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  Caught Between

  A New Adult Romance

  Rima Jean

  Copyright © 2014 by Rima Jean.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Caught Between/ Rima Jean. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0

  1.

  The gorgeous guy in aisle 24 kept looking back at her.

  Marya kept her eyes on her book, but the fact that she had read the same sentence five times and still didn't know what it said... The movement of the dark-haired man two aisles up flickered in the corner of her eye, and she bent her head even closer to her book. Her heart quickened as he stood and walked unsteadily in her direction, brushing past her towards the lavatory. His scent wafted at her, a blend of expensive cologne and mint.

  Don't look back. Read your book, for God's sake.

  How did he smell so good? He'd been on the flight with her from Paris, and they'd noticed each other at the airport, while waiting to board. She'd been self-conscious then, and she was even more so now -- it was 17 hours since her last shower, and she was sure she stank.

  She shifted in her seat, careful not to disturb the sleeping woman to her left. She was ready for the trip to end. Her neck was stiff, her legs were restless. The tall Saudi in a headcloth across the aisle from her blew his nose in a tissue, trumpeting like a dying elephant.

  The scent filled her nostrils again with a small gust of air. Cedar wood and lemon. And mint. His knuckles touched her arm as he made his way back to his seat, and Marya took the opportunity to examine what she could see of him. Tall, dark-skinned, hair as black as her own. Dressed in designer jeans that fit him very well. Button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows...

  He turned suddenly, meeting her eyes. Damn. Caught staring, and possibly even drooling. He smiled before sitting back down in his seat, his dark eyes on her, and she ventured a smile back, her cheeks flaming. She looked back down at her book, the pages a blur of dark scribbles. She was only curious, really. There was such a motley crew on international flights, particularly ones, like this one, that were headed to Amman, Jordan. There were few Americans, many Europeans, and plenty of Arabs of all sorts -- Jordanians, Syrians, Saudis, Egyptians...

  Marya glanced down at her worn jeans, her Juicy Couture t-shirt (which now had a brownish stain on it from the "turbulence" during "dinner" on the last flight), her black hoodie and Puma sneakers. She must have screamed American. But the guy in aisle 24, well, he was harder to figure out. He had the look of an Arab, the manner and dress of a European, and the smell of an Miami native. Marya wrinkled her nose -- she'd never been attracted to Arabic boys. They all reminded her of her brothers and cousins. Yuck. But this guy was something different. Maybe he wasn't Arabic at all, maybe he was Italian, or Greek...

  "Demoiselle, please put your seat back in its proper position, we are preparing for landing." The Air France steward tapped against her headrest, his mouth in a firm line.

  She started, quickly pressing the button to raise her seat back. "Sorry." She glanced out the window and sighed, the excitement beginning to bubble up again in her gut. They were finally landing. In Jordan. She bit her lower lip, stifling a smile. Her dream was finally becoming a reality -- she was finally going on an archaeological dig.

  "Demoiselle." Marya looked up to see the same steward glaring down at her with increasing hostility. "Fasten your seat belt immediately. We are going to land."

  "Oh." Marya fumbled with the buckle. "Sorry. Again." She managed a silly smile, but the steward did not smile back. Instead, Guy in Aisle 24 turned and grinned at her, rolling his eyes as the surly French steward hurried past.

  Marya chuckled. Hmm. Not American. Probably not French...

  The jolt of the plane as it landed and bounced across the landing strip brought her out of her reverie. It felt like an eternity before the jet finally stopped and the seatbelt sign went out. With that resounding ding, Marya was out of her seat, her bag slung across her shoulder. The adventure begins. She watched as Guy in Aisle 24 stood four people in front of her, pulling his sleek black duffel bag from the overhead compartment.

  She followed the other passengers down the stairs that led to the tarmac. Blinking in the hot, dry wind, they crossed the tarmac to the terminal, the roar of the engines drowning out all other sounds. The Saudi's red checkered headcloth flapped frantically in the wind and a child wailed for his pregnant mother, his chubby hands covering his ears.

