A Golden Betrayal
“‘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 respond. “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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.