Dear Reader,

I love a story where a character is thrust out of her comfort zone. And what better place to strand a heroine than the vibrant, exotic, extraordinary world of the United Arab Emirates. Dubai: from glamorous skyscrapers by the sea to camels and sandstorms in the desert, nothing is familiar to journalist Julia Nash. She’s arrested, then held captive by an English baron, then forced to flee for her life, all the while falling deeper in love with a completely inappropriate man.

I hope you enjoy Julia and Harrison’s story. I was truly sorry the adventure had to end!

Barbara

Millions to Spare

Barbara Dunlop

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA DUNLOP

is the bestselling, award-winning author of numerous novels for Harlequin and Silhouette Books. Her novels regularly hit bestseller lists for series romance, and she has twice been short-listed for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award.

Barbara lives in a log house in the Yukon Territory, where the bears outnumber the people, and moose graze in the front yard. By day, she works as the Yukon’s Film Commissioner. By night, she pens romance novels in front of a roaring fire.

For Marsha Zinberg

With heartfelt thanks

for your encouragement and support

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Julia Nash might hang out with the superrich, but she definitely wasn’t one of them. She was only in Dubai because her employer, Equine Earth Magazine, had sent her there on assignment. And she was only staying at the Jumeirah Beach Hotel because her friend Melanie Preston, a jockey and the subject of the article, had insisted they share her room. Otherwise, Julia would have been down at the Crystal Sands, living within her reporter’s travel allowance.

Like regular people, Julia had a condo payment, a crack in the windshield of her four-year-old Honda, and her eye on a limited edition watercolor at the Beauchamp Gallery back in Lexington. So, when Melanie had invited her shopping this afternoon, Julia decided not to subject herself to temptation. She’d claimed she was duty bound to scope out the Nad Al Sheba race course, and the excuse was mostly true. She needed to get a feel for the sights and sounds of the exotic Thoroughbred racecourse.

The Prestons owned Quest Stables outside Louisville, Kentucky, and their horse Something to Talk About would race in the Sandstone Derby on Thursday evening. Any background information Julia could pick up between now and then would make her story that much richer.

It was a fluff piece, something to combat the negative press the Prestons had received lately in connection with their Thoroughbred Leopold’s Legacy. DNA tests had revealed that the stallion was not sired by Apollo’s Ice, as recorded, and therefore could no longer compete in Thoroughbred races until the true sire was found. But she took the job seriously. Not only were the Prestons her friends and in need of positive publicity, Julia knew her way out of the lifestyle section of Equine Earth was to do each and every story to the best of her ability.

Although today’s Thoroughbred races wouldn’t start for a couple of hours, the Arabian and expatriate crowd was beginning to gather. Men in white robes contrasted with women in high fashion. Grooms walked sleek horses, while jockeys chatted amongst themselves, some suited up, some still in street clothes.

In the three years she’d been working for Equine Earth, Julia had developed an appreciation for Thoroughbreds and their breeding. She even imagined she was developing an eye for which horse had potential and which one did not. She’d never be as good at it as Melanie, who’d grown up at her family’s famous racing stables. And she couldn’t touch Melanie’s brother Robbie, Something to Talk About’s trainer.

But, for now, she slowed to watch two horses pass by on the dirt track on the opposite side of the fence from her, judging for herself the Thoroughbred’s potential. It was easy to tell which was the helper and which was the racer. One was a stocky, barrel-bellied chestnut with a scraggly black mane, who looked positively bombproof. The other was a twitchy, long-legged dun, straining at the halter, its tail flicking nervously over its haunches.

Wait a minute.

Julia inched toward the fence, straining for a closer look at the tail. The Thoroughbred was a dun. It had a clover-shaped star and the familiar, dark-brown eyes. It also had that unique flaxen tail that Julia had stared at in dozens of pictures at the Prestons.

The Prestons’ veterinarian, Carter Phillips, had found a stallion in California two months ago that he swore was a twin to Leopold’s Legacy. Julia realized she had now found a triplet.

She paced alongside the animal, trying to keep up without looking conspicuous. She scanned its head, its shoulders, its withers and legs, desperately searching her brain for something definitive, something that would tell her whether this was an animal worth investigating. She wished her eye was as keen as Melanie’s or Robbie’s.

Then, she remembered her cell phone. Perfect. She’d e-mail a picture to Melanie and take it from there.

All but trotting along under the warmth of a waning desert sun, she dug into her small purse, tugging out her cell phone. Then she ran a couple of steps to get the angle right, and held up the phone.

Instantly, a white, brass-buttoned, uniformed chest stepped between her and the fence, blocking her view.

“I am very sorry, madam,” the man said, not looking sorry at all.

Julia had no choice but to stop. She tipped her head to blink into a dark, bearded face, shaded by a peaked cap.

“No pictures,” he informed her, his lips clamped in a stern line.

“I don’t understand,” she lied, glancing around, cursing the fact that the horse was getting away.

The No Photos signs were posted conspicuously around the racetrack in at least six languages—three of which Julia spoke.

“No pictures,” the man repeated. “And this is not a public area.”

She maintained her facade of confusion, still keeping an eye on the retreating dun. “But—”

“I must ask you to return to the stands.” The man gestured back the way she’d come.

She peeked around him one last time, scrambling for a solution before the horse and groom disappeared. “Do you know who owns that horse?” she asked.

“This is not a public area,” the man repeated.

“I just need to know—”

Suddenly, a rugged-looking man in a white head scarf and a flowing, white robe materialized beside them. “Do we have a problem?”

