The Agreement (11 page)

A photo of the open desert, the hard dirt and
the sky almost the same beige color, a few bits of scrub brush dotted across
the landscape. In the distance, Chinua and Alika and their baby Maya alone
against the stark emptiness. Just seeing it brought my emotions to the surface,
my throat constricting.

"What's this one?" Drake asked,
pointing to it.

I covered my mouth and didn't look at him.

"I can't." I shook my head.

He tried to turn my face towards his but I
fought him, not wanting him to see the tears that stung the corners of my eyes.
I turned my body away. He touched my arm softly, and then let his hand drop and
just that small show of understanding warmed me to him a bit – against my
better judgment.

Before we got a chance to speak more about the
photos, in walked Nigel and our little bit of private time was over. Nigel
strode right over to us and I smiled with relief. I glanced quickly at Drake
and put my drink down for the hug that I knew was coming.

"Kate, my
dear
." Nigel bent
down to me. "Your father let slip that Dr. Morgan was coming a bit early,
and so I thought I'd be chivalrous and offer my services…"

We hugged and he kissed me on both cheeks. I was
so glad to see him. He rescued me, and I clung to him as if he were a life
preserver.

"Can I get you a drink?" I asked.

"Please." Nigel smiled at Drake but by
his sour expression, it was clear he wasn't pleased Drake was here. "My
usual."

I nodded and left the two men standing in front
of the wall of photographs.

When I returned with a glass of red wine for
Nigel, the two men were staring each other down as if in some disagreement. I
smiled up at Nigel and then turned to Drake without meeting his eyes.

"How is your drink, Dr. Morgan?"

"Please, call me Drake." He bent down
a bit, trying to catch my eye, smiling. "Considering. And it's still fine,
thank you."

I caught Nigel giving Drake the stink eye over
my head.

What the hell was that about?

Guests arrived over the next half hour and I
watched Drake meet and shake hands with two-dozen people. All the while, I
tried to stay close to Nigel, but Drake was determined to prevent Nigel from
acting as my wingman, stepping beside me whenever I was alone. Then Nigel would
come to the rescue and get between us, try to take me over. It was almost
comical to watch.

A half-hour in, we stood in the living room when
my father pulled Nigel and me back into the study, waving several of the people
he'd been speaking with to follow, including Drake.

"Kate has some wonderful photographs from
her trip to Africa. Come dear," he said to me, "and talk about your
trip."

I frowned, not wanting the limelight he was
forcing me into. Once inside the room, the three of us stood in front of the
wall of photographs, each one mounted and arranged in several rows.

"Go ahead, dear," my father said to
me, ushering me to his side. "Tell us about your trip. Start here, with
this one."

I recounted arriving in Africa, of the airport
and the questionable plane we took to Niger. I spoke about the UN High
Commission for Refugees aid agency I worked for, my term lasting a month and
how we distributed supplies and formula to mothers and babies in the camps. I
described all the photos with the exception of the one that I couldn't talk
about – the empty desert with the tiny figures in the distance.

"Tell them about Alika and Chinua," my
father said, touching my back as if to encourage me. He turned to the guests
gathered around. "A couple and their baby that Kate and Nigel rescued from
the desert."

He turned back expectantly. I tried to force a
smile but it pained me to even think of them. Finally, I took in a deep breath,
but my voice betrayed my reluctance.

I told the small group about my first trip to
the camp, when Nigel and I made our way out to Mangaize, taking the main road
there. It was the height of the exodus from the war zone and there were
thousands on the road, walking to the camps to escape the bloodshed. We were
travelling in a truck, bringing in some supplies.

I shook my head as I told the story. "Each
time a vehicle passed, they had to walk down and then walk back up the ditches
and they were exhausted, having walked for hours or days."

I turned to Nigel, who nodded as if in
encouragement. 

He took up the narrative. "Kate finally
said, enough is enough. Let's be the one to go in the ditch, and so we did. We
drove off the main road and took to the open desert, bypassing the road and the
thousands of refugees. We were driving in the middle of nowhere and off in the
distance, the driver saw some people and so we went to them, to see if they
needed help. They were a young couple with a newborn. They'd been walking for
days, and were quite lost, going in the wrong direction. If we hadn't found
them…" Nigel turned to me.

I picked up the story, emotions already
building. "Chinua, the husband, had given his wife all his food and
was..." I stopped and covered my mouth with a hand, shaking my head. Even
two years later, the emotions were so close to the surface.

Nigel touched my shoulder then turned to the
others, taking over.

"They'd been walking for several days and
had run out of food and water. He was so weak, he had to crawl."

I nodded. "He crawled like a crab because
his knees were bloody," I said, my voice barely audible. "Alika was
carrying her baby. They hadn't named him yet because they weren't even sure if
he would live. I thought he was a newborn because he was so small, but he was
three months old and starving. Her breasts," I said, my voice a whisper.
"She had no milk left. They were like deflated balloons."

Then, I couldn't go on and covered my mouth,
forcing a smile, unable to continue. Nigel finished the story for me.

