She laughed with the man standing next to her. Then she took a sip of champagne. Her red lips touched the rim of the glass, reminding Raif of the moment he’d kissed her. A shot of arousal coursed through him, but he ruthlessly tamped it down. He put his feet in motion, making his way across the crowded floor.
He was offered eggnog this time, by a tuxedoed waiter holding a tray of cut-crystal glasses. Again, he declined, sights set on his target. Ann took her leave of the other man, moving out into the open. Raif was twenty feet away when she recognized him. Her crystal-blue eyes widened, and her lips parted in obvious surprise.
He was five feet away when her surprise turned to annoyance.
“Go away,” she hissed at him.
“We need to talk.”
“Not in public, we don’t.”
“Then let’s go somewhere private.” He’d prefer that anyway.
“Walk away, Raif. I am not giving the Inquisitor another photo op.” Her gaze darted worriedly to the people around them.
“Who said anything about a picture?”
“You must have seen the Inquisitor.”
In fact, Jordan had brought it to his attention yesterday. “I don’t read the tabloids.”
“Neither do I,” Ann responded tartly. “And I’m not planning to be their feature again either.”
“Good thing I wasn’t planning to kiss you.”
She shot him a glare, moving around him. “We can’t be seen together.”
He grasped her bare arm. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“Let go of me,” she demanded.
“Not until we talk.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“No, I’m not.” His grip wasn’t nearly as tight as he’d like it to be.
She might be paranoid about the press, but he didn’t particularly care who saw them together. And he didn’t care if the world accused them of having an affair. He wasn’t going to let public opinion dictate his actions.
“Are you trying to ruin my life?” she demanded.
“Are you trying to ruin mine?”
“I had nothing to do with your statue being stolen.”
“So you’ve claimed.” He didn’t believe her, not for one minute. In fact, he was insulted that she thought he might. New information had come to light, including his uncle Prince Mallik’s description of the thief. The man who’d broken into the palace had a voice similar to Roark Black’s.
“Raif, please. Not here. Not now.” Her pleading words caused an unwelcome and unfamiliar surge of sympathy inside him.
He fought it. He owed this woman no consideration whatsoever. But something in her clear blue eyes made him weak. Hating himself, he eased her behind the star-festooned screen to give them some privacy.
“That help?” he asked.
“No,” she grated.
There was a door in the wall next to them. She wanted privacy? Fine. He twisted the knob, pushing it open and swiftly spiriting her inside.
“Hey,” she protested as he closed the door. “You can’t—”
“I just did.” He shut the door behind them, and his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A woman should be careful what she asked for.
They’d entered a small, private dining area. A single table for six sat in the center of the room. Wine racks lined the two inside walls, while the two outside walls were dominated by bay windows that looked over the sloping gardens all decorated with colored lights.
Ann started for the door. “Let me out of here.”
Raif moved to block her exit. “No one will see us here,” he offered with a trace of sarcasm.
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, Ann? That when I’m standing in front of you demanding answers, you can’t keep up your pretense forever?”
Her jaw clenched as she glared up at him. The sounds of an a cappella quartet wafted through the walls, along with the murmur of conversation and the occasional spurt of laughter.
“It’s not a pretense,” she finally said.
He searched her expression for dishonesty, but instead found himself drinking in her beauty. Memories surged, and he wanted to touch her smooth cheeks, run his hands over her bare shoulders, taste her delicate skin and her dark, sexy lips.
“Ann,” he breathed.
Then anger unexpectedly left her voice, replaced by what sounded like weariness. “What is it you want me to say, Raif?”
It wasn’t what he wanted her to say. It was what he wanted her to do. And what he wanted her to do had nothing whatsoever to do with his family’s statue.
“How can I end this?” she asked.
“Give me my statue.” He forcibly pulled his thoughts back from the brink.
“That’s impossible.”
“Then tell me where it is.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“Then bring me Roark Black.”
“Roark doesn’t have your statue.”
Raif took a step closer, crowding her, determined to get this farce over with. “In Rayas, we would not ask so politely.”
She sucked in a small breath, but mulishly pursed her lips.
Raif clenched his fists against the desire to kiss her.
“We’re not in Rayas,” she told him.
“Pity,” he found himself responding. There was enough of the modern world in him that he’d never take an unwilling woman to bed. But there was enough tradition in him that he wished he could do it with Ann.
“Why?” she asked. “If we were in Rayas, would you throw me in a dungeon?” Her irises were opaque in the glow of Christmas lights filtering through the bay windows.
He decided to be honest. “If we were in Rayas, I’d tie you to my bed.”
Her eyes went wide at his blunt words, and her jaw dropped a notch.
“A hundred years ago,” he continued, letting his fantasies roam free, “I would have tied you to my bed the night you kissed me.”
“Lucky for me times have changed. And it was you who kissed me.”
“Maybe.” He let his gaze do a sweep of her sexy body. “But I could have kept you happy in my bed.”
