He drew in a deep breath, then said on the exhale, “I’m not Zahir.”

Miah’s ears buzzed. Had she heard him right? She frowned so hard her face ached. “What did you say?”

“I am Prince Javid Haji Haleem of Anbar. Zahir is my twin brother.”

“Bull.” Miah laughed at the absurdity and glared at him. “Zahir hasn’t got a twin.”

“Yes, he does. Me.” His voice was so impassioned, his expression so earnest, her fury faltered.

Her skin burned. She’d met Zahir last January, had dated him, spent time with him during these past six months, but she’d never noticed when one twin took the other’s place? No way. If that were true… No. That was too humiliating to contemplate.

Dear Reader,

We have a fabulous fall lineup for you this month and throughout the season, starting with a new Navajo miniseries by Aimée Thurlo called SIGN OF THE GRAY WOLF. Two loners are called to action in the Four Corners area of New Mexico to take care of two women in jeopardy. Look for Daniel “Lightning” Eagle’s story in When Lightning Strikes and Burke Silentman’s next month in Navajo Justice.

The explosive CHICAGO CONFIDENTIAL continuity series concludes with Adrianne Lee’s Prince Under Cover. We just know you are going to love this international story of intrigue and the drama of a royal marriage—to a familiar stranger…. Don’t forget: a new Confidential branch will be added to the network next year!

Also this month—another compelling book from newcomer Delores Fossen. In A Man Worth Remembering, she reunites an estranged couple after amnesia strikes. Together, can they find the strength to face their enduring love—and find their kidnapped secret child? And can a woman on the edge recover the life and child she lost when she was framed for murder, in Harper Allen’s The Night in Quesiton? She can if she has the help of the man who put her away.

Pulse pounding, mind-blowing and always breathtaking—that’s Harlequin Intrigue.

Enjoy,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Prince Under Cover
Adrianne Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When asked why she wanted to write romance fiction, Adrianne Lee replied, “I wanted to be Doris Day when I grew up. You know, singing my way through one wonderful romance after another. And I did. I fell in love with and married my high school sweetheart and became the mother of three beautiful daughters. Family and love are very important to me and I hope you enjoy the way I weave them through my stories.” Adrianne also states, “I love hearing from my readers and am happy to write back. You can reach me at Adrianne Lee, P.O. Box 3835, Sequim, WA 98382. Please enclose a SASE if you’d like a response.”

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Miah Mohairbi—Finding out she’s a real live princess betrothed to a real Prince Charming puts this Chicago-raised all-American woman on the roller-coaster ride of her life.

Javid Haji Haleem—The Prince of Anbar is keeping secrets that could get not only himself killed, but Miah, too.

Zahir Haji Haleem—Javid’s twin brother wants to rule the world, and will stop at nothing to gain this end.

Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed—Miah’s newly discovered father is like a fairy godfather, lavishing her with riches and adoration. Could he be anything but what he seems?

Big Tony De Luca—This former wrestling champion now publishes a tabloid that thrives on lies and innuendo and seems to be waging a vendetta against Javid.

Bobby “The Buzzard” Redwing—Is this paparazzo as much of a vulture as his nickname implies?

Cailin Finnigan—Does Miah’s best friend have pre-knowledge of events because she’s fey, or because she’s behind the danger?

Rory Finnigan—Cailin’s brother is suddenly spending money he hasn’t earned tending bar.

I dedicate this book to those we lost on Sept 11, 2001, for not only were they lost to their families, friends and co-workers, they were lost to us all.

We will never forget.

SPECIAL THANKS to all the men and women in our armed forces. God bless you and keep you safe, and thank you for risking everything to keep our wonderful country free.

Contents

Prologue

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 Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Martha’s Vineyard

“Hurry, Javid,” Zahir Haji Haleem urged his twin as they raced up the stairs to the second level of their American grandparents’ Victorian summer house, their movements as quick and furtive as the warm, sea-scented breeze stealing in through the open windows.

Their destination: the attic, that forbidden refuge of irresistible treasures—Grandfather Hayward’s stash of antique war relics, daggers, swords, helmets and rifles. All were tinged with a musty scent of bygone days, of mysterious lands, of adventurous times, their lure irresistible. Especially after Nana Hayward, ever fussing at Grandfather about the dangers of weapons and “boys being boys,” insisted he store “that junk” away under lock and key. Grandfather had informed Nana that what she called “junk” belonged in a museum. She’d suggested he put them in one, but he refused to part with even one item. In the end, he’d stored them in the attic not only under lock and key, but with an alarm system for protection against theft.

The rattle of the keys Zahir had taken from Grandfather’s desk brought Javid up short. He hesitated as Zahir worked the right key, disarmed the alarm, shoved the door wide and quickly ducked inside.

Torn between the pull of temptation and the push of wrongdoing, Javid held back, weighing the pros and cons of disobeying Father. He could no more help his prudent nature than Zahir seemed able to help his reckless one. His brother was forever rushing into mischief as though he didn’t understand right from wrong, as though he hadn’t been taught the same virtues as Javid, as though his DNA makeup was the polar opposite to Javid’s.

But that was impossible.

They were identical, their fourteen-year-old faces mirror images, down to their pitch-black hair and date-brown eyes, down to their love of competition, their need to win.

But there were differences.

The boys—sons of Anna Hayward, American playwright; and Salim Rizk Haleem, Emir of Anbar, a small oil-rich nation on the Arabian Gulf—had inherited traits, good and bad, from both parents’ diverse gene pools.

While Javid hated incurring Father’s disapproval, Zahir, who would one day succeed to the throne of Anbar, seemed to relish it, as though his manhood relied on his asserting his will, on defying authority. Javid, younger by five minutes but quicker both mentally and physically, worried that this streak in his brother was more than defiance. There had always been in his twin something ruthless—something dark and indefinable.

“I’ve found the case, Javid. Come.” There followed a click of a latch being opened. “Ahh.”

Zahir’s sigh held pleasure as thick as the velvet protecting the specially lined case that cradled the matching daggers, and despite Javid’s struggle with right and wrong, he was seduced into the attic by the thrill swirling in his belly. He hurried to Zahir’s side, shoved back a hank of unruly raven hair and eyed the weapons, the prize of Grandfather’s treasures. Father had given them to Grandfather on the day of the twins’ birth. One had been forged in Anbar, the hilt shaped like the head of a king cobra, the other forged in America, the hilt shaped like a bald eagle. The daggers represented the equal halves of the twins’ heritage. More than once, the boys had been warned not to touch the dangerous weapons—which made touching them ever more tantalizing.

Zahir fingered the solid gold hilt shaped like the head of a king cobra. Full-carat rubies served as eyes. The twenty-two-inch blades were curved at the tip and honed to razor-keen edges.

“Careful,” Javid cautioned as his brother lifted the bald eagle-headed dagger and presented it to him, hilt first.

Javid gathered the handle in both hands, surprised at the heft, at the surge of something almost electric that undulated from his grip into his flesh, heating his veins as though the weapon possessed the potency of lightning, as though it had imbued him with the power and strength of the eagle. A grin tugged at his mouth, and he lifted his gaze to meet his brother’s.

Zahir’s handsome face was alight with wicked pleasure, and Javid’s guilt at touching the forbidden object dissolved in a soft chuckle. He hoisted the blade chest level and took an offensive stance learned in fencing classes. “I am Khalaf, Sheik of Imad, come to slay the Emir of Anbar and claim his country as my own.”

“I will see your blood ground into the sands, hyena,” Zahir spat, accepting the challenge with a fierce arch of one ebony eyebrow. He raised his dagger, the curved blade glinting in the lamplight as it connected with Javid’s. The ensuing metallic clink echoed in the vast attic, but neither boy feared discovery. The adults had walked into town and would be gone for at least an hour.

The swordplay ensued with exuberance, the boys thrusting and parrying, leaping and sidestepping, kicking up dust as they ducked between antique dressers and tables, their excitement raising their voices.

Javid laughed, danced, light on his feet. Sweat popped across his forehead, beneath his arms, at his groin—and he grew bolder. Confident in his ability to best Zahir as he always bested him in fencing class.

They leaped and dodged and darted dangerously close several times more. But the heavy dagger was not an epee and soon its heft made Javid’s arms ache from the weight. But he would not give up. Or in. Not with victory in sight. For Zahir was also tiring. He could see it on his face. Tasting triumph, he swung at Zahir as Zahir dipped toward him. Too late, he wrenched the blade back. Zahir yelped, dropping his dagger and grabbing his ear. Curses spewed from him.

Javid stood horror-stricken at the injury he’d inflicted on his brother, at the blood seeping between Zahir’s fingers. All the guilt he’d abandoned earlier rushed at him now and the dagger slipped from his hand, clattering to the dusty floor near his feet. “Zahir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Zahir’s furious growl cut off the apology. He lunged. His head rammed into Javid’s gut, punching the wind from him, knocking him off his feet. Javid’s spine smacked the floor. Zahir landed on him, pinning him down.

Blood from Zahir’s wound—not to the ear, but behind it, he realized—dripped onto Javid’s dusty, sweat-smudged T-shirt. He started to apologize again, but the fierce hatred emitting from his brother stilled his tongue.

