Millions to Spare

“And she was hiding in my horse trailer?” The pieces of Alex’s story weren’t coming together in any sort of coherent order inside Harrison’s head.

The only thing certain was that he had trouble.

The United Nations International Economic Summit was only four days away, and Harrison was hosting the secretary-general’s reception here at Cadair. Surprises couldn’t happen at this stage of the game.

“Nuri thought she was stealing a horse,” said Alex. “But she insisted she was a reporter.”

“What? Was she interviewing Ilithyia?”

Alex choked out a laugh. “Didn’t seem likely. That’s why Nuri called the police.”

Good move on Nuri’s part. Reporters knocked on the front door. They didn’t sneak onto the estate in the back of a horse trailer. Unless they were from a tabloid. And since Harrison wasn’t a movie star, and there was nothing remotely salacious going on at Cadair Racing, this could hardly be an exposé.

Then Harrison’s brain hit on a worst-case scenario.

“Son of a bitch,” he all but shouted.

“She can’t be,” said Alex, correctly interpreting the outburst.

“Sure she can,” said Harrison.

There was no reason in the world the woman couldn’t be attached to a foreign spy agency or blackops organization.

“A covert operative in a horse trailer?”

“It got her past security.”

“She’s an American,” Alex pointed out. “The CIA doesn’t have anything against the UN.”

“Yeah? Well, they’ve got something against the Syrians and the Iranians.”

“That’s a stretch.”

“Maybe. But that’s bizarre behavior for a horse thief, and she’s certainly not here to do a feature on my love life for the National Inquisitor.”

The grandfather clock ticked three times before Alex spoke. “You want me to head down to the lockup and sleuth around?”

Harrison pushed back on his chair and came to his feet. “No. I’ll get her. If she is an assassin, it’s my neck on the line.”

“We could leave her locked up until the reception’s over. She can’t hurt anyone from jail.”

“That only works if she’s acting alone.”

Alex went silent as Harrison stood up, pressing a hidden button to reveal a wall safe.

“Jobar’s on duty,” Alex warned.

“It figures,” Harrison grumbled. He spun the dial back and forth then clunked the lever. He pulled out three stacks of bills.

Jobar was usually expensive. If the woman was CIA, Harrison hoped the American government would consider reimbursing his bribe.

Julia had to get out of jail.

She had to get out of this cell, and then she had to pee.

Okay. Not necessarily in that order.

The need had been growing steadily worse for the past two hours, but neither of the hijab-clad women spoke English, Spanish or French, and her sign-language repertoire didn’t extend to urination.

There was a drain in the middle of the sloping stone floor. Crude. But it was looking better and better all the time.

She could be discreet.

She was alone in the cell. And it wasn’t as if she still had her underwear. And the voluminous gray dress they’d forced on her was essentially a tent with sleeves. It was drab and scratchy, with a musky smell that made her gag. But it would certainly hide her activities.

Of course, the drain might not be the toilet. In which case, she might be committing some horrible faux pas. She might even be breaking another law. They’d already added immodest dress to her charges of break-in and attempted theft.

And they hadn’t let her make a phone call. In fact, they’d confiscated her cell phone along with every other one of her possessions. She’d repeated the words American and embassy until she was nearly hoarse. She could only hope someone had called them.

If not…

She glanced around at the stained cement walls and the iron-barred door, shivering despite the close air. Voices shouted down the narrow hallway, and metal clanked in the distance. A centipede wriggled out from under the bare mattress laid across the floor.

Julia shuddered, swallowing a shriek.

Why had she thought she could be a real reporter? Why had she ever left Seattle? She should have taken that promotion to night-shift supervisor at Econo Foods instead of the scholarship to Cal State and the road that brought her to this.

She had to keep it together, she told herself firmly. Melanie and Robbie must be looking for her. They’d have talked to the authorities by now. Eventually, hopefully within the next few hours, they’d find her and contact the embassy. Surely getting trapped in a horse trailer wasn’t a heinous crime even in Dubai.

Oh, God. She had to pee.

