Prince Under Cover
Their first assignment: stop a suspected terrorist attack on Quantum Industries, a multinational oil distribution giant, the largest buyer and seller of oil worldwide, whose home offices were based here in Chicago.
Since the inception of the war on terrorism, Javid had devoted himself to promoting goodwill worldwide on behalf of Anbar, on behalf of the decent citizenry of the Middle East, and to the pursuit and capture of suspected terrorists. He’d personally helped expose a few cells of the vicious fiends—which had led to his discovery that his own brother was behind an attack in Iceland on one of Quantum’s satellite offices.
He touched the spot above his heart where the scar remained, a raised and angry X, a “forever” reminder of the evil within his twin.
The attack had been a prelude, he’d learned, to something bigger targeting at Quantum’s home base, but ultimately, the target was Anbar, Father and himself. Quantum was the top buyer of Anbar oil. Javid had to do whatever was needed to ensure Quantum’s ongoing safety. He sat straighter in his chair and steepled his fingers. Zahir had the opposite agenda: he would like nothing better than to see Anbar go broke.
Javid had approached the Chicago Confidential agency in March, seeking their help to stop his brother from committing any other acts of terrorism against Quantum. He’d shared his information with the agents and had been working, on and off, with them to bring about Zahir’s capture, to try to find some way of stopping whatever Zahir and his henchmen had plotted for Quantum.
In the end, it was Zahir’s own men—mercenaries he hired—who’d tried to hijack one of Quantum Industries’s corporate jets and kidnap one of their vice presidents, Natalie Van Buren. Javid tapped his foot to the beat of the pulse at his temples. The evil plot was thwarted by one of Chicago Confidential’s own agents, Quint Crawford, who was now engaged to Natalie. At the time of Zahir’s arrest, the agents had suspected he was working with Khalaf Al-Sayed, but they had no tangible proof that would hold up in a court of law.
While connections were sought, Zahir had been incarcerated in a secret safe house. Earlier, Chicago Confidential had learned of Zahir’s betrothal to Khalaf’s newly found daughter. Since the time of Zahir’s arrest, Javid had been impersonating his twin, gathering what personal information he could on Khalaf. Javid had had as little interaction with Khalaf as possible, knowing he was the one who could expose him, he was the one who knew Zahir, he would spot the differences, know he was dealing with a fake.
But Khalaf had been as elusive as a desert breeze. Each time the agents had thought to arrest him, he’d failed to show up where expected. Since he would not miss Zahir and Miah’s wedding, the agents had decided to take him into custody there.
“I’d like it a hell of a lot better if you were getting married on land.” Lawson Davies intruded on his dark musings.
Law, as he preferred to be called, was a high-paid corporate lawyer who worked for Petrol Corporation, Quantum Industries’s closest competitor. His suit was a serious pinstripe, tie subdued, eyes intelligent, green. He yanked off his wire-rimmed reading glasses, eyeing Javid as though he’d just presented a distasteful brief.
“A yacht for God’s sakes. Makes this whole task more risky.”
“Unfortunately,” Javid said, “the ‘where’ of this affair was already set before I came on scene.”
Vincent’s expression was as serious as a thundercloud. “And Khalaf’s insistence on security makes this a ‘do it their way’ situation.”
“Y’all are makin’ too much out of this,” Quint Crawford drawled. Quint, a long lanky cowboy, had Texas oil in his blood, and embraced the accoutrements of his ranch lifestyle—boots, big black Stetson, silver belt buckle. He never took himself too seriously. “If you want to brand a calf, you gotta go to the corral.”
“That’s right.” Whitney’s hand went to her bright red hair. “The wedding takes place on a yacht, so we’ll be on the yacht.”
Quint punched the brim of his black Stetson higher on his forehead, his blue eyes twinkling. “I, for one, can’t wait to see the prince say ‘I do.’ Seems like getting hitched is contagious.”
Vincent glanced at his wife, Whitney. Only then did his expression and his tone soften. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“I’m not knockin’ it.” Quint had a secret smile. “Heck, I’m all for it.”
“Hey,” Javid interjected. “There isn’t really going to be a ceremony, remember? So, make sure you take Khalaf into custody before I end up married to his daughter.”
“I’ve seen the charmin’ Ms. Miah,” Quint added, his infectious grin widening. “Worse things could happen to a man.”
