Embassy Encounter
"Protocol officer Hana manages diplomatic events in Riyadh. When Ambassador Williams requests a personal briefing, their professional meeting becomes decidedly unofficial. 'Al diplomasiya laha asrar' (الدبلوماسية لها أسرار) - Diplomacy has its secrets."
"The Minister prefers his coffee after the third course, not before."
Ambassador James Williams made a note. "Anything else I should know?"
Hana Al-Rashid consulted her tablet. "His wife collects Venetian glass. A thoughtful gift wouldn't go unnoticed."
"You're remarkable."
"I'm thorough."
She'd managed protocol for a decade—knowing which officials disliked each other, which seating arrangements avoided disaster, which cultural nuances could make or break negotiations.
"Riyadh's secret weapon," diplomats called her.
James had heard stories. Reality exceeded them.
He was fifty-five, twice divorced, dedicated to service over personal life. His posting to Saudi Arabia was supposed to be capstone, not complication.
"Dinner?" he asked after weeks of professional meetings.
"Ambassador—"
"James. Off the record. Just two people who might enjoy conversation."
"That's never just conversation."
"Does that have to be bad?"
They dined at a private restaurant, protocols abandoned. James spoke of career sacrifices, lonely postings, the irony of connecting nations while disconnecting from people.
"Why did you stay?" Hana asked.
"Because some things matter more than happiness." He met her eyes. "I'm reconsidering that math."
"I could be removed from this posting for impropriety."
"I could be recalled." His hand found hers beneath the table. "Some risks are worth taking."
"Al diplomasiya laha asrar," she said softly. Diplomacy has its secrets.
"I'm very good at secrets."
They shouldn't have. Protocol demanded distance, propriety, the appearance of correctness.
Instead, they kissed in his private residence, years of careful self-control dissolving.
"This is madness," she breathed.
"The best diplomacy often is."
They made love surrounded by tasteful embassy furnishings, two professionals abandoning professionalism entirely.
"You're extraordinary," James murmured against her skin.
"You don't know me."
"I know what matters." He kissed her curves reverently. "The rest is details."
He explored her with diplomatic patience—every negotiation requires understanding, every treaty careful attention. When his mouth found her center, Hana stifled her cry against silk pillows.
"Don't hold back," he commanded. "The residence is soundproof."
"Is that in the briefing documents?"
"Personal discovery."
She came against his mouth, pleasure crashing through her like international incident. James rose, eyes blazing.
"I need you."
"Ambassador—"
"James." He positioned himself between her thighs. "Say my name."
"James." She pulled him close. "Daheena." Now.
He filled her with a groan, both of them abandoning every protocol.
"Inti perfect," he gasped.
"My Arabic lessons are paying off."
"Your everything is paying off."
They moved together like careful negotiation reaching conclusion—give and take, advance and acceptance. James drove them both toward summit.
"I'm close," he warned.
"Together," she commanded. "Sawa."
They crested as one, pleasure ratifying what words couldn't express. James held her through the aftermath, stroking her hair.
"What happens now?"
"We're adults. We compartmentalize."
"Or," he offered, "we don't."
He requested to extend his posting—unprecedented, raising eyebrows at State Department. Hana continued her work, their relationship the worst-kept secret in diplomatic circles.
"People are talking," she warned.
"Let them." James pulled her close. "I've served forty years. I'm allowed one personal life."
Their wedding was intimate—colleagues from both countries, no press, absolute discretion.
"To diplomacy," someone toasted.
"To secrets worth keeping," they countered.
And to the truth that some negotiations conclude not with signatures, but with hearts finally acknowledging what formality denied.