Julia instinctively took a step back, shaking her head in denial that she was causing any kind of a problem. This did not look like the kind of man she wanted to annoy. His beard was scraggly, the tip of his nose was missing, and one eyebrow was markedly shorter than the other. Truly, she had no desire to run afoul of somebody who looked like a bar-fight veteran.

“I was only…” She took another step back, taking note of the primal urge that told her to put some distance between the two of them. “Curious about a horse.”

His eyes narrowed. “Which horse?”

“The dun. I…” She hesitated, then screwed up her courage. If she walked away now, she might never find out about the horse, and she might lose a real opportunity to help the Prestons.

She gave her eyelashes a determined flutter and offered a bright, ingenuous grin. “It’s pretty. When’s it racing?”

His thin lips curved into a cold smile. “You wish to bet?”

“No. No, of course I don’t want to bet.” Betting was illegal in Dubai.

“He is Millions to Spare. The third race.”

A name. She had a name. Julia mentally congratulated herself.

She turned to leave, but the man’s hand closed around her upper arm. She glanced down, spotting a tiny tattoo on his inner wrist. It was square, red and gold, with a diagonal line cut through the center.

“You talk to Al Amine,” the man said.

She struggled not to panic.

But then he released her. “For a bet. You talk to Al Amine.”

She reflexively glanced at the uniformed man. Either his English was weak, or they didn’t take the no-betting law particularly seriously around here.

In either event, Julia had the Thoroughbred’s name. A little more sleuthing, and she’d have the name of the stable. If luck was with her, she could end up with more than a fluff piece from this trip. Imagine if she was able to solve the mystery, identify Leopold’s Legacy’s true sire? The Prestons would be in the clear, and her name would be on a byline.

Since earning her journalism degree at Cal State, she’d dreamed of breaking significant news stories, of bringing insights and information to millions of readers around the world. So far, she’d only managed to bring insights on horse racing to a limited audience through Equine Earth.

Not that Equine Earth was a bad employer; they had brought a lower middle-class Seattle girl all the way to Dubai. And soon she’d have enough experience and credentials to branch out to harder news, maybe with a mainstream publication.

As the crowds closed in behind her, she took one last glance at the mystery stallion.

“Come on, Leopold’s Legacy connection,” she muttered under her breath. For the first time in her career, a racehorse story had the potential to move beyond the business and into the mainstream.

Through the speakers above her, the announcer switched from English to Arabic to Spanish, reciting some of the more prominent horses’ names and the time left to the first parade to the post.

Julia ignored the growing excitement in the audience. Her goal was information on Millions to Spare. If she could find a program, she could look up the name of his stable and potentially be on her way to a significant story.

Cadair Racing.

The lettering on the side of the eight-horse trailer was in both English and Arabic. There was a phone number beneath, but a telephone call was the last thing on Julia’s mind. Millions to Spare was in that trailer. And Julia was in the middle of an honest-to-God covert operation here.

She’d figured out the one thing, the one little thing that would tell her for certain if Millions to Spare was a lead in the Leopold’s Legacy parentage mystery, or just another dead end. And that little thing was his DNA.

She’d watched men load the stallion into the eight-horse trailer just a few minutes ago. Now, the last groom was walking away, leaving it unattended, and providing Julia with her golden chance.

Carter Phillips had run into nothing but resistance when he’d checked out the DNA of the other Leopold’s Legacy look-alike in California. His experience had taught Julia it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Considering her DNA test might result in Millions to Spare being disqualified from the Thoroughbred registry, she wasn’t about to call Cadair in advance. She was going to gather the facts first, then deal with the implications—if there were any—later.

All she needed was a tiny sample. Millions to Spare wouldn’t even miss it. Then Carter Phillips could run the test, and she’d know if she had a live investigation on her hands, or if she was switching back to the straight fluff piece about the Prestons’ two-year-old Something to Talk About racing in Dubai.

She took a final glance around the parking lot. Seeing no one who appeared interested in the Cadair Racing trailer, she scooted out in high-heeled sandals, a sleeveless white blouse and a straight, linen skirt. It was hardly the right outfit to go sleuthing around a horse trailer, but she couldn’t let that slow her down.

She tested the handle on the small side door. The silver metal was smooth and warm on her palm. To her relief, the door opened easily.

Heart pounding, she swung it wide and slipped into the cloying dimness, quickly clicking the door shut behind her. She took a deep breath, then sneezed out a gulp of hay dust, startling the closest horse.

There were five of them in the trailer. There were also three empty stalls, and she realized the grooms could be back at any moment with more horses. She couldn’t waste any time. She took shallow breaths to keep from sneezing as she wound her way between oiled saddles, hanging bridles, black water buckets and prickly hay bales.

It was going to be easy, she assured herself. She’d seen this particular test done on television dozens of times. On humans, of course. But the principle was the same.

She had a small cosmetics bag in her purse. All she needed to do was run one of the cotton swabs over Millions to Spare’s gums and wrap it in the plastic she’d obtained from the café. Then she’d slip back out the side door and send the sample by FedEx to Carter Phillips in Kentucky. By Thursday, and the running of the Sandstone Derby, they’d have their answer. And, with luck, she’d be writing a fantastic story.

She squinted at the horses, trying to ignore the sticky sweat dampening her blouse. The horse in the farthest corner whinnied and shuffled, bouncing the trailer. Then there was a clanging of hooves as another horse reacted to the disturbance.

Julia identified Millions to Spare and made her move, murmuring low as she passed the helper mare. She crouched under the barrier, then, moving steadily, she passed another Thoroughbred in the middle stall. She came abreast of Millions to Spare and patted him on the shoulder as she spoke.

“Good horse.” Pat, pat, pat.

