His Purrfect Mate by Georgette St. Clair Page A

as usual, with their head scarfs and billowing, ankle length, figure concealing dress.
    “Seriously, seeing the look on Heath’s face as we pulled away…that was like Christmas morning.” Bobbi felt a warm glow sweep over her just thinking about it.
    She suspected that Heath and Jax would think long and hard before they tried to pull a fast one on her again.  She was a master at extracting revenge – and sticking them with the task of babysitting the prince was far better revenge than just punching Jax in the face or kicking her brother in the family jewels.  She was absolutely sure Jax would have preferred a beat-down – especially after the list of instructions they’d given the Prince.
    “Better than any Christmas I ever had. Then again, the only present I ever got on Christmas was whatever I could pick from the pockets of my mother’s latest trick. I did get some pretty decent swag, now that I think of it.” Pixie sighed happily.  “Ahh, memories.  Of course, I had to be long gone by the time they woke up. And not come home till New Year’s.”
    “I’m getting all misty-eyed just thinking about it,” Bobbi said. “That story should be on a Hallmark card.”
    She glanced around.  The tile o n the floor was baked clay, inscribed with beautiful designs.  There were small palm trees in the corner in terra cotta planters.  Outside the sun was as blue as the Mediterranean, without a cloud in sight. “This place is like Café Apocolypse.  It’s a shame, because it’s such a beautiful city…what’s left of it.”
    The café’s owner, Mamoud, walked over to them on slippered feet. He also owned the hotel, which currently was crowded with refugees whose homes had been shelled.  Pixie and Bobbi had snagged one of the last rooms and had spent the night sharing a single narrow bed.  
    Mamoud was a human who looked to be in his forties, with salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and a perpetually mournful, resigned air. “Would you like some more tea?” he asked them.
    “No, thank you,” Bobbi said. “We’re heading out in a minute.  Tell me , Mamoud, what is this war about? I looked around online, asked all over the place, and nobody seems to know.”
    “It is all about power,” Mamoud said.  “The leader of our country died of old age. He had two sons. He meant for the older son to take over.  The younger son, General Zar, was sent away to Europe long ago, to a, how do you say it, mental institution.  When his father died, he returned here and now he is fighting for power.  He is a madman.  It will not go well for Turak if he is the winner.” He said it in a resigned, philosophical tone. “Still, we do what we have to do to survive.” He stood there expectantly.
    Pixie raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” she asked.
    “We sell whatever there is to sell. Food.  Information…” he heaved a heavy sigh.
    Pixie and Bobbi glanced at each other.
    “What kind of information?” Bobbi asked.
    “Oh, there are many kinds of information for sale. For instance, whenever there are foreigners appearing in town at a time like this, people become curious. They ask questions.” He paused again, expectantly.
    Bobbi sighed.  Her purse lay on the table. Tyler had given them a stack of Rili, the currency of Turak, before they left Playa Linda.
    “Has anyone been asking about us?” she asked, sliding out a hundred rili bill next to the twenty she had already laid next to their plate of bread.
    “Oh, yes, of course. The local police, and several men from America who were most unpleasant.  They were very cheap and did not tip well at all. I told them that I would have to make inquiries and get back to them.”
    “They were asking about us?” Bobbi ask ed, sliding another hundred Rili bill out of her purse. “What did they want to know?”
    “Who you were and what you were doing here. If you were working for an organization called Shifters, Incorporated. What your plans are during the