“You did this on purpose. Your jealousy offends me, Javid. You must always best me. Humiliate me. As though you, and not I, deserve to be the next Emir of Anbar.”

“No—” Javid choked. “Accident.” Stunned at the accusation, he tried bucking Zahir off, but Zahir, in his fury, possessed inhuman strength.

“Well, that will never happen, brother.” Zahir grabbed something off the floor and scooted higher on Javid’s chest, cutting off his intake of air.

Then Javid saw it, the eagle-headed dagger that moments before had been his confederate. Fear shot through him. He wrenched against his twin’s hold. But for once, Zahir was faster. He sliced a small X into Javid’s chest, right over his heart.

Javid’s breath hissed as the pain and his shock gave way to fury. “Let me up, Zahir!” Blood sprang from the wound, wetting the front of his shirt. “We’re even now, brother.”

“Even?” Zahir’s laugh chilled Javid. “I don’t want to be even. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

Pure hatred shone in Zahir’s eyes, a light so clear it was as if a window had opened on his soul. Javid shuddered at what he saw there. “Get off me, Zahir.”

“X marks the spot.” Zahir lifted the eagle-headed dagger high, the ruby eyes as bright as fresh blood. He meant to thrust the blade into Javid’s chest, right through the X he’d sliced there.

“No!” Javid bucked. Twisted. Squirmed. He couldn’t get free. He was going to die.

“Zahir!” Their father’s voice resounded in the murky attic. “What is this madness?”

Zahir scrambled off Javid. “Nothing, Father. We were playing war. Javid lost.” Zahir gathered control of his expression, his manner and voice now contrite, humble—as though he hadn’t meant to kill his brother.

But Javid knew. He shoved up on his elbows, struggling to drag in a deep breath. His ribs felt bruised. The cut on his chest burned. But it was a deeper pain that immobilized him, a wrenching sadness, a sense of great loss, a disjoining of some vital part of himself, as though the dagger had plunged into him and severed the blood cord between himself and his twin.

No apology could heal the wounds inflicted this day.

He and Zahir were no longer allies, but enemies. From here on out, Javid must watch his back.

Chapter One

Chicago—present day

July

“I won’t lie to you, Ms. Mohairbi.” Dr. Elias Forbes’s long face seemed even longer this afternoon, his slanted eyes grayer, as solemn as his tone. He tapped his pen on an open file folder. “Your mother’s condition is deteriorating. The sooner she gets that heart transplant, the better.”

Miah clutched her hands in her lap, reminding herself to breathe. Her mom’s name had been on the national registry for ten months now, but so far no donor had turned up with Lina Mohairbi’s rare blood type. All they could do was wait and pray as precious time, time she might not have to spare, slipped away.

“Should I be preparing for the worst?”

“Well, now, I can’t—”

“Darling, don’t put Dr. Forbes on the spot,” her mom said, interrupting the doctor.

The door to the examining room had opened so silently, Miah blinked seeing her mother standing there. Lina Mohairbi crossed the elaborately appointed office in this exclusive section of Chicago on Lake Shore Drive, touched Miah’s shoulder with affection and settled her tiny frame on the neighboring chair.

As the doctor repeated for Lina what he’d told Miah, Miah considered the pair, thinking it odd that though this man held her well-being in his hands, her mom could not bring herself to call him by his first name, as though she believed keeping their relationship formal somehow preserved or increased his surgical skills.

But Miah knew Elias Forbes was just a doctor. A better doctor in every way than that cold-blooded jerk at the neighborhood clinic who had treated her mother like one of the mannequins she used to dress in Macy’s windows—before becoming too ill—instead of a living, breathing woman who deserved compassion along with a diagnosis.

Thank God, Fate had stepped in and given them the means to afford this doctor whose credentials were impeccable, who kept his patient load small these days in order to pursue other interests, professionally and privately, in his spare time. She’d been assured he was the best surgeon for the job. Lina’s best chance of surviving. Worth every cent he was costing. But she liked what she’d seen with her own eyes, in particular his concern for her mother and his attention to detail.

Miah shoved a thick lock of long ebony hair from her cheek. “I was trying to get the doctor to give us an idea of how much longer we should expect before a donor comes available.”

“Well, now—” The doctor started once again, tapping the pen with renewed vigor as though punctuating the point he hoped to make. “That’s just it. We could have one tomorrow. Or next week. Or—”

“Next month,” Lina added. “Or the month after that.”

The doctor winced, and Miah’s stomach dipped. His dour expression confirmed her worse fears. Her mom was rapidly running out of time. Miah wanted to scream. Instead, she gave herself a mental slap. Panic would serve nothing. Only depress her mother. Frighten her. Stress her out. Weaken her ailing heart more. Miah had to stay positive. Upbeat. No matter what.

“Miah, Dr. Forbes is giving you his best guess. That’s all he can do. We knew from the start that my rare blood type was a factor. But on the upside, it also puts me on a much shorter waiting list. So, we’re going to live for today. Enjoy every moment we have together and leave the donor up to God.”

“That’s the attitude, Lina,” the doctor said. “At all costs, continue to avoid stress.”

Avoid stress, Miah thought with bitter irony. Six months ago, the clinic doctor had prescribed that very medicine. And as though he’d been predicting disaster on the horizon, stress arrived on their doorstep within days of the warning—striking like a tornado. But with the tornado had come the wherewithal to secure this doctor, and his care had managed to keep her mom stable through all of the heartache and all of the joy; even too much good news could bring stress.

No more extremes, Miah determined. She would see that stress stayed far from her mom in the days ahead.

“Oh, one thing more, Doctor.” Lina scooted to the edge of her chair. “Will I be able to travel overseas at the end of the month?”

“No, no, no.” He glanced up from her chart, shaking his head. “It’s out of the question. Not only should you avoid flying, you need to be near the hospital should a donor become available.”

“Oh, of course.” Her mom looked chagrined, as though just remembering the doctor had already told her this a while ago.

Miah wondered if the heart problem was cutting off or short-circuiting some of the blood circulation in her mother’s brain, affecting her memory a bit.

“Don’t frown, Me-Oh-Miah,” her mom said, teasingly calling her by the pet name she’d used since as far back as Miah could remember. “I’m not happy about missing your coronation and the royal wedding in Nurul either, but that’s okay. It has been an incredible and lucky time for both of us, darling. It’s no good to be selfish. To want more.”

But Miah did want more. So much more. She wanted her mother’s heart healed, healthy. But if her mom wasn’t going to survive, wasn’t going to be lucky enough to find that special donor, Miah didn’t want whatever time they had left shadowed by negativity. She covered her mother’s tiny hand with her own much larger one, feeling these days as though she were the protector, the parent, and forced a grin.

“All right. I’m smiling. See?”

“That’s better, darling.”

As the doctor wrote something more in her mother’s chart, Miah and Lina sat in silence, holding hands. Miah wrestled with the inner struggle that consumed most of her days lately. Last winter, she and her mom had been getting by paycheck to paycheck. Then the tornado had swept in, picking up their lives and spinning everything around and around, then counterclockwise, so that when the dust settled, nothing looked the same.

The unpredictable winds of change had dumped on them a golden rainbow, a key to utopia. Wealth beyond their wildest imaginings. Of course, there were conditions attached, but experience had taught her early on that most things in this world came with conditions.

Miah could still taste the desperation she’d felt just before then, and recall the desperate bargaining with God. She’d have sold her soul to save her mom. Fortunately, the required conditions asked considerably less of her.

She touched her engagement ring—a white-gold band with a three-carat diamond surrounded by emeralds on one side and blue sapphires on the other. Her betrothed said the ring was an heirloom, passed from his grandmother to his mother to him. No, Miah didn’t regret the bargain she’d made. It had given her options she’d never dreamed possible.

Her first priority had been this doctor.

Lina smiled. “At least I’ll be able to give my daughter away at her wedding tomorrow.”

Miah squeezed her mom’s hand. The arranged marriage—the main condition attached to the golden rainbow—would bring her a royal title, her own wealth, the incredible and new sensation of everyone treating her as if she were special, making her feel special. On the other hand, she barely knew her groom-to-be, and that scared her. She had, however, kept this secret worry to herself.

She glanced lovingly at her mom. Lina seemed even smaller than usual, frail. Her lips a bit blue beneath her pink lipstick. Even her hair, which had always been thick and black like Miah’s own, was thinning, graying. Her mom didn’t need to know about Miah’s misgivings. Couldn’t deal with even one extra burden. She needed to smile as she was smiling now, a Mona Lisa glow in her brown eyes.

Lina stood. “I’ve been afraid, Dr. Forbes, that I’d finally be joining my darling Grant, leaving our daughter without either of her parents to see her married. Or that I’d be bedridden, in which case Miah would insist on the ceremony taking place in my hospital room.”

“I would do it, too.” Miah gathered her purse and rose.

“Yes, I know. But I’ll be grateful if a donor doesn’t show up tomorrow to spoil your wedding.” Lina’s smile widened as she joked. “Day after tomorrow would be fine, though, Dr. Forbes. See if you can arrange it.”

Laughing, she winked at Miah, and Miah allowed herself to embrace the joy she saw in her mother’s eyes, that she felt trickling through her worry. Life had held so little happiness in the past, she still struggled with accepting the good things that had befallen them these past six months. She’d wake up some nights in a cold sweat, certain it had all disappeared because she’d believed in it too much, enjoyed it too much.

