Raif searched her expression for dishonesty … Instead he found himself drinking in her beauty.

“Ann …” he breathed.

When she spoke, the anger had unexpectedly left her tone, replaced by what sounded like wariness. “What do you want me to say, Raif?”

It wasn’t what he wanted her to say. It was what he wanted her to do. And that had nothing to do with his family’s statue.

“How can I end this?” she asked.

He pulled his thoughts back from the brink. “Give me my statue.”

“That’s impossible.”

Raif took a step closer, crowding her, determined to get this farce over with. “In Rayas we would not ask so politely.”

“We’re not in Rayas.”

“Pity.”

“Why? If we were in Rayas would you throw me in a dungeon?”

“If we were in Rayas I’d tie you to my bed.”

A Golden Betrayal

Barbara Dunlop

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA DUNLOP writes romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website: www.barbaradunlop.com

Recent titles by the same author:

AN INTIMATE BARGAIN

A COWBOY IN MANHATTAN

A COWBOY COMES HOME

AN AFTER-HOURS AFFAIR

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my husband

* * *

THE HIGHEST BIDDER

At this high-stakes auction house, where everything is for sale, true love is priceless.

Don’t miss a single story in this new continuity!

GILDED SECRETS by Maureen Child

EXQUISITE ACQUISITIONS by Charlene Sands

A SILKEN SEDUCTION by Yvonne Lindsay

A PRECIOUS INHERITANCE by Paula Roe

THE ROGUE’S FORTUNE by Cat Schield

A GOLDEN BETRAYAL by Barbara Dunlop

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

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.”

Two

Raif had never understood the American obsession over what was legal versus what was logical. But he’d acquiesced to Tariq and Jordan’s advice about stalking laws and waited twenty-four hours until he could approach Ann “legitimately” at a charity event.

The hospital fund-raiser was taking place at the Crystal Sky Restaurant, a historic building that had originally been built as an industrialist’s mansion in the 1930s. It was characterized by floor-to-ceiling glass walls, overlooking extensive grounds, which were now decorated for the Christmas season.

Since it had once been a family home, the building was a multitude of rooms and hallways spread over several floors. For the evening’s event, each room had been decorated thematically for a different European country, featuring festive cuisine and drinks to match the decor. Raif wasn’t interested in eating or drinking, nor was he interested in mingling. On arrival, he’d made a generous donation on behalf of the royal family, was introduced to the chairman of the hospital board, complimented the chairman’s wife’s dress, then moved on his way, searching for Ann.

He left the German room, with its boisterous carols, evergreen boughs and carved wooden towns, moving down a hallway to France, which featured berry-festooned wreaths, delicate angels and yards of spun glass. Someone tried to hand him a glass of champagne, but he politely declined and moved on.

He finally spotted Ann in the Swedish room. She was next to a giant reindeer, partially obscured by a lattice wall of colorful, shining stars. He stopped for a moment. The scents of chocolate and nutmeg surrounded him, and Ann filled his vision.

She was stunningly beautiful in a dramatic red strapless ball gown. It was tight across her breasts, fitted along her waist, accented with a band of clear crystals that dropped to a large crystal brooch at her hip. The skirt fell in soft folds of shimmering satin, down to the floor, where a glittering red strappy sandal was visible beneath the hem.

She laughed with the man standing next to her. Then she took a sip of champagne. Her red lips touched the rim of the glass, reminding Raif of the moment he’d kissed her. A shot of arousal coursed through him, but he ruthlessly tamped it down. He put his feet in motion, making his way across the crowded floor.

He was offered eggnog this time, by a tuxedoed waiter holding a tray of cut-crystal glasses. Again, he declined, sights set on his target. Ann took her leave of the other man, moving out into the open. Raif was twenty feet away when she recognized him. Her crystal-blue eyes widened, and her lips parted in obvious surprise.

He was five feet away when her surprise turned to annoyance.

“Go away,” she hissed at him.

“We need to talk.”

“Not in public, we don’t.”

“Then let’s go somewhere private.” He’d prefer that anyway.

“Walk away, Raif. I am not giving the Inquisitor another photo op.” Her gaze darted worriedly to the people around them.

“Who said anything about a picture?”

“You must have seen the Inquisitor.”

In fact, Jordan had brought it to his attention yesterday. “I don’t read the tabloids.”

“Neither do I,” Ann responded tartly. “And I’m not planning to be their feature again either.”

“Good thing I wasn’t planning to kiss you.”

She shot him a glare, moving around him. “We can’t be seen together.”

He grasped her bare arm. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

“Let go of me,” she demanded.

