A Golden Betrayal

by Barbara Dunlop

  Tariq gave Raif a fleeting, meaningful glance, silently acknowledging the break in protocol before responding. “Mr. Ambassador. Thank you for welcoming us.”

  “Do you know when you’ll be returning to Rayas?”

  Tariq paused for half a second, putting on an exaggerated expression of surprise. “When the crown prince decides it’s time for us to leave America, of course.”

  The answer was an obvious rebuke of Fariol’s attitude, and Raif had to suppress his own grin. Tariq might be overly familiar and opinionated in private. But in front of others, he paid strict adherence to the Rayasian royal hierarchy.

  The aide rushed back. “Your car will be here in just a few minutes. A Mercedes sedan. S-Class. I hope that will please Your Royal Highness.”

  “That will be fine,” Raif answered. He turned to Tariq. “Think you can get that address?”

  Tariq looked to one of the security guards. “Jordan?”

  The man stepped forward. “We’re good to go, sir.”

  Jordan Jones was an American security specialist who’d become friends with Tariq after they met at Harvard. Raif had never met Jordan in person before, but he’d heard stories over the years that gave him a good deal of confidence in the man’s abilities.

  The bay door clattered partway open, and a steel-gray Mercedes sedan drove inside. Instantly, the flight crew appeared with the royal party’s luggage, waiting as the vehicle came to a halt in front of Raif.

  “That will be all, Fariol.” Raif dismissed the ambassador with a curt nod, striding around the front of the car. Tariq and Jordan immediately fell into step.

  “I’ll drive.” Raif held out his hand for the keys as a man appeared from the driver’s seat.

  “Sir?” Jordan prompted, arching a brow in Tariq’s direction.

  Glancing over his shoulder, presumably to ensure Fariol and his staff were out of earshot, Tariq spoke in a low tone. “You don’t want to drive, Raif.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  The driver glanced from one man to the other. He was American, an employee of the rental company. In Rayas, there would have been no hesitation about who would win the argument. Raif’s word there was law.

  “Who’s the prince around here?” Raif demanded of Tariq.

  “Which one of us has driven in Manhattan?” Tariq countered.

  “I’ll drive,” Jordan put in, deftly scooping the keys from the driver. He kept moving right past the surprised American, opening the back door of the sedan, turning to meet Raif’s eyes. “Foreign royalty in the back. Brooklyn native at the wheel.”

  “You’re pretty cocky,” Raif said to Jordan.

  “You know it...sir.”

  Raif followed Tariq to the backseat door. “In my country, I could have you beheaded,” Raif lied.

  “In my country, I could abandon you in Washington Heights.” Jordan paused. “Same thing, really.”

  Raif couldn’t help but grin as he got into the car. He didn’t have a problem with people speaking truth to power, so long as they did it respectfully or in private. He was willing to concede that a born and raised New Yorker could probably get them to Ann Richardson’s apartment faster than he could.

  Jordan closed the back door of the car and then folded his big body into the driver’s seat as the trunk clicked shut on their luggage.

  “I understand you’re at the Plaza,” he said, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Their service is impeccable, and their security is tight.”

  “Nobody knows I’m here,” said Raif. Security wasn’t going to be an issue on the trip.

  “Interpol knows you’re here,” Jordan responded. “Your passport sends off sirens and flashing lights in their Manhattan office.”

  Tariq chuckled.

  “So does yours,” Jordan warned Tariq.

  “Interpol’s got nothing against me,” said Raif.

  “They’ll worry someone else does.”

  “The only person in America with something against me is Ann Richardson. And that’s because I’m about to out her as a criminal and a liar.”

  Jordan pulled the car smoothly ahead, turning for the open bay door. “Interpol will watch you, and others watch Interpol.” He straightened the wheel. “If there’s anything happening in Rayas I should know about, political dissent, difficulties with neighboring countries, now would be the time to tell me.”

  “Some internal stuff,” Tariq said. “Raif’s uncle was stood up at the altar, as was a distant cousin Aimee. The Gold Heart statue theft is the only international scandal Rayas has had lately.”