“Go and enjoy yourself.” The doctor held the door open. “You’re a fighter, Lina. Just keep fighting.”

Miah ushered her mother out of the doctor’s office, down the hall and onto a crowded elevator. All the while, she mulled over the doctor’s last words. As far back as she could recall, her mom had had to fight for everything. She’d been widowed when Miah was twelve. Grant Mohairbi had been a freedom fighter in his youth, and a firefighter later on. He’d died a hero’s death, rescuing three small children and their mother from their blazing apartment building, before being overcome with smoke inhalation.

Grant and Lina had shared the kind of love everyone strives for and few find. He had been a wonderful father to Miah. His loss had devastated them both.

But instead of falling apart, as she had had every right to do, Lina had wanted to honor Grant’s memory, make him as proud of her as she had always been—and remained still—of him. She had picked up her five-foot frame, gathered her ninety pounds and assessed their situation, then threw herself into doing whatever it took to keep a roof over their heads.

The survivors’ pension had only stretched so far. Lina had worked two minimum-wage jobs, coming home worn-out, but always finding time for Miah—helping her with homework, listening eagerly to her talk about her day, keeping their connection strong and intact—before falling exhausted into bed.

So tight was their bond, Miah had never had an inkling she was adopted. It had come as quite a shock, one she still battled to believe, even with daily, hourly proof staring her in the face.

Like the chauffeured limousine awaiting them at the curb, provided by her birth father—her real-life fairy godfather—Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed, a multimillionaire oil mogul. It amazed Miah how quickly a person could come to accept luxuries as the norm.

The chauffeur helped Lina into the back seat, then turned to Miah. “Ms. Mohairbi, I found this on the floorboard. I thought perhaps it had fallen out of your pocketbook.”

Miah frowned, accepting the envelope. The moment she recognized the block lettering, she froze. This hadn’t come from her purse. Someone had placed it in the car. When? How? “Did you leave the limousine unattended at any time, Mehemet?”

His black eyes became evasive. “Only one moment…to answer nature. But I lock first.”

“Okay.” It was a silly thing to lie about, but she knew he couldn’t have locked the car. Otherwise, the note would not have been in it. And it was unlikely he’d seen whomever had put the envelope inside it. She quickly read the enclosed note, feeling the heat drain from her cheeks.

“Avoid stress,” the doctor had said. But this…this… Miah squished the blackmail note in her fist and shoved it into her pocket. This would bring her mother’s ailing heart to a dead stop.

Miah squelched the urge to curse and got into the car, letting the soft leather embrace her. She’d thought the first payment to the vile extortionist would be the end of it. But there had been a second demand. And now another. God, how naive she’d been. He wanted ten thousand more or he’d ruin her wedding. Destroy her mother. Start a scandal that could strip her of her future. She stared out the window as the limo merged with traffic. She hated the shivering in her stomach that felt as if she’d swallowed a full glass of ice shavings.

Fear.

Truth didn’t scare Miah. Lies did.

Perhaps that was because she’d discovered last January that her whole life had been a lie. Had Grant Mohairbi’s life also been a lie? Had the father she’d grown up loving, adoring, honoring been who her mother and she had thought he was? Had he been a freedom fighter? A hero? Or had he been a mercenary? An assassin?

“Darling, is something wrong?” Lina touched her clasped hands. “You’re very pale. For a moment there, you looked absolutely…terrified.”

“Terrified? Don’t be silly. No, no,” she managed to say in a tone that sounded normal. “I was thinking about the wedding. Nothing for you to fret about, honest.”

But her mom’s brow knit, a sign she wasn’t going to let this go so easily. “Are you having second thoughts about marrying someone you’ve been betrothed to since you were a baby?”

She doubted anyone would blame her if she were having second thoughts, but she couldn’t afford them. She had agreed to the marriage without coercion from anyone, agreed to it for all that it would give her—including her own money, an enormous inheritance that would allow her to pay off the extortionist once and for all. She said, “No second thoughts.”

None she would admit to out loud, anyway. Not to her mother. Not to herself. Outside, stifling damp heat prevailed; inside, air-conditioning froze the sweat on Miah’s brow.

“You’re going to be a beautiful bride, darling.” Lina touched her hand as the car inched along in heavy morning traffic. “I’m so excited about tomorrow.”

Miah’s internal alarm went off, shredding all thoughts of the blackmailer’s note. “Well, you don’t want to get too excited, Mom. Perhaps you should take a nap this afternoon.”

“That sounds like a great idea, but not if you’re going to pace the floors, bored while I rest.”

“I’m not going to pace. Fact is, there are a few minor details, a couple of items for my trousseau I want to pick up. So, I’ll be plenty busy.”

The limousine pulled up to their building farther along Lake Shore Drive. They occupied a penthouse with a magnificent view of Lake Michigan. It was a far cry from the tenement apartment they’d called home for most of her life.

Miah walked Lina through the lobby to their private elevator. “I’m just going to change into something a little more comfortable.”

“MORE COMFORTABLE” was impossible for Miah to achieve. The ice chips in her stomach still had her shivery half an hour later. She had to get the money and drop it off before one today, and it was nearly that now. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors as she exited the apartment complex. Her long, lean legs flashed from beneath the scrap of hot pink skirt that hugged her slim hips, while her slender upper body sported a neon green, sheer top over a creamy camisole. Her thick, blunt-cut raven hair swung across her mid-back and shoulders with every step, and framed her face…which looked shades too pale at the moment.

Her outfit drew a look of disapproval from the chauffeur as she met him at the curb. She climbed into the back seat of the limo and waited until he closed the door, then tugged on the hem of her short skirt. Her mother had tried to steer her toward the conservative styles she favored, but Miah needed variety. Color. Flash.

Making her clothing allowance stretch had meant shopping in consignment stores and thrift shops. Even though she could now afford to buy her favorite designers new, or spend thousands on a single blouse, she still shopped in the same stores she’d always frequented.

She liked her style. But no one else seemed to. Not her mother, not her newly discovered father, and especially not her fiancé. Too bad, she had decided. She was who she was. Nothing could change that. And today, she needed the “old” Miah more than ever to get through the next hour.

The chauffeur intruded on her thoughts. “Where would you like to go, Ms. Mohairbi?”

Oh God, she’d been daydreaming, wasting time she didn’t have. Her heart moved with uncomfortable quickness. “Chicago First Federal, Mehemet.”

Miah tried relaxing, but the traffic moved with aching slowness while time seemed to spin off the dial of her wristwatch. Would the blackmailer keep his threat if she was late? Would he send his vile story to the editor of The Clarion, a local tabloid that thrived on exposés and half truths? Her father, the sheik, had warned her that a scandal in the States could affect her acceptance by the people of Nurul. She could not afford to let this story get out. Not even if it were a lie. She tapped her foot, feeling ill, helpless, muttering, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”

After what seemed an hour, Mehemet pulled into the bank’s parking area. Miah was out of the limo and to the front doors before he could unstrap his seat belt. When she returned a few minutes later, he was standing beside the open back door of the stretch car with his dark face clenched, but he said nothing, only nodded.

Miah swept past him. She clutched her purse—with the ten one-thousand-dollar bills secured in a plain white envelope within—to her thudding heart. Mehemet had been hired by her father and likely ordered to keep watch over her. She was not making his work easy, and a flash of concern that the chauffeur might report her odd behavior to the sheik scraped her aching nerves raw. She didn’t want to have to explain herself. Her actions.

She edged onto the seat, gripping her purse in both hands as if someone might reach into the locked car and snatch it from her. “The Brinkmire Cavalli Gallery, Mehemet.”

As the words slipped from her, Miah realized she’d repeated this trip with Mehemet two other times in the past four weeks, first to the bank, then to the Brinkmire Cavalli Gallery. Three times in the past four weeks. She groaned inwardly. The blackmailer was draining her financially and emotionally. And the chauffeur had to notice that even though she always went to the bank first, she never bought anything at the gallery. Would he start to get curious? Mention it to her father? Her fiancé?

The ice chips in her stomach seemed to be forming into a solid block.

The gallery was located near Grant Park, the end building in a row of refurbished warehouses. It was a mid-size structure, four stories tall. The original second floor had been removed in order to create the high ceilings. The top two floors were used as offices and storage, the gallery occupying only the ground level. The main salon dissected into dozens of spaces that could be widened or narrowed depending on what was being exhibited at any given time. There were also several intersecting rooms that allowed a steady stream of foot traffic to pass through without causing a bottleneck.

Miah need not have worried about that this afternoon. She seemed to have the place almost to herself. Her spike heels clicked on the tiled floor, echoing the quick, fearful thud of her pulse in her ears. She’d cut this close. Too close. Was the blackmailer here already? Struggling to swallow, she picked up her step and hurried through the salon toward the interlocking rooms, her destination the back exit. She raced past exhibits by the newest up-and-coming artists, through the room displaying paintings by established favorites, and one full of antique weaponry, guns and swords.