“I’m just going to…” her sweaty hands slipped on the clasp of her leather purse “…take a little test of your saliva. It won’t hurt a bit.”

She pawed her way past her wallet, lipstick, comb and a little loose change. The Thoroughbred in front of Millions to Spare twitched. Julia automatically shrank back, her stomach clamping down and her mouth going dry. A kick in here could cause a disaster.

Finally, she located the cosmetic bag and her cotton swabs.

“We can do this,” she crooned to the horse. “You and me, Millions to Spare. Then nice Dr. Phillips will tell us who your father is.”

She carefully inched her fingers along the horse’s cheek, pulling gently on the bottom lip, stroking the cotton along his gums.

Millions to Spare snorted and pulled his head away. But Julia had succeeded.

She carefully wrapped the swab then tucked it back in her purse, giving Millions to Spare a final pat. “Good boy.”

Just then, the truck’s diesel engine rumbled to life.

The horses all shifted, shaking the trailer, and pitching Julia into the wall.

Sucking in a breath, she pushed herself back to standing. She ducked under the barrier, coming abreast of the middle Thoroughbred. Intent on the side door, she was determined to jump out before the truck got rolling. As long as no one happened to be looking in the rearview mirror, she’d be free and clear.

But the middle horse shifted again, canting its hip, knocking Julia sideways and pinning her in a groove of the molded metal wall.

An unladylike swearword burst out of her, and she scrambled to regain her footing.

She gave the horse a firm shove.

It didn’t budge.

She shoved harder.

The trailer lurched and rolled forward.

Julia smacked the horse sharply on the rump.

It shook its head, but its hindquarters stayed planted against the center of her chest.

Panic threatened, but she fought it down.

She could breathe. Sure, they were moving now, but they would have to stop soon. There’d be intersections and red lights between here and Cadair Racing. All she had to do was get free and make her way to the side door.

Then she’d wait for an opportunity, hop out and hail a cab.

She groaned, shoving impatiently at the horse’s rump one more time.

Nothing.

Okay. Deep breath. This wasn’t a disaster. It was just your typical investigative reporter stuff. She’d be laughing about it later tonight with Melanie and Robbie—over a glass of Merlot and a really big lobster tail. Thank goodness alcohol was tolerated in the international hotels in Dubai, because she was going to need it after this experience. The Thoroughbred’s hip bone was leaving a mark.

The bumps and bruises of polo made it a young man’s sport.

Not that Lord Harrison Rochester was old. And at age thirty-five, he wasn’t ready to give up polo just yet. But as he watched from the sidelines, Jamal Fariol galloped fearlessly down the field at Ghantoot, close to the line, bent nearly sideways in his effort to turn the play. Harrison involuntarily cringed. Another inch and the boy would go tumbling under the hooves of his opponent’s horse.

But Jamal didn’t lose his seat. He connected with the ball and pulled up on his reins. There was a cheer of relief from the crowd as the ball bounced its way down the field and the horn sounded.

Harrison watched the young men sit smooth in their saddles—strong and eager as they headed for the sidelines, a new generation full of energy and idealism. His grandmother’s words echoed insistently in his mind.

“Brittany Livingston is the one,” she’d said for the hundredth time. “I know it. What’s more, you know it yourself.” She’d shaken a wrinkled finger in Harrison’s eyes. “Mark my words, young man, you’ll regret it to your dying day if you let someone else swoop in while you dillydally around.”

Harrison had responded that he wasn’t ready to settle down and have children with Brittany or anyone else. He acknowledged that marriage was his duty. But he reminded her that duty came after the fun was over, and Harrison was still having plenty of fun.

Still, as he watched the boys on the field this evening, he couldn’t help thinking about children and fatherhood and his own mortality. If he was going to have children anyway, he might want to do it while he was young enough to enjoy them.

Jamal was fourteen now, his father, Hanif, only a few years older than Harrison. On the sidelines, Hanif’s face shone with pride as he watched his son gallop off the field to switch horses between chukkers. The lad was limping from an earlier fall, but he gamely leaped up on the new mount.

“Impressive,” said Harrison, speculating, probably for the first time, on the pride of fatherhood.

“Kareem is the same,” Hanif offered, his chest puffing as he referred to his twelve-year-old son. “Both of them. Robust like me.”

“That they are,” Harrison agreed, toying with the image of Brittany’s face. There was no denying she was attractive. She had a sweet smile, crystal-blue eyes and a crown of golden hair. She was also kind and gentle, a preschool teacher. There’s wasn’t a single doubt she’d make a wonderful mother.

The match started up again, hooves thudding, divots flying, the crowd shouting encouragement.

Testing the idea further, Harrison conjured up a picture of Brittany in a veil and a white dress, walking the nave at St. Paul’s. He could see his grandmother’s smile and his mother’s joy.

Then he imagined the two of them making babies. He’d have to be careful not to hurt her. Unlike Hanif’s sons, nobody would describe Brittany as robust. It would be sweet, gentle sex, under a lace canopy, beneath billowing white sheets, Brittany’s fresh face smiling up at him—for the rest of his natural life.

Which wouldn’t be so bad.

A man could certainly do worse.

And there was a lot Harrison could teach sons or daughters, not to mention the perfectly good title he had to pass on.

Jamal scored, and Hanif whooped with delight.

Harrison clapped Hanif’s shoulder in congratulations. Making up his mind, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed number one on his speed dial.

“Cadair Racing,” came the immediate answer.

“Darla please.”

“Right away, Lord Rochester.”

A moment later, his assistant Darla’s voice came through the speaker amidst the lingering cheers of the crowd. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like to add a couple of names to the guest list.”

“Of course.”