“Not until we talk.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“No, I’m not.” His grip wasn’t nearly as tight as he’d like it to be.

She might be paranoid about the press, but he didn’t particularly care who saw them together. And he didn’t care if the world accused them of having an affair. He wasn’t going to let public opinion dictate his actions.

“Are you trying to ruin my life?” she demanded.

“Are you trying to ruin mine?”

“I had nothing to do with your statue being stolen.”

“So you’ve claimed.” He didn’t believe her, not for one minute. In fact, he was insulted that she thought he might. New information had come to light, including his uncle Prince Mallik’s description of the thief. The man who’d broken into the palace had a voice similar to Roark Black’s.

“Raif, please. Not here. Not now.” Her pleading words caused an unwelcome and unfamiliar surge of sympathy inside him.

He fought it. He owed this woman no consideration whatsoever. But something in her clear blue eyes made him weak. Hating himself, he eased her behind the star-festooned screen to give them some privacy.

“That help?” he asked.

“No,” she grated.

There was a door in the wall next to them. She wanted privacy? Fine. He twisted the knob, pushing it open and swiftly spiriting her inside.

“Hey,” she protested as he closed the door. “You can’t—”

“I just did.” He shut the door behind them, and his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A woman should be careful what she asked for.

They’d entered a small, private dining area. A single table for six sat in the center of the room. Wine racks lined the two inside walls, while the two outside walls were dominated by bay windows that looked over the sloping gardens all decorated with colored lights.

Ann started for the door. “Let me out of here.”

Raif moved to block her exit. “No one will see us here,” he offered with a trace of sarcasm.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, Ann? That when I’m standing in front of you demanding answers, you can’t keep up your pretense forever?”

Her jaw clenched as she glared up at him. The sounds of an a cappella quartet wafted through the walls, along with the murmur of conversation and the occasional spurt of laughter.

“It’s not a pretense,” she finally said.

He searched her expression for dishonesty, but instead found himself drinking in her beauty. Memories surged, and he wanted to touch her smooth cheeks, run his hands over her bare shoulders, taste her delicate skin and her dark, sexy lips.

“Ann,” he breathed.

Then anger unexpectedly left her voice, replaced by what sounded like weariness. “What is it you want me to say, Raif?”

It wasn’t what he wanted her to say. It was what he wanted her to do. And what he wanted her to do had nothing whatsoever to do with his family’s statue.

“How can I end this?” she asked.

“Give me my statue.” He forcibly pulled his thoughts back from the brink.

“That’s impossible.”

“Then tell me where it is.”

“I don’t know where it is.”

“Then bring me Roark Black.”

“Roark doesn’t have your statue.”

Raif took a step closer, crowding her, determined to get this farce over with. “In Rayas, we would not ask so politely.”

She sucked in a small breath, but mulishly pursed her lips.

Raif clenched his fists against the desire to kiss her.

“We’re not in Rayas,” she told him.

“Pity,” he found himself responding. There was enough of the modern world in him that he’d never take an unwilling woman to bed. But there was enough tradition in him that he wished he could do it with Ann.

“Why?” she asked. “If we were in Rayas, would you throw me in a dungeon?” Her irises were opaque in the glow of Christmas lights filtering through the bay windows.

He decided to be honest. “If we were in Rayas, I’d tie you to my bed.”

Her eyes went wide at his blunt words, and her jaw dropped a notch.

“A hundred years ago,” he continued, letting his fantasies roam free, “I would have tied you to my bed the night you kissed me.”

“Lucky for me times have changed. And it was you who kissed me.”

“Maybe.” He let his gaze do a sweep of her sexy body. “But I could have kept you happy in my bed.”

“Does your ego know no bounds?”

“I’m told I’m an excellent lover.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, and it had the unfortunate result of highlighting her cleavage. “By women you can have thrown in a dungeon?”

“Mostly,” he allowed with a shrug, struggling to tear his gaze from her breasts. It had never occurred to him to care that his lovers might be humoring him.

“You should try it someday with someone over whom you don’t have the power of life and death.”

“Thanks for the advice.” He wanted that someone to be Ann. Right here, right now.

“See if you still get a gold star then,” she continued to taunt him.

“Unless you’re volunteering for the job, I suggest we change the subject.”

“What?”

He raised his brows and pinned her with a smoldering, meaningful stare.

She swallowed. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

Her arms shifted so that she was hugging herself. “I didn’t mean...”

“My father is gravely ill.” Raif ruthlessly changed the subject. “The missing Gold Heart statue has caused him much distress.”