Toward the back of the building, near the public bathrooms, she stopped and glanced around, making sure no one was watching or paying particular attention to her. But she seemed to be alone, the eerie silence broken only by her footfalls. How she’d love to be able to ram one of her pointed heels into the extortionist’s shin. She ducked into a narrow hallway, striding to the single waste bin near the door. She plucked the envelope from her purse and dropped it into the bin.

Divesting herself of the money seemed to suck the air from her lungs. She tried to inhale, but it was as if her throat had closed. A panic attack? She glanced up at the exit door. No. Going out this way would probably set off the security system. A prickling sensation hit her neck—that uneasy sense that someone was staring at her.

The blackmailer.

She spun around. A woman stood at the end of the hall, eyeing her questioningly. She wore a security uniform. “Can I help you, miss?”

“No.” Miah was amazed she could find her voice, but the woman seemed to have startled away her panic. She tucked her purse under her arm, gesturing toward the trash bin. “I—I was just throwing out a tissue.”

Though the panic didn’t return, the sense that she was being watched lingered as Miah retraced her path back to the main salon. She cast periodic glances over her shoulder, studied the faces of those she passed. Was he nearby? The nasty puke who seemed to know details about her life that were no one else’s business—such as the fact that her recently opened checking account contained enough money to pay the exorbitant amounts he demanded for his silence?

Outside, the heat struck her with the force of a blow, and she realized she was so tense that a light breeze could probably blow her over. She needed some TLC. Needed Cailin. Her best friend.

Needed a tall thirst-quenching beer. Needed one last afternoon to be the wild woman she’d been before January. Tomorrow, her life changed forever. Today, she could indulge some of her favorite things, could forget a blackmailer’s demands. His threats. Could bank the fires of worry about her mother. Stave off the apprehension she felt about the marriage.

She instructed Mehemet to leave her at Finnigan’s Rainbow—a family-owned and operated bar and grill—on Michigan Avenue in the heart of the shopping district, and take the rest of the day off.

Cailin was working the bar with her brother, Rory. Both wore Kelly green polo shirts and black pants. He grinned at Miah and hollered above the din, “Princess, what brings you slumming on the eve of your wedding?”

Princess. Miah slid onto a bar stool. She had to admit that aside from the money for her mother, the fact that she would be an honest-to-God princess after saying “I do” touched a chord inside her, as though something internal had aligned, connected.

Cailin snapped her brother’s backside with a bar towel. “She’s not officially a princess until tomorrow, you doof.”

The Finnigans all had fiery red hair and mischievous blue eyes. Cailin was the only girl, a natural beauty. She greeted Miah with a smile. “Hey, girlfriend, nice to see you looking like your old self.”

“Thanks.” Miah caught her friend’s gaze darting to the door. Bobby “The Buzzard” Redwing, Cailin’s ex-boyfriend, had been hassling her. Miah had no more interest in encountering the Buzzard than Cailin; he was a reporter for the very tabloid to which she feared the blackmailer would sell his story of Grant Mohairbi.

She drew a shaky breath. She had to lose this mood. Quit thinking about the blackmailer. Determined to do just that, she forced a smile. “Hey, Rory, can ‘almost royalty’ get an ice-cold one and a slice of pizza in this dive?”

Cailin laughed and drew the attention of a couple of men at the end of the bar. She had a knockout figure, round where Miah was lean, skin like peaches and cream. Rory set a frosted mug of foaming beer before Miah, then went to fetch her pizza, leaving Miah and Cailin to chat. But the first thing out of Cailin’s mouth was “Uh-oh.”

Her gaze fixed on something over Miah’s shoulder.

Miah tensed. “Is it ‘The Buzzard’?”

“Nope. This one’s all yours. The Gorgeous One.”

Miah’s heart thumped. Talk about stress-inducing. He would not be happy to see her dressed like this. She gathered her poise and glanced around at her fiancé. Six feet of gorgeous male animal, the most handsome man she’d ever encountered. Hollywood should have come knocking on his door years ago. Prince Zahir Haji Haleem. His dark, heated gaze landed on her like a sensual stroke played over her body. There was something possessive in that look, something that sent heat into her belly and fire through her blood.

She swallowed hard against the knot forming in her throat. It scared her, this heat she felt every time he was near. If his look, his casual touch could make her this flustered, this hot, he might just burn her up during serious intimacy. And she didn’t doubt for a minute that this man—who had, before their engagement, been linked in tabloids with several of Chicago’s top socialites, married and single, and who had so obviously majored in Pleasing Women 101—would be more than proficient at lovemaking.

Miah was no prude herself, no innocent. But she felt such shyness around this man. This stranger. Could she actually go through with marrying him? The thought brought an image of her mother’s smiling face, and Miah knew she not only could, she would. Nothing must cause her mother’s smile to vanish.

She took a swig of the beer, then thumped the mug onto the bar, slipped off the stool and, on her three-inch sandals, crossed to where he waited as though he’d sent her a silent command to come to him.

“Hello, Zahir.”

“Miah.” His gaze did a lazy climb from her gaily painted toenails, up the strappy heels and skimpy clothing to her face. She clenched her hands against the blush his sexy perusal brought to her flesh, lifted her chin and stared him in the eye. “Like what you see?”

He smirked. “Every man in the bar seems to.”

“And you object to that?”

“I believe objections, were I to have any, would fall on deaf ears.” He wore a black, Armani three-piece suit. His raven hair curled against the virgin white of his shirt collar. He smelled of a spicy autumn afternoon, and seemed somehow able to defy the heat.

“I like color,” she said. If he had his way, she’d be covered from head to toe in flowing veils all fit for a funeral. But that she would never do.

“Color likes you back.” He caught her chin in his big hand, startling her.

The blush swept her body again, gaining heat this time as it reached her face. She could pull away, but sensed the room watching them. She whispered, “What are you doing?”

He leaned closer, as though to kiss her. Her breath jammed in her throat at the raw sexuality in his very touch, his very nearness. The pad of his thumb traced the soft flesh above her upper lip. “Foam…from the beer.”

“Tha—thank you.” She took a faltering step back. “How did you know to find me here, Zahir?”

“Actually, I wasn’t looking for you, love.” His voice was a mix of Northeastern crisp and Middle Eastern mellow. “I had no idea you were here. I was passing by and spotted that tabloid reporter—what’s his name— Redwing, outside.” He glanced at the door as though he half expected The Buzzard to burst through it, camera flashing. “The last thing I want is him getting wind of where and when the wedding is coming down.”

Coming down? That was a strange way to refer to their wedding. She lowered her voice. “Bobby Redwing has been hassling Cailin. He’s probably not after you or me.”

“In the past, he’s been very persistent, very good at ferreting out…secrets,” Zahir said in a distracted voice as though he were speaking to himself. He touched his chest near his heart and an odd expression played around his alluring mouth. Then he seemed to shake himself and flashed her a too-quick, too-bright grin. “You don’t have anything to hide, do you, love?”

Miah flinched. “No. Nothing.”

Nothing except a blackmailer’s secret.

“What about you, Zahir?” What don’t I know about you?

His gaze flicked away from hers, a sure sign he was hiding something. Miah felt the uneasiness returning, the second-guessing. She was marrying a man she didn’t know. A stranger. One who could have secrets she didn’t even suspect.

Maybe dangerous secrets.

Chapter Two

Javid blew out a taut breath and stepped from the dark interior of Finnigan’s Rainbow into the blinding afternoon on Michigan Avenue. Pretending to be Zahir was taking its toll. He hated lying, even necessary lying. Just now, he’d have sworn Miah knew, sworn she was going to expose him right there in the pub. He tugged sunglasses from his suit pocket and glanced around, but saw no sign of Redwing. This game of hide-and-seek he was constantly playing with that damn snoop was wearing thin.

Tomorrow. It would all be over tomorrow. Thank God. He’d survived more than one tight situation in recent days, but none that had left him this rattled…and that was her fault.

Heat sizzled off the sidewalk, several degrees cooler than the fire in his belly, a fire for a woman he didn’t want to want, a woman he wanted so badly he ached. He took long strides away from the pub, berating himself with every step, unable to abolish the image of her long luscious legs in that scrap of hot pink, her shapely feet in those high-heeled, mind-numbing sandals, the way that green top made her amber eyes shimmer like spun gold.

“Damn it all.” Miah Mohairbi was an assignment. The daughter of the devil himself. She was also a vixen. He’d never met a woman quite her equal, and he’d met a lot of women since he’d been old enough to pay attention to his hormones—women here and in the Middle East, women at Harvard during college, women around the globe at each stop on his worldwide travels as Anbar’s Goodwill Ambassador.

Miah was unique. Beautiful, yes, but she was so much more than that. She had a sharp mind, a wicked tongue, style and defiance. She could be hard one moment, tender the next. To his chagrin, he found the conflicting aspects of her personality endlessly intriguing. If only circumstances were different. If only she were not Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed’s blood child.

Thank God this torment ended tomorrow. After that, he could guarantee Miah would hate him—once she discovered he’d been lying to her, posing as his twin; once he helped arrest the father she seemed to adore, once he exposed Al-Sayed to the world for the heartless bastard he was.

An odd tightness twisted his heart at the thought of breaking hers. He checked his watch, then glanced around for Redwing. That damn reporter had made him late, but he hadn’t dared risk being followed to the Langston Building. He’d ducked into Finnigan’s Rainbow to avoid him and had run smack into Miah. The memory of meeting her unexpectedly like that, of her dressed like that, threatened to distract him anew.