“Just make sure you do your job, and everything will work out as it’s supposed to.” Even Javid could hear the peevishness in his voice. He cleared his throat and reined in his emotions. “Too much could go wrong. So far, I’ve avoided Khalaf as much as possible. But he’s no fool. If he discovers I’m not Zahir, our mission will be compromised.”
Vincent nodded grimly. “We aren’t underestimating the risks. We’re on top of everything.”
Andy Dexter burst into the room, slamming the door in his rush. His energy seemed to zing off the walls as though he were as electrified as his equipment. He didn’t bother with a greeting. He hurried to his chair, waving something that looked like a miniature floppy disk at the group. “Just picked this up from Ramses, my Egyptian informer. It’s a camera flashcard.”
He inserted the disk into his computer and directed all eyes to their individual monitors. A parking lot appeared in the first frame, followed by a quick sequence of others, moving like a slowed-down motion picture. A dark sedan occupied a deserted space before what seemed to be a park and an indeterminate body of water.
Javid asked, “What are we looking at?”
“Khalaf,” Andy answered. “Ramses has been following him since the sheik ‘disappeared’ last week.”
There were no people on the screen.
“So, where’s Khalaf?” Quint asked, his black hat dipping forward over his shaggy brown hair.
“In the car.”
“Who or what is he waiting for?” Law plunked his glasses back onto his nose.
“No one. He’s already in that car, meeting with someone.”
“Who?” Javid asked.
“Come on, Dexter.” Vincent groaned. “Don’t make us play twenty questions.”
“That’s just it.” Andy shrugged. “Ramses didn’t know or see who Khalaf was meeting. He thought we could figure it out.”
“What has this got to do with anything?” Whitney sounded as impatient as her husband.
They watched a white stretch Lincoln approach the dark sedan, saw Khalaf emerge from the sedan, but couldn’t see inside the dark car, couldn’t see who he’d been meeting. Khalaf got into the Lincoln and drove off. The taillights of the dark sedan lit up as the engine was started.
“This is all very interesting, Andy, but I’m already running late.” Law checked his watch, pulled off his glasses and shoved back his chair. As he started to stand, hands planted on the table, his gaze landed once more on his screen and his mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”
“What?” Vincent glanced between Law and his own screen. “What?”
“Stop the film,” Law barked, putting his glasses back on. “Can you run it backward, Dexter?”
“What the hell are we looking for?” Quint echoed Javid’s thought.
“The back license plate of that dark sedan,” Law informed them.
Andy found the desired sequence and freeze-framed it. They all saw it then. Petrol Corporation’s logo, a small world globe inside the loop of a giant red P. Khalaf had been meeting with someone in a car that belonged to Quantum’s chief rival, Lawson Davies’s employer.
Quint sat back and swore under his breath. Vincent demanded of Davies, “Whose car is it?”
“I don’t know. They aren’t assigned.” He peered closer at the screen as though he could find the answer written there in secret code. “Could be anyone in the upper framework of Petrol.”
“Which means if we take Khalaf tomorrow,” Quint said, “we won’t be cutting off the head of this nasty snake.”
Whitney glanced at Javid. “But if we don’t arrest Khalaf tomorrow, that means…”
Javid felt all eyes on him, felt the bottom dropping out of his stomach. “No.”
“Oh, yes, dude,” Andy said with his loopy grin. “Come tomorrow, you’re gonna have to marry the daughter for real.”
Chapter Three
“‘Happy’s the bride the sun shines on…’” Miah peered out the porthole of the 222-foot yacht. Sunlight glistened off Lake Michigan, a huge sheet of glassy water on this cloudless day. It was nearly noon. The ceremony started at twelve-thirty. For a marriage to be happy the vows should be said on the upsweep of the hands of a clock, her mom had told her.
“Happy, huh! I’m marrying a man I don’t even know.” Miah grabbed the lacy veil, crossed to the full-length mirror in the master stateroom and began attaching the crown-piece to her gleaming mane of jet-black hair. Her amber eyes, enhanced with subtle shades of bronze and gold, reflected the butterflies in her stomach. “A man who looks at me like I’m a possession. A man I suspect is harboring dangerous secrets.”
Am I nuts?
As if he stood beside her, Zahir filled her mind, and instead of the shudder her last thoughts should have brought, an unbidden allure flooded her veins, warmed her skin. He roused this heat, this erotic fire in her heart, this sweet awful need in her belly. A new fear edged along her nerves, stroked her spine and drove the heat higher—the fear that she might lose control, the fear that desire would consume her.