  “I hear your father is ill,” Jordan said to Raif, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

  “He’s getting better,” Raif said automatically.

  “The truth doesn’t matter, perception does. The perception is that your father is dying. And that means you’re about to become king. And that means somebody, somewhere out there, wants to kill you.”

  “Just on general principle?” But Raif knew it was true.

  “As a power play. Your cousin Kalila’s next in line?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s close to her, especially lately?”

  “You do know I’m only going to be here a few days,” Raif said to Jordan. The man had been hired as temporary tour guide, not as the new head of Raif’s security team.

  “I still need to know the landscape.”

  “She’s picked up a British boyfriend,” said Tariq. “He’s new.”

  Raif shot Tariq a glare. They didn’t need to air the family laundry in front of Jordan. That Kalila had taken up with a completely unsuitable college boy instead of pledging her honor to a sheik’s son in a neighboring country, as had been arranged a decade ago, was an embarrassment to the royal family. It was yet another thing upsetting the king. But it wasn’t a matter of national security.

  “His name?” asked Jordan, turning on the wipers as they drove into the snowstorm.

  Raif interrupted. “You’re driving us to Ann Richardson’s, not compiling a family dossier.”

  “Niles,” said Tariq. “That’s all we’ve managed to get out of the stubborn girl. Kalila was the first casualty of the curse. And now Mallik’s been jilted.”

  Raif gave an eye roll. “There is no curse.”

  “The curse of the Gold Heart statue?” asked Jordan.

  “It’s a foolish myth,” said Raif, growing impatient. He was a tolerant man, but even he had his breaking point.

  “This Niles guy?” Jordan asked. “He arrive out of nowhere?”

  “He’s a student,” said Tariq.

  “Of Arab descent?”

  “Of very British descent.” Raif switched to his most imperious voice, ending the conversation. “Let’s stick to the mission, shall we? While we’re in New York, Ann Richardson is our priority.”

  * * *

  “Did you see this?” asked Ann’s neighbor Darby Mersey, coming out her door and into the apartment hallway to follow Ann to her apartment.

  Ann loved Darby dearly, but she really wanted to be alone tonight. After her ordeal with Interpol, all she could think about was a long, hot shower, a cup of herbal tea and about twelve hours of unconsciousness.

  “See what?” she asked, praying the answer was short and succinct. She dropped her purse on the side table in the compact foyer and tossed her keys into the ceramic bowl as the apartment door closed behind them.

  “Today’s Inquisitor.”

  “I’ve been tied up all day long.”

  “Did you not walk past a newsstand? It’s on the front page.”

  “What’s on the front page?”

  Judging by Darby’s tone, Ann was not going to like the front page. And the very last thing she needed today was something more to worry about. Tomorrow. She could deal with more trouble tomorrow, once she’d had a chance to recover and regroup.

  “Your picture.”

  Ann heaved a heavy sigh. She made her way toward the kitchen, deciding on a m
idpriced Cabernet Sauvignon instead of tea. Both would put her to sleep, but the wine would also help her stop fretting about what a mess her life had become.

  “What’s the scoop this week?” she asked.

  She’d been a tabloid target many times before. The papers had a field day when Dalton Rothschild lied about having an affair with her. Reaction and speculation had swung from scandal to collusion. None of it had been true.

  “‘Turnabout seems to be fair play in the high-end auction world,’” Darby read as she followed along behind Ann.

  “Now, there’s a scoop,” scoffed Ann as she snagged a bottle from her wine rack. She headed farther into the kitchen in search of a corkscrew. “What’s next? ‘Sale goes to the highest bidder’?”

  Darby plopped herself on a wooden stool at the breakfast bar, spreading the tabloid newspaper on the counter in front of her.

  “‘Unable to clear either her own or her firm’s name in the Gold Heart statue scandal, Ann Richardson seems to have decided to go the old-fashioned route.’”

  Ann peeled the wrapper from the top of the bottle. “What’s the old-fashioned route?”

  “Sleeping her way out of trouble.”

  “With Dalton?” Ann wasn’t quite following the reporter’s logic on this. They’d been writing about her and Dalton for months. Talk about old news.

