A Golden Betrayal

He should have kept her in Rayas when she’d showed up there last month. Though he supposed canceling her visa and locking her up might have caused an international incident. And, at the time, he had been as anxious to get rid of her as she was to leave.

“Your Royal Highness?” A voice came over the intercom of the Gulfstream. “We’ll be landing at Teterboro in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Hari,” Raif responded. He straightened in the white leather seat, stretching the circulation back into his legs.

“I can show you the town while we’re here,” said Raif’s cousin Tariq, gazing out his own window at the Manhattan skyline. Tariq had spent three years at Harvard, coming away with a law degree.

Raif’s father, King Safwah, believed that an international education for the extended royal family would strengthen Rayas. Raif himself had spent two years at Oxford, studying history and politics. He’d visited many countries in Europe and Asia, but this was his first trip to America.

“We’re not here to do the town,” he pointed out to Tariq.

Tariq responded with a lascivious grin and a quirk of his dark brows. “American woman are not like Rayasian women.”

“We’re not here to chase women.” Well, not plural anyway. They were here to chase and catch one particular woman. And then Raif was going to make her talk.

“There’s this one restaurant that overlooks Central Park, and—”

“You want me to send you home?” Raif demanded.

“I want you to lighten up.” Tariq was Raif’s third cousin, but still an important player in the Rayasian royal circle. It gave him the right to be more forthright than others when speaking to Raif. But only to a point.

“We’re here to find the Gold Heart statue,” Raif stated firmly.

“We have to eat.”

“We have to focus.”

“And we’ll do that a whole lot better with sustenance, such as maple glazed salmon and matsutake mushrooms.”

“You should have been a litigator,” Raif grumbled, fastening his seat belt as the landing gear whined then clunked into place. The two men had been friends since childhood, and he doubted he’d ever beaten Tariq in an argument.

Tariq leaned his head back in his seat, bracing himself for the landing. “I would have been a litigator. But the king objected.”

“When I am king, you’ll never be a litigator.”

“When you are king, I am seeking asylum in Dubai.”

Both men fought grins.

“Unless I can get you to lighten up,” Tariq finished. “Maybe get you a girl.”

“I can get my own girls.” Raif needed to be discreet, of course, but he was no fan of celibacy.

The wheels of the Gulfstream touched smoothly onto the runway, its brakes engaging as they sped through the blowing December snow. He would never understand how such a pivotal city had grown up in a place with such appalling weather.

“There’s this club off Fifth Avenue,” said Tariq.

“I’m not in New York to get girls.”

Even as he spoke, Raif couldn’t seem to stop his thoughts from drifting to Ann Richardson. He’d been a fool to kiss her, a bigger fool to like it. And he’d been a colossal fool to let their single kiss get so far out of hand.

When he closed his eyes at night, he could still see her wispy blond hair, that delicate, creamy skin, and her startling blue eyes. He could taste her hot, sweet lips and smell her vanilla perfume.

The Gulfstream slowed and turned, and finally rolled to a stop inside an airport hangar. The ground crew closed the huge door behind them against the cold weather.

When the airplane hatch opened, Raif and Tariq descended the small staircase. A few sounds echoed in the cavernous building—the door clanging into place, a heater whirring in the high ceiling and the ground crew calling to each other in the far corners. Beside the airplane, Raif and Tariq were greeted by the Rayasian ambassador, a couple of aides and some security staff.

Raif appreciated the low-key reception. He knew it was only a matter of time before his every trip would become a state occasion. Though still in his mid-sixties, his father had been ill for some time with the remnants of a tropical disease contracted decades ago in central Africa. These past few months had been hard on the king, and Raif was becoming more worried by the day that his father might not recover this time.

“Your Royal Highness.” The ambassador greeted him with a formal bow. He was dressed in the traditional white robe of Rayas, his gray hair partially covered in a white cap.

Raif detected a slight narrowing of the ambassador’s eyes as he took in Raif’s Western suit.

But the man kept his thoughts to himself. “Welcome to America” was all he added.

“Thank you, Fariol.” Raif shook the man’s hand, rather than embracing him and air kissing as was the Rayasian custom. “You’ve arranged for a car?”

“Of course.” Fariol gestured to a stretch Hummer limousine.

Raif raised a brow. “I believe my office said nondescript.”

Fariol frowned. “There are no flags, no royal seals on the doors, no Rayasian markings whatsoever.”

Raif heard Tariq shift beside him and guessed he was covering a smirk.

“I meant I wanted a sedan. Something plain and inconspicuous. Maybe something I could drive myself.”

Fariol drew back in obvious confusion. The younger aide beside him stepped up to speak in his ear. “I can arrange it right away, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Please do,” Raif said directly to the aide, earning himself another censorious expression from the ambassador.

The aide nodded and quickly withdrew, pulling a phone from his pocket.

Fariol turned his attention away from Raif. “Sheik Tariq,” he said.

It was a slight but very intentional snub. It was the crown prince who ended a conversation, not an ambassador.

Tariq gave Raif a fleeting, meaningful glance, silently acknowledging the break in protocol before responding. “Mr. Ambassador. Thank you for welcoming us.”

“Do you know when you’ll be returning to Rayas?”

Tariq paused for half a second, putting on an exaggerated expression of surprise. “When the crown prince decides it’s time for us to leave America, of course.”

The answer was an obvious rebuke of Fariol’s attitude, and Raif had to suppress his own grin. Tariq might be overly familiar and opinionated in private. But in front of others, he paid strict adherence to the Rayasian royal hierarchy.

The aide rushed back. “Your car will be here in just a few minutes. A Mercedes sedan. S-Class. I hope that will please Your Royal Highness.”

“That will be fine,” Raif answered. He turned to Tariq. “Think you can get that address?”