She gritted her teeth, lowering herself onto one corner of the mattress then bending over to keep her muscles tight.

Footfalls sounded in the corridor. An Arabic voice again. But this time a man’s.

“Ms. Nash?”

She jerked her head up to see a tall man standing outside her cell door. He was Caucasian. And he spoke English. Thank goodness.

“Are you from the embassy?” she rasped.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Her need was humiliating. But she was past caring. She couldn’t even think about anything else for the moment. “Is there a bathroom?”

He searched her expression then said something in rapid Arabic to the matron beside him.

The matron unlocked the door, and Julia rushed to the opening. The woman then escorted Julia down the hall.

The restroom was a cramped, dingy stall with cracked porcelain and corrosion-encrusted plumbing that was a relic of the fifties. There was no seat, and toilet paper didn’t appear to be one of the amenities. But Julia had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

Afterward, she thanked the stern, cold-eyed woman then walked back down the hall, pulling together the few shreds of dignity she could muster.

The man still stood outside her cell.

Her feet froze at the doorway, everything inside her screaming to break and run. But she knew that would only make matters worse. She forced her rational mind to override her primal instincts.

“You speak English,” she said, still hovering at the open doorway.

“I’m British,” he responded.

Of course. The accent was obvious. And there was a definite aristocratic look about him. He had a straight nose, a slight cleft to his square chin, and dark eyes that matched his neatly trimmed hair. His suit was Armani, the shirt and tie likely Richard James. Whoever he was, he had money and style.

She shifted, more conscious than ever of her drab dress. They’d scrubbed off all her makeup, and her hair had definitely suffered from the wind whipping through the openings in the horse trailer.

“The British embassy?” she asked. Perhaps the Americans were busy.

“Harrison Rochester.” His pause was definitely for effect, and he watched her closely as he delivered the next sentence. “I own Cadair Racing.”

For the first time in several hours, a spurt of anger overtook her despair. It was this man’s fault she’d been manhandled, humiliated and strip-searched. “You had me arrested?”

He considered her for a short second. “You broke into my stable.”

“It was an accident.” She sure hadn’t meant to travel halfway across the United Arab Emirates pinned to the side of a horse trailer.

He eyed her with suspicion. “You mistook my trailer for the loo?”

She could feel her face flush, and she tried not to squirm under his intent scrutiny.

She had only a split second to decide how much to tell him. The truth might give her the best chance of getting out of jail. Then again, if she told him she was trying to discredit his racehorse in advance of the Sandstone Derby, he might be tempted to leave her right where she was.

“I was after a story,” she told him. She could always elaborate later.

His slate gaze locked with her blue one. “In my horse trailer?”

“I liked your horses.”

“You’re lying.”

“Check my credentials,” she countered, her confidence growing, since everything she was about to tell him was the truth. “I work for Equine Earth Magazine.”

His eyes narrowed. “I will.”

“Good.”

He glanced back into her cell, and it was all she could do not to beg him to help her, to please call Equine Earth right here and now. Or, better still, take her with him while he checked out her credentials. Just don’t, please don’t let them put her back with the rank air and the centipedes.

She knew they’d turn off the lights soon. And she wouldn’t be able to see the bugs. And, the truth was, she was kind of wimpy for an investigative reporter—especially when it came to creepy-crawly things.

She swallowed and waited.

His broad hand reached out and latched on to one of the iron bars, bracing him beside her. He stared down for a moment. Then he took a breath. “They’ve agreed to release you into my custody.”

Relief burst through her, along with an urge to throw herself into his arms. Her elation must have shown, because his frown deepened.

“You’re not out of the woods yet,” he warned. “You’re in my custody. I’m keeping your passport, and you’ll not be permitted to leave Cadair until I figure out who you are and what you’re about.”

Julia quickly nodded her agreement.

Her story would check out. Harrison would discover she was a bona fide reporter, and he’d have no reason to suspect she was after anything other than a human-interest story.