  “With Prince Raif Khouri.”

  Ann froze, corkscrew poised. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That’s a new low, even for them.”

  “They have a picture of you,” Darby continued.

  “So what?” They had several hundred pictures of Ann. Her personal favorite was the one taken in front of the Met as she was spilling her coffee all over her blouse.

  “In this one, you’re kissing the prince.”

  Ann felt the blood drain away from her face.

  “It doesn’t look like Photoshop.”

  Ann’s stomach contracted to a ball of lead. There was only one time, only one way...

  She made her way around the breakfast bar.

  “Damn it.” There she was, in grainy newsprint, her arms wrapped around Raif’s neck, their lips locked together, her body bent slightly backward.

  “Telephoto lens?” asked Darby.

  “I was in Rayas.” Who kept an eye out for tabloid reporters in Rayas?

  “So, it’s true?” Darby face lit up in a lascivious smile. “You slept with Prince Raif?”

  “Of course it’s not true.” Ann paused. “I kissed him, obviously.”

  Darby was right. Photoshop was only so sophisticated. This was the real thing, and there was no point in denying it.

  “But kissing was all we did,” Ann continued. “And it was once. One time. Halfway around the world, for goodness’ sake. In a private, walled garden at Valhan Palace.”

  For a fleeting moment, her memory swirled around that mind-blowing kiss on her last day, her last hour in Rayas. Not that she hadn’t already relived it a thousand times.

  “You didn’t tell me you’d fallen for him,” said Darby.

  “I didn’t fall for him. He’s an arrogant jerk who thinks I’m a criminal and a liar.”

  Darby took in the picture again. “That’s quite the kiss for an arrogant jerk.”

  “I’m not kissing him.” Ann did lie this time. “He’s kissing me.”

  Raif might have started the kiss, but it had become mutual in a heartbeat.

  “So, he fell for you?” Darby looked as if she was mulling the possibilities.

  “It wasn’t a romantic kiss,” Ann continued her explanation. “It was power play, a dominance thing. He was making a point.”

  Darby gave a sly smile this time. “Was the point that he was sexy?” She cocked her head, staring down at the picture again. “You sure don’t look like you’re fighting back.”

  Ann had to agree, and that was very unfortunate. Truth was, she hadn’t been fighting back at all. Raif might be stubborn and arrogant, but he was definitely sexy. And he was one heck of a kisser. And there was no denying something had combusted between them the minute their lips touched. But Darby didn’t need to know that.

  Ann was busy forgetting all about it herself. “He was making the point that in his country he could do anything he pleased, and I couldn’t lift a finger to stop him. I got on the next plane.”

  Darby lifted her head. “Like what?”

  “What, what?”

  “You said he could do anything he pleased. Like what?”

  Ann shrugged, moving back to the bottle of wine. She needed it now more than ever. “Like tax the poor, seize private property, nationalize an industry or throw the innocent in jail.”

  “He was going to throw you in jail?”

  Ann popped out the cork, meeting Darby’s eyes. “I wasn’t completely sure.”

  “He kissed you instead?”

  “I think so. And I don’t think he expected to like it. It threw him for a minute, and it gave me a chance to escape.”

  Darby stretched up to pull two wineglasses from the hanging rack at the end of the breakfast bar. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

  “Denial works better if you’re not dissecting the nuances with your best friend.”

  Darby set down the glasses. “Too bad for you that there’s photographic evidence.”

  Ann allowed her gaze to move to the picture. Denial wasn’t working all that well anyway. She could still feel his strong arms around her, taste his hot lips on hers, smell the spicy scent of the Rayasian night and feel the ocean breeze rustle her hair. A tingle ran through her body at the vivid memory.

  “Better fill these up,” Darby’s voice interrupted as she pushed the two glasses toward Ann.

  Ann wholeheartedly agreed.

  But before she could pour, the apartment buzzer interrupted her. They both glanced toward it.

  “Don’t answer,” Darby advised. “It could be a reporter.”