Ann’s voice became small. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

Raif’s chest went unexpectedly tight. He had to struggle to keep the emotion from his voice. It was odd. He talked about his father all the time without reaction. “The statue’s return would give the king peace of mind.”

Ann touched Raif’s arm. “I would if I could.”

His gaze went to her pale, delicate hand, then lifted to her face. Her expression was open, honest and compassionate. It was difficult to believe she was a thief.

“Then do it,” he rasped.

“I can’t.” Her eyes took on a sheen of tears.

His arm snaked around her waist, and he leaned down. “But, you can.”

“Raif...” Her soft voice trailed away.

Her lithe body was warm against his. Her curves molded to his angles. A throbbing pulse moved inexorably through his body, as her lavender perfume teased his senses.

He was going to kiss her.

He was going to kiss her again, and there was no force on earth that could stop him.

He anchored her head with his hand, reveling in the feel of her wispy blond hair. He leaned in, anticipating the sweet taste of her hot lips.

“California,” she gasped.

He halted. “What?”

“Roark said he was going to California.”

Raif forced himself to ease back. “You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that.”

“Los Angeles.” She struggled against his hold. “He usually stays at the Santa Monica Reginald.”

“You’re lying.”

She shook her head.

“You’re giving me Roark.”

“Yes.”

“To avoid a kiss.”

“The last one got me into quite a lot of trouble.”

Raif let his hand slide from her soft hair. Their last kiss had put him in a whole lot of trouble of a different kind. He couldn’t get her out of his head, and his attraction to her was messing with his focus on the good of his country.

“Santa Monica?”

She nodded, eyes clear, gaze direct. “The Reginald.”

“And, he has the statue?”

“He’ll tell you all about it.”

Raif hesitated. “That was too easy.”

“It wasn’t remotely easy for me.”

Again, he gauged her expression.

“Let go of me, Raif. Assault is a crime in this country.”

“I’m not hurting you.”

“You need my permission to hold me like this.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe in Rayas. But here, what you’ve done is also kidnapping and forcible confinement.”

“I moved you maybe five feet.”

“You won’t let me leave.”

He knew she was blowing things way out of proportion. Still, she’d given him something. He ought to let her go now.

He eased his arm from around her back, and she immediately scooted away.

“You’re free to go,” he told her.

“How magnanimous of you.” Her voice was confident, but she wasted no time moving out of his reach and over to the exit. She opened the door and walked out without glancing back.

For a moment, Raif worried that he’d truly frightened her. But she had to know she was physically safe. He might have kissed her, but that was all. He certainly would never have harmed her.

Then he gave himself a mental shake. She was a thief who was hurting his family. If he’d made her a little nervous, she’d brought it on herself. Her admission proved he’d been right about her all along.

He was heading for California now, and he was about to make Roark Black more than a little nervous.

* * *

“Does nothing scare you?” asked Darby as she swiped her sweaty, dark hair back off her forehead.

Side by side, the two women pedaled exercise bikes in a row of about thirty identical machines on the top floor of the Blackburn Gym. Ann was at mile eighteen, but she suspected Darby was in the lead. A muted news show played on screens in front of them, the closed-captioned words scrolling beneath. The reporter and a distinguished-looking gray-haired man were talking about shipping routes and cargo costs out of the Mediterranean.

“It’s not like he’ll know it was me,” Ann responded reasonably, drawing deep breaths as she pedaled. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

“That’s short-term thinking,” said Darby.

“I prepaid three nights at the Reginald hotel in Santa Monica in Roark’s name,” said Ann. “Raif and his henchmen will sleuth out the fact that he’s registered there pretty quickly. Then they’ll stake the building out, waiting for him to show up.”

“And when the three nights are over?”

Ann shrugged. “Raif will assume Roark either caught on to the stakeout or had a change of plans. If I’m lucky, he’ll hang around California awhile longer and keep looking for him.”

“You sent the crown prince of Rayas on a wild goose chase.”

“Well, I sure couldn’t let him stay here and follow me around the city.” Never mind the constant threat of the tabloid photographers catching them in the same frame somewhere, and her need to focus on the year-end auction happening tonight. Ann had been seconds away from kissing Raif at the fund-raiser. She couldn’t go there, not ever again.

“Any luck in really finding Roark?”

Ann shook her head, pulling her damp T-shirt from her torso to circulate a bit of air. “I’ve left him a dozen messages. Either he’s seriously out of touch, or he’s afraid to respond to me.”

“The FBI still after him?”

“They’re still interested in him. So is Interpol, obviously. But without evidence of theft—” she gave Darby a hard look “—which they’ll never find.”