  The airport was dirty, hot, and smelled of sweaty bodies. Marya wasn't surprised -- she'd visited enough Arab countries during her childhood to expect it. In a strange way, the smells and sounds were familiar to her, comforting, even. The baggage claim was a sad sight -- a single conveyor belt that rattled unpleasantly, as if the weight of the baggage upon it was just too much. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Marya slipped out of her hoodie and looked around curiously. To her surprise, Guy in Aisle 24 stood behind her, his duffel bag at his feet. He smiled at her.

  "Hello," he said, holding out his hand. "My name is Ashraf, but you can call me Ash. You are...?"

  Marya smiled and tucked a greasy strand of hair behind her ear. She took his hand tentatively. "Marya. Nice to meet you, Ash." His accent was Arabic, with hints of London peppered in.

  "You are traveling alone," he said. "Are you visiting family?"

  Marya smiled grimly. She looked like a native, then. "No... I'm part of an archaeological team from a Canadian university. I'm meeting up with them here."

  "You are Canadian?"

  "No," she replied, wondering if she should have lied.

  He grinned. "You're American. I knew it."

  Marya laughed. "That obvious, huh?"

  Ash looked around. "Are you meeting the Canadians at the airport?"

  "No, they got here a few days ago. I don't attend their university, so I traveled separately." She scratched her chin. "Actually, maybe you can help me. I have to get to ACMER, the American Center of Middle Eastern Research. Do you know how much it will cost me to take a cab there? I'm still getting a hang of Jordanian currency."

  Ash raised his eyebrows. "A cab? No need. I can take you there myself."

  Marya blinked. "You mean... in your car?"

  "Yes, Marya," he answered with a laugh. "I live in Amman. I have a car."

  As they stood before the gasping conveyor belt, Ash explained that he was a native Jordanian studying in London, and that he was in Amman to visit his family. "And you?" he asked, turning the questions back to Marya. "You are not Jordanian by blood? Lebanese, then."

  "You're close," Marya replied, smiling. "My parents are from Damascus, Syria. Hold up, here's my suitcase." As she reached the baggage carousel, Ash pushed her aside gently and lifted her suitcas
e before it passed them.

  Marya stifled a smile. He's trying to be a gentleman. "Thanks."

  "Is there any more?" he asked.

  "No, that's it."

  "Let's go, then." He began to move towards the exit.

  "Wait," Marya said. "What about your bag?"

  He smiled, flashing his perfectly even, white teeth. "I don't have one." He lifted his duffel bag. "Just this."

  Marya paused. "Then you were standing at the baggage claim..."

  "...To talk to you," he finished unabashedly. His black eyes were fixed on her in a way that made her face flush hotly. He nodded towards the exit. "Come on."

  "Wait," she said, hesitating. "I don't know if I should accept a ride from someone I hardly know." She added quickly, "No offense." She imagined her over-protective Syrian parents having a conniption fit when they learned she'd accepted a ride from a stranger.

  Ash sighed, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You Americans."

  Marya narrowed her eyes. "I don't think a Jordanian woman would do any differently."

  "That's true," Ash conceded. "But then, a Jordanian woman would likely not be traveling alone to begin with, let alone traveling to meet up with people she's never met in a country she's never been to."

  Shifting from one leg to the other, Marya considered. He has a point. She had to smile. "Touché, Ash. You sure English isn't your first language?"

  "Come on, then," Ash said, lifting her bag higher against his hip. "Before the Canadians miss you."

  He drove a black BMW coupe. As Marya slipped into the passenger seat, she wondered about Ash's family. Money like this was less unusual in Jordan, she supposed, but it was still remarkable. "What are you studying, Ash?" she asked innocently, gripping the soft leather of her seat as they zipped into Amman.