“Does your ego know no bounds?”
“I’m told I’m an excellent lover.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, and it had the unfortunate result of highlighting her cleavage. “By women you can have thrown in a dungeon?”
“Mostly,” he allowed with a shrug, struggling to tear his gaze from her breasts. It had never occurred to him to care that his lovers might be humoring him.
“You should try it someday with someone over whom you don’t have the power of life and death.”
“Thanks for the advice.” He wanted that someone to be Ann. Right here, right now.
“See if you still get a gold star then,” she continued to taunt him.
“Unless you’re volunteering for the job, I suggest we change the subject.”
“What?”
He raised his brows and pinned her with a smoldering, meaningful stare.
She swallowed. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
Her arms shifted so that she was hugging herself. “I didn’t mean...”
“My father is gravely ill.” Raif ruthlessly changed the subject. “The missing Gold Heart statue has caused him much distress.”
Ann’s voice became small. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
Raif’s chest went unexpectedly tight. He had to struggle to keep the emotion from his voice. It was odd. He talked about his father all the time without reaction. “The statue’s return would give the king peace of mind.”
Ann touched Raif’s arm. “I would if I could.”
His gaze went to her pale, delicate hand, then lifted to her face. Her expression was open, honest and compassionate. It was difficult to believe she was a thief.
“Then do it,” he rasped.
“I can’t.” Her eyes took on a sheen of tears.
His arm snaked around her waist, and he leaned down. “
But, you can.”
“Raif...” Her soft voice trailed away.
Her lithe body was warm against his. Her curves molded to his angles. A throbbing pulse moved inexorably through his body, as her lavender perfume teased his senses.
He was going to kiss her.
He was going to kiss her again, and there was no force on earth that could stop him.
He anchored her head with his hand, reveling in the feel of her wispy blond hair. He leaned in, anticipating the sweet taste of her hot lips.
“California,” she gasped.
He halted. “What?”
“Roark said he was going to California.”
Raif forced himself to ease back. “You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that.”
“Los Angeles.” She struggled against his hold. “He usually stays at the Santa Monica Reginald.”
“You’re lying.”
She shook her head.
“You’re giving me Roark.”
“Yes.”
“To avoid a kiss.”
“The last one got me into quite a lot of trouble.”
Raif let his hand slide from her soft hair. Their last kiss had put him in a whole lot of trouble of a different kind. He couldn’t get her out of his head, and his attraction to her was messing with his focus on the good of his country.
“Santa Monica?”
She nodded, eyes clear, gaze direct. “The Reginald.”
“And, he has the statue?”
“He’ll tell you all about it.”
Raif hesitated. “That was too easy.”
“It wasn’t remotely easy for me.”
Again, he gauged her expression.
“Let go of me, Raif. Assault is a crime in this country.”
“I’m not hurting you.”
“You need my permission to hold me like this.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe in Rayas. But here, what you’ve done is also kidnapping and forcible confinement.”
“I moved you maybe five feet.”
“You won’t let me leave.”
He knew she was blowing things way out of proportion. Still, she’d given him something. He ought to let her go now.
He eased his arm from around her back, and she immediately scooted away.
“You’re free to go,” he told her.
“How magnanimous of you.” Her voice was confident, but she wasted no time moving out of his reach and over to the exit. She opened the door and walked out without glancing back.
For a moment, Raif worried that he’d truly frightened her. But she had to know she was physically safe. He might have kissed her, but that was all. He certainly would never have harmed her.
Then he gave himself a mental shake. She was a thief who was hurting his family. If he’d made her a little nervous, she’d brought it on herself. Her admission proved he’d been right about her all along.
He was heading for California now, and he was about to make Roark Black more than a little nervous.
* * *
“Does nothing scare you?” asked Darby as she swiped her sweaty, dark hair back off her forehead.
Side by side, the two women pedaled exercise bikes in a row of about thirty identical machines on the top floor of the Blackburn Gym. Ann was at mile eighteen, but she suspected Darby was in the lead. A muted news show played on screens in front of them, the closed-captioned words scrolling beneath. The reporter and a distinguished-looking gray-haired man were talking about shipping routes and cargo costs out of the Mediterranean.
“It’s not like he’ll know it was me,” Ann responded reasonably, drawing deep breaths as she pedaled. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
“That’s short-term thinking,” said Darby.
“I prepaid three nights at the Reginald hotel in Santa Monica in Roark’s name,” said Ann. “Raif and his henchmen will sleuth out the fact that he’s registered there pretty quickly. Then they’ll stake the building out, waiting for him to show up.”
“And when the three nights are over?”
Ann shrugged. “Raif will assume Roark either caught on to the stakeout or had a change of plans. If I’m lucky, he’ll hang around California awhile longer and keep looking for him.”
“You sent the crown prince of Rayas on a wild goose chase.”