“Because he hid it so well, or because it doesn’t exist?”

“It doesn’t exist.”

“You’re positive.”

“I’ve known Roark long enough to be positive. He may not be in touch at the moment, but he’s out there trying to clear Waverly’s name. I’d stake my life on it.”

Roark engaged in a high-stakes, high-risk profession, but he was a man of principles and professionalism. He had assured Ann that his Gold Heart statue was legitimate, and she absolutely believed him. Though, on days like this, she wished he’d hurry up about proving it.

She watched the bike’s digital odometer as it neared twenty miles.

“If you’re wrong about Roark?” Darby asked quietly.

“Then I lose my job,” Ann said, owning up to the worst-case scenario. “I’m disgraced in my profession. And Waverly’s is likely the object of a hostile takeover by Rothschild’s.”

“Good thing the stakes aren’t too high.”

“Good thing.”

Ann’s readout hit twenty, and she stopped pedaling, breathing deep, her heart thumping in her chest. She snagged a white towel from the handlebars and rubbed the sweat from her forehead and the back of her neck.

Darby stopped pedaling, too. A quick glance at Darby’s odometer told Ann her friend had made twenty-three miles. Ann had to be getting lazy.

“I have to get my butt home and get ready for work,” she told Darby. “Big night tonight.”

“What are you selling at the auction?” Darby climbed from the bike.

“It’s my favorite sale of the year. Luxury items with killer provenance. They’re for billionaires with last-minute Christmas lists,” Ann joked, straightening her T-shirt over her yoga pants as she dismounted.

The Christmas season was Waverly’s last chance each year to hit their annual sales targets. The focus of the auction tonight was estate jewelry and antique furniture from some notable families on both sides of the Atlantic. Waverly’s had been in business long enough to know what wealthy men wanted to pick up for their wives and girlfriends in December.

Any old millionaire could buy a twenty-carat diamond bracelet, but few men had the real money it took to buy their loved ones jewelry once worn by European royalty. Provenance was everything in the auction business.

Ann bent down to shut off her bike.

“Uh-oh.” Darby’s tone was dire, her hand suddenly grasping the back of Ann’s shoulder.

“What?” Ann straightened in confusion.

Darby nodded to the television screen.

Dalton Rothschild was speaking, but the closed-captioning didn’t show his words. The picture of Ann kissing Raif flashed on the screen.

“Can you tell what he’s saying?” Ann asked worriedly.

Black and white words finally came up on the bottom half of the screen.

Do you expect shareholders to accept Rothschild’s offer? the reporter had asked.

Given the events of the past days, and Ms. Richardson’s rapidly deteriorating credibility, Dalton had replied, I expect the board to recommend it.

“That son of a bitch,” growled Darby.

“He does play dirty,” Ann agreed, her mind scrambling to figure out what Dalton was talking about.

Had something changed? She was under no illusion that she had the unanimous support of the board. She’d guessed it was about fifty-fifty. Though, thanks to Raif, the balance might have tipped away from her yesterday.

But that didn’t explain why they’d recommend shareholders sell to Rothschild’s.

Then again, Dalton could easily be lying to the reporter about the board recommending the sale. At least, she hoped he was lying. If he wasn’t lying, she might as well cash out her modest investments, find a cheap beach hut somewhere in the Caribbean and then call it retirement, because her professional life would be over.

“What are you going to do?” asked Darby, as the news channel switched to another story.

“I have to talk to Edwina.” Ann flipped the towel over her shoulder and started toward the showers where her cell phone was secured in a locker. She needed to find out if it was true. If so, she needed to know which board members were supporting Dalton.

“What about Roark?” Darby asked, falling into step.

Despite her brave front, Ann had been struggling for days now not to lose patience with Roark.

“I know it’s complicated,” she allowed. “But if he doesn’t show up soon with the proof that we have the missing Gold Heart statue and not Raif’s stolen one, he might as well not bother. There’ll be no Waverly’s left to sell it.”

“Are they going to fire you?” Darby asked, as they left the noise of the exercise room behind and made their way down the wide hallway.

“I expect I’ll find out after tonight’s auction.”

That was the bald truth of it. Some of the board members were intensely loyal and trusted her implicitly. They gave her full credit for the growth of the company over the past few years. Ann knew she’d done well, but she also knew she was rapidly becoming a liability.

“Damn you, Raif Khouri,” she muttered between clenched teeth.

If the man hadn’t been so insistent about the statue. If he hadn’t lit a fire under the Interpol agents. If he hadn’t accused her, or kissed her...

If it wasn’t for Raif, she’d at least have a fighting chance at keeping her job.