Harrison’s stomach tightened almost imperceptibly. But it was time. And, fundamentally, Brittany was a good choice. “My grandmother and Brittany Livingston. There shouldn’t be any security concerns.”

“Certainly. I’ll send out the invitations right away. By the way, the French ambassador accepted this morning, and so did Colonel Varisco.”

“That’s great. So are they back?”

“The horses are en route now. Ilithyia placed and Millions to Spare won.”

“Not bad,” said Harrison, nodding to himself.

“Brittany Livingston?” asked Darla, the lilt of her voice seeking confirmation, even though she knew full well what the invitation had to mean. In her midthirties, single, yet hopelessly romantic, Darla made no bones about the fact she thought Harrison should find a suitable wife.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” he asked, remembering Darla singing the praises of Yvette Gaston from the French embassy only last week.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” said Darla with clear enthusiasm.

“Yes. Well. So will Grandmother.”

“And you?” Darla probed.

“How could I go wrong?”

“How, indeed. A beautiful hostess improves any party.”

Harrison’s stomach protested once again. But he supposed being his hostess was exactly what he was asking Brittany to do. “Millions to Spare won, you say?” He redirected Darla.

There was a trace of laughter in her voice when she answered. “The purse was six figures.”

“Tell Nuri to give that boy some oats.”

“Mr. Nuri!” The teenager’s round dark eyes fixed disbelievingly on Julia where she stood frozen in the corner of the horse trailer.

Sweat prickled her skin, and her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. With her back pressed against the warm metal wall, she attempted to swallow her fear, telling herself she should have made a run for it when they first arrived.

“Quiet down,” came a harsh, heavily accented voice from outside the near-empty horse trailer. Stern footsteps clomped up the ramp.

A tall, brawny, dark-haired man appeared. He wore a turban and a black robe, and he carried a riding crop. His piercing eyes took in Julia, and then shifted to the teenager. Then he was back to Julia before rattling something off in Arabic.

The teenage boy scuttled from the trailer.

“I’m sorry,” Julia rasped, straightening away from the wall, moving toward him, frantically scrambling for a cover story. “It’s just. Well. I was—”

The butt of his crop landed square in her chest, forcing a cry from her lips and sending her stumbling back. “Save it for the authorities,” he grated.

Chapter Two

“An intruder?” From behind the desk in his study at Cadair Racing, Harrison stared at Alex Lindley—lawyer and senior vice president of Cadair International.

“An American,” said Lindley, dropping down into the diamond-tuft leather chair, next to the potted palm trees and the bay window that looked out across Harrison’s lighted lawn. “The police have arrested her.”

“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.

“You need to eat,” came Harrison’s deep voice.

She glanced up to see him gesturing at the love seat.

“I need to make a phone call,” she told him, her tone biting.

Melanie and Robbie must be nearly frantic with worry by now. What if it distracted them from their race preparation?

Then Julia wondered if the authorities would simply inform Melanie and Robbie she was in custody at Cadair Racing. If there was some kind of central database of prisoners, Melanie and Robbie could show up here any minute.

“I’m afraid I still can’t allow a phone call,” said Harrison.

“It’s not that you can’t,” Julia retorted. “The problem is that you won’t.”

He gestured to the love seat. “We need to talk.”

Once again, she wondered how much defiance she should show. She hated to give him his way. Then again, refusing to cooperate might simply slow down her release.

She sat, glancing at the food but not giving in to temptation on that front.

Harrison took one of the armchairs opposite. “Starving yourself won’t improve the situation,” he pointed out.

“It’ll give me emotional satisfaction,” she told him honestly.

“In the short term, maybe. But if you’re planning to fight or escape, or plot against me in any way, doesn’t it make more sense to keep up your strength?”

It annoyed her that he was right. “You’re expecting me to escape?”

He chuckled. “No. I’m expecting you to try.”

Of course he didn’t doubt he’d prevail. He was a member of the privileged class, after all.

“Well, I expected you to quickly discover that I am who I say I am, and let me go. Did you even check me out? Did you call Equine Earth Magazine?”

He leaned forward, lifted the silver coffeepot and poured two cups of the fragrant brew. “I looked them up on Google.”

“Then you found out I’m me.”

“I found out a woman named Julia Nash has written articles for them.”

“That’s me.”

He added two lumps of sugar to one of the cups and pushed it her way. Then he lifted the other.

“What made you decide I took sugar?”

“You’re young, you’re American, you’re a girl.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Do you take sugar?”

She pursed her lips. “Yes.”

“Then drink. Your keeling over doesn’t help either of us.”

She gave in. He was right on at least that count. She should keep up her strength. And the caffeine would help her stay alert, should an escape possibility present itself.

“If you’d give me back my purse, I can prove who I am,” she said. “I have a driver’s license.”

“You also have a passport. Or rather, I have your passport.”

“Then you know I’m Julia Nash.”

He was obviously messing with her head for some obscure reason of his own. He had to have every intention of letting her go this morning. Hunger contracting her stomach, she reached for an almond-glazed Danish. If memory served, it was a long drive back to Dubai.

“Tell me again why you broke into Cadair Racing?” he asked.

Julia chewed then swallowed the first bite of the pastry, dabbing her lips with the white linen napkin. “As you’ve discovered for yourself, I’m a reporter for Equine Earth Magazine. I wanted to do a story on you and your horse.”

“Which horse?”

“Millions to Spare.”

“And what’s your story angle?”

“His recent victories.” That seemed generic enough.

“Why Millions to Spare? Ilithyia won more races this year.”

Julia hesitated. This one was a little tougher.

Harrison raised his eyebrows.