Meanwhile, if they gave her back her purse, she’d still have the DNA sample and a chance of getting it to the lab. Plus, the Cadair staff might know something about Millions to Spare’s history. Hanging around and talking to them for a few hours could be a blessing in disguise.

Besides—she glanced around at the mottled white walls while resisting the urge to rip the gray dress from her body—whatever conditions they kept her in at Cadair Racing, it had to be a damn sight better than this.

As it turned out, the palace at Cadair Racing was about as far from a prison cell as a person could get. Harrison was definitely one of the superrich. He easily surpassed the Prestons and pretty much anybody else Julia had ever met in the horse world.

A huge, multistoried, marble-pillared rotunda served as his entryway. It was decorated with gilt mirrors, antique statues and hand-carved mahogany settees. A painted mural dominated the domed ceiling, while chandeliers, suspended on gold chains, fairly dripped with glowing crystal.

Past a center table that boasted a massive fresh flower arrangement, the tiled mosaic floor opened into a wide hallway. The hallway itself was an oil painting gallery, inviting guests to browse their way through the center of the palace. Doorways to the left and the right revealed a library, several sitting rooms, an office and an arboretum.

Growing up with her widowed father in a Seattle suburb, Julia hadn’t crossed paths with the wealthy. She knew they lived on the lakefront and went to private schools in Bellevue. Other than that, she’d always assumed they were just like her, but with pools and chauffeurs.

Not true.

When she’d started hanging out with the Thoroughbred racing crowd, she’d learned the rich were closed-minded and paranoid. One racehorse owner refused to eat anything that wasn’t from France. Another put an armed guard on his poodle. Yet another was rumored to carry a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills, in case he wanted to make an untraceable purchase.

It seemed to Julia that the richer people were, the stranger they became. Given this house and its furnishings, along with the extensive grounds and security, Harrison was saddled with a lot of eccentricities.

The end of the wide passage opened into a great hall. The room boasted sweeping staircases, along with banks of windows and glass doors that led to a veranda overlooking a lighted, emerald lawn. Scattered palm trees waved their way to a white sand beach that met the rolling azure waters of the Persian Gulf.

“I really need to make a phone call,” Julia told him, feeling more than a little self-conscious in her stained skirt and wrinkled white blouse as the crisply dressed, ubiquitous staff members moved silently through the rooms.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Harrison responded as they made their way toward the veranda.

Julia kept her voice even, determined not to let her nervousness show. “I don’t understand. Why not?”

He stopped and turned to look down at her. “Because I don’t know who you are, or what you’re after or who you’ll call.”

She glanced pointedly to where her small purse was tucked under his arm. “You’ve seen my passport, my driver’s license, my Lexington library card.”

He didn’t respond.

“People will start to worry,” she pointed out. Hopefully Melanie was worried already. “They’ll be out looking for me.”

Harrison paused. “Give me a list of names. I’ll have Darla make the calls.”

It was Julia’s turn to hesitate. She didn’t want him connecting her with the Prestons. He might have heard about the Leopold’s Legacy scandal, and he might already know Millions to Spare was the spitting image. Melanie and Robbie’s names could give her away.

Harrison arched a brow. “Problem?”

She stalled. “What’s she going to say to them?”

“That you’re safe.”

“You don’t think they’ll ask questions?”

A sly smile grew on his face. “She can tell them you met a man.”

Annoyance shot through Julia. “You think my friends are going to believe I came home with you?”

“Why not? You’re a modern, twenty-five-year-old American—”

“Watch it, buster.” Sure, there was a social conduct divide between the East and the West, but that didn’t mean she was sleazy.

He slowly perused her sleeveless blouse, short skirt and high-heeled shoes. “I saw your personal effects, remember?”

“You think because I wear a thong I’ll jump into bed with a man I just met?” Of all the insulting, stereotypical assumptions. She wore a thong today to stay cool, because the weather in Dubai was nearly a hundred degrees.

He moved a little closer, lowering his voice. “I think your underwear was designed to share.”

She moved in closer, as well, glaring defiantly into his slate-gray eyes. “Not with an insufferable bastard like you.”