His beeper went off. He stepped out of foot traffic and into a shop doorway to view the readout. “They” were waiting for him. Keeping an eye out for Redwing, Javid walked past the Langston Building, then circled back, went inside and took the elevator to the penthouse. The automatic door slid open on Solutions, Inc., the fictitious corporation that fronted for Chicago Confidential, an elite division of the Federal Department of Public Safety.

The outer office smelled new, but had the ageless elegance of corporate lawyers’ suites—thick carpet, brocade waiting room chairs, cherry-wood receptionist desk, file cabinets and paneling. Picture windows framed the Chicago Harbor.

Liam Wallace, the building maintenance man, had one slender hip hitched on the edge of the desk, his head bent toward Kathy Renk, Solutions’s receptionist. Javid couldn’t see what they were doing, but when he cleared his throat, they jumped apart as though he’d caught them necking.

Kathy’s apple-size cheeks glowed pink, and Javid wondered if he had caught them necking. The idea amused him, since the two were usually bickering over some inane thing or other. Not to mention their obvious differences. Liam was all of twenty-two, with ambitions to strut fashion runways parading the latest designs by Armani and Klein. He had the looks, the sculpted body, the hollow cheekbones.

Kathy, some seventeen years his senior, smoothed her blouse over her generous figure, gave a nervous tug at her short brown hair that was flecked with blond highlights. She had Meg Ryan features and a smile that never quit.

She beamed at him now, her face still red. “Mr. Haleem, they’re expecting you. You want the usual?”

“Please.”

“You’ve got it. Diet pop. Rocks.”

As he headed to the inner office, Javid heard Liam hiss, “It’s not crazy.”

“No.” Kathy snorted. “You are what’s crazy.”

Vaguely wondering what this newest spat was about, Javid let himself into the special ops room. He’d have thought that by now he’d be used to this room, but it always amazed him, always made him feel as though he’d stepped into the cockpit of The Enterprise, the Star Trek spaceship, with its wall-to-wall blinking lights, switches, screens and dials. Every kind of electronic device imaginable. Even some unimaginable. Certainly things Javid didn’t understand, but that made chasing after terrorists a whole lot easier than the bad guys liked.

Andy Dexter, the tech whiz whose genius had assembled this room, was not present. In front of each chair at the round table was a built-in laptop screen for briefings.

The only incongruous sight in the room was the antlers mounted on the wall, a gift from the head of Montana Confidential to the head of this new unit.

Javid closed the door. Four voices stopped in mid-discussion, all heads turning toward him. Javid greeted each agent by name. When not on undercover assignment for Chicago Confidential, the three men and one woman seated at the round table pursued successful careers, most unrelated to law enforcement. Javid took an empty chair, apologized for keeping them waiting and explained his delay.

“Redwing didn’t spot you coming in just now, did he?” Vincent Romeo asked, his tone as unrelenting as his frown. Javid had learned that the head of operations seldom cracked a smile. His mind ran at warp speed, always attending to business—and this unit’s business was serious. Vincent reacted accordingly.

“I doubled back on my route,” Javid assured him. “No sign of Redwing.”

“Good.” Whitney MacNair Romeo, Vincent’s gorgeous redheaded wife had been learning the ropes when Javid first met her. These six months later, she had earned her stripes and done the unit proud. Her family came from the same area of Martha’s Vineyard as his grandparents and mother, and her accent roused old memories. Not all of them good. “We can’t risk exposure at this point.”

Exposure. Javid thought again about Miah and flinched. “I’m damn glad this will be over with tomorrow.”

The agents picked up their discussion where Javid had interrupted it—something about the chief guard in charge of watching Zahir. At the mention of his brother’s name, Javid sat back in his chair, his mind rolling back to how it had all begun for him at about the same time the Chicago branch of Confidential opened its doors.

Their first assignment: stop a suspected terrorist attack on Quantum Industries, a multinational oil distribution giant, the largest buyer and seller of oil worldwide, whose home offices were based here in Chicago.

Since the inception of the war on terrorism, Javid had devoted himself to promoting goodwill worldwide on behalf of Anbar, on behalf of the decent citizenry of the Middle East, and to the pursuit and capture of suspected terrorists. He’d personally helped expose a few cells of the vicious fiends—which had led to his discovery that his own brother was behind an attack in Iceland on one of Quantum’s satellite offices.

He touched the spot above his heart where the scar remained, a raised and angry X, a “forever” reminder of the evil within his twin.

The attack had been a prelude, he’d learned, to something bigger targeting at Quantum’s home base, but ultimately, the target was Anbar, Father and himself. Quantum was the top buyer of Anbar oil. Javid had to do whatever was needed to ensure Quantum’s ongoing safety. He sat straighter in his chair and steepled his fingers. Zahir had the opposite agenda: he would like nothing better than to see Anbar go broke.

Javid had approached the Chicago Confidential agency in March, seeking their help to stop his brother from committing any other acts of terrorism against Quantum. He’d shared his information with the agents and had been working, on and off, with them to bring about Zahir’s capture, to try to find some way of stopping whatever Zahir and his henchmen had plotted for Quantum.

In the end, it was Zahir’s own men—mercenaries he hired—who’d tried to hijack one of Quantum Industries’s corporate jets and kidnap one of their vice presidents, Natalie Van Buren. Javid tapped his foot to the beat of the pulse at his temples. The evil plot was thwarted by one of Chicago Confidential’s own agents, Quint Crawford, who was now engaged to Natalie. At the time of Zahir’s arrest, the agents had suspected he was working with Khalaf Al-Sayed, but they had no tangible proof that would hold up in a court of law.

While connections were sought, Zahir had been incarcerated in a secret safe house. Earlier, Chicago Confidential had learned of Zahir’s betrothal to Khalaf’s newly found daughter. Since the time of Zahir’s arrest, Javid had been impersonating his twin, gathering what personal information he could on Khalaf. Javid had had as little interaction with Khalaf as possible, knowing he was the one who could expose him, he was the one who knew Zahir, he would spot the differences, know he was dealing with a fake.

But Khalaf had been as elusive as a desert breeze. Each time the agents had thought to arrest him, he’d failed to show up where expected. Since he would not miss Zahir and Miah’s wedding, the agents had decided to take him into custody there.

“I’d like it a hell of a lot better if you were getting married on land.” Lawson Davies intruded on his dark musings.

Law, as he preferred to be called, was a high-paid corporate lawyer who worked for Petrol Corporation, Quantum Industries’s closest competitor. His suit was a serious pinstripe, tie subdued, eyes intelligent, green. He yanked off his wire-rimmed reading glasses, eyeing Javid as though he’d just presented a distasteful brief.

“A yacht for God’s sakes. Makes this whole task more risky.”

“Unfortunately,” Javid said, “the ‘where’ of this affair was already set before I came on scene.”

Vincent’s expression was as serious as a thundercloud. “And Khalaf’s insistence on security makes this a ‘do it their way’ situation.”

“Y’all are makin’ too much out of this,” Quint Crawford drawled. Quint, a long lanky cowboy, had Texas oil in his blood, and embraced the accoutrements of his ranch lifestyle—boots, big black Stetson, silver belt buckle. He never took himself too seriously. “If you want to brand a calf, you gotta go to the corral.”

“That’s right.” Whitney’s hand went to her bright red hair. “The wedding takes place on a yacht, so we’ll be on the yacht.”

Quint punched the brim of his black Stetson higher on his forehead, his blue eyes twinkling. “I, for one, can’t wait to see the prince say ‘I do.’ Seems like getting hitched is contagious.”

Vincent glanced at his wife, Whitney. Only then did his expression and his tone soften. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“I’m not knockin’ it.” Quint had a secret smile. “Heck, I’m all for it.”

“Hey,” Javid interjected. “There isn’t really going to be a ceremony, remember? So, make sure you take Khalaf into custody before I end up married to his daughter.”

“I’ve seen the charmin’ Ms. Miah,” Quint added, his infectious grin widening. “Worse things could happen to a man.”

“Just make sure you do your job, and everything will work out as it’s supposed to.” Even Javid could hear the peevishness in his voice. He cleared his throat and reined in his emotions. “Too much could go wrong. So far, I’ve avoided Khalaf as much as possible. But he’s no fool. If he discovers I’m not Zahir, our mission will be compromised.”

Vincent nodded grimly. “We aren’t underestimating the risks. We’re on top of everything.”

Andy Dexter burst into the room, slamming the door in his rush. His energy seemed to zing off the walls as though he were as electrified as his equipment. He didn’t bother with a greeting. He hurried to his chair, waving something that looked like a miniature floppy disk at the group. “Just picked this up from Ramses, my Egyptian informer. It’s a camera flashcard.”

He inserted the disk into his computer and directed all eyes to their individual monitors. A parking lot appeared in the first frame, followed by a quick sequence of others, moving like a slowed-down motion picture. A dark sedan occupied a deserted space before what seemed to be a park and an indeterminate body of water.

Javid asked, “What are we looking at?”

“Khalaf,” Andy answered. “Ramses has been following him since the sheik ‘disappeared’ last week.”