  Ash sat casually in his seat, reclined a bit too much in Marya's opinion, using one hand to swerve between cars, his other hand dangling out the window. "Medicine," he replied. He glanced at her and smiled, and Marya wished he would look back at the road. "And you are studying..." he waved his hand in the air, trying to wrap his tongue around the word. "...archaeology?"

  Marya shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She knew all too well what Middle Easterners thought of her choice of studies. If it's not medicine, law, or engineering, it's a waste of time. "Yeah."

  "Like Indy Jones," he added with a grin.

  "Sure." She desperately wanted to change the subject. "So how far away is ACMER?" Through the swirls of dust in the street, she saw the date palms lining the median, the white stone apartment buildings, both new and old. Again, she tingled with the familiarity of it all, a sense that she knew this place, even though she'd never been here.

  "It's not far," Ash replied, pointing out the brand new constructions to her with pride -- Jordan's largest skyscraper Capital Tower, Rotana Hotel-Amman, W Hotel-Amman, Business Heights, and the Abdali Central Market Place, Jordan's largest mall and shopping center. "It's still under construction, you see," Ash explained. "But it will be magnificent when it's finished."

  Marya nodded and pretended to be impressed with the occasional "wow" and "very nice." But the truth was, she couldn't care less about those sparkling new towers and shopping malls. If Ash could prove to her that the minds of the people progressed with their buildings, then she might have been more interested. As it stood, however, Marya wanted to see the age-darkened historic buildings, the timeless souqs, the Roman ruins, Byzantine churches, the pieces of the Dead Sea Scrolls...

  Soon Ash's careening through the streets of Amman came to an end, and he slowed before an old metal gate. Ash peered through the windshield at a plain brown structure at the top of a hill, beyond the gate. "That's ACMER," he said, giving her an apologetic look.

  Rubbing her hands together nervously, Marya nodded and took a deep breath. "Okay."

  He grinned. "Let me get your suitcase."

  She stepped out of the car and Ash pulled her suitcase around to her. "Shall I help you take it up the hill?" he asked.

  "No." Marya shook her head. "Thank you, but I'd like to go alone, if that's alright."

  Ash leaned against the polished black fiberglass of his car, his arms crossed on his chest, and squinted at her. "Can I come and visit you sometime, Marya? Or will you be too busy digging?" He smiled playfully.

  For lack of a better place to rest her eyes, Marya looked down at his clean brown loafers. Everything about Ash was immaculate -- from the gel in his hair, to the enormous, expensive watch around his wrist, to his breath. Despite feeling painfully inadequate, she forced herself to pull back her shoulders and meet his eyes. "I don't know what my schedule will be like yet, so I can't really say."

  He flipped a cell phone from his pocket and turned it on. "Give me your number."

  "Actually," Marya said nervously, "I'm not allowed to use my cell phone here, because it's too expensive."

  A slow grin stretched across his face. "You're going to make me work for it, aren't you? Okay, then." He tucked his phone back into his pocket. "I'll see you later... maybe."

  As he made his way back around the car, Marya felt a sudden pang of panic. She hoped her expression didn't reveal her thoughts as she said, "Thank you for the ride, Ash."

  Before ducking into the driver's seat, he winked at her. "No problem, love. Good luck."

  She didn't wait to see him drive off before starting her trek past the gate and up the hill. Her suitcase bumped along behind her, its little wheels no match for the rocky terrain. She reached the top of the hill, panting, and turned down a gravel path to the entrance of the brown building. A plaque beside the door read, "American Center of Middle Eastern Research." The door was propped open, but no one was inside. Marya rolled her suitcase through the doorway tentatively, looking around the empty room. There was a dusty couch and two love seats, a small coffee table littered with journal publications, and the odd artifact propped here and there on tables and mantles.

  Where is everyone? "Hello?" she called, looking around. "Anyone here?"

  A rustle from behind made her turn, and a mousy-faced woman appeared in the doorway of what seemed to be a dim office. "Yes, yes, sorry, may I help you?" she said in a soft voice. She had a strong Midwestern accent and long, wavy, graying hair that was parted in the middle and loose around her shoulders. She wore a long gypsy skirt and Birkenstock sandals.