* * *

Raif gazed out at the nighttime view of Manhattan from the royal suite at the Plaza Hotel. Anger had churned in the pit of his stomach since he’d discovered Ann’s duplicity this morning. He’d wasted two days on a fool’s errand. Roark wasn’t in California. He’d probably never been in California. Sure, there was a reservation under his name in the hotel, but a little digging by Jordan had revealed the room had been charged to Ann’s credit card.

Raif knew the woman was smart. Now he realized she was also cunning. Well, the gloves were off. He knew exactly where he stood, and he was going after her with no hesitation whatsoever.

He heard the suite door open, then close.

“It’s done,” said Tariq, his footsteps bringing him across the thick carpet to where Raif stood.

“She bought it?” Raif asked without turning.

“Ann will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Good.” Raif smiled to himself in grim satisfaction.

“You hungry?” asked Tariq.

“Not in the least.”

“I thought maybe later—”

“I’ll be busy later.”

Tariq was still for a moment. “Do I want to ask?”

“No, you don’t. Jordan left?”

“He did.”

“You should go, too.”

“Raif, you won’t—”

Raif turned sharply. “Won’t what?”

He could almost see the war going on inside Tariq’s head. Did he dare treat Raif like a cousin and boyhood friend, and question his actions? Or was now a time to defer to Raif as the future king?

“You should go, too,” Raif repeated softly.

“I worry about you,” said Tariq.

“I worry about Rayas,” Raif responded.

“You won’t hurt her,” Tariq dared to say.

“I don’t know. She did what she did, and I need what I need.” Raif honestly wasn’t sure what he’d be willing to do to Ann. But he did know he didn’t need to justify it to Tariq. He changed the subject. “Kalila called today.”

“Has she come to her senses?” asked Tariq.

“Not in the least. She’s a spoiled brat.”

Raif’s younger cousin couldn’t seem to think of anything but her own selfish desires—not the king, and not her country.

“She’s a product of her time,” Tariq offered.

“I never should have let her go to school in Istanbul.”

Tariq joined him at the window. “She needs to understand the world.”

“She needs to understand her duty.”

Tariq was silent for a moment. “You don’t think it’s the Gold Heart curse?”

“There is no curse.”

Tariq paused for a thoughtful moment. “Then why are you falling for Ann Richardson?”

“I want to strangle Ann Richardson.”

“You want to kiss her senseless first.”

Raif didn’t deny it. “That’s got nothing to do with romance. It’s lust.”

There was no way Raif would give credence to the Gold Heart curse. Mallik’s young fiancée had simply changed her mind, and his cousin Aimee was better off with her replacement groom, Jacx.

“You sure?”

“Completely.” Raif was a healthy man, and Ann was a stunningly beautiful woman. There would be something wrong with him if he didn’t want to ravish her. It had nothing to do with any missing statue.

“You step too far over the line, and they’ll deport you,” Tariq warned.

“I won’t step over the line.”

Tariq coughed out a laugh. “We’re in America. You can’t even see the line.”

“I’ll be fine. You should go. I don’t want you getting any more caught up in this.”

“Fine with me.” Tariq stepped back. “I know a great little club on Fifth Avenue. Fine music, great cognac, gorgeous women. Don’t wait up.”

“I never do,” Raif responded, his mind already moving on to what he’d say and do when Ann showed up.

The next sound he heard was Tariq leaving the suite and the whir of the private elevator as it descended.

He waited ten minutes, then moved to an alcove in the living room to wait for Ann, choosing a spot where he wasn’t in the line of sight from the door.

A few minutes later, as planned, a butler showed her in, seating her at the main furniture grouping in the center of the large room. Raif waited until the butler left, and until she began glancing around with curiosity, before he stepped out of the shadows to reveal himself.

At his first movement, Ann came to her feet. “Hello. Mr. Oswald? I’m—”

“Hello, Ann.” He moved toward her.

“Raif? What?” She glanced behind her. “I’m supposed to meet—”

“Leopold Oswald. Yes, I know.”

The confusion grew on her face. “He’s interested in auctioning some of his paintings.”

Raif came to a halt in front of her. “I’m afraid not.”

“Did he change his mind? Don’t tell me you said something to him? Raif, you can’t—”

“Think about it, Ann.” He gave her a moment. “Leopold was never part of the equation.”

She stopped, eyes narrowing. He could see her catching on.

“I was supposed to meet Roark,” Raif helpfully added. “You were supposed to meet Leopold....” He waited for her to fill in the blanks.

“Leopold’s not coming.”

“Give the woman a gold star.”

