A Golden Betrayal

Tariq looked to one of the security guards. “Jordan?”

The man stepped forward. “We’re good to go, sir.”

Jordan Jones was an American security specialist who’d become friends with Tariq after they met at Harvard. Raif had never met Jordan in person before, but he’d heard stories over the years that gave him a good deal of confidence in the man’s abilities.

The bay door clattered partway open, and a steel-gray Mercedes sedan drove inside. Instantly, the flight crew appeared with the royal party’s luggage, waiting as the vehicle came to a halt in front of Raif.

“That will be all, Fariol.” Raif dismissed the ambassador with a curt nod, striding around the front of the car. Tariq and Jordan immediately fell into step.

“I’ll drive.” Raif held out his hand for the keys as a man appeared from the driver’s seat.

“Sir?” Jordan prompted, arching a brow in Tariq’s direction.

Glancing over his shoulder, presumably to ensure Fariol and his staff were out of earshot, Tariq spoke in a low tone. “You don’t want to drive, Raif.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

The driver glanced from one man to the other. He was American, an employee of the rental company. In Rayas, there would have been no hesitation about who would win the argument. Raif’s word there was law.

“Who’s the prince around here?” Raif demanded of Tariq.

“Which one of us has driven in Manhattan?” Tariq countered.

“I’ll drive,” Jordan put in, deftly scooping the keys from the driver. He kept moving right past the surprised American, opening the back door of the sedan, turning to meet Raif’s eyes. “Foreign royalty in the back. Brooklyn native at the wheel.”

“You’re pretty cocky,” Raif said to Jordan.

“You know it...sir.”

Raif followed Tariq to the backseat door. “In my country, I could have you beheaded,” Raif lied.

“In my country, I could abandon you in Washington Heights.” Jordan paused. “Same thing, really.”

Raif couldn’t help but grin as he got into the car. He didn’t have a problem with people speaking truth to power, so long as they did it respectfully or in private. He was willing to concede that a born and raised New Yorker could probably get them to Ann Richardson’s apartment faster than he could.

Jordan closed the back door of the car and then folded his big body into the driver’s seat as the trunk clicked shut on their luggage.

“I understand you’re at the Plaza,” he said, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Their service is impeccable, and their security is tight.”

“Nobody knows I’m here,” said Raif. Security wasn’t going to be an issue on the trip.

“Interpol knows you’re here,” Jordan responded. “Your passport sends off sirens and flashing lights in their Manhattan office.”

Tariq chuckled.

“So does yours,” Jordan warned Tariq.

“Interpol’s got nothing against me,” said Raif.

“They’ll worry someone else does.”

“The only person in America with something against me is Ann Richardson. And that’s because I’m about to out her as a criminal and a liar.”

Jordan pulled the car smoothly ahead, turning for the open bay door. “Interpol will watch you, and others watch Interpol.” He straightened the wheel. “If there’s anything happening in Rayas I should know about, political dissent, difficulties with neighboring countries, now would be the time to tell me.”

“Some internal stuff,” Tariq said. “Raif’s uncle was stood up at the altar, as was a distant cousin Aimee. The Gold Heart statue theft is the only international scandal Rayas has had lately.”

“I hear your father is ill,” Jordan said to Raif, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“He’s getting better,” Raif said automatically.

“The truth doesn’t matter, perception does. The perception is that your father is dying. And that means you’re about to become king. And that means somebody, somewhere out there, wants to kill you.”

“Just on general principle?” But Raif knew it was true.

“As a power play. Your cousin Kalila’s next in line?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s close to her, especially lately?”

“You do know I’m only going to be here a few days,” Raif said to Jordan. The man had been hired as temporary tour guide, not as the new head of Raif’s security team.

“I still need to know the landscape.”

“She’s picked up a British boyfriend,” said Tariq. “He’s new.”

Raif shot Tariq a glare. They didn’t need to air the family laundry in front of Jordan. That Kalila had taken up with a completely unsuitable college boy instead of pledging her honor to a sheik’s son in a neighboring country, as had been arranged a decade ago, was an embarrassment to the royal family. It was yet another thing upsetting the king. But it wasn’t a matter of national security.

“His name?” asked Jordan, turning on the wipers as they drove into the snowstorm.

Raif interrupted. “You’re driving us to Ann Richardson’s, not compiling a family dossier.”

“Niles,” said Tariq. “That’s all we’ve managed to get out of the stubborn girl. Kalila was the first casualty of the curse. And now Mallik’s been jilted.”

Raif gave an eye roll. “There is no curse.”

“The curse of the Gold Heart statue?” asked Jordan.

“It’s a foolish myth,” said Raif, growing impatient. He was a tolerant man, but even he had his breaking point.

“This Niles guy?” Jordan asked. “He arrive out of nowhere?”

“He’s a student,” said Tariq.

“Of Arab descent?”