A Golden Betrayal
Author
Barbara Dunlop
Reads
19,3K
Chapters
12
One
Ann Richardson supposed she should be grateful the Interpol agents hadn’t strip-searched her and slapped on the handcuffs. But after her sixth hour in the small, stuffy, gray-walled Federal Plaza interrogation room, she couldn’t muster up anything but annoyance.
Agent Heidi Shaw was back, a half-filled cardboard coffee cup in one hand, clipboard tucked under her opposite arm with a sheaf of papers Ann assumed were some kind of investigative notes. Agent Shaw was playing bad cop to Agent Fitz Lydall’s good. She was five feet even, maybe one hundred pounds soaking wet. While Fitz was two-twenty of solid muscle with a face like a bulldog and the shoulders of a linebacker. Privately, Ann thought the roles should be reversed, but she hadn’t offered up that suggestion.
Either way, since she’d watched a few detective dramas in her time, it was easy enough to see through their textbook ploy. The fact that she was innocent was also going to mess with their strategy. Psychological tricks and circular questioning were not going to trip Ann up and make her tell them she was selling a stolen antique statue on behalf of her employer, Waverly’s Auction House.
She’d learned a lot about Rayas’s Gold Heart statues in the past few months. Three statues had been commissioned by King Hazim Bajal in the 1700s. They were said to bring luck in love to his daughters, who’d been required to marry for the convenience of their royal line and their country. One of the statues was still safe in Rayas with a modern branch of the Bajal family. The other had been lost at sea when the Titanic sank. A third had been stolen five months ago from another branch of the Rayasian royal family, the one that included Crown Prince Raif Khouri. Prince Raif was convinced Roark Black had stolen the statue on behalf of Waverly’s. The accusation was preposterous. But the crown prince was a powerful, determined man, and he had both Interpol and the FBI dancing to his tune.
Heidi set her clipboard on the scarred wood table, and scraped back the metal folding chair to sit across from Ann. “Tell me about Dalton Rothschild.”
“You don’t read the tabloids?” Ann countered, giving herself a moment to consider this new line of questioning. Dalton was the CEO of Waverly’s rival, Rothschild’s.
“I understand the two of you were close.”
“We were friends.” Ann paused. “Were being the operative word.” She’d never forgive Dalton for betraying her and destroying her professional reputation. His lies about their supposed affair were one thing. But his attack on her integrity was at a whole other level.
“Friends?” Heidi mocked with obvious skepticism and disdain.
“So, you do read the tabloids.”
“I read everything. So I know you never denied he was your lover.”
“Would you like me to deny it?”
“I’d like you to answer the question.”
“I just did,” Ann pointed out.
“Why are you being evasive?”
Ann shifted her body on the hard metal chair. She was being honest, not evasive, and she resented the agent’s new barrage of questions. She articulated her next words slowly and carefully. “We were friends. He lied about me. We are no longer friends.”
Heidi stood.
Ann longed to do the same. But every time she’d tried to rise from the uncomfortable chair, someone had brusquely ordered her to sit back down. Her legs were starting to cramp from inactivity, and her butt was killing her.
“Where’s the statue?” Heidi fired at her.
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s Roark Black?”
“I have no idea.”
“He works for you.”
“He works for Waverly’s.”
Heidi smirked. “Semantics.”
“‘I don’t know where he is,’ is not semantics. It’s a statement of fact.”
“You do know it’s illegal to lie to Interpol.”
“You do know I’m capable of calling a reporter at the New York Times.”
Heidi braced her hands on the table, making triangles out of her thumbs and forefingers, and leaned forward. “Is that a threat?”
Ann realized her nerves were getting frayed, and her temper was starting to boil. She allowed for the possibility that she was no longer acting in her own best interest. “I’d like to call my lawyer.”
“Guilty people say that all the time.”
“So do women who’ve been denied a restroom for five hours.”
Heidi’s expression turned smug. “I can hold you for twenty-four hours without charging you.”
“And without a restroom?” Ann taunted.
“You think this is a joke?”
“I think this is ridiculous. I’ve answered every question six times over. I have complete faith in Roark Black. There are two statues at play here. And Waverly’s is absolutely not trading in stolen antiquities.”
“So, you raised the Titanic?”
“I don’t know the whys and the hows of where he got it, I only know Roark has the missing statue, not the stolen one.”
Roark had also signed a confidentiality agreement with the mysterious owner of the Gold Heart statue that had gone missing one hundred years ago. He’d destroy his own career and compromise Waverly’s reputation if he revealed the person’s identity to anyone, including Ann.
“Where’s the proof?” Heidi demanded.
“Where’s my lawyer?” Ann shot back.
Heidi drew a breath and rose to full height. “You really want to go that route?”
Ann was out of patience. She was through being cooperative, through measuring her words. She was innocent, and nothing anybody said or did would alter that fact. “You really want a long and productive career in law enforcement?”
Heidi’s brows shot up.
“Then start looking for a new suspect,” said Ann. “Because it’s not me, and it’s not Roark. Maybe it is Dalton. Heaven knows he’s the guy with a motive to discredit Waverly’s. But if it is him, he’s done it without my knowledge and certainly without my cooperation. I’m about to stop talking, Agent Shaw, and there’s not a single thing you can do to make me say more. You want to be the hero, solve the big, international case, get promoted? Then stop focusing on me.”
Heidi paused for a beat. “You’re an eloquent speaker.”
Ann felt like she ought to say thank-you, but she kept her lips pressed tightly together.