“You lied to me. Or somebody with a very convincing German accent lied to me.”

“Just like you lied to me,” he told her softly.

“I thought Roark would be in Santa Monica,” she said, perpetuating the lie.

Raif scoffed his disbelief. “You booked the reservation. You paid for three nights at the hotel.”

She gave up the pretense. “Okay, you weren’t supposed to find out that part.”

“No kidding.”

“I had to get you out of my hair. This is a critical time for Waverly’s, a critical time for my career.”

“So, you’re saying there can be times when it’s justifiable to lie?”

“When you’re in the right, yes.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Then you’ll understand what I’m about to do.”

She stilled, then took a half step back, suspicion evident in her tone. “What are you about to do?”

“I’m going to call Roark Black and offer to make a trade.” He pulled out his phone. “Consider yourself kidnapped, Ann.”

She blinked once, then a second time. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Raif just smiled, while she obviously struggled to put the pieces together.

Predictably, she went for the suite door.

“There’s a guard standing right outside. He’s Rayasian. Very loyal to me.”

She stumbled a step, but kept going, opening the door wide, coming face-to-face with six-foot-four, two-hundred-sixty-pound Ali Geensh. Ali scowled down at her.

Ann gave a little jump and quickly closed the door.

She scrambled in her purse for her cell phone.

In three strides, Raif was whisking it from her hands. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure how I’d get hold of Roark’s private number.” Raif pressed a key on her phone. “I trust it’s in your contact list?”

“Give that back.” She tried to snatch it away.

He held it out of her reach. “Don’t waste your effort.”

“You have no right—”

“Neither did you. I flew all the way across the country, and then all the way back again. I think you lost the moral high ground three days ago, Ann.”

“I didn’t break any laws.”

“That help you sleep better at night?”

“I sleep just fine.”

“So will I.” Raif scrolled through Ann’s contact list, finding Roark’s number. He pressed the dial button.

She frowned. “I’ve left him a dozen messages.”

“Not like this you haven’t,” Raif responded as Roark’s voice mail greeting played through.

“Roark,” said Raif. “It’s Prince Raif. I have Ann. Call me.”

Her eyes went round. “They’ll arrest you. Truly, Raif. This is really kidnapping.”

“They won’t arrest me.” To start with, he had no intention of getting caught. He wanted the statue, and from what he’d read and heard, Roark would do what he had to do to save Ann.

“You’re holding me hostage and ransoming me. How on earth do you expect this to end?”

“I expect to end with Roark bringing me my Gold Heart.”

“Along with the SWAT team. Call him back, Raif. Shut this down. Let me go.”

Raif shook his head. “You had your chance to do this the honest way.”

“This is honest to God kidnapping, Raif. They’ll throw you in jail for twenty years.”

Raif scoffed. “At worst, they’ll deport me. And since Rayas is one of the only politically stable sources of rare earth minerals, they’ll get over my indiscretions awfully quick.” He tucked her phone securely into his suit jacket pocket. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”

Her eyes narrowed in obvious confusion. “Figured out what?”

“Who I am. What I can do. I’m the crown prince of a foreign nation, Ann. I have diplomatic immunity. I can get away with anything.”

She swallowed convulsively. “Diplomatic...”

He clicked his jaw in pity. “You’re at my mercy now.”

Three

“I’m not about to play this game with you, Raif.” Ann thought seriously about sprinting for the hotel suite door, but she doubted the Rayasian sumo wrestler’s mood had improved in the past five minutes.

“Who said anything about a game?” Raif asked evenly.

He looked frustratingly calm and at ease in the opulent surroundings. His dark suit was crisp and beautifully cut. His white shirt was flawless, and his geometric burgundy and steel-gray tie gave him an air of authority. She’d never seen a picture of him anything but perfectly shaved, and she had to wonder if a barber trimmed his hair every morning. She could only imagine the price of his black wingtips.

“Come on. You don’t seriously expect me to believe you’ll keep me here.”

He shrugged. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re welcome to try.” His expression was as level as his tone.

Watching him warily, she took a sideways step to the nearest hotel phone. She lifted the receiver. Silence. She pressed the zero key. It made a tone, but nothing else happened.

“You’ve disabled the phones?” she asked in disbelief.

Raif said nothing.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t your first kidnapping?”

“It’s the first time anyone’s tried to escape.”

“What?” she scoffed. “Your victims normally throw themselves panting at your feet?”

“It happens.”

“You live in a bubble, you know that?”

“I’m aware that I’m living a privileged life.”

