“There’s nothing I love better than a mysterious man.” She put her purse on an empty table. “Maybe he did it for exactly that reason. You think he can’t be in the CIA because he said he’s in the CIA. It’s the perfect cover. Just think, Sam. I could be married to a secret agent.”

“I can’t think. My head hurts trying to follow your logic.”

“We can’t all be smart.” She grabbed his arm when he pulled out a chair to sit beside her. “Don’t sit down. You’ll need to find a different table.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you kind of put a damper on the last date. You have a bit of an intimidating, unfriendly vibe going, especially when you scowl and glare at people, like you’re doing now, and it doesn’t help that you look like you were in a bar fight.”

“I was in a bar fight.” His forehead creased. “And I’m not scowling.”

“Well, then, you’re smiling upside down.” She pointed to a table nearby. “You can sit there. Close enough to keep things respectable, but far enough that you won’t scare him away.”

“I don’t like it.” He removed his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of the nearest chair.

Layla had a sudden burst of envy for the long-sleeved fine cotton shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and muscular chest. When he adjusted his tie, his shirt tightened around well-defined biceps, and she let out a soft sigh. Four days ago, her lips had been only inches away from that chest and her body had been pressed against his. She’d felt something. And so had he. In more ways than one.

“Something wrong?” His lips tugged at the corners in a knowing smirk.

“No.” She dropped her gaze, forced herself to study the slightly worn patina of the dark circular table. “I was letting out some air so I could take a deep breath to calm my nerves.”

“I’m Faroz.” A tall dude in a dark suit, sunglasses, and a crisp white shirt put two mugs of coffee on the table. “You were expecting me.”

“This is Sam. He was just leaving.”

“No, I’m not.” Sam sat down beside her.

“I’ve taken the liberty of getting your coffee to save time.” Faroz sat across from her. “A venti triple shot, almond milk mocha with extra whip and extra sauce. The warmed chocolate croissant is on its way.”

“How did you . . . ?” She sucked in a sharp breath and looked at Sam in alarm. He responded by raising an open hand in a told you so gesture that did nothing to alleviate her concerns, and everything to ratchet her stress level up to ten.

“Classified.”

Layla laughed. “Is it one of those if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you kind of things?”

Faroz didn’t smile. “Yes.”

Sam edged his chair so close to Layla they were almost touching.

“I thought you were going to get a coffee,” Layla said. “And we had agreed you would sit elsewhere.”

His jaw set. “We didn’t agree.”

“Don’t mind him,” she said to Faroz. “He’s harmless.”

“I’m not harmless. I was in a fight.” Sam gestured to his face. “I didn’t like the way the last guy was looking at her.” He growled under his breath, like he was a guard dog instead of a companion. Or maybe he was playing Twilight’s overly protective vampire, Edward, to her Bella. Did that make Faroz Jacob? She’d never liked the dark-haired werewolf. She’d been Team Edward all the way.

“Stop it.” She glared at Sam. “You’re being irritating, which is why I told you to sit somewhere else.”

“Then I wouldn’t have a chance to really get to know Faroz.” Sam pulled out his phone, his gaze locked on the man across the table. “Daisy sent me a copy of your résumé. You didn’t provide many personal details, although it’s good to know you have . . .” He read off his screen. “‘. . . excellent analytical abilities, the ability to think creatively, foreign language skills, knowledge of foreign countries, culture, and affairs, the ability to write clear and concise text, strong interpersonal skills, and the ability to work under strict deadlines.’”

“It’s all a cover,” Faroz said.

Layla cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t have the ability to write clear and concise text, strong interpersonal skills, and the ability to work under strict deadlines?”

“I’m not who you think I am.” Faroz whipped off his sunglasses, and she stared into pupils so large his eyes were almost black.

Sam leaned forward, his face twisted in a scowl. “I’ll tell you exactly who I think you are.”

“Sam. No. Be nice.” Layla gave Faroz an apologetic smile. “He’s got protectiveness issues.”

“There’s no need to worry,” Faroz said. “You’re safe with me. I would never put you at risk. I am armed and trained in seventeen forms of combat.” He moved his jacket to the side to reveal a weapon holstered across his chest.

Layla’s pulse kicked up a notch and she reached for Sam’s hand under the table. “He has a concealed weapon,” she whispered to Sam, although Faroz could easily hear them.

“I see that.” Sam threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand. His skin was warm, his touch firm but gentle. It was difficult to focus on Faroz when currents of electricity were tingling over her skin. For all Faroz’s assurances, it was Sam who made her feel safe.

Layla swallowed hard. “Are you expecting trouble in the coffee shop?”

Faroz looked from side to side. “I have many enemies. I can’t be too careful, especially when civilians are involved.”

“Jesus Christ.” Sam’s hand tightened around hers. “He’s a nutjob.”

“Sam!”

Sam cursed again in Urdu, this time making references to Faroz’s mother, his questionable parentage, his likeness to things requiring sanitary disposal, and various animals.

“That’s better,” she said, “but it’s still not nice to swear or call people names.”

Faroz leaned back and sipped his coffee. “When I was held captive and tortured by foreign enemy insurgents, the names they called me would make your ears bleed.”

“I would imagine being called names would be the least of your concerns if you were being tortured by enemy soldiers,” Sam said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Unless you have very thin skin.”

Layla leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I think you should know that I’m a huge coward. I won’t do well if people shoot at me or kidnap me to get to you. And if torture is involved, I’m a total baby. I’ll tell them other people’s secrets as well as my own. My friend Jenny, for example, has a tattoo of a llama on her left butt cheek, and Sam—”