“Then again, most liars are,” Heidi finished.
Ann folded her hand on the table in front of her. She’d requested a restroom, and she’d requested a lawyer. If they were going to deny her requests, tromp all over her civil rights, she really would take the story to the New York Times.
* * *
Crown Prince Raif Khouri was completely out of patience. He didn’t know how investigations were conducted in America, but in his own country of Rayas, Ann Richardson would have been thrown in jail by now. Let her spend a few nights in the bowels of Traitor’s Prison; she’d be begging for an opportunity to confess.
He should have kept her in Rayas when she’d showed up there last month. Though he supposed canceling her visa and locking her up might have caused an international incident. And, at the time, he had been as anxious to get rid of her as she was to leave.
“Your Royal Highness?” A voice came over the intercom of the Gulfstream. “We’ll be landing at Teterboro in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Hari,” Raif responded. He straightened in the white leather seat, stretching the circulation back into his legs.
“I can show you the town while we’re here,” said Raif’s cousin Tariq, gazing out his own window at the Manhattan skyline. Tariq had spent three years at Harvard, coming away with a law degree.
Raif’s father, King Safwah, believed that an international education for the extended royal family would strengthen Rayas. Raif himself had spent two years at Oxford, studying history and politics. He’d visited many countries in Europe and Asia, but this was his first trip to America.
“We’re not here to do the town,” he pointed out to Tariq.
Tariq responded with a lascivious grin and a quirk of his dark brows. “American woman are not like Rayasian women.”
“We’re not here to chase women.” Well, not plural anyway. They were here to chase and catch one particular woman. And then Raif was going to make her talk.
“There’s this one restaurant that overlooks Central Park, and—”
“You want me to send you home?” Raif demanded.
“I want you to lighten up.” Tariq was Raif’s third cousin, but still an important player in the Rayasian royal circle. It gave him the right to be more forthright than others when speaking to Raif. But only to a point.
“We’re here to find the Gold Heart statue,” Raif stated firmly.
“We have to eat.”
“We have to focus.”
“And we’ll do that a whole lot better with sustenance, such as maple glazed salmon and matsutake mushrooms.”
“You should have been a litigator,” Raif grumbled, fastening his seat belt as the landing gear whined then clunked into place. The two men had been friends since childhood, and he doubted he’d ever beaten Tariq in an argument.
Tariq leaned his head back in his seat, bracing himself for the landing. “I would have been a litigator. But the king objected.”
“When I am king, you’ll never be a litigator.”
“When you are king, I am seeking asylum in Dubai.”
Both men fought grins.
“Unless I can get you to lighten up,” Tariq finished. “Maybe get you a girl.”
“I can get my own girls.” Raif needed to be discreet, of course, but he was no fan of celibacy.
The wheels of the Gulfstream touched smoothly onto the runway, its brakes engaging as they sped through the blowing December snow. He would never understand how such a pivotal city had grown up in a place with such appalling weather.
“There’s this club off Fifth Avenue,” said Tariq.
“I’m not in New York to get girls.”
Even as he spoke, Raif couldn’t seem to stop his thoughts from drifting to Ann Richardson. He’d been a fool to kiss her, a bigger fool to like it. And he’d been a colossal fool to let their single kiss get so far out of hand.
When he closed his eyes at night, he could still see her wispy blond hair, that delicate, creamy skin, and her startling blue eyes. He could taste her hot, sweet lips and smell her vanilla perfume.
The Gulfstream slowed and turned, and finally rolled to a stop inside an airport hangar. The ground crew closed the huge door behind them against the cold weather.
When the airplane hatch opened, Raif and Tariq descended the small staircase. A few sounds echoed in the cavernous building—the door clanging into place, a heater whirring in the high ceiling and the ground crew calling to each other in the far corners. Beside the airplane, Raif and Tariq were greeted by the Rayasian ambassador, a couple of aides and some security staff.
Raif appreciated the low-key reception. He knew it was only a matter of time before his every trip would become a state occasion. Though still in his mid-sixties, his father had been ill for some time with the remnants of a tropical disease contracted decades ago in central Africa. These past few months had been hard on the king, and Raif was becoming more worried by the day that his father might not recover this time.
“Your Royal Highness.” The ambassador greeted him with a formal bow. He was dressed in the traditional white robe of Rayas, his gray hair partially covered in a white cap.
Raif detected a slight narrowing of the ambassador’s eyes as he took in Raif’s Western suit.
But the man kept his thoughts to himself. “Welcome to America” was all he added.
“Thank you, Fariol.” Raif shook the man’s hand, rather than embracing him and air kissing as was the Rayasian custom. “You’ve arranged for a car?”
“Of course.” Fariol gestured to a stretch Hummer limousine.
Raif raised a brow. “I believe my office said nondescript.”
Fariol frowned. “There are no flags, no royal seals on the doors, no Rayasian markings whatsoever.”
Raif heard Tariq shift beside him and guessed he was covering a smirk.
“I meant I wanted a sedan. Something plain and inconspicuous. Maybe something I could drive myself.”
Fariol drew back in obvious confusion. The younger aide beside him stepped up to speak in his ear. “I can arrange it right away, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Please do,” Raif said directly to the aide, earning himself another censorious expression from the ambassador.
The aide nodded and quickly withdrew, pulling a phone from his pocket.
Fariol turned his attention away from Raif. “Sheik Tariq,” he said.
It was a slight but very intentional snub. It was the crown prince who ended a conversation, not an ambassador.
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 midpriced 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 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.”
