Rising Stars. Maisey Yates

but what if he does?”

      “Life is short. Don’t waste another day. Call him. Call him now.”

      “You’re right.” Sami stared at her then suddenly hugged her tight. “Thank you, Callie.” Pulling away, she wiped her eyes. “I’ll go back to the house. And call him in private. Oh,” she breathed, wiping her shaking hands on her jeans, “am I really going to do this?”

      “Sergio!” Callie called, wiping tears from her own eyes as she waved the bodyguard over. “Please take my sister back to the house.”

      “And you, Mrs. Cruz,” Sergio Garcia said, his expression a smooth mask.

      “I haven’t finished my shopping.”

      “I can’t leave you alone here, señora.”

      “I’ll be fine,” Callie said impatiently. She motioned to the busy souk. “There’s no danger here!”

      The bodyguard lifted an eyebrow. Turning away, he used his cell phone and spoke in low, rapid Spanish. Hanging up, he turned to Sami with a broad smile. “Sí. I can take you home, señorita.”

      “Thank you,” Callie said, surprised. He’d never been so reasonable before. “Would you mind taking these bags back with you?”

      “Por supuesto, señora.” Garcia took her purchases, gifts for her parents, clothes and toys for Marisol, even a silver koumaya dagger for Eduardo. “Stay right here, Mrs. Cruz, in the open market.”

      “I will.” Callie hugged her sister and whispered, “I think you and Brandon are perfect for each other.”

      “Thank you,” Sami breathed fervently. “I love you, Callie.” Then she was gone.

      Callie was alone. She took deep breaths of the exotic, spicy scent of the air, of the distant leather tannery, of flowers and musky oriental perfumes. No bodyguard. No baby. Not even her husband. Callie was alone in this exotic foreign market. After so many months, the sudden freedom felt both disorienting and intoxicating.

      Smiling to herself, she ignored the shouts of sellers trying to get her attention and walked through the market, feeling light as a feather on air as she continued to shop for gifts. Who knew if she’d ever return to Morocco again?

      Her eye fell upon a tiny star carved in wood. It reminded her of Brandon’s hobby that Callie found intolerably boring—astronomy. Thinking of him, a pang went through her.

       Why didn’t he ever write me?

      He did. I know he did. He showed me the letters.

      With a ragged breath, Callie lifted her gaze to the sky, turning toward the fading warmth of the sun. Above the busy, crowded, chaotic souk, a bird flew toward the distant Atlas Mountains. The setting sun had turned the snowcapped peaks a deep violet-pink.

      “Callie.”

      She sucked in her breath. Slowly she turned.

      Brandon McLinn stood in front of her.

      Time slowed as he came toward her, tall and thin, standing out from the rest of the crowd in his cowboy hat, plaid flannel shirt and work-worn jeans. He stopped in front of her.

      “At last,” Brandon breathed, his eyes wet with tears. “I’ve found you.”

      “Brandon?” she whispered, her throat choking. “Is this a dream?”

      “No.” Smiling through his tears, he put a skinny hand on her shoulder. “I’m here.”

      “But what are you doing in Morocco?”

      His hand tightened. “It took a miracle, all right,” he said grimly. His eyes narrowed beneath his black-framed glasses. “No thanks to that Spanish bastard.”

      Callie gasped. “Don’t call him that!”

      He blinked, frowning. “But you hate him. Don’t you? You said he was a playboy, that he had coal instead of a heart … that he couldn’t be loyal to anything but his own fat bank account!”

      Hearing her own words thrown back at her hurt. She closed her eyes against her own cruelty. “He’s not like that,” she said over the lump in her throat. “Not really. He’s—changed.”

      “Must be Stockholm Syndrome,” Brandon snorted then his voice grew serious. “I’ve been so worried about you, Callie. I just let him take you away. I didn’t save you.”

      Callie opened her eyes in shock. “You felt guilty?”

      “I swore I’d leave no stone unturned, until you and your baby were back home. Safe, and free.”

      Smiling through sudden tears, she put her hand over his. “But we are safe. And free. I know our marriage had a rocky start, but he’s been nothing but good to us.”

      “Good?” Brandon’s jaw hardened. “He’s had me followed for months.”

      “Followed?” she echoed.

      “When Sami told me she was leaving for Marrakech, I skipped out in the middle of the night, slipping past the man watching my house. I drove to Denver and booked a flight. I’ve been staying at a hotel off this square, following your movements through Sami’s messages.”

      “You knew I’d be at the market.” Callie stared at him. “It was you I felt, watching me. Following us.”

      “Hoping to get you alone.” He looked down at her, his eyes owl-like beneath his glasses. “I tried to contact you. Letters, phone calls. I tried everything short of a singing telegram. Last December, he called me in the middle of the night, warning me off. I threatened to call the police in New York. So he spirited you overseas. For the last four months, I had no idea where you even were!”

      Callie remembered the night she’d caught Eduardo talking on the phone to a rival, he’d said, who lived far away. That very same night, he’d suddenly suggested they go to Spain. Once there, he’d never let her out of his sight, or even let her drive her own car, without a bodyguard. He’d said it was to keep her safe.

      But safe from whom?

      “I promised myself I wouldn’t abandon you,” Brandon said. “I’ve been waiting … praying … desperate. All the time he kept you prisoner.”

      Prisoner. Callie stared at him with a sick feeling in her belly. She was starting to think that Eduardo’s planned talk later didn’t involve him taking her in his arms and declaring his eternal love.

      “I always knew the man was bad news.” Brandon narrowed his eyes. “From the moment I first heard you talk about him. When he leased you that apartment in the Village, I knew he wanted you.” His voice became bitter. “And from the sound of your voice, I knew you would let him.”

      “So you told Eduardo we were engaged,” she said slowly. “The night he stopped by the apartment, you said …”

      “I just told him the truth,” he said stubbornly. “We were engaged. We said, if neither of us were married by the time we were thirty …”

      “That was a joke!”

      “It was never a joke to me.” He looked down. “But I guess it was to you.”

      She stared at him, her cheeks aflame, unable to speak.

      “I loved you, Callie,” he said gruffly. “Since we were kids, I loved you.”

      She felt a lump in her throat, remembering their childhood. Chasing fireflies on warm summer nights. Watching fireworks on the Fourth. Christmas dinner with her cousins, aunts and uncles, turkey and stuffing and homemade pumpkin pie, sledding with her sister down McGillicuddy’s hill. Even going out with Brandon’s telescope at night and looking at stars until she wanted to claw her eyes out. It had been wonderful.

      Her throat