The rapping on her door made Cynthia’s breath catch in her throat. Heart pounding, she tiptoed across the room. With her back to the wall, she stared at the door on her left, waiting.

Waiting for what?

Shaking her head, knowing she still suffered from a reaction to tonight’s events, she quickly looked through the peephole, her eyes widening when she saw Rick. She covered her heart with her hand, taking a deep, steadying breath, then put on a bright smile, threw the lock, and opened the door.

“Hi,” she said.

He held up a bakery box and slowly lifted the lid. She saw a chocolate tart dotted with fresh cream and raspberries. How did he know her favorite dessert?

“Mind if I come in?” he asked.

“Please do,” she said, stepping back. She looked at the clock. It was nearly one in the morning.

“I was saving this for tomorrow, but I saw you on the balcony when I got back to the hotel, so I knew you were still up.”

She cleared her throat. “I tried to sleep, but my mind won’t shut off.” Taking the box from him, she asked, “How did you get this?”

“The chef at the embassy gave it to me. Apparently, your father had ordered it for you.”

“My mother takes care of those kinds of details. It’s his favorite too.”

He pulled two forks out of his pocket. “Would you like some?”

They sat on her balcony. The warm breeze carried the scent of the river. “Rick, promise me something,” she whispered. “Never admit to my father’s event coordinator that we ate this directly out of the box while drinking hotel coffee out of paper cups.”

He grinned. “My lips are sealed.” He kicked the leather flip-flops off his feet, settled back in the chair, and propped his ankles up on the balcony railing. “How are you feeling?”

“They didn’t hurt me.” A quiver went through her stomach and came out through her shoulder blades as a shiver. The physical response to his question surprised her, though it shouldn’t have. She understood the psychology of post-traumatic stress. She’d just never experienced it before. “My dad told me the minister of security’s wife had been taken captive by the warlord. They found her dead in the middle of the street. The minister admitted to allowing the men onto the estate in exchange for her life.”

He shook his head. “You can’t bargain with people like our man Chuckie. She was dead the minute they decided to use her as a bargaining chip.”

“I think Zalika knew that.” She took a shuddering breath. “She was so brave. She wouldn’t play his game, and he didn’t know what to do with her. Then he gave her to his men—” Her breath hitched.