She tried not to panic. She had to say something, anything. “Because of his…” No good. She drew a blank.

He gave her an extra few seconds, but then he shook his head.

“I was this close.” He made a centimeter-size gap between his thumb and forefinger. “This close to believing you are who you say you are. But then you had to go and lie again.”

“I’m not lying.” She could easily do a story on him and Millions to Spare. Therefore, technically, she was telling the truth.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. “I brought you your purse.” He pushed it across the table.

Relief flooded through her. He was letting her go. She scooped up the ivory leather bag, snapped open the clasp and instantly noticed the deficiency. “My phone’s not here.” And neither was her passport, dashing her hopes that he might be setting her free.

Harrison stood. “Why would I give you back your phone?”

“So I can call a taxi.”

He shook his head. “You’re a criminal in my custody. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me the truth.”

Julia quickly looked through the purse, searching for the other important item. Where was the cotton swab? Her heart beat deeply in her chest. Where was her DNA evidence?

Harrison started for the door. “We’ll chat again after lunch.”

“But—”

“Do enjoy your breakfast. Can I have Leila bring you anything else? A magazine perhaps.”

Julia didn’t want a magazine. She wanted a cell phone, a PDA, a walkie-talkie, anything with which to communicate with the outside world.

“Can I use a computer?” she tried.

He chuckled. “Right. That’s likely.”

“Well, can I at least get out of this room?” Communication devices were obviously not coming in, so she’d have to get out and find one.

He frowned as he considered her request.

She gestured to the fenced grounds below the balcony. There were also guards at the gate. Come to think of it, the place had an awful lot of security for a horse stable. Maybe horse thieves were common. Maybe Harrison had a legitimate reason to suspect she was trying to steal Millions to Spare.

“Where am I going to go?” she challenged him.

After another silent moment, he relented. “I’ll have Leila show you to the main terrace. There’s a pool there, and the staff will bring you anything you need.”

Julia came to her feet, determined to push her luck as far as it could be pushed. “How about a tour?”

He raised one of his aristocratic brows. “A tour of what?”

“The palace, the gardens, the stable. If I’m going to do a story—”

He snorted his disbelief.

“—it’ll be helpful to slot in some background.”

He stared at her in silence.

“I do want to interview you.”

He took a step toward her. “I’ll give you a tour myself.”

Okay, that wasn’t exactly the perfect solution. She’d been hoping for Leila, or perhaps someone elderly, with hearing and sight challenges.

“Problem with that?” he asked.

“Not at all. I can interview you while we tour.” At least it was a step in the right direction. She could always hope Harrison got called away or distracted while they were out, and then she’d seize the opportunity.

He opened the bedroom door and gestured for her to precede him. They followed the same route back to the great hall. From there, Harrison led her through the glass doors and onto a huge, concrete veranda. It overlooked a picturesque, tiled pool surrounded by palm trees and deck loungers, with a few umbrella tables in the distance.

As they stood side by side at the rail, Julia was struck again by the excesses of Harrison’s lifestyle. Did he honestly feel the need to live like a king?

“What’s your first question?” he asked.

“What on earth do you do for a living?” she asked without thinking.

He glanced quizzically down at her.

“You have a very, uh, nice place here,” she elaborated.

“I own Cadair Racing,” he told her.

“Right.”

“Do you need a notebook for this?”

“No.”

Again, that skeptical glance that told her he was onto her.

“I have a very good memory,” she supplied, checking out the perimeter of the yard. The fence stretched into the ocean, but there was a chance she could wade around it.

“You rely on your memory?”

“Yes, I do.”

He nodded. “Please proceed.”

She wondered if the guards were armed. She hadn’t thought about the possibility of getting shot.

“Julia?” Harrison prompted.

She blurted out the first question that came to her mind. “Your full name.”

“The Right Honorable Lord Harrison William Arthur Beaumont-Rochester, Baron Welsmeire.”

That got her attention. She squinted up at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m quite serious.”

So that’s where he got all the money. “Are you in line for the British throne or something?”

“Number two hundred and forty-seven.”

“You know the exact number?”

“Of course I know the exact number.” His mouth twitched for a second in what had to be an aborted smile. “Two hundred and forty-six untimely deaths, and I’m in.”

Julia struggled not to grin in return. “Will you kill them off yourself?”

His eyes squinted ever so suspiciously, reminding her that they were adversaries not friends. “Why? Is that what you’d do?”

The questions took her by surprise. “Hey, I might be willing to steal—” She cut herself off, astonished to realize she had been about to confess to stealing a swab of horse DNA.

“What?” he asked softly.

She frantically struggled to regroup.

“What is it you’re willing to steal, Julia?”

Her brain scrambling, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Toilet paper.”

His brows went up.

“Back at the jail,” she improvised. “I was getting pretty desperate.”

He propped a hand against the concrete rail, his gray eyes narrowing. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you have trust issues.”

He gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Never had them before.” Then he shook his head. “You are definitely a problem for me, Julia Nash.”

She shrugged. “Then let me leave.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He stared levelly at her for a few silent heartbeats, while the air all but crackled between them.

“If you know,” he finally said, “then I don’t need to tell you. And if you don’t know, then I definitely can’t tell you.”

“That was more convoluted than your full name.”

He gestured to a wide concrete staircase that led down to the pool and began walking. “Care for a swim?”

She kept pace with him. “I thought we were having a tour.”

“It’s getting warm.”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded, but he led her to one of the umbrella-covered tables and pulled out a chair.

Julia sighed. Getting a tour of the stables wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped.