"We put them in the back of the truck and
took them to the camp. Once Chinua knew they were safe, and that they had food
and water, he up and died despite everything they did for him." Nigel
turned to me and squeezed my shoulder. "We were able to save Alika and her
baby Maya, though. They got I.V.s and food and the last time we checked, both
were doing well."

A murmur went through the people listening, and
I smiled, but I felt anything but pleased to be telling the story. I saw the
camps only briefly, staying for only a few weeks, but it was enough. At times,
they were terrible places of death, especially when the famine was raging and
dozens, if not hundreds, died each day.

I wrote objective, journalistic pieces that
described in stark language the horror of the wars and human-induced famine.
What my pieces didn't reveal was the human behind them, horrified by what I
saw, so much so that I had a breakdown.

My father – former Marine – smiled
like a proud parent, unaware that I was on the verge of tears. That was how
he'd been all my life, blind to my true emotions like an idiot.

"Excuse me," I said and squeezed
Nigel's arm. I had to leave the group, who were now speaking amongst themselves
and examining photos. I went down the hall to my old bedroom and sat on the
bed, trying to get a hold of myself.

Then, the door opened.

Drake
.

I glanced away, my cheeks heating – partly
in anger that he followed me, partly in embarrassment that he'd see my tears.

"I'd like to be
alone
," I said.

"Being alone is the last thing you need
right now." He sat beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh
pressed against mine, his shoulder against mine. Resting his elbows on his
knees, he turned to look at me. "I'm sorry. Your father doesn't seem to
understand how upset Africa still makes you."

I frowned. Drake
understood
.

"He always sees everything, every event,
every word, for its strategic purpose. How it can aggrandize him and our family
– or hurt us. He doesn’t really pay attention to people. What he said
about those photographs being key to what makes me tick? He thinks it means I'm
some great humanitarian – some angel of mercy – but really, I was
just a student looking for a topic for my honors thesis. I had
no
idea
what I got myself into."

"You didn't like Africa?"

I said nothing for a moment, my arms wrapped
around myself.

"I hated it – the corruption. It was
so hard. Painful. As soon as I could, I changed my topic. I couldn't
do
it. I'm not strong enough, but he can't see that because it would mean
his
daughter isn't up to snuff."

"You saw the worst of the worst." He
turned to me, trying to catch my eye. "Where the people have resources,
they're full of hope. I see it in the hospitals. The young doctors and nurses
– they've been trained in America and they want to raise their countries
out of poverty."

He pressed his shoulder against mine. I didn't
say anything but I didn't move away either. It was kind of sweet what he did,
trying to comfort me.

"I admire you for going. You didn't have to
so that does say something about you, what makes you 'tick'."

"You'd be wrong to think that." My
voice was bitter. "My father has
no idea
what makes me 'tick'. He
practically chose my thesis topic and arranged everything. I
wanted
to
do something on the fine arts, but
no
. It had to be political."

Drake frowned. "Your father
chose
your
honors thesis topic?"

"You're surprised?" I turned away.
"You obviously don't know my father."

"What did
you
want to do?"

I didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, I
sighed. "What did
I
want to do?
I
wanted to do a series on
young artists in Manhattan, and how they're using social media and new
technology in their art, but that was too 'airy-fairy' for him, as he put it.
He only sees art for its value as an investment, not for its social or cultural
value. I tried to explain but he just dismissed me." I frowned, my
emotions so close to the surface. "I was too much of a chicken to fight
him and do what I really wanted."

"I'm sorry." He sounded as if he
actually meant it. "University should be a time when you explore who you
are and what excites you. It shouldn't be a time to please your parents."

I turned and looked at him, and it was one of
the few times our eyes met –
really
met. I actually looked into
his eyes, like it was for the first time, and it surprised me how much it
affected me. I noticed once more how beautiful his eyes were – how blue,
his eyelashes long and dark. In that moment, something passed between us.
Attraction
.
I felt it in my belly, in my groin. In a moment of irrationality, I wanted him
to lean over and kiss me, but he just smiled. Just a brief smile.

Then he glanced away.

The door opened and my father popped his head
in.

"Oh,
here
you are," he said and
smiled. "I
thought
you two might have a lot in common. Sorry to
interrupt, but my dear wife has announced that dinner is served."

CHAPTER SIX

Of course, my father seated Drake next to me. I
was on one side of him with Drake next to me and Heath was on the other, with
Christie next to him. My stepmother Elaine sat at the other end of the table.
Quite the socialite, she knew how to entertain, always knowing the right thing
to say.

Drake smiled as he pulled my chair out for me,
the perfect gentleman. I could tell he enjoyed this whole situation, amused
that my father was trying to match us up. I didn't know why he was so pleased
– my father probably saw Drake as prime Grade A marriage material and I
knew Drake was
not
into that – not from what Lara told me when she
and I spoke after the fundraiser. He had his marriage and divorce and wasn't
into romance. He wanted his kinky sex and that was it. He had his work and he
had his band and he had his subs. No girlfriends. No fiancé and certainly no
wife.

My father was so
wrong
about him it
almost made me laugh out loud. Drake must have been chuckling up his sleeve at
my clueless father trying to match me up with a Dominant in the BDSM community
who only saw women as props for his sexual kinks.