His mild tone belied the mocking glint in his eyes. “But, Julia. Since your friends have never met me, they won’t know I’m an insufferable bastard, will they?”

Even though logic told her to back off, there was something about his smug smile that begged her to retaliate. “I’ll know.”

“Guess I’ll just have to live with your low opinion,” he said, clearly unperturbed by the insult. “Give Darla the list. I promise she’ll convince your friends you’re having the time of your life.”

She kept her mouth firmly shut.

His expression unexpectedly softened. “We can end all this right now, Julia. Just tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m doing a human-interest story for Equine Earth Magazine.”

“On me.”

“Yes.”

“Yet, you didn’t recognize me at the jail. Didn’t look at a picture before you broke in?”

Julia scrambled for an explanation. “You look different in real life.”

Harrison laughed at that one. “You’re really the best they could find?”

They? “Who?”

His cell phone buzzed, and he shook his head as he pulled it out. “Never mind.”

“One moment,” he said into the phone, then he snapped his fingers. A young woman instantly responded to the summons, reminding Julia that Harrison was king here, and his word was law.

“Leila will show you to your room,” he said. “She’ll provide you with clothing, food and anything else you need.” His nod was curt as he turned away to deal with the phone call.

The young woman smiled shyly at Julia, and suddenly the prospect of clean clothes and something to eat overruled everything, even the need to bring überrich Harrison down a peg or two.

“Thank you,” she said to Leila, genuinely grateful for the young woman’s help.

Leila gestured to one of the staircases. “This way, please.”

“You speak English?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is there a phone I could use?”

Leila looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

Julia sighed. She shouldn’t have been surprised the staff had been given instructions about her. Harrison definitely struck her as a detail-oriented kind of guy.

At the top of the staircase, her feet sank into the thick carpet of the hallway as they made their way along an open railing that looked down into the atrium.

Julia didn’t know whether to admire or sneer at the tall trees and the broad-leaved tropical plants below and the brilliant starscape through the domed glass ceiling above. It was all gorgeous, but definitely excessive.

When Leila opened a set of double doors, the opulence of the suite echoed that excess all over again.

A four-poster bed dominated the room, while a plush furniture grouping was tucked into an alcove. The carpet was as luxurious as the one in the hall, potted plants were dotted all around, and a door led to an absolutely decadent marble en suite with an oversize tub, gold faucets and double sinks.

Although the silly gold faucets were probably worth more than her car, Julia had to admit it was a whole lot better than her last prison cell. And, really, with a palace this big, there had to be an unguarded telephone somewhere.

Chapter Three

“So is she a spy?” asked Alex Lindley, stopping in the doorway of Harrison’s study, a snifter of cognac dangling from his fingers.

Harrison kept his gazed fixed on the Web page on his computer monitor. “It would appear a Julia Nash does, indeed, work for Equine Earth Magazine. Of course, it might not be our Julia Nash. And, even if it is, it could be a cover.”

Alex moved into the room. “A fake identity as a reporter would give her an excuse to travel around the world.”

Harrison nodded. He’d also found several dozen horse-themed articles written by Julia Nash, a scientific paper by a professor of the same name, a Julia Nash on the board of directors of Qantas Communications Company, and a couple of genealogy charts naming long-deceased Julia Nashes.

His quick search hadn’t come up with anything that either convicted or exonerated her. It might mean she was an innocent reporter or it might mean she was simply a competent covert operative—since none of them would have their real profession splashed all over the Internet, either.

Alex glanced over Harrison’s shoulder. “You want me to make a couple of calls to my military contacts?”

As an American ex-naval officer, Alex could still call in favors in most countries in the world.

“All that will do is send up one mother of a red flag in the secretary-general’s office,” said Harrison.

“Yeah,” Alex agreed. “Might as well cancel the reception outright as do that.”

Harrison pushed back in his chair. “And we won’t be canceling the reception.”

Alex nodded his agreement. As Harrison’s right-hand man, he knew full well the real reason behind the reception. It would facilitate under-the-radar consultations on an international oil pipeline.