  Marya smiled. "Hi, I'm Marya Helwe. Professor Margot Ducharme was expecting me?"

  The woman's eyes widened, and Marya got the distinct impression it was with displeasure. "Oh, dear. You're Marya? Oh, dear."

  "Uh, is something wrong?" Marya asked, her smile fading.

  "Yes," the woman said firmly, glaring through her perfectly round, smudged glasses. "Something is very wrong. Dr. Ducharme went to the airport an hour ago to pick you up."

  "Oh," Marya said, frowning. "I didn't know... I thought..."

  "How did you expect to get from the airport?" the woman asked, exasperated.

  The way I actually got here. Marya opened her mouth to answer, but shut it before her reply, which was probably a touch too sarcastic, could escape. Besides, she had planned on catching a cab, not hitching a ride with a dashing and wealthy Jordanian.

  "Well," the woman sighed in resignation, "I suppose I'll show you to your room. You can deal with Dr. Ducharme yourself when she gets back."

  Following the woman from the main building with her suitcase rattling behind her, Marya said, "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name...?"

  "I'm Ms. Felicity," the woman answered, not looking back. "I'm the administrator here at ACMER."

  Marya noted that she'd said Ms. Felicity, not just Felicity. So we're going to be like that? "Ms. Felicity," she said, "I am truly sorry for misunderstanding the transportation arrangements."

  Felicity reached into a deep pocket of her skirt and pulled out a thick ring of keys. They'd stopped in front of a dilapidated one-story building with a dirty red door across the road from the main building. "Well, you can apologiz
e to Dr. Ducharme herself when you see her." She found the right key and shoved open the door. "You'll be sharing your hostel room with another student. I forgot her name." Her tone indicated that the students' names didn't really matter.

  The hall was hot and empty save for a stone bench along the wall. Four doors, two on each side, led to the hostel rooms from the hall. A small stairway led up to a fifth door that was propped open and revealed a bathroom within. Felicity used another key to open one of the doors and held it open for Marya. "This is your room. Leave the windows open unless you want to die of heat at night. Laundry is done twice a week, so leave your dirty clothes in that basket over there. You are allowed one shower per day, not to last longer than five minutes. There isn't water to spare around here, after all. Dinner is promptly at five in the dining hall. The food goes quickly, so be on time." She paused, thinking. "Oh, and check your bed and shoes for scorpions before getting into them."

  Swallowing nervously, Marya took the two keys Felicity held out to her. "Uh, okay, thanks." Felicity turned to go. "Ms. Felicity, one more thing," Marya ventured. "Where is everyone?"

  Felicity glared. "Some are in the labs, some in the library. But most of the team went to the airport to get you."

  "Oh." Her heart sank as she watched Felicity walk out of the hostel, the red door slamming behind her. Damn. These people were going to hate her before even meeting her.

  She rubbed the jetlag from her eyes and glanced around her home for the next six weeks. There were two twin beds, one obviously claimed by her roommate. A soft blue blanket was neatly folded at the base of one bed, and a teddy bear sat smiling amongst the throw pillows. A poster of Robert Pattinson was haphazardly taped to the wall nearest to her bed.

  You're kidding me. Teddy bear? Throw pillows? Twilight? Is this girl a college student or a giggly tween?

  She looked over at her own bed, with its paper-thin blanket and flattened pillow. Then again, maybe her roommate was on to something. Despite its uninviting appearance, Marya was overwhelmed with exhaustion at the sight of a bed. She would have loved nothing more than to fall asleep until tomorrow. She glanced at the pink digital clock her roommate had set on the table between their beds: three in the afternoon. She groaned, sitting down on the flimsy mattress. The springs creaked beneath her. If she fell asleep now, she'd screw up her entire sleep cycle. She had to stay awake and meet Dr. Ducharme and the team when they got back... Which is going to be just fabulous.