“No.” She shook herself. “No.”
She’d been with sexy men before, had had great sex before, and never lost herself. This man was no different from the others. And nothing and no one could control her unless she gave them that right. That she would never do. She’d made this decision. She’d agreed to marry Zahir all on her own. It was the right choice. For her. For Mom.
It was the only choice.
Miah jabbed the last pin into her hair with too much force and winced in pain as it pierced her scalp. Great. All she needed was blood all over her veil. She glanced at the clock. Where was Cailin? What was keeping her?
She twisted in front of the mirror, checking the back of the dress, making sure all twenty-five gold-colored satin buttons were fastened. She turned to the front again, smoothed her hands down her hips, then studied her image. A designer original, the pure satin, body-cleaving gown flowed from her shoulders to swirl around her feet like melted candle wax, flattering her lean, five-nine form, enhancing the good, downplaying the not-so-good. The deep white fabric gave her tawny skin a golden glow, as much as the touches of gold at her waist, neckline and threaded through the veil gave her eyes a sparkling light. Everyone had suggested dull old white on white. The golden touches were Miah’s compromise.
Compromise. Her new byword. Lately, everything she did required a trade-off of some kind or other.
A discreet knock on the cabin door broke into her musings. “Miah, it’s me.”
“It’s about time.” Miah tore open the door. “I was starting to wonder if you were going to show up.”
“My God…you’re stunning.” Emotion welled in Cailin’s blue eyes. “Oh damn, my mascara.” She blinked away the tears before they spilled. “You just look so awesome. I cannot believe it. In another hour, you’ll be a bona fide princess.” She curtsied and dipped her head. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Miah of Nurul.”
“Idiot.” Miah laughed and pulled Cailin inside, shutting the door behind her.
Her friend wore flip-flops, cutoff jeans, a halter top and a grungy baseball cap—and somehow made the look sexy. She ripped off her hat and glasses in one motion. Her face was flushed. Probably from rushing. Or maybe she’d run into Redwing.
“Bobby didn’t follow you, did he?”
“No. Though, I know ‘The Carrion’ would love to get an exclusive on your wedding.”
“The Carrion,” actually The Clarion, had earned the vulturous nickname for its exposés based on lies and half truths, and for hiring scumballs like Bobby “The Buzzard” Redwing as reporters. “As though I’d like my wedding photos in that tabloid rag.”
Cailin chuckled wickedly. “I brought T and J with me, just in case Bobby tried anything.” T and J were Thomas and James, two of her four brothers, both heavyweight boxing contenders. “If he was lurking somewhere on the pier, he’s gotta be real sorry by now.”
“Ouch. Serves him right. The last thing I need is him showing up.”
“Don’t fret. If by some miracle he did evade T and J, he’d never make it past the security you have aboard this floating mansion.”
“They give you a bad time?”
“They insisted on searching me.” Cailin made a face, then gestured at her outfit. “I told them it was obvious I wasn’t ‘carrying concealed.’ I let them go through my purse, but none of that hands-on stuff.”
“Well, that explains the flush on your face when you came in.” Miah laughed, and pointed to an ornate screen beside the bed. “You’d better hurry. Your finery awaits you there.”
Cailin kicked off her flip-flops and slipped behind the screen. Miah could hear her clothes hitting the floor, then the swish of silk against skin. Cailin’s voice drifted to her, sounding muffled, as though she had something over her head. “I noticed the name on the yacht is Anjali. Isn’t that…?”
“My birth mother’s name—yes.”
“Then, the yacht belongs to your father?”
“I’m not sure.” There was still much she didn’t know about her birth father. “He said it belonged to friends. He has a lot of friends in this country.”
“And enemies, too, apparently.” Cailin alluded to the security and the fact her wedding was taking place on a private yacht in the middle of Lake Michigan, instead of some easily accessible, public chapel.
Miah disdained the persecution many Middle Easterners had suffered in recent times. “His life hasn’t been easy.”
Her father, Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed, had entered the world as the second son of the Emir of Nurul. Nurul was a small country, bordered on one side by the Red Sea, on the other by Saudi Arabia. His older brother eventually succeeded to the throne and, shortly thereafter, married Princess Anjali.
