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Millions to Spare snorted and pulled his head away. But Julia had succeeded.
She carefully wrapped the swab then tucked it back in her purse, giving Millions to Spare a final pat. “Good boy.”
Just then, the truck’s diesel engine rumbled to life.
The horses all shifted, shaking the trailer, and pitching Julia into the wall.
Sucking in a breath, she pushed herself back to standing. She ducked under the barrier, coming abreast of the middle Thoroughbred. Intent on the side door, she was determined to jump out before the truck got rolling. As long as no one happened to be looking in the rearview mirror, she’d be free and clear.
But the middle horse shifted again, canting its hip, knocking Julia sideways and pinning her in a groove of the molded metal wall.
An unladylike swearword burst out of her, and she scrambled to regain her footing.
She gave the horse a firm shove.
It didn’t budge.
She shoved harder.
The trailer lurched and rolled forward.
Julia smacked the horse sharply on the rump.
It shook its head, but its hindquarters stayed planted against the center of her chest.
Panic threatened, but she fought it down.
She could breathe. Sure, they were moving now, but they would have to stop soon. There’d be intersections and red lights between here and Cadair Racing. All she had to do was get free and make her way to the side door.
Then she’d wait for an opportunity, hop out and hail a cab.
She groaned, shoving impatiently at the horse’s rump one more time.
Nothing.
Okay. Deep breath. This wasn’t a disaster. It was just your typical investigative reporter stuff. She’d be laughing about it later tonight with Melanie and Robbie—over a glass of Merlot and a really big lobster tail. Thank goodness alcohol was tolerated in the international hotels in Dubai, because she was going to need it after this experience. The Thoroughbred’s hip bone was leaving a mark.
The bumps and bruises of polo made it a young man’s sport.
Not that Lord Harrison Rochester was old. And at age thirty-five, he wasn’t ready to give up polo just yet. But as he watched from the sidelines, Jamal Fariol galloped fearlessly down the field at Ghantoot, close to the line, bent nearly sideways in his effort to turn the play. Harrison involuntarily cringed. Another inch and the boy would go tumbling under the hooves of his opponent’s horse.
But Jamal didn’t lose his seat. He connected with the ball and pulled up on his reins. There was a cheer of relief from the crowd as the ball bounced its way down the field and the horn sounded.
Harrison watched the young men sit smooth in their saddles—strong and eager as they headed for the sidelines, a new generation full of energy and idealism. His grandmother’s words echoed insistently in his mind.
“Brittany Livingston is the one,” she’d said for the hundredth time. “I know it. What’s more, you know it yourself.” She’d shaken a wrinkled finger in Harrison’s eyes. “Mark my words, young man, you’ll regret it to your dying day if you let someone else swoop in while you dillydally around.”
Harrison had responded that he wasn’t ready to settle down and have children with Brittany or anyone else. He acknowledged that marriage was his duty. But he reminded her that duty came after the fun was over, and Harrison was still having plenty of fun.
Still, as he watched the boys on the field this evening, he couldn’t help thinking about children and fatherhood and his own mortality. If he was going to have children anyway, he might want to do it while he was young enough to enjoy them.
Jamal was fourteen now, his father, Hanif, only a few years older than Harrison. On the sidelines, Hanif’s face shone with pride as he watched his son gallop off the field to switch horses between chukkers. The lad was limping from an earlier fall, but he gamely leaped up on the new mount.
“Impressive,” said Harrison, speculating, probably for the first time, on the pride of fatherhood.
“Kareem is the same,” Hanif offered, his chest puffing as he referred to his twelve-year-old son. “Both of them. Robust like me.”
“That they are,” Harrison agreed, toying with the image of Brittany’s face. There was no denying she was attractive. She had a sweet smile, crystal-blue eyes and a crown of golden hair. She was also kind and gentle, a preschool teacher. There’s wasn’t a single doubt she’d make a wonderful mother.
The match started up again, hooves thudding, divots flying, the crowd shouting encouragement.
Testing the idea further, Harrison conjured up a picture of Brittany in a veil and a white dress, walking the nave at St. Paul’s. He could see his grandmother’s smile and his mother’s joy.
Then he imagined the two of them making babies. He’d have to be careful not to hurt her. Unlike Hanif’s sons, nobody would describe Brittany as robust. It would be sweet, gentle sex, under a lace canopy, beneath billowing white sheets, Brittany’s fresh face smiling up at him—for the rest of his natural life.
Which wouldn’t be so bad.
A man could certainly do worse.
And there was a lot Harrison could teach sons or daughters, not to mention the perfectly good title he had to pass on.
Jamal scored, and Hanif whooped with delight.
Harrison clapped Hanif’s shoulder in congratulations. Making up his mind, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed number one on his speed dial.
“Cadair Racing,” came the immediate answer.
“Darla please.”
“Right away, Lord Rochester.”
A moment later, his assistant Darla’s voice came through the speaker amidst the lingering cheers of the crowd. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to add a couple of names to the guest list.”
“Of course.”
Harrison’s stomach tightened almost imperceptibly. But it was time. And, fundamentally, Brittany was a good choice. “My grandmother and Brittany Livingston. There shouldn’t be any security concerns.”
