In the Eye of the Storm

13. The Art of Suggestive Name-calling

I showed admirable self-restraint. I actually managed not to kill him right there in the hotel lobby.

Be strong, I told myself, while a jabbering boy in hotel livery lead us through the hallways of the Luxor. Brutus planned and schemed for months before finally killing Julius Caesar. If some measly Roman general can wait that long, you can keep a grip on yourself until we reach the hotel room and the door is shut.

We reached a door made from the same dark wood as the front desk. A large and ornate number 79 shone on the polished surface. With more jabbering, the nervous boy opened the door for us and showed us in. I hardly glanced at the magnificent hallway of the suite. My focus was all on the man who had entered before me and was now turning to face me.

The boy said something else in Arabic. I didn't listen, but instead kept my full focus on Mr Ambrose.

'Send him away!' I growled at him. Maybe it wasn't the wisest thing to try and give Rikkard Ambrose orders, but right now I didn't give a penny about wise.

Mr Ambrose nodded to the boy and jerked his head, coolly. The youth didn't need any more encouragement. He was out of the door without even trying to get a tip.

For two or three seconds, there was a heavy silence in the room – at least ten tons and seven hundred and sixty-two pounds worth of silence. I stared at Mr Ambrose. Mr Ambrose stared at me.

'Wife?' I repeated.

He cocked his head, and shrugged.

Shrugged!

'I,' I repeated very slowly and clearly, 'am your wife?'

I do not believe I had ever managed to make my voice sound this deadly dangerous before. I was like a female tiger with fire in my belly! He didn't seem to notice or care, but simply looked at me with those cool, dark eyes of his.

'I told you, we have to be inconspicuous.'

'Inconspi–!' My voice failed me for just a moment. 'If I murder you and hang your body from the balcony, will that be inconspicuous?'

'You will do nothing of the kind. You are much too happy to murder anyone.'

'Happy?'

Was he delusional? Or on drugs?

'Of course you are,' he informed me in a tone as if he were explaining that one plus one made two. 'Deliriously happy. After all, you are on your honeymoon with the man of your dreams, my dear.'

'Honeymoon?'

I didn't seem able to do anything but incredulously repeat his last words. I should have thrown something at him, or slapped him, but all I could do was stare open-mouthed.

On your honeymoon... you're on your honeymoon with Rikkard Ambrose...

'Yes,' he told me, his face about as emotional as a slab of granite. 'We had what I believe is commonly referred to as a "whirlwind romance". Losing much of our sanity in the process, we fell passionately in love and got married in a small village near London not a week ago. We are a wasteful and completely irresponsible couple who actually went so far as to spend money on a frivolous pleasure trip called a "honeymoon". Although our marriage has already lasted more than a week, we are somehow, miraculously, still filled with love, tenderness, passion and similar superfluous emotions.'

'You've been planning this all along,' I whispered. 'If I decided to come along, you were going to use me like this from the very start!'

'Oh yes.'