“Well, I sure couldn’t let him stay here and follow me around the city.” Never mind the constant threat of the tabloid photographers catching them in the same frame somewhere, and her need to focus on the year-end auction happening tonight. Ann had been seconds away from kissing Raif at the fund-raiser. She couldn’t go there, not ever again.
“Any luck in really finding Roark?”
Ann shook her head, pulling her damp T-shirt from her torso to circulate a bit of air. “I’ve left him a dozen messages. Either he’s seriously out of touch, or he’s afraid to respond to me.”
“The FBI still after him?”
“They’re still interested in him. So is Interpol, obviously. But without evidence of theft—” she gave Darby a hard look “—which they’ll never find.”
“Because he hid it so well, or because it doesn’t exist?”
“It doesn’t exist.”
“You’re positive.”
“I’ve known Roark long enough to be positive. He may not be in touch at the moment, but he’s out there trying to clear Waverly’s name. I’d stake my life on it.”
Roark engaged in a high-stakes, high-risk profession, but he was a man of principles and professionalism. He had assured Ann that his Gold Heart statue was legitimate, and she absolutely believed him. Though, on days like this, she wished he’d hurry up about proving it.
She watched the bike’s digital odometer as it neared twenty miles.
“If you’re wrong about Roark?” Darby asked quietly.
“Then I lose my job,” Ann said, owning up to the worst-case scenario. “I’m disgraced in my profession. And Waverly’s is likely the object of a hostile takeover by Rothschild’s.”
“Good thing the stakes aren’t too high.”
“Good thing.”
Ann’s readout hit twenty, and she stopped pedaling, breathing deep, her heart thumping in her chest. She snagged a white towel from the handlebars and rubbed the sweat from her forehead and the back of her neck.
Darby stopped pedaling, too. A quick glance at Darby’s odometer told Ann her friend had made twenty-three miles. Ann had to be getting lazy.
“I have to get my butt home and get ready for work,” she told Darby. “Big night tonight.”
“What are you selling at the auction?” Darby climbed from the bike.
“It’s my favorite sale of the year. Luxury items with killer provenance. They’re for billionaires with last-minute Christmas lists,” Ann joked, straightening her T-shirt over her yoga pants as she dismounted.
The Christmas season was Waverly’s last chance each year to hit their annual sales targets. The focus of the auction tonight was estate jewelry and antique furniture from some notable families on both sides of the Atlantic. Waverly’s had been in business long enough to know what wealthy men wanted to pick up for their wives and girlfriends in December.
Any old millionaire could buy a twenty-carat diamond bracelet, but few men had the real money it took to buy their loved ones jewelry once worn by European royalty. Provenance was everything in the auction business.
Ann bent down to shut off her bike.
“Uh-oh.” Darby’s tone was dire, her hand suddenly grasping the back of Ann’s shoulder.
“What?” Ann straightened in confusion.
Darby nodded to the television screen.
Dalton Rothschild was speaking, but the closed-captioning didn’t show his words. The picture of Ann kissing Raif flashed on the screen.
“Can you tell what he’s saying?” Ann asked worriedly.
Black and white words finally came up on the bottom half of the screen.
Do you expect shareholders
to accept Rothschild’s offer? the reporter had asked.
Given the events of the past days, and Ms. Richardson’s rapidly deteriorating credibility, Dalton had replied, I expect the board to recommend it.
“That son of a bitch,” growled Darby.
“He does play dirty,” Ann agreed, her mind scrambling to figure out what Dalton was talking about.
Had something changed? She was under no illusion that she had the unanimous support of the board. She’d guessed it was about fifty-fifty. Though, thanks to Raif, the balance might have tipped away from her yesterday.
But that didn’t explain why they’d recommend shareholders sell to Rothschild’s.
Then again, Dalton could easily be lying to the reporter about the board recommending the sale. At least, she hoped he was lying. If he wasn’t lying, she might as well cash out her modest investments, find a cheap beach hut somewhere in the Caribbean and then call it retirement, because her professional life would be over.
“What are you going to do?” asked Darby, as the news channel switched to another story.
“I have to talk to Edwina.” Ann flipped the towel over her shoulder and started toward the showers where her cell phone was secured in a locker. She needed to find out if it was true. If so, she needed to know which board members were supporting Dalton.
“What about Roark?” Darby asked, falling into step.
Despite her brave front, Ann had been struggling for days now not to lose patience with Roark.
“I know it’s complicated,” she allowed. “But if he doesn’t show up soon with the proof that we have the missing Gold Heart statue and not Raif’s stolen one, he might as well not bother. There’ll be no Waverly’s left to sell it.”
“Are they going to fire you?” Darby asked, as they left the noise of the exercise room behind and made their way down the wide hallway.
“I expect I’ll find out after tonight’s auction.”
That was the bald truth of it. Some of the board members were intensely loyal and trusted her implicitly. They gave her full credit for the growth of the company over the past few years. Ann knew she’d done well, but she also knew she was rapidly becoming a liability.
A Golden Betrayal Page 3