“Certainly. I’ll send out the invitations right away. By the way, the French ambassador accepted this morning, and so did Colonel Varisco.”
“That’s great. So are they back?”
“The horses are en route now. Ilithyia placed and Millions to Spare won.”
“Not bad,” said Harrison, nodding to himself.
“Brittany Livingston?” asked Darla, the lilt of her voice seeking confirmation, even though she knew full well what the invitation had to mean. In her midthirties, single, yet hopelessly romantic, Darla made no bones about the fact she thought Harrison should find a suitable wife.
“You think it’s a bad idea?” he asked, remembering Darla singing the praises of Yvette Gaston from the French embassy only last week.
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” said Darla with clear enthusiasm.
“Yes. Well. So will Grandmother.”
“And you?” Darla probed.
“How could I go wrong?”
“How, indeed. A beautiful hostess improves any party.”
Harrison’s stomach protested once again. But he supposed being his hostess was exactly what he was asking Brittany to do. “Millions to Spare won, you say?” He redirected Darla.
There was a trace of laughter in her voice when she answered. “The purse was six figures.”
“Tell Nuri to give that boy some oats.”
“Mr. Nuri!” The teenager’s round dark eyes fixed disbelievingly on Julia where she stood frozen in the corner of the horse trailer.
Sweat prickled her skin, and her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. With her back pressed against the warm metal wall, she attempted to swallow her fear, telling herself she should have made a run for it when they first arrived.
“Quiet down,” came a harsh, heavily accented voice from outside the near-empty horse trailer. Stern footsteps clomped up the ramp.
A tall, brawny, dark-haired man appeared. He wore a turban and a black robe, and he carried a riding crop. His piercing eyes took in Julia, and then shifted to the teenager. Then he was back to Julia before rattling something off in Arabic.
The teenage boy scuttled from the trailer.
“I’m sorry,” Julia rasped, straightening away from the wall, moving toward him, frantically scrambling for a cover story. “It’s just. Well. I was—”
The butt of his crop landed square in her chest, forcing a cry from her lips and sending her stumbling back. “Save it for the authorities,” he grated.
Chapter Two
“An intruder?” From behind the desk in his study at Cadair Racing, Harrison stared at Alex Lindley—lawyer and senior vice president of Cadair International.
“An American,” said Lindley, dropping down into the diamond-tuft leather chair, next to the potted palm trees and the bay window that looked out across Harrison’s lighted lawn. “The police have arrested her.”
“And she was hiding in my horse trailer?” The pieces of Alex’s story weren’t coming together in any sort of coherent order inside Harrison’s head.
The only thing certain was that he had trouble.
The United Nations International Economic Summit was only four days away, and Harrison was hosting the secretary-general’s reception here at Cadair. Surprises couldn’t happen at this stage of the game.
“Nuri thought she was stealing a horse,” said Alex. “But she insisted she was a reporter.”
“What? Was she interviewing Ilithyia?”
Alex choked out a laugh. “Didn’t seem likely. That’s why Nuri called the police.”
Good move on Nuri’s part. Reporters knocked on the front door. They didn’t sneak onto the estate in the back of a horse trailer. Unless they were from a tabloid. And since Harrison wasn’t a movie star, and there was nothing remotely salacious going on at Cadair Racing, this could hardly be an exposé.
Then Harrison’s brain hit on a worst-case scenario.
“Son of a bitch,” he all but shouted.
“She can’t be,” said Alex, correctly interpreting the outburst.
“Sure she can,” said Harrison.
There was no reason in the world the woman couldn’t be attached to a foreign spy agency or blackops organization.
“A covert operative in a horse trailer?”
“It got her past security.”
“She’s an American,” Alex pointed out. “The CIA doesn’t have anything against the UN.”
“Yeah? Well, they’ve got something against the Syrians and the Iranians.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Maybe. But that’s bizarre behavior for a horse thief, and she’s certainly not here to do a feature on my love life for the National Inquisitor.”
The grandfather clock ticked three times before Alex spoke. “You want me to head down to the lockup and sleuth around?”
Harrison pushed back on his chair and came to his feet. “No. I’ll get her. If she is an assassin, it’s my neck on the line.”
“We could leave her locked up until the reception’s over. She can’t hurt anyone from jail.”
“That only works if she’s acting alone.”
Alex went silent as Harrison stood up, pressing a hidden button to reveal a wall safe.
“Jobar’s on duty,” Alex warned.
“It figures,” Harrison grumbled. He spun the dial back and forth then clunked the lever. He pulled out three stacks of bills.
Jobar was usually expensive. If the woman was CIA, Harrison hoped the American government would consider reimbursing his bribe.
Julia had to get out of jail.
She had to get out of this cell, and then she had to pee.
Okay. Not necessarily in that order.
The need had been growing steadily worse for the past two hours, but neither of the hijab-clad women spoke English, Spanish or French, and her sign-language repertoire didn’t extend to urination.
There was a drain in the middle of the sloping stone floor. Crude. But it was looking better and better all the time.