Khalaf and Anjali fell in love and had a secret affair. When Miah was born, Anjali confided to him that the child was his. They decided to run off together. As proof of her commitment to him, Anjali signed a contract betrothing her newborn daughter to a man of Khalaf’s choosing. But, as her birth father told the story, before he and Anjali could run away, rebels overthrew Nurul, slaying Khalaf’s brother and Anjali. Servants saved Miah’s life, secreted her out of the palace and spirited her to America.
Khalaf barely escaped with his own life. He took flight to Imad, a small country northward across the Saudi Desert on the Arabian Peninsula. Over the years, he made Imad his home, rising in political favor there to become their emir. At first he thought Miah had also been killed, but once he learned the truth, he began his twenty-five-year search for her. Fate arranged that the good people of Nurul overthrew the rebels at about the same time Khalaf found Miah.
Cailin sighed. “It’s such a romantic story.”
“It’s a tragedy.” Miah recalled the blackmailer’s claims, then shivered as though from a premonition of more tragedy to come.
But Cailin was the one who claimed to be fey, to have the ability to sense things in advance, a gift passed through the females in her family. She stepped from behind the screen.
“Zip me, please.”
The maid-of-honor dress, a solid satin shift, moved on her hourglass shape like liquid gold. Miah worked the zipper, then Cailin stepped to the mirror, fluffed her fiery shoulder-length curls and wiped a speck of lipstick from the corner of her mouth.
Her gaze met Miah’s in the glass. She seemed to weigh the wisdom of something she wanted to say. Then she caught her left thumb in her right fist and began kneading it, a nervous habit she had. She blurted out, “I know ‘The Gorgeous One’ is the fantasy of our youth come true, but if I were you, I’d be terrified of marrying a man I hardly know.”
“I’ve gotten to know him.”
“I thought I knew Bobby The Buzzard.”
Bobby Redwing was a physically abusive brute. “Zahir is not Bobby. He’s kind and gentle. Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to have cold feet, not you.”
“Maybe I’m all wet, but something about this whole thing—” She worried her bottom lip.
“Your run-in with the security guards has your imagination working overtime.” Miah thought she’d gotten a handle on her uneasiness, but having Cailin voice concerns started the butterflies moving in her stomach with renewed vigor. She could do nothing to change what was about to happen. Would do nothing to change it. But she could change the subject. “You have a lot of nerve, Cailin Finnigan, looking so great. The bride is supposed to outshine the other women at her own wedding, but that’s not going to be the case today.”
“Diversion tactics are wasted on me.” Cailin’s frown deepened. “I’ve got four brothers who are way better at it than you. Maybe what I’m feeling is just a reaction to the state of the world. Are you going to be safe in Nurul?”
“As safe as when I’m traveling in America. Very safe. This is my heritage, Cailin. I belong in Nurul. I feel that in my heart. Besides, if not for a quirk of fate, I would never have been in America.”
“I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll be in Chicago as much as the Middle East. More, given mom’s health. You’ll see me so much you won’t have time to miss me.”
Her mother swept into the room, looking anything but ill. She might be a toy angel in a solid gold silk suit and a pillbox hat. Her eyes brimmed with joy, her tiny hands went to her throat. “Oh, Me-Oh-Miah, you are the most beautiful bride. It’s time, darling. The judge is ready.”
THE JUDGE STOOD at the aft end of the great salon buffeted by baskets of white roses and twin shoulder-height candelabra crowned with flaming six-inch gold-colored candles. Miah carried a bouquet of white baby roses tied with a lacy golden ribbon. In fact, white rose arrangements tied with golden ribbons dominated the salon. The floral scent filled her nostrils with such sweetness that she might have been in a garden.
A floating garden.
The boat was a half-mile offshore, far enough to offer privacy, close enough to see the harbor front from the large windows on both sides of the salon.
The guests were seated on padded folding chairs—glad, she supposed, to be indoors on this stifling day. Outside, the temperature hovered near one hundred degrees Fahrenheit with one-hundred-percent humidity. Inside, it was a controlled and cool seventy-two degrees.
The guests included their nearest Mohairbi relatives, an aunt and uncle on her mother’s side of the family, associates of the groom, her father Khalaf’s American friends, and security. She’d been disappointed that Zahir’s parents could not leave Anbar at the moment—but they would, he’d assured her, attend the royal wedding in Nurul.
Of course, the scheduled trip to Nurul, her coronation, and the royal wedding were all subject to change if a donor became available for her mom.
