break up?”
“Because he died. I wasn’t woman enough for him to live for.” A shudder wracked her body, and he tightened his hold.
“You are more woman than most men can handle, Analise. What happened?”
“Turns out I never knew him. Our whole relationship was a sham.”
Sound familiar? Maybe I’ve found a new career path—fake fiancée to manipulative men.
“How long were you together?”
“Four years. It started out as a working relationship. He was a freelance journalist.”
Or so I thought.
“I was a freelance photographer. We teamed up and worked together. It was a successful partnership. His articles and my photos sold to newspapers and magazines throughout the English- and French-speaking world. It was constant travel; as a situation died down, we’d move on to the next global hotspot.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“At first. Then we switched from reporting famines and natural disasters to conflicts and political unrest. And the constant worry about being kidnapped or killed … Stress eats away at the excitement until all that’s left is fear.”
“Why did you stay? Surely there are less dangerous places in the world to take photos.”
“Of course. Jean-Claude thrived on the danger, though. He lived for the adrenaline rush.”
“Even though you were scared? Surely he could find some other way to get his thrills. Wasn’t your safety and peace of mind his first concern?”
“No, it was always the job. The world needed to know what was going on, and we were the ones to tell them. It was my photos and his evocative words that made people give to charities for the starving and maimed children. It was my photos of dead babies and his brutal assessment of a situation that got the UN involved and prevented further bloodshed.”
“Is that the line he fed you?” His voice vibrated with anger, but his touch was gentle. He twirled his engagement ring, which now sat on her finger. Was Erik regretting giving it to her? Had Jean-Claude begun to regret their engagement, like she had? They’d grown apart, wanted different things from life. He’d wanted adventure, she’d wanted stability. Yet, despite the arguing, they’d stayed together. He’d hung on because he was stubborn like that. And she’d been afraid to be alone. Now she knew there were worse things than being alone.
“It was true. We did good work. And I learned to control my fear. It made me cautious and probably kept me alive.”
“And Jean-Claude?”
“He had no fear. The few times we were between assignments, he’d go base jumping or whitewater kayaking or climb frozen waterfalls. I was sure that was going to be the way he died.”
“How did he die?”
Analise swallowed and rubbed her upper thigh. The pain was almost gone, but the memory was still fresh. “We were in Syria, in Aleppo. Jean-Claude had a rendezvous arranged with someone. The coalition forces were shelling the neighborhood where they were to meet. Snipers were outside the building where we’d taken shelter, and we could hear intermittent gunfire as soldiers shot anyone they found.”
Erik’s fists were clenched, his muscles bunched against her back. Did he want to hear the rest? Now that she’d started, she wanted to get it off her chest. “He went to the meeting?”
“I begged him not to go, to wait until morning. But he insisted it was vital that the meeting take place. He left, and I hid myself under some broken furniture. The soldiers did come in, but by then it was dark and they didn’t see me. The next morning, when it seemed calm, I went to the meeting place. His informant was dead, shot in the head. Jean-Claude lay in a pool of blood, phasing in and out of consciousness. He had a bullet in the spine and was paralyzed from the waist down. I tried to move him … and he bled out as I held him in my arms.”
“Oh God, Analise. I never imagined.”
“You know what the worst thing was?”
“There was one worst thing? The whole situation seems a
“Because he died. I wasn’t woman enough for him to live for.” A shudder wracked her body, and he tightened his hold.
“You are more woman than most men can handle, Analise. What happened?”
“Turns out I never knew him. Our whole relationship was a sham.”
Sound familiar? Maybe I’ve found a new career path—fake fiancée to manipulative men.
“How long were you together?”
“Four years. It started out as a working relationship. He was a freelance journalist.”
Or so I thought.
“I was a freelance photographer. We teamed up and worked together. It was a successful partnership. His articles and my photos sold to newspapers and magazines throughout the English- and French-speaking world. It was constant travel; as a situation died down, we’d move on to the next global hotspot.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“At first. Then we switched from reporting famines and natural disasters to conflicts and political unrest. And the constant worry about being kidnapped or killed … Stress eats away at the excitement until all that’s left is fear.”
“Why did you stay? Surely there are less dangerous places in the world to take photos.”
“Of course. Jean-Claude thrived on the danger, though. He lived for the adrenaline rush.”
“Even though you were scared? Surely he could find some other way to get his thrills. Wasn’t your safety and peace of mind his first concern?”
“No, it was always the job. The world needed to know what was going on, and we were the ones to tell them. It was my photos and his evocative words that made people give to charities for the starving and maimed children. It was my photos of dead babies and his brutal assessment of a situation that got the UN involved and prevented further bloodshed.”
“Is that the line he fed you?” His voice vibrated with anger, but his touch was gentle. He twirled his engagement ring, which now sat on her finger. Was Erik regretting giving it to her? Had Jean-Claude begun to regret their engagement, like she had? They’d grown apart, wanted different things from life. He’d wanted adventure, she’d wanted stability. Yet, despite the arguing, they’d stayed together. He’d hung on because he was stubborn like that. And she’d been afraid to be alone. Now she knew there were worse things than being alone.
“It was true. We did good work. And I learned to control my fear. It made me cautious and probably kept me alive.”
“And Jean-Claude?”
“He had no fear. The few times we were between assignments, he’d go base jumping or whitewater kayaking or climb frozen waterfalls. I was sure that was going to be the way he died.”
“How did he die?”
Analise swallowed and rubbed her upper thigh. The pain was almost gone, but the memory was still fresh. “We were in Syria, in Aleppo. Jean-Claude had a rendezvous arranged with someone. The coalition forces were shelling the neighborhood where they were to meet. Snipers were outside the building where we’d taken shelter, and we could hear intermittent gunfire as soldiers shot anyone they found.”
Erik’s fists were clenched, his muscles bunched against her back. Did he want to hear the rest? Now that she’d started, she wanted to get it off her chest. “He went to the meeting?”
“I begged him not to go, to wait until morning. But he insisted it was vital that the meeting take place. He left, and I hid myself under some broken furniture. The soldiers did come in, but by then it was dark and they didn’t see me. The next morning, when it seemed calm, I went to the meeting place. His informant was dead, shot in the head. Jean-Claude lay in a pool of blood, phasing in and out of consciousness. He had a bullet in the spine and was paralyzed from the waist down. I tried to move him … and he bled out as I held him in my arms.”
“Oh God, Analise. I never imagined.”
“You know what the worst thing was?”
“There was one worst thing? The whole situation seems a
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