at my failed attempts.

I leaned forward, using my hips to throw him off balance, and it worked. He sort of crashed into my back and had to drop his arms to steady himself, grasping my waist. I froze at the intimate contact and sound of his breath in my ear. Yikes. Playtime over.

It was at that inopportune moment that a male voice with a Southern twang rang out near us.

“Hey! Get your hands off her!”

Kopano’s hands flew out to his sides and he backed away. Two guys in their early twenties stood there with angry expressions. Kope eyed them evenly.

“It’s okay,” I told the guys, still breathing hard. “He’s . . . my friend.”

They narrowed their eyes as if searching for a trick.

“We were just playing around,” I assured them.

“Yes,” Kope said in his rich accent. “We enjoy wrestling.”

We enjoy wrestling? It was a bad time to laugh, but a tiny cackle escaped from the back of my throat and I bent over at the waist, unable to help myself. The guys’ eyes widened at Kope’s obvious foreignness and my sudden burst of laughter. I tried to talk, but only managed to babble and wave a hand around. The guys shook their heads like we were crazy.

“Whatever.” One of the guys waved us off with a flick of his wrist. “Freaks.”

They left us there and Kope let out a laugh of his own now.

I pointed to him and said, “Freak.”

“What did I say?” He put up his hands. “I was enjoying the wrestling.”

“Stop!” I sputtered and laughed harder. “You’re crazy. And I was seriously about to take you down before they showed up.”

“Maybe next time,” he said as he walked to the driver’s door and opened it for me.

Climbing in, I shook my head and he shut my door with an uncontrollable grin. I was still giggling after I dropped him at his hotel and headed home.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DAMASCUS

After a great deal of cultural research, Kope and I decided to act as if we were strangers on our trip, though we’d stay in the same hotel. Parts of Damascus might cater to tourists, but I planned to err on the side of caution.

As I waited outside the Damascus airport for Kope to get through customs, I reached up to make sure the hijab was staying in place around my head. Patti had purchased the pretty black head scarf with ivory flowers, and together we learned how to wrap it and tuck it into the collar of my shirt so that only my face showed.

I held my bag close, relieved that it’d made it through the customs search. I dared not travel without the hilt, which was currently nestled in the middle of a big bag of individually wrapped candies. We’d even taped candies all around it, and superglued the bag so it looked unopened. What a humiliating disguise for such a powerful artifact.

Like the Atlanta airport, this one was bustling with people—some wearing turbans and robes, others wearing chic, designer clothes. Auras were a mix of oranges and grays, a flourish of travel anxieties. The scent of spicy foods carried along the air combined with fuel exhaust. Unfamiliar Arabic writing hung on banners up and down the walkway.