But for now, all she had to concentrate on was reaching the judge without tripping over her feet. A string quartet began a lilting version of the “Wedding March,” and Miah’s heart skipped as she lifted her gaze to the man standing next to the judge.
Zahir. He wore a white tuxedo with gold cummerbund and tie, his raven hair curled against the crisp white collar of his shirt. The suit seemed to add inches to his six-foot frame, expand the glorious width of his broad shoulders, emphasize his narrow waist and hips. His sheer beauty stole her breath, leaving her unprepared for his gaze catching hers, holding hers. The look of wonder and appreciation in his dark brown eyes sent a jolt of heat spiraling from her heart to the tips of her limbs, to settle like a hot coil in her most private place.
Her grip tightened on her bouquet. And the butterflies in her stomach took flight.
“Ready, Me-Oh-Miah?” Lina asked softly.
Miah smiled at her mother, who was giving her away today, took her tiny hand and thanked God for the hundredth time that they were sharing this day. She intended to make it one her mom would never forget. She would be “the happy bride” Mom expected—even if it stretched truth to the limits.
Miah nodded and whispered, “Oh, yes.”
The “Wedding March” began. Cailin moved down the white carpet dropping golden rose petals; Miah and her mother followed after her. The very air seemed to shimmer. Perhaps it was light dancing off Lake Michigan, or the sudden light-headedness Miah felt. She clung tighter to her mother, her feet moving on their own. She spied her father in the front row.
Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed was hard to miss as he alone wore formal Moslem attire. Diminutive in stature, he had a kinetic presence. His face was lean and leathery, lined from the trials of his life, and his eyes were deep-set and as black as his thick mustache.
He nodded as they moved past him. Cailin took her place at the other side of the judge, and Miah stopped and kissed her mother’s cheek. Lina stepped back to allow her to move beside her groom. Zahir’s subtle, spicy aftershave reached out to greet her as he took her hand. His touch was warm, pulsing, reminding her that for all the business aspect of this marriage, at the end of it was a thriving wholly masculine male who exuded a raw and heady sexuality.
Her pulse kicked a beat faster, moving the blood through her veins with a disturbing speed, making her more aware of everything—scents: the flowers, Zahir; touches: his, gentle ones, firm ones; breath: his, feathering her face, her lips.
She repeated her vows and slipped a wedding band on his tapered finger, glancing at Zahir as though rapt, actually feeling rapt, unable to pry her gaze free of his.
Vaguely, she heard the judge pronounce them husband and wife and state that Zahir could kiss his bride. He drew her to him then with all the skill she’d known he would possess, pressing her unresisting body to his, lowering his head with deadly accuracy, his mouth finding hers as though from memory.
His lips were pliant, hungry, demanding, dominating. Her knees weakened, and she melted into him, deepening the kiss on her own. The guests began to clap. Miah stiffened, pushing away from Zahir, her face as hot from passion as from embarrassment at having an audience witness her loss of poise.
He leaned closer and whispered, “We’ll finish this later, love.”
Miah laughed…at him, at herself, at the situation.
MIAH’S LAUGH held a throaty, sensuous tone that roused a carnal awareness in Javid. Her lips were the richest wine, the sweetest berry, forbidden fruit. She was a vixen. One moment playing hard to get, the next compliant, teasing. She had inherited the worst of her sire: his cunning. His charm. His treachery…as evidenced in the engagement ring she wore. A ring given to Nana by Grandfather Hayward for their twenty-fifth anniversary. Zahir had to have stolen it, for Nana had been looking everywhere for it and was heartsick at its loss.
When this was over, he would be sure to take it back to Nana.
Meanwhile, Javid decided, if he wanted to stay one step ahead of his bride, he’d best keep her off balance. He handed her a champagne flute, but when Miah started to drink, he stopped her. “No, love. Like this.”
He twisted his arm through hers, offering his glass to her lips, taking her glass to his.
She frowned.
He grinned and whispered, “From this day forward you are all mine.”
“I’m not a possession, Zahir. If ever I am ‘all yours,’ it will be because I choose to be,” she whispered back.
Her defiance, as much as the brush of her body against him, as much as her gentle jasmine scent underscored by something wholly feminine, wholly Miah, started a deep pulse within his lower belly, filled his mind with imaginings of actually making love to her, something he could not, would not, in all good conscience do…no matter how great the temptation.