They’d no sooner sat down than three servants arrived. One spread a tablecloth in front of them. One added silver, china and crystal place settings. While the third placed a floral arrangement, a plate of scones and jam, and a pitcher of peach-colored juice.

“Roughing it?” she asked him.

“Is that an interview question?” Harrison dismissed the servants and poured the juice himself.

“No.” She sat back in her chair. “More of an editorial comment on your life.”

“Am I about to get a lecture on privilege and excess?”

“You’re number two hundred and forty-seven in line for the British throne. I’m guessing this isn’t the worst of your excesses.”

He put down the pitcher. “I see you remember the exact number.”

“I told you I had a good memory.”

“And here I thought your lack of a notebook meant you were lying through your teeth, and you never really intended to interview me at all.”

Julia experienced a twinge of guilt. “Shows you how wrong you can be, doesn’t it?”

“Say my name?”

“Harrison Rochester.”

“You know what I mean.”

Julia smiled to herself. “The Right Honorable Lord Harrison William Arthur Beaumont-Rochester.” Then she paused for a beat. “Baron Welsmeire.”

“Damn,” he muttered, obviously surprised.

She pressed her advantage. “Has it occurred to you that I might not be lying?”

“Not even for a second.”

Their gazes caught and smoldered, while some sort of arousal rose unwanted within her.

“Where were you born?” she finally asked him.

“This is going to be a bloody long interview.”

She waited.

“I was born in Welsmeire Castle, south of Windermere—”

“You were born in a castle?”

“Yes.”

“Why not a hospital?”

“Tradition. Bragging rights. I don’t know.”

“So your poor mother had you in a castle so you could brag about it in later life?”

He threw up his hands. “There was a doctor in attendance.”

“Well, wasn’t that good of you.”

“I was a newborn at the time. Wait. No, not quite a newborn at the time.”

“Barbaric,” muttered Julia.

“It was her choice,” said Harrison.

“Well, I’ll be going to a hospital.”

“Good to know.”

Julia took a sip of her juice. “Brothers and sisters?”

“One sister. Elizabeth. Are you always this poorly prepared for an interview?”

Julia ignored his question. “So Elizabeth’s on the British crown list, too?”

“Considerably farther down than me.”

“Do you think that’s fair?”

“Are you here to talk about my horse or revolutionize the British monarchy?”

“We can’t do both?”

He cracked a grin. “Better women than you have tried.”

She moved a little closer. “Are you saying you agree with such a misogynistic approach to succession?”

He leaned in, as well. “I’m saying, at number two hundred and forty-seven, there’s little I can do about it.”

“You could oppose it.”

“In my spare time? I’m a busy man, with a lot of important business dealings and connections, international connections.”

Was he bragging?

He seemed to be watching for her reaction to that statement.

“Okay,” she drawled. “And how long have you lived in Dubai?”

He straightened, peering at her a few seconds longer. “I’ve owned Cadair for ten years. I spend winters here, summers in England.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

He hesitated. “Not yet.”

Julia experienced a jolt of curiosity. What kind of woman would marry a man like Harrison?

Then she quickly realized just about any kind of woman would marry him.

“Sounds like a scoop for me. Who is she?”

“Who says I’ve picked her out?”

Julia cocked her head. “So can I tell my female readers you’re still available?”

“Julia, you have no female readers. You have no readers, period. This is a sham.”

“Then why are you going along with me?”

“I’m trying to figure out what you’re up to.”

“If I leave, I can’t be up to anything, can I?”

“If you leave,” he countered, “you could be up to absolutely anything.”

“I really need to call my friends.”

He shook his head.

“They’re going to think I’m dead.”

He got that intense, probing look on his face again. “Now, why would they think that?”

“Because I disappeared for twenty-four hours in a foreign country. In my world, that’s weird.”

“And what world is that?”

She leaned forward, slowing her speech, enunciating each word. “Horse-race reporting.”

“I almost believe you.”

Chapter Four

It took Julia nearly two hours of feigned interest in libraries, paintings, statues, a wine cellar and Middle Eastern horticulture before Harrison was finally called away on business. He threatened to lock her back in her room, but she all but begged to see the stables. Finally, he relented, and left her in Leila’s care.

It didn’t take her long to figure out why he’d let her loose in the stables with a younger, smaller guard.

There wasn’t a single phone to be found in the cavernous building. Julia had seen a lot of stables in her career, and this one was magnificent. A rubberized floor, cedar plank stalls and dozens of horses were illuminated by fluorescent lights embedded in the high, tin ceilings.

They passed a tack room, and she abruptly halted.

“Can I look in there?” she asked Leila.

“Yes, you can,” said Leila politely, coming to a stop.

“Did you grow up in Dubai?” Julia asked, while she pretended to check out saddles and bridles and halters.

“I went to boarding school in Cambridge,” Leila replied.

“Really?” That explained her perfect English and her rather mixed accent.

“I know you’re looking for a phone,” said Leila, regret in her dark-brown eyes.

“Harrison knows it, too,” said Julia. “I’m guessing I won’t find one here.”

Leila shook her head.

“Yeah,” said Julia with regret. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have let me look around.”

“Not without being here to watch you,” said Leila. “His Lordship is quite intelligent.”

“You actually call him that?”

“His Lordship?”

Julia nodded.

“That’s his title.”

“I’ve been calling him Harrison. Was I incredibly rude?”

Leila fought a smile.

“What?”

“You’re his prisoner. Being rude seems like a small indiscretion.”

Julia couldn’t help but smile in return. “I suppose being rude is the least of my worries.”

“He’s a fair man,” said Leila.

“Then why won’t he let me make a phone call?”

Leila shrugged.

“You know, don’t you?” asked Julia. “But you can’t tell me. Out of loyalty to your employer.”