“Privileged?” She smacked the receiver down into the cradle. “Privileged is a night nanny, your own bouncy castle and a Porsche for your sixteenth birthday. You’re an insufferable little potentate who desperately needs somebody to set some boundaries.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you’re a conniving little hypocrite who desperately needs somebody to hook her up to a polygraph.”

“You got one of those?” she taunted. “Because I’ll take one, right here, right now.”

“I have to admit, I didn’t think of that.” He looked regretful.

“Too bad. We could solve this whole problem right now.”

“We’ll solve the problem when Roark calls back.”

“Roark’s not going to call.”

The last thing international man of mystery Roark Black would do was enter into negotiations with a kidnapper.

“I’ve got an auction tonight,” Ann pointed out. “I have to go to work.”

Raif held his palms up in a gesture of surrender. “You have to go to work? Why didn’t you say something? In that case, I give up. You’re free to go.”

“Jerk,” Ann muttered, huffing as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Hungry?” he asked.

She was, but she sure wasn’t about to admit it. There was no way she was accepting any kindness from him. She’d read all about Stockholm syndrome.

“Not in the least,” she answered tartly. But she did plunk herself down on the sofa. She’d been standing in too-tight three-inch heels since she left the gym this morning, and her feet were killing her.

She’d dressed to impress at tonight’s auction, but she didn’t give one whit what Raif thought of her. If she’d known this was going to happen, she’d have gone for a less fitted skirt, a less tailored blouse and jacket. And she sure wouldn’t have worn this particular bra. It was brand-new, with underwires and stiff lace. Not her wisest purchase ever, but it had looked awfully good in the store.

“Are you always this stubborn?” he asked, taking the armchair at the end of the sofa.

“I’m sorry,” she asked with false sweetness, “am I not behaving like a proper kidnap victim?”

He stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. “All you have to do is cooperate, and this whole thing will be over before you know it.”

“Just so you know, I know it already, and it’s not over.”

He twitched the tiniest of smiles. “Cooperate, Ann.”

“By cooperate, you mean admit I stole your statue.” She was getting sick and tired of people trying to get her to do that.

Raif pulled his phone out of his inside pocket and pressed a button. “Gold star for you,” he offered before raising it to his ear. “Ali? Dinner for one.”

Ann rolled her eyes.

“Change your mind?” Raif asked.

“No.” She came to her feet. “Am I free to use the bathroom?”

“Go ahead.” He nodded toward a wide hallway behind the grand piano.

Ann turned on her heel and marched across the big room. The bathroom was halfway down on the left. While at the end of the hall, double doors opened into a massive master bedroom, with a four-poster king-size bed covered in a hunter-green satin quilt.

She swallowed as she turned into the bathroom, banishing an image of herself in the bed with Raif.

He wouldn’t.

That would be going way too far.

He might have diplomatic immunity, but she had to believe he had some kind of a moral code. At least she hoped he did. And she sure hoped it wasn’t some weird Rayasian moral code that allowed him to have his way with any woman who happened to be available.

She closed the door behind her and firmly turned the lock, leaning against it and squeezing her eyes shut. She felt better locked inside the bathroom. It occurred to her that she could simply stay in here until Raif came to his senses.

She opened her eyes and gazed at herself in the lighted mirror. Staying in here wasn’t a half-bad idea. The lock would keep Raif out. And if he wasn’t standing in front of her, she could pretend she wasn’t attracted to him.

She glanced around at her surroundings.

She was standing in the biggest bathroom she’d ever seen. A four-person tub was recessed into a frosted bay window. It was surrounded by leafy green plants and white candles, with a cushioned bench seat and a small table adjacent. There were his-and-hers sinks at opposite ends of a long marble counter. Fine toiletries were placed around the room in wicker baskets, and two plush robes hung on hooks on the wall.

The toilet was placed discreetly in a frosted-glass chamber, while a separate, huge shower stall featured a dozen nozzles along the walls and in the ceiling. There had to be ten towels, and a telephone....

Hello.

She crossed the room, lifting the slim ivory receiver. She held her breath and put it to her ear.

Silence.

“Darn.”

She supposed that had been too much to hope for.

Her gaze strayed to the tub again. She rubbed the side of her rib cage where the tight bra was digging in and the lace scratched her skin. A long, hot bath would feel awfully good. And it would certainly serve Raif right to cool his heels out there without her.

If he expected her to get hysterical or collapse in a fit of despair, he was sorely mistaken. Diplomatic immunity or not, there were going to be consequences for his outrageous actions. Ann would make sure of that.

But until then, her options were limited. She could go back to the living room and try to reason with an obstinate jerk. Or she could go back and watch him dine on room service while she sat hungry. Or she could stay right here and take advantage of the hotel amenities.

