Why had she thought she could be a real reporter? Why had she ever left Seattle? She should have taken that promotion to night-shift supervisor at Econo Foods instead of the scholarship to Cal State and the road that brought her to this.
She had to keep it together, she told herself firmly. Melanie and Robbie must be looking for her. They’d have talked to the authorities by now. Eventually, hopefully within the next few hours, they’d find her and contact the embassy. Surely getting trapped in a horse trailer wasn’t a heinous crime even in Dubai.
Oh, God. She had to pee.
She gritted her teeth, lowering herself onto one corner of the mattress then bending over to keep her muscles tight.
Footfalls sounded in the corridor. An Arabic voice again. But this time a man’s.
“Ms. Nash?”
She jerked her head up to see a tall man standing outside her cell door. He was Caucasian. And he spoke English. Thank goodness.
“Are you from the embassy?” she rasped.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Her need was humiliating. But she was past caring. She couldn’t even think about anything else for the moment. “Is there a bathroom?”
He searched her expression then said something in rapid Arabic to the matron beside him.
The matron unlocked the door, and Julia rushed to the opening. The woman then escorted Julia down the hall.
The restroom was a cramped, dingy stall with cracked porcelain and corrosion-encrusted plumbing that was a relic of the fifties. There was no seat, and toilet paper didn’t appear to be one of the amenities. But Julia had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.
Afterward, she thanked the stern, cold-eyed woman then walked back down the hall, pulling together the few shreds of dignity she could muster.
The man still stood outside her cell.
Her feet froze at the doorway, everything inside her screaming to break and run. But she knew that would only make matters worse. She forced her rational mind to override her primal instincts.
“You speak English,” she said, still hovering at the open doorway.
“I’m British,” he responded.
Of course. The accent was obvious. And there was a definite aristocratic look about him. He had a straight nose, a slight cleft to his square chin, and dark