7 - Dinner

Wait…what?

Alarmed, Qaya abandoned her tomatoes and grabbed his arm. "Hamir, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied, sniffling. "Just the onions."

Qaya snatched the knife and the offending vegetable from his hands. "I'll do that," she said quickly. "Why don't you go and wash your eyes?"

"But I like onions," he protested. "And I want to help you."

"I'll leave the wine to you," she told him, pointing at a large bar cabinet in the living room. "Give me ten minutes to get rid of the onion vapour. You can choose your room in the meanwhile."

Hamir went off. Qaya quickly chopped the onion and added it to the pan. When Hamir returned ten minutes later with a bottle of wine and a couple of wine glasses, the meatballs were ready, the spaghetti was nearly done and the sauce was simmering merrily. Hamir handed her a glass of premium merlot.

"You have a pretty good wine collection," he said. "And some fine single malts."

Qaya grinned at him. "A good wine makes even instant noodles appear gourmet," she said cheekily.

He threw his head back and laughed. Qaya watched him, fascinated. She had not imagined that the man could get even more attractive than he already was, but clearly, she had been mistaken. Her heart skipped a beat.

Hamir met her gaze evenly. "Something on my face?" he asked softly.

Qaya shook her head. "You really are quite beautiful, aren't you?" she muttered.

He stuck out his tongue at her. "Men are not supposed to be beautiful," he replied.

She rattled off a list of sculptures and paintings.

"Whoa, whoa, stop," Hamir interrupted. "Those are works of art."

"So are you," she retorted.

"Hunger must be taking its toll on you," he said softly, moving closer to her. "I am a living, breathing man, Qaya." He took her hand and kissed it.

"I am well aware," she told him, her eyes blazing.

Their heads moved in automatically, and a split second later, their lips found each other. It was unclear who kissed whom. One of Hamir's long-fingered hands came up to cup the back of her head and his other arm encircled her waist to pull her closer, crushing her against his surprisingly solid chest. Qaya's arms wrapped around his neck as she found herself lost in the heat of passion. When they finally broke apart, both were flushed and breathing heavily.

"Wow," Hamir whispered, running his thumb across her swollen lips. She fit into his arms as if her body had been tailor-made for his. Not even his ex-fiancée had made him feel such passion.

Qaya turned away. "Sorry," she mumbled. "That should not have happened."

He caught her arm. "Why?"

She refused to look at him. "It was a mistake. I apologise. You are exhausted and I…I am sorry."

"It felt so right to me," Hamir said quietly.

"Let me go, please," she whispered. It was the tremor in her voice that shocked Hamir into dropping her arm. He had watched her all day, and not once had she been shaken; she was confident, brilliant and…magnificent. She had stood up to everyone and everything all day, and he had admired her. The defeated slope of her shaking shoulders tore at his heart.

Moving almost involuntarily, he pulled her into his arms and held her close. "It will be all right, I promise," he muttered into her hair. He held her until she calmed down. Papa had been right, he realised. Something was wrong here, and he needed to fix it.

He let her go when she stopped shivering, and helped her with plating their dinner. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"This is pretty good," Hamir said, helping himself to another portion of spaghetti. "You are a lifesaver."

Qaya rewarded him with a small smile and sipped her wine. "Did you choose a room?"

Hamir shook his head. "Anything with a bed would do, really."

"You can have the one next to mine. It's got the most comfortable bed in the house," she told him. "And I'm afraid I can only offer you chocolates for dessert."

He grinned at her. "That would be perfect."

Post-dessert, the two of them made their way to Hamir's apartment.

"Do you mind if I look around?" Qaya asked.

"Go ahead," Hamir told her.

Qaya toured the flat. The layout was similar to hers, but it was bare. Some furniture and electronics had been randomly deposited, but it was far from habitable. One weekend would not be enough to fix this, she realised. She would have to bring in professionals. She checked the plumbing and the kitchen – neither worked. Only one of the bedrooms had a bed – and it was humongous four poster bed with no mattress or bedding. She sighed. If the President or Thomas had told her to arrange for this house to be set up for Hamir, she would have done it much sooner. She shuddered to think what would have happened to the poor guy if she had not recognised him and offered him a room. Would he have slept on the bare bed or would he have had the sense to go to a hotel? She returned to the entrance to find Hamir leaning on a wall with his eyes closed. Light streamed in, illuminating his fatigued face – but he was no less beautiful than before. She glanced at her watch – it was nearly 5:30 AM. He needed sleep.

She touched his arm gingerly and he jerked awake, stumbling. Qaya caught him around the waist.

"Easy, tiger," she muttered. "Let's get you to bed."

He blinked sleepily and gathered his wits. "Ah, sorry."

Qaya smiled softly. "Can you walk?"

"Yes, of course," he said immediately. "I'll take my bags."

Qaya stopped him. "You can drag one, I'll take the other. We'll go together."

Hamir nodded absently and followed her out, and into her apartment. She led him to the bedroom next to hers. He fell on the bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Sighing, Qaya pulled off his glasses, watch, shoes, socks and belt, and loosened his tie. She switched on the air conditioning and draped a light blanket over him. She dragged his suitcases and placed them next to the wardrobe. She brought a bottle of water and placed it on the bedside table. Then she switched off the lights except for a night lamp and retired to her own bed.