There were no people on the screen.

“So, where’s Khalaf?” Quint asked, his black hat dipping forward over his shaggy brown hair.

“In the car.”

“Who or what is he waiting for?” Law plunked his glasses back onto his nose.

“No one. He’s already in that car, meeting with someone.”

“Who?” Javid asked.

“Come on, Dexter.” Vincent groaned. “Don’t make us play twenty questions.”

“That’s just it.” Andy shrugged. “Ramses didn’t know or see who Khalaf was meeting. He thought we could figure it out.”

“What has this got to do with anything?” Whitney sounded as impatient as her husband.

They watched a white stretch Lincoln approach the dark sedan, saw Khalaf emerge from the sedan, but couldn’t see inside the dark car, couldn’t see who he’d been meeting. Khalaf got into the Lincoln and drove off. The taillights of the dark sedan lit up as the engine was started.

“This is all very interesting, Andy, but I’m already running late.” Law checked his watch, pulled off his glasses and shoved back his chair. As he started to stand, hands planted on the table, his gaze landed once more on his screen and his mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Vincent glanced between Law and his own screen. “What?”

“Stop the film,” Law barked, putting his glasses back on. “Can you run it backward, Dexter?”

“What the hell are we looking for?” Quint echoed Javid’s thought.

“The back license plate of that dark sedan,” Law informed them.

Andy found the desired sequence and freeze-framed it. They all saw it then. Petrol Corporation’s logo, a small world globe inside the loop of a giant red P. Khalaf had been meeting with someone in a car that belonged to Quantum’s chief rival, Lawson Davies’s employer.

Quint sat back and swore under his breath. Vincent demanded of Davies, “Whose car is it?”

“I don’t know. They aren’t assigned.” He peered closer at the screen as though he could find the answer written there in secret code. “Could be anyone in the upper framework of Petrol.”

“Which means if we take Khalaf tomorrow,” Quint said, “we won’t be cutting off the head of this nasty snake.”

Whitney glanced at Javid. “But if we don’t arrest Khalaf tomorrow, that means…”

Javid felt all eyes on him, felt the bottom dropping out of his stomach. “No.”

“Oh, yes, dude,” Andy said with his loopy grin. “Come tomorrow, you’re gonna have to marry the daughter for real.”

Chapter Three

“‘Happy’s the bride the sun shines on…’” Miah peered out the porthole of the 222-foot yacht. Sunlight glistened off Lake Michigan, a huge sheet of glassy water on this cloudless day. It was nearly noon. The ceremony started at twelve-thirty. For a marriage to be happy the vows should be said on the upsweep of the hands of a clock, her mom had told her.

“Happy, huh! I’m marrying a man I don’t even know.” Miah grabbed the lacy veil, crossed to the full-length mirror in the master stateroom and began attaching the crown-piece to her gleaming mane of jet-black hair. Her amber eyes, enhanced with subtle shades of bronze and gold, reflected the butterflies in her stomach. “A man who looks at me like I’m a possession. A man I suspect is harboring dangerous secrets.”

Am I nuts?

As if he stood beside her, Zahir filled her mind, and instead of the shudder her last thoughts should have brought, an unbidden allure flooded her veins, warmed her skin. He roused this heat, this erotic fire in her heart, this sweet awful need in her belly. A new fear edged along her nerves, stroked her spine and drove the heat higher—the fear that she might lose control, the fear that desire would consume her.

“No.” She shook herself. “No.”

She’d been with sexy men before, had had great sex before, and never lost herself. This man was no different from the others. And nothing and no one could control her unless she gave them that right. That she would never do. She’d made this decision. She’d agreed to marry Zahir all on her own. It was the right choice. For her. For Mom.

It was the only choice.

Miah jabbed the last pin into her hair with too much force and winced in pain as it pierced her scalp. Great. All she needed was blood all over her veil. She glanced at the clock. Where was Cailin? What was keeping her?

She twisted in front of the mirror, checking the back of the dress, making sure all twenty-five gold-colored satin buttons were fastened. She turned to the front again, smoothed her hands down her hips, then studied her image. A designer original, the pure satin, body-cleaving gown flowed from her shoulders to swirl around her feet like melted candle wax, flattering her lean, five-nine form, enhancing the good, downplaying the not-so-good. The deep white fabric gave her tawny skin a golden glow, as much as the touches of gold at her waist, neckline and threaded through the veil gave her eyes a sparkling light. Everyone had suggested dull old white on white. The golden touches were Miah’s compromise.

Compromise. Her new byword. Lately, everything she did required a trade-off of some kind or other.

A discreet knock on the cabin door broke into her musings. “Miah, it’s me.”

“It’s about time.” Miah tore open the door. “I was starting to wonder if you were going to show up.”

“My God…you’re stunning.” Emotion welled in Cailin’s blue eyes. “Oh damn, my mascara.” She blinked away the tears before they spilled. “You just look so awesome. I cannot believe it. In another hour, you’ll be a bona fide princess.” She curtsied and dipped her head. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Miah of Nurul.”

“Idiot.” Miah laughed and pulled Cailin inside, shutting the door behind her.

Her friend wore flip-flops, cutoff jeans, a halter top and a grungy baseball cap—and somehow made the look sexy. She ripped off her hat and glasses in one motion. Her face was flushed. Probably from rushing. Or maybe she’d run into Redwing.

“Bobby didn’t follow you, did he?”

“No. Though, I know ‘The Carrion’ would love to get an exclusive on your wedding.”

“The Carrion,” actually The Clarion, had earned the vulturous nickname for its exposés based on lies and half truths, and for hiring scumballs like Bobby “The Buzzard” Redwing as reporters. “As though I’d like my wedding photos in that tabloid rag.”

Cailin chuckled wickedly. “I brought T and J with me, just in case Bobby tried anything.” T and J were Thomas and James, two of her four brothers, both heavyweight boxing contenders. “If he was lurking somewhere on the pier, he’s gotta be real sorry by now.”

“Ouch. Serves him right. The last thing I need is him showing up.”

“Don’t fret. If by some miracle he did evade T and J, he’d never make it past the security you have aboard this floating mansion.”

“They give you a bad time?”

“They insisted on searching me.” Cailin made a face, then gestured at her outfit. “I told them it was obvious I wasn’t ‘carrying concealed.’ I let them go through my purse, but none of that hands-on stuff.”

“Well, that explains the flush on your face when you came in.” Miah laughed, and pointed to an ornate screen beside the bed. “You’d better hurry. Your finery awaits you there.”

Cailin kicked off her flip-flops and slipped behind the screen. Miah could hear her clothes hitting the floor, then the swish of silk against skin. Cailin’s voice drifted to her, sounding muffled, as though she had something over her head. “I noticed the name on the yacht is Anjali. Isn’t that…?”

“My birth mother’s name—yes.”

“Then, the yacht belongs to your father?”

“I’m not sure.” There was still much she didn’t know about her birth father. “He said it belonged to friends. He has a lot of friends in this country.”

“And enemies, too, apparently.” Cailin alluded to the security and the fact her wedding was taking place on a private yacht in the middle of Lake Michigan, instead of some easily accessible, public chapel.

Miah disdained the persecution many Middle Easterners had suffered in recent times. “His life hasn’t been easy.”

Her father, Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed, had entered the world as the second son of the Emir of Nurul. Nurul was a small country, bordered on one side by the Red Sea, on the other by Saudi Arabia. His older brother eventually succeeded to the throne and, shortly thereafter, married Princess Anjali.

Khalaf and Anjali fell in love and had a secret affair. When Miah was born, Anjali confided to him that the child was his. They decided to run off together. As proof of her commitment to him, Anjali signed a contract betrothing her newborn daughter to a man of Khalaf’s choosing. But, as her birth father told the story, before he and Anjali could run away, rebels overthrew Nurul, slaying Khalaf’s brother and Anjali. Servants saved Miah’s life, secreted her out of the palace and spirited her to America.

Khalaf barely escaped with his own life. He took flight to Imad, a small country northward across the Saudi Desert on the Arabian Peninsula. Over the years, he made Imad his home, rising in political favor there to become their emir. At first he thought Miah had also been killed, but once he learned the truth, he began his twenty-five-year search for her. Fate arranged that the good people of Nurul overthrew the rebels at about the same time Khalaf found Miah.

Cailin sighed. “It’s such a romantic story.”

“It’s a tragedy.” Miah recalled the blackmailer’s claims, then shivered as though from a premonition of more tragedy to come.

But Cailin was the one who claimed to be fey, to have the ability to sense things in advance, a gift passed through the females in her family. She stepped from behind the screen.

“Zip me, please.”

The maid-of-honor dress, a solid satin shift, moved on her hourglass shape like liquid gold. Miah worked the zipper, then Cailin stepped to the mirror, fluffed her fiery shoulder-length curls and wiped a speck of lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

Her gaze met Miah’s in the glass. She seemed to weigh the wisdom of something she wanted to say. Then she caught her left thumb in her right fist and began kneading it, a nervous habit she had. She blurted out, “I know ‘The Gorgeous One’ is the fantasy of our youth come true, but if I were you, I’d be terrified of marrying a man I hardly know.”

“I’ve gotten to know him.”

“I thought I knew Bobby The Buzzard.”

