A Golden Betrayal

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

“I’m not hurting you.”

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

“That’s ridiculous.”

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

“I moved you maybe five feet.”

“You won’t let me leave.”

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

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

“You’re free to go,” he told her.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“And when the three nights are over?”

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

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

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

“Any luck in really finding Roark?”

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

“The FBI still after him?”

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

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

“It doesn’t exist.”

“You’re positive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ann bent down to shut off her bike.

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

“What?” Ann straightened in confusion.

Darby nodded to the television screen.

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