Barbara Dunlop - A Golden Betrayal

“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.