“You hear anything more on the negotiations?” asked Alex.

“Uzbekistan’s on board, of course. But Kazakhstan can’t move without a Russian security guarantee. That means Turkmenistan has the French over a barrel on financing.”

“No French, no financing.”

“No port access and no pipeline.” Harrison finished what they both knew.

“If it all goes to hell, what kind of a loss are you looking at?” asked Alex.

“Sunk capital or net present value.”

“I don’t even want to think about net present value.”

“A hundred million in drilling anyway.”

Alex whistled under his breath. “Then I guess we won’t be sending up any red flags for the secretary-general’s security staff, will we?”

Harrison gave a nod to that. Russia wasn’t going to budge on their position on the pipeline. And if the secretary-general canceled his attendance at the reception, the high-level diplomats would follow suit. Harrison would lose his one chance for a meaningful conversation between the French, the Uzbeks and the Turkmen.

At the same time, if Julia Nash was some kind of an operative, or if she wasn’t working alone, and managed to pull something off at the reception, he could trigger one hell of an international incident.

“So what do we do?” asked Alex, dropping down into a guest chair.

“Beef up security,” said Harrison. “Talk to her. See if I can get a feel for…” He swung to his feet, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. But she doesn’t strike me as…”

“The best spies never do,” said Alex.

Harrison frowned at his friend. He knew that. But he’d also been around international commerce and politics long enough to get a feel for people. He was usually right in his assessments.

Then again, the stakes weren’t usually quite this high.

“I’ll talk to her again,” he repeated.

“If you’re sure,” said Alex.

“It’s my ass in a sling.”

“Unless the bullets start flying. Then it’s all of our asses.”

Harrison gave a hard sigh. “I lose a hundred million in sunk costs,” he said to Alex.

“Then you’d better talk to her.”

Harrison glanced at the clock. They’d passed midnight a couple of hours ago. “Let’s hope she doesn’t plan to sleep late.”

The next morning, it took Julia a few minutes to orient herself. Her eyes blinked open to bright sunshine, and the bed beneath her was incredibly soft and comfortable. A window was open, and the cool morning air wafted over her comforter, bringing with it the sound of birds and scents of jasmine and roses.

But then she remembered.

Her white, embroidered cotton nightgown was borrowed, and there was a lock on the outside of her door. After marveling for a brief moment over her sound sleep under such frustrating conditions, she dragged back her covers and headed for the bathroom. She had no idea what the day would bring, and she wanted to be ready.

She showered, then discovered that somebody—she assumed it was Leila—had left a simple, cowl-neck dress of ice-blue silk on the freshly made bed. It had three-quarter-length sleeves, a wide, gauzy hood that could be pulled up as a head scarf, and it fell to just below her knees. Whoever it was had also left a pair of practical, low-heeled sandals that hugged Julia’s feet softly as she tested them on the carpeted floor.

Then she opened the French doors and walked onto the third-floor balcony, gazing at the stables and the sea beyond, giving herself the illusion of freedom.

A rap sounded on the door. She assumed it would be Leila or maybe breakfast, but she didn’t bother going back inside to answer it. People seemed to come and go as they pleased around here.

Sure enough, the door swung open without her help.

It was Leila, and she carried a silver tray of coffee, fruit and pastries. The scrolled tray was further decorated with a small bouquet of flowers, as if Julia cared about opulent hospitality.

Leila was followed by Harrison, looking stern and forbidding in a dark business suit. Julia had to admit the man would be considered handsome, even sexy by most. Not that she was into self-assured, self-absorbed powermongers.

Still, she gave herself a quick lecture on the dangers of falling for your captor—Stockholm syndrome—just in case he started looking good.

“Thank you,” she said to Leila, advancing back into the room as the woman set the tray down on a low table between the two armchairs and the love seat. It occurred to Julia that she should probably stand on principle and refuse to eat her jailer’s food. Part of her wanted to be that defiant, but another part urged her to be practical. A debate ping-ponged through her brain as Leila let herself out of the room.