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?”
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