Bobby Redwing was a physically abusive brute. “Zahir is not Bobby. He’s kind and gentle. Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to have cold feet, not you.”

“Maybe I’m all wet, but something about this whole thing—” She worried her bottom lip.

“Your run-in with the security guards has your imagination working overtime.” Miah thought she’d gotten a handle on her uneasiness, but having Cailin voice concerns started the butterflies moving in her stomach with renewed vigor. She could do nothing to change what was about to happen. Would do nothing to change it. But she could change the subject. “You have a lot of nerve, Cailin Finnigan, looking so great. The bride is supposed to outshine the other women at her own wedding, but that’s not going to be the case today.”

“Diversion tactics are wasted on me.” Cailin’s frown deepened. “I’ve got four brothers who are way better at it than you. Maybe what I’m feeling is just a reaction to the state of the world. Are you going to be safe in Nurul?”

“As safe as when I’m traveling in America. Very safe. This is my heritage, Cailin. I belong in Nurul. I feel that in my heart. Besides, if not for a quirk of fate, I would never have been in America.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll be in Chicago as much as the Middle East. More, given mom’s health. You’ll see me so much you won’t have time to miss me.”

Her mother swept into the room, looking anything but ill. She might be a toy angel in a solid gold silk suit and a pillbox hat. Her eyes brimmed with joy, her tiny hands went to her throat. “Oh, Me-Oh-Miah, you are the most beautiful bride. It’s time, darling. The judge is ready.”

THE JUDGE STOOD at the aft end of the great salon buffeted by baskets of white roses and twin shoulder-height candelabra crowned with flaming six-inch gold-colored candles. Miah carried a bouquet of white baby roses tied with a lacy golden ribbon. In fact, white rose arrangements tied with golden ribbons dominated the salon. The floral scent filled her nostrils with such sweetness that she might have been in a garden.

A floating garden.

The boat was a half-mile offshore, far enough to offer privacy, close enough to see the harbor front from the large windows on both sides of the salon.

The guests were seated on padded folding chairs—glad, she supposed, to be indoors on this stifling day. Outside, the temperature hovered near one hundred degrees Fahrenheit with one-hundred-percent humidity. Inside, it was a controlled and cool seventy-two degrees.

The guests included their nearest Mohairbi relatives, an aunt and uncle on her mother’s side of the family, associates of the groom, her father Khalaf’s American friends, and security. She’d been disappointed that Zahir’s parents could not leave Anbar at the moment—but they would, he’d assured her, attend the royal wedding in Nurul.

Of course, the scheduled trip to Nurul, her coronation, and the royal wedding were all subject to change if a donor became available for her mom.

But for now, all she had to concentrate on was reaching the judge without tripping over her feet. A string quartet began a lilting version of the “Wedding March,” and Miah’s heart skipped as she lifted her gaze to the man standing next to the judge.

Zahir. He wore a white tuxedo with gold cummerbund and tie, his raven hair curled against the crisp white collar of his shirt. The suit seemed to add inches to his six-foot frame, expand the glorious width of his broad shoulders, emphasize his narrow waist and hips. His sheer beauty stole her breath, leaving her unprepared for his gaze catching hers, holding hers. The look of wonder and appreciation in his dark brown eyes sent a jolt of heat spiraling from her heart to the tips of her limbs, to settle like a hot coil in her most private place.

Her grip tightened on her bouquet. And the butterflies in her stomach took flight.

“Ready, Me-Oh-Miah?” Lina asked softly.

Miah smiled at her mother, who was giving her away today, took her tiny hand and thanked God for the hundredth time that they were sharing this day. She intended to make it one her mom would never forget. She would be “the happy bride” Mom expected—even if it stretched truth to the limits.

Miah nodded and whispered, “Oh, yes.”

The “Wedding March” began. Cailin moved down the white carpet dropping golden rose petals; Miah and her mother followed after her. The very air seemed to shimmer. Perhaps it was light dancing off Lake Michigan, or the sudden light-headedness Miah felt. She clung tighter to her mother, her feet moving on their own. She spied her father in the front row.

Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed was hard to miss as he alone wore formal Moslem attire. Diminutive in stature, he had a kinetic presence. His face was lean and leathery, lined from the trials of his life, and his eyes were deep-set and as black as his thick mustache.

He nodded as they moved past him. Cailin took her place at the other side of the judge, and Miah stopped and kissed her mother’s cheek. Lina stepped back to allow her to move beside her groom. Zahir’s subtle, spicy aftershave reached out to greet her as he took her hand. His touch was warm, pulsing, reminding her that for all the business aspect of this marriage, at the end of it was a thriving wholly masculine male who exuded a raw and heady sexuality.

Her pulse kicked a beat faster, moving the blood through her veins with a disturbing speed, making her more aware of everything—scents: the flowers, Zahir; touches: his, gentle ones, firm ones; breath: his, feathering her face, her lips.

She repeated her vows and slipped a wedding band on his tapered finger, glancing at Zahir as though rapt, actually feeling rapt, unable to pry her gaze free of his.

Vaguely, she heard the judge pronounce them husband and wife and state that Zahir could kiss his bride. He drew her to him then with all the skill she’d known he would possess, pressing her unresisting body to his, lowering his head with deadly accuracy, his mouth finding hers as though from memory.

His lips were pliant, hungry, demanding, dominating. Her knees weakened, and she melted into him, deepening the kiss on her own. The guests began to clap. Miah stiffened, pushing away from Zahir, her face as hot from passion as from embarrassment at having an audience witness her loss of poise.

He leaned closer and whispered, “We’ll finish this later, love.”

Miah laughed…at him, at herself, at the situation.

MIAH’S LAUGH held a throaty, sensuous tone that roused a carnal awareness in Javid. Her lips were the richest wine, the sweetest berry, forbidden fruit. She was a vixen. One moment playing hard to get, the next compliant, teasing. She had inherited the worst of her sire: his cunning. His charm. His treachery…as evidenced in the engagement ring she wore. A ring given to Nana by Grandfather Hayward for their twenty-fifth anniversary. Zahir had to have stolen it, for Nana had been looking everywhere for it and was heartsick at its loss.

When this was over, he would be sure to take it back to Nana.

Meanwhile, Javid decided, if he wanted to stay one step ahead of his bride, he’d best keep her off balance. He handed her a champagne flute, but when Miah started to drink, he stopped her. “No, love. Like this.”

He twisted his arm through hers, offering his glass to her lips, taking her glass to his.

She frowned.

He grinned and whispered, “From this day forward you are all mine.”

“I’m not a possession, Zahir. If ever I am ‘all yours,’ it will be because I choose to be,” she whispered back.

Her defiance, as much as the brush of her body against him, as much as her gentle jasmine scent underscored by something wholly feminine, wholly Miah, started a deep pulse within his lower belly, filled his mind with imaginings of actually making love to her, something he could not, would not, in all good conscience do…no matter how great the temptation.

With difficulty, he forced his attention off his new bride and cast a surreptitious glance over their guests, but it was the sense that someone was watching him that set his internal radar on alert. He had studied his brother, learned his mannerisms, his peculiarities of speech, his walk, the way he held himself. He played his role well—but was it sufficient?

He supposed he’d know soon enough.

Javid and Miah moved to stand near the candelabra to receive their guests, who offered best wishes, kissed Miah and shook Javid’s hand, then filed to the buffet table.

Khalaf came toward them.

Miah’s father had a lean, wiry build, swarthy skin and a large, straight nose above a full black mustache. In contrast, his daughter towered over him by a good three inches, and nothing in her exotic face spoke of her sire. Javid surmised Miah took after her mother—which explained what Khalaf had seen in Anjali, but not what she had seen in Khalaf.

“You seem different somehow, Zahir.” Khalaf narrowed his keen black eyes, peering at Javid like a chemist viewing a disease through a microscope.

Javid’s breath hitched, but he warned himself not to panic. He had honed the arts of diplomacy and tact, and wielded both with the same daring he’d used as a boy handling Grandfather’s treasured dagger. He gentled his smile and his voice. “Oh? Perhaps it is marriage that agrees with me.”

“It is too soon to tell that.” Khalaf’s steely gaze raked over him, and a nerve twitched in Javid’s jaw. “It is the suit, I think,” Khalaf said at last, folding his hands over his formal robe. He sneered. “Too Western for my tastes.”

“Ah…I thought perhaps it was my clean-shaven face.” Javid stroked his chin, bare of the beard and mustache Zahir usually sported.

“Yes, this is the first time I have seen you thus shorn.” Khalaf gave a disapproving shake of his head.

Javid’s shrugged. “I prefer much that is Western.”

Khalaf scowled with disapproval. “Do not forget who you are, my friend.”

“I will never forget that.” Javid touched the spot behind his left ear where a fake scar had been applied. Zahir had carried a scar there since the fateful day they’d dared play with Grandfather’s swords.

“Good, good.” Khalaf clasped his hand and smiled, revealing a mouthful of uneven, yellowed teeth. “We are family now, Zahir. United against our enemies. Soon, we will overcome the wrongs that have been done to us.”

