Barbara Dunlop - A Golden Betrayal

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

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

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

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

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

“Good thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ann bent down to shut off her bike.

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

“What?” Ann straightened in confusion.

Darby nodded to the television screen.

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

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

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

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

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

“That son of a bitch,” growled Darby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

He heard the suite door open, then close.

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

“She bought it?” Raif asked without turning.

“Ann will be here in twenty minutes.”

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

“You hungry?” asked Tariq.

“Not in the least.”

“I thought maybe later—”

“I’ll be busy later.”

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

“No, you don’t. Jordan left?”

“He did.”

“You should go, too.”

“Raif, you won’t—”

Raif turned sharply. “Won’t what?”

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

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

“I worry about you,” said Tariq.

“I worry about Rayas,” Raif responded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She needs to understand her duty.”

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

“There is no curse.”

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

“I want to strangle Ann Richardson.”

“You want to kiss her senseless first.”