“Take that, Raif Khouri,” she mumbled.

She moved to the side of the tub, experimentally twisting one of the taps. Water instantly gushed out—hot, soothing water.

She flipped the lever to engage the plug.

But as the water bubbled up in the tub, she lost her nerve. Did she really want to get naked with Raif on the other side of the wall? Shouldn’t she get back out there and plead her case one more time? If she didn’t show up tonight, didn’t call, didn’t offer Waverly’s any explanation, it would very likely push the board toward firing her.

Would Raif have any sympathy for her plight?

She tried to picture it and couldn’t.

He’d simply tell her to confess to the theft, and he’d let her go. He’d like it that she was under additional pressure. It would play right into his hand.

She glanced back down at the water, wondering how long it would take for him to give up on the kidnapping plot. Overnight at least. Maybe even all of tomorrow.

Then she wondered what the police or FBI would do once her friends reported her missing. Would they look for her right away, or would they wait the official twenty-four hours? Nobody knew she’d come to the Plaza tonight. And the Interpol agents might think she’d fled the city, or the state, or maybe even the country. There was every chance the law-enforcement officials would take her disappearance as confirmation of her guilt.

She perched on the edge of the tub, accepting the fact that the cavalry wasn’t coming. Roark wasn’t going to call. And there was no way Raif was going to listen to reason.

The water level in the tub continued to rise.

Ann slipped off her shoes, sighing as she wiggled her toes. Red indents had formed on her heels and on her baby toes. She fingered her way through the expensive toiletries on the tiled ledge beside her, finding a book of matches and a tiny bottle of lavender bath oil. Her favorite.

She unscrewed the cap, sniffing the contents. Nice.

She poured a dollop into the water and inhaled appreciatively. The aroma was very soothing.

She replaced the cap, set down the bottle and picked up a book of matches. She struck one, and lit the nearest candle, then another and another. The tub was nearly full, so she shut off the taps.

Throwing caution firmly to the wind, she stripped off her jacket, moving aside one of the thick bath towels to give herself a place to hang it. She unbuttoned her blouse and shimmied out of her skirt. Then she determinedly pulled off her slip and unsnapped the wicked bra.

As she shimmied out of her panties, her gaze caught on something under the vanity counter. A minifridge?

She hung everything up and reached forward, polished fingernails catching on the small fridge clasp. She pulled, easing it open, revealing a row of half-size wine bottles, some imported beer, gin, vodka, scotch and some lovely little bottles of champagne.

Oh, she was definitely worth it.

She quickly located a crystal flute in another cabinet, pulled off the foil and wire from the bottle top and popped out the cork. It flew in the air, landing in the steaming tub, making her smile for the first time in an hour.

Raif, she decided firmly, could darn well wait.

She poured herself a tall glass of champagne, set it on the tile shelf and stepped into the tub, moaning softly as she eased her body down into the scented water.

A knock sounded on the door. “Ann?”

“I’m busy.”

“What’s going on?”

Ann lifted the glass of bubbly champagne and took a sip. Very nice.

“Ann?”

“I’m busy,” she repeated, leaning back.

“Doing what?”

“That is a very rude question.”

“Were you filling the tub?”

“Are you aware there’s a minibar in here?”

Raif was silent for a moment. “I was not.”

“I’m drinking champagne. It’s pretty good. They’ll charge that to the room when you check out, right?” She took another drink.

“I imagine they will.”

“Good.”

“Bring it out here.”

“No.”

“Roark called back.”

Right. Ann wasn’t about to fall for that. “He did not.”

“He says he’ll bring me the statue.”

She took a long drink, settling deeper into the tub, letting the water lap around her neck. “Go away, Raif. You’re holding me here, fine. You’re keeping me from working, fine. But can we at least be honest with each other?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

She wished she’d thought to turn off the light. “That’s when you’re letting me go?”

“That’s when we’re meeting Roark.”

Then she spotted a slider switch on the wall. She stretched up, moving the slider downward. The lights dimmed, then went dark. That was better.

Candlelight flickered against the white-and-gold-tiled wall. The champagne eased its way into her bloodstream. She closed her eyes.

“Ann?”

“I’m ignoring you.”

He went silent again, and she listened for retreating footsteps.

But then his gravelly voice came through the door. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m exhausted.” She was, both physically and mentally. It had been a very long five months. She was actually beginning to hope she did get fired. Like tearing off a Band-Aid. At least then it would all be over.

“You have to come out sometime.”

She knew she would. But not right now. Right now, for just a little while, she was going to hide away from her problems.

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