Leila didn’t answer.

“I can respect that,” said Julia. “And I don’t want you to get in trouble. But, I promise you, I wasn’t trying to steal any horse.”

Something flickered in Leila’s expression.

“What?” asked Julia.

Leila shook her head.

“Damn. I’m sorry.” She was putting the poor girl in an awkward position. “Can we carry on with the tour?”

Leila looked relieved.

They carried on down the barn hallway. Now that she knew there wasn’t a phone to be found, Julia paid more attention to her second mission.

Millions to Spare.

Five hallways later, she spied the horse and abruptly stopped at the stall.

“You mind if I…” She flipped the latch and slipped inside before Leila could protest. “Don’t worry,” she called back. “I’m really good with horses.”

That was a stretch. But since she’d survived a ride across the UAE cuddled up with Millions to Spare and his friends, she figured she was safe in his stall for a couple of minutes.

“I don’t believe you should—”

“I’ll just be a second. It’s not like he has a phone,” Julia joked.

She didn’t have a cotton swab. But she’d seen enough crime dramas to know hair would work, too. Particularly if she got the roots.

Under the guise of petting the horse’s neck, she plucked out a few hairs from his mane, tucking them into the pocket of her dress.

Leila’s voice was worried. “Julia, really, you must—”

“On my way,” Julia told Leila, slipping back out of the stall and latching the door. “He’s a beautiful animal. I’m going to feature him in the article.”

Leila gazed at her with what Julia could have sworn was disappointment.

“What?” Julia asked.

“Even I can tell you’re lying.”

Julia stopped. “I promise you, Leila. I’m not going to steal anything or hurt anybody.”

Leila still looked skeptical.

Julia took a breath. “I have a friend who’s in trouble,” she said, being as honest as she could. “I’m here to find out more about Harrison and Millions to Spare. Nothing else.”

The two women stared at each other for a long minute.

“Would you care to join me in the pool?” asked Leila.

Feeling the sweat trickle down her neck in the oppressive heat of the barn, Julia nodded to accept the invitation.

Harrison watched from a second-story window while Julia jackknifed from the diving board into the crystal-blue water of the estate’s main pool. She wore a sleek, navy one-piece suit, her creamy skin flashing beneath the clear water.

She was an extremely attractive woman, lightly tanned, her body toned from some kind of an active lifestyle. Her auburn hair looked darker when it was wet, and he could imagine her deep-blue eyes flashing as she surfaced and called something to Leila.

Leila grinned as she shouted something back.

Harrison clenched his jaw.

Julia was down there co-opting Leila, gaining her trust. Which was exactly what a good operative would do.

There’d been a thousand signs that Julia wasn’t a spy. She wasn’t anywhere near alert enough to her surroundings. She didn’t look around when she emerged from a doorway, didn’t scan the distance or check for blind corners. She didn’t even glance to see if any of his staff were concealing weapons, and she hadn’t paid the slightest attention to his security guards while they toured the garden.

But then, just when he’d become convinced she was nothing more than a klutzy reporter, she’d raised his suspicions all over again.

Leila was vulnerable. She was young, impressionable. She’d be interested in someone from America. Julia had figured that out, and was obviously ready to exploit it.

“Your grandmother and Brittany are on the way from the airport.” Alex joined Harrison at the window.

He followed the line of Harrison’s gaze down to the pool. “So whatever it is you’re going to do about Julia, you might want to do it in the next fifteen minutes.”

“Why?”

“You being sarcastic?”

Harrison shook his head.

“Because, old man,” Alex said with exaggerated patience. “Brittany may ask—oh, I don’t know—something along the lines of, ‘Harrison, who is that gorgeous woman swimming in your pool?’ to which you would reply…?”

Harrison got Alex’s point. “Right.”

Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “If she’s a spy, I’m a ballerina. Kick her loose, lock her up, send her back to the police station. But if you want a chance in hell with Brittany, get Julia out of the way.”

“…and I need to see him right now,” Nuri’s voice roared from the hallway.

Harrison and Alex both pivoted toward the sound. They were halfway across the room when a breathless Nuri appeared in the doorway. “It’s Millions to Spare.”

“What about him?” Harrison demanded.

“He’s been poisoned.”

“What? How? Where’s the vet?” Harrison elbowed his way past Nuri and into the hallway, striding for the main staircase.

Nuri immediately turned and kept pace, while Alex fell in behind them.

“The vet is attending the animal,” said Nuri. “But, I am sorry to say…” His pause was coldly ominous. “It is too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?” Harrison demanded, knowing full well what that had to mean. But his heart wasn’t ready to accept that his horse was dead.

“He was found down, with tremors,” said Nuri. “The vet came immediately, but the poor beast’s heart and lungs gave out.” The stable manager took a breath. “There were flecks of blood in his nostrils and his eyes had yellowed.”

“Fannew?”

The tiny cactus grew wild all over the area, but the spines kept horses from eating them. Someone would have to have deliberately—

Julia.

Harrison hit the staircase and broke into a trot, marching through the great room and across the veranda.

A shriek of laughter came up from the pool.

He took the stairs two at a time, closing on poolside, where the two women were wrapped in towels beside one of the umbrella tables.

“Did she touch Millions to Spare?” he demanded of Leila.

Both women turned, and Leila’s jaw dropped open at the sight of Harrison’s expression.

“Did she touch Millions to Spare?” he repeated to another stunned silence from Leila.

“Yes,” Julia cut in. “I was in his stall. Why—”

Without breaking his stride, Harrison grabbed her upper arm, pressing his other hand against her neck, and backed her into the wall of the pool house, his mind fogging red.