  Ann agreed. Then again, it could be Edwina. Ann’s cell phone had been off most of the day, and elderly Waverly’s board member Edwina Burrows had a habit of dropping by in the early evening if she was out walking her cocker spaniel.

  Ann needed to tell Edwina about the Interpol interview. She also needed to explain about the picture of her and Prince Raif. Edwina was one of Ann’s strongest supporters on the Waverly’s board of directors, and right now Ann needed all the help she could get.

  “It could be Edwina,” she told Darby, crossing to the speaker. She wiped her sweaty palms along her thighs. If it was a reporter, she’d simply lie and say Ann Richardson wasn’t home and wouldn’t be back for the foreseeable future. “Hello?”

  “Ann? This is Prince Raif Khouri,” said a man in what was obviously a fake Rayasian accent. “We need to talk.”

  “Right,” Ann scoffed into the speaker, shaking her head in Darby’s direction. It wasn’t exactly a sophisticated con. “Tell your editor it didn’t work.”

  Darby helpfully filled the two wineglasses.

  “I don’t know what you meant by that, Ann,” said the voice. “But I’ve come a long way for this conversation.”

  Actually, the accent wasn’t bad. Points to the Inquisitor for having found a Rayasian to use as a stringer.

  Ann pressed the button again. “Have I done something to make you people think I’m stupid?”

  “Don’t say anything!” Darby hissed as she walked into the living room. “They’ll quote you.”

  The voice crackled through the speaker, deeper and more imperious this time. “Ms. Richardson, have I done something to make you think there is any chance in the world I will give up?”

  As the deep tone hit her nervous system, Ann’s pulse leaped. She recognized that voice. She was afraid of that voice. And, heaven help her, she was aroused by that voice.

  Darby blinked at Ann’s stunned expression. “What?”

  Ann swallowed against her suddenly dry throat. “It’s him.”

  It took Darby a beat to re
spond. “Him, him?”

  Ann nodded.

  “Prince Raif?”

  Ann’s nod slowed. Raif was in America. And he knew where she lived.

  “Step away from the intercom,” Darby advised in an undertone, moving closer for support.

  Ann snapped her hand from the button and took a step back.

  “Don’t let him in,” Darby whispered.

  Ann nearly laughed at the absurdity of the advice. She sure didn’t need Darby to warn her off Raif. She took one of the glasses of wine, gulping a swallow as she stepped farther away from the intercom. “Not in a million years.”

  Two

  Raif had never understood the American obsession over what was legal versus what was logical. But he’d acquiesced to Tariq and Jordan’s advice about stalking laws and waited twenty-four hours until he could approach Ann “legitimately” at a charity event.

  Since it had once been a family home, the building was a multitude of rooms and hallways spread over several floors. For the evening’s event, each room had been decorated thematically for a different European country, featuring festive cuisine and drinks to match the decor. Raif wasn’t interested in eating or drinking, nor was he interested in mingling. On arrival, he’d made a generous donation on behalf of the royal family, was introduced to the chairman of the hospital board, complimented the chairman’s wife’s dress, then moved on his way, searching for Ann.

  The hospital fund-raiser was taking place at the Crystal Sky Restaurant, a historic building that had originally been built as an industrialist’s mansion in the 1930s. It was characterized by floor-to-ceiling glass walls, overlooking extensive grounds, which were now decorated for the Christmas season.

  He finally spotted Ann in the Swedish room. She was next to a giant reindeer, partially obscured by a lattice wall of colorful, shining stars. He stopped for a moment. The scents of chocolate and nutmeg surrounded him, and Ann filled his vision.

  He left the German room, with its boisterous carols, evergreen boughs and carved wooden towns, moving down a hallway to France, which featured berry-festooned wreaths, delicate angels and yards of spun glass. Someone tried to hand him a glass of champagne, but he politely declined and moved on.

  She was stunningly beautiful in a dramatic red strapless ball gown. It was tight across her breasts, fitted along her waist, accented with a band of clear crystals that dropped to a large crystal brooch at her hip. The skirt fell in soft folds of shimmering satin, down to the floor, where a glittering red strappy sandal was visible beneath the hem.