“Soon,” Javid agreed, returning his father-in-law’s knowing look, despite the fact that he had no idea how Khalaf and Zahir intended to overcome those enemies. Or why the sheik was so certain that the United States wouldn’t place sanctions against Nurul when it discovered this newly formed familial connection. Javid could not, however, come out and ask Khalaf. Especially not at this time, no matter how quickly he felt his window of opportunity closing.

Felt time running out.

Whatever Khalaf and Zahir planned would happen within the next couple of weeks, between now and their departure for the Middle East. Javid felt it in his bones. He would have to get Khalaf alone, carefully pick his brain. Before it was too late.

With a tight band of frustration gripping his chest, he watched Khalaf kiss Miah, seeming to be a gentle, kindly father delighting in his daughter’s joy. The deception soured Javid’s stomach. God, how he ached to see this man behind bars, caged like the animal he was.

The sound of a high-speed motorboat approaching the yacht intruded on this thought. Shouts erupted outside. China cups rattled on saucers and voices inside the cabin collided. An outer door burst open and Khalaf’s private bodyguards raced inside, consulted the sheik, then hurriedly hustled to the launch at the aft deck of the yacht before Javid could protest.

The launch was gone in the next moment, the powerful motorboat slicing across the water at twice the speed of the boat approaching the yacht.

Quint Crawford ducked into the salon, his head all but brushing the ceiling. He wore a security uniform, a baseball cap and his cowboy boots. He said to Javid, “Looks like paparazzi. How do you want it handled, sir?”

“Oh my God, it’s Bobby!” Cailin headed for the door. “I’ll get rid of him.”

“No.” Javid stopped her. “If Redwing sees you, he’ll only become more persistent. I’ll talk to him. Security will keep him from boarding. Everyone, please go on with the celebration.”

“Zahir…?” Miah moved as though to stop him.

“Visit with our guests, love,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

Javid and Quint hurried out into the heat of the afternoon.

Quint grumbled in his Texas drawl, “Damn reporter scared Khalaf off like a sidewinder in a windstorm.”

“I thought Andy has Ramses waiting on the pier to pick him up.”

“That’s the plan. You get anything out of the varmint?”

“Nothing helpful.” Javid followed Quint to the aft deck to join the other Confidential agents, disguised as security, who were positioned there. The speedboat didn’t slow as expected, but raced past with a spray of water.

“Hell, that’s not Redwing,” Vincent groused, his brow pulled into its perpetual frown. “Just some damn joyrider.”

“False alarm, folks.” Law tugged at the sleeves of his uniform as though he were adjusting a dress shirt with French cuffs.

Vincent nodded grimly. “You can put your weapons away.”

A smile started to relax Javid’s tensed face, but vanished at Quint’s “Look out!”

Javid froze. The speedboat had circled around and was coming back. The driver wore a ski mask, a rifle at his shoulder. Quint tackled Javid at the same time he heard the teak paneling near his head explode. Screams issued from within the salon.

“Miah.”

As Javid fell, a second blast went off. He felt a sharp pain in his forehead, then something dripped into his eyes.

The agents returned fire on the passing boat but were helpless to do more than watch it speed away. Until the launch returned, they were stuck on the yacht.

“Miah!” Javid pushed against Quint’s weight. “Miah?”

“She’s okay, pardner. Whitney hustled all the guests down to the staterooms. Now, you stay down.” Quint moved off Javid and both men sat on their haunches.

Javid swiped at the warm liquid spilling down his face. Blood. “The bastard grazed my scalp.”

“I don’t think so.” Quint flicked the brim of his baseball cap the same way he usually did his Stetson—missing it, Javid figured. He drawled, “Looks like a piece of paneling jabbed you. Cut’s not deep, just messy.”

He helped Javid into the deserted salon and settled him down on one of the folding padded chairs.

“Oh my God, Zahir.” Miah appeared at his side, taking the chair next to him, dabbing a wet linen napkin to his wound, not seeming to notice or care that blood spilled on her wedding gown. Her golden eyes were dark with terror. “What just happened? Why was Security shooting at the person in the speedboat?”

“Because he was shooting at us, ma’am,” Quint supplied.

Javid scowled at him.

“Tell me what’s going on, Zahir.” Miah lifted the napkin and narrowed her eyes. “Why would someone shoot at you? Try to kill you?”

But he had no answer. There was no way Khalaf was behind this. He’d never have disrupted his daughter’s wedding. Or taken off as he had. So what was going on? Javid was sure of only one thing. Someone had just tried to kill him.

But was it Javid they wanted dead? Or Zahir?

Chapter Four

Zahir wrapped his hands around the steel bars of the prison cell where he’d spent the past few months, and swore in Arabic, then English. This was Javid’s doing. When he got out of here, he would find his twin and kill him, plunge a dagger through his heart as he had been prevented from doing so many years ago.

This time no one would stop him.

Like a caged panther, he paced the six-by-six cell, past the rust-stained toilet and sink, the too-short cot with its lumpy mattress, rubber pillow, scratchy blanket.

His captors thought to break him with these obscene conditions, this vile treatment. Zahir laughed to himself. “Fools.”

To survive in his world, a man learned many things, lessons taught through physical and emotional pain, endurance in the face of the unendurable. He’d spent his thirty years honing his senses on such trials. His fingertip found the scar behind his ear and the old hatred heated his gut. It was the first wound Javid had inflicted upon him, but not the deepest.

He had survived both, though at the time, he’d thought he’d die when his father displaced him as rightful heir to the throne of Anbar and bestowed it on that hyena, Javid. He’d wanted to kill Javid, there and then. Their father, too. He’d been saved from acting on his fury by Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed of Imad, a man with a like mind on the subject of Anbar, and toward Zahir’s brother and father.

Khalaf had made him an offer he couldn’t resist.

He’d allowed Father to believe he was sorry for his misdeeds, and Father had promised to keep Zahir in the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to, as long as he kept his nose clean and did nothing more to disgrace Anbar. To hide his covert activities, Zahir continued living as a playboy—until Javid told Father about his association with certain terrorists. Zahir had, naturally, denied all involvement with the cell, but Javid had provided proof, and Father had blocked Zahir’s access to every single Haleem bank account.

At the time, Zahir vowed to exact immediate vengeance on his family. But Khalaf had taught him revenge, if swift, could taste as bitter as prematurely picked dates. The secret was to let your enemy relax, to study your prey like the cobra, find their weakness, let them think you had gone away, that they were safe from your vengeance. That was when you struck. Zahir, a fast learner, came to realize the wisdom of planning. Of patience. He strove for control of his patience now.

He closed his eyes, savoring how close he and his partner were to controlling a huge percentage of the world’s oil supply.

He and Khalaf would be a rich and powerful force to reckon with, not only in the Middle East, but in the whole world. And Javid would finally pay for his treachery. But it would all be for naught if he couldn’t figure a way out of this place.

He heard movement and the murmur of voices behind the door at the end of the hall. His captors. He considered shouting “I am not a terrorist! I am a Prince of Anbar! I have diplomatic immunity! I demand release this minute!”

But they would ignore him, these jackals, as they had ignored his pleas for release from the first. Their mistake. They had no idea with whom they dealt. Their ignorance would cost them in the end.

If he were being held in a public facility, a Chicago Police Department jail, he would have been allowed a phone call, a lawyer, and he’d have been processed and out hours after being arrested. But his captors seemed to be a secret, undercover organization, one of those set up by the American government to search out and bring down terrorists. He had to get out of here. Had to warn Khalaf.

But how to escape?

He studied the cell, decided it might be easier to get out of this place than out of a regular Chicago jail cell, and tested the bars at the window and door. What worried him was that he’d lost track of time during his incarceration. Had not seen a newspaper or television newscast. Didn’t know how close the wedding was. He reefed on each individual bar, but found them all solid. He knelt by the sink, gripped the moist drainpipe, and yanked.

His jailers refused to speak to him of the world outside this cell; their talk consisted only of their questions. Always their questions. He would never tell them what they wanted to know. Would never betray his and Khalaf’s plans to demolish Quantum Industries…not even if they tortured him.

The pipe refused to budge, was rusted tight. He swore again in both his native tongues. He had to get out of here. But how? He growled and flopped down on the cot. The springs creaked in protest. The springs. He scrambled to his feet and lifted the mattress. The frame was a crisscross of stretched wires. Nice thick, sharp wires. Zahir smiled, sank to his knees and began the arduous chore of loosening one eight-inch length.

As he worked, his mind went to his impending nuptials. To Khalaf’s daughter, his betrothed. Miah was merely a means to an end, a pawn on his path to untold riches and power, but he would enjoy bedding her. Often. If not exclusively. He would also enjoy beating some of the fight out of her. Curbing her sharp tongue. Her wild spirit. And the sooner, the better. But first things first. He gyrated the wire, twisted harder, felt it give.

Khalaf had to be frantic at his disappearance, beating the underbrush looking for him.

Unless…

His hand stayed on the wire as an unthinkable idea gripped him. No. But, yes. Javid would play his own game against him—would impersonate him.

Would Khalaf realize?

Would Miah?

The wire snapped free.

Zahir’s head jerked at the sound of the hall door wrenching open. He heard the rattle of dishes on a tray. He sprang to his feet, dropped the mattress into place, shoved the weapon up his sleeve and crossed to the sink.

You are dead, Javid. As dead as this agent who brings my lunch.

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