Her towel dropped, and she scrambled to keep her footing on the slippery deck.

Leila shrieked, and Alex shouted something unintelligible. But Harrison’s rage was focused on Julia.

How had he been so stupid? Why had he trusted her out of his sight? Out of her locked room? For even one second?

“You killed my horse,” he ground out.

Alex shouted his name again, but Harrison knew nobody would dare lift a finger to stop him.

Julia’s jaw worked, her blue eyes wide in panic.

She couldn’t speak, but she frantically shook her head.

“This is the Middle East,” he told her, moving his face in close to hers, bombarding her with his rage. “Not America. I could kill you here and now.”

“No,” she rasped.

“Yes,” he countered.

“I didn’t—” She struggled to get the words out.

Yes, she did. She’d sneaked onto his land. She’d fixated on that horse from minute one. Then she’d sweet-talked her way into a tour of the barns.

“No!” It was Leila.

Her small hands dug at Harrison’s back before somebody, certainly Nuri, dragged her away. But her actions jolted him back to some semblance of reality.

Leila was Nuri’s daughter, and he’d surely punish her for intervening.

Harrison turned to look at the pair. “Leave her,” he commanded.

Nuri’s eyes narrowed.

“Have to talk to you,” came Julia’s hoarse voice.

Harrison turned back. Huge tears had formed in her eyes, magnifying her terror. She looked young and vulnerable, all but naked in the wet bathing suit.

He could have kicked himself.

What the hell was he doing?

This might be the UAE, but he was British, raised on the principle of justice, not revenge. There was no way in the world he’d kill somebody over a horse.

He loosened his grip.

“I didn’t,” she rasped again, her gaze going frantically around to Alex, Nuri, Leila and the other staff who had assembled.

“Please,” she said to Harrison, those shimmering blue eyes getting to him. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

Harrison turned to Leila again, jerking his head to motion her forward.

The poor girl was shaking with terror.

“Thank you,” Harrison said, making sure Nuri heard the words. “Now, can you tell me what she did?”

Leila was obviously incapable of speaking, so Harrison looked to her father. “She’s a good girl,” he told Nuri, a wealth of meaning in his tone.

Then he looked back down at Leila. “She went into the stall?”

Leila gave a shaky nod.

“Did she feed anything to Millions to Spare?”

“I don’t… I don’t think so.”

“How long was she in there?”

“Two minutes, maybe.”

Harrison nodded. Then he took in the assembled staff, selecting Darla. “Darla. Have Leila help you in the office for the rest of the day.”

Darla quickly nodded and came forward for the girl. She would understand what Harrison wanted. He wasn’t about to risk Nuri’s wrath on Leila before the man had a chance to calm down.

Harrison turned back to Julia. “I’ll have the whole truth, and I’ll have it right now.”

“Harrison?” came a puzzled, female voice.

All eyes turned to gape at a crisp and proper Brittany Livingston, standing frozen on the pool deck in ivory pumps, a knee-length, pleated, white skirt and a frosted pink, eyelet blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves. She stared at Harrison and Julia in obvious confusion.

Harrison immediately dropped his hand from Julia’s throat, while Alex quickly intervened.

He positioned himself between Brittany and Harrison, blocking the woman’s view.

“You must be Brittany,” Alex put in smoothly, as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. He offered his arm, deftly turning her back up the veranda stairs. “Please, introduce me to your grandmother. Harrison’s tied up for just a short time.”

Julia rubbed her chafed throat while Harrison watched the woman named Brittany walk away with an American man. Julia was more stunned than hurt, but she was becoming very frightened.

Now that she knew she wasn’t about to die, her mind grappled with the news that Millions to Spare was dead. Who could have done such a terrible thing?

“I need to talk to you,” she began.

Harrison shot her a glare that shut her up. “You can bet your ass we’re going to talk.”

“Alone,” she said. There was no reason not to tell him the whole truth now. But she didn’t know what on earth could be going on, nor did she know who she could trust.

She didn’t like the man named Nuri. He was the one who had had her arrested, and she was sure he would hurt Leila when he dragged her away from Harrison. She didn’t trust him one little bit.

Harrison nodded his consent, steering her none too gently by the arm as he propelled her into a changing hut. He shut the door against the curious staff, then he leaned against it and crossed his arms over his chest in the dim, relatively cool building.

Julia wished she was wearing something more than a bathing suit. Her skin felt clammy, and he was watching every move she made.

She lowered herself onto a painted, wooden bench that wrapped around three sides of the octagonal hut. “Start talking,” said Harrison.

“I didn’t kill Millions to Spare,” she said. “I’d never, ever harm a horse.”

“He was poisoned,” Harrison said bluntly. “Fannew.”

She had no idea what fannew might be, but horror washed through Julia at the thought of the life leeching out of the poor, defenseless animal.

“I saw him at Nad Al Sheba,” she began, determined to come clean. “He reminded me of a friend’s horse, and I thought… That is, I hoped…” She didn’t know how to explain it concisely.

“You looking to go back to jail?”

“He’s the spitting image of Leopold’s Legacy,” she said.

“And who is Leopold’s Legacy?”

“My friends, the Prestons—they’re here to race Something to Talk About in the Sandstone Derby. But their champion stallion is Leopold’s Legacy. There’s a problem with his lineage, and he’s been disqualified from the U.S. Stud Book, because they can’t find his real sire.”

She stood up, wrapping her arms around herself in a hug. “I wanted a DNA sample. I thought if I could either prove or disprove a relationship between the two horses, I could maybe…” She paused again. “Maybe help solve the mystery and get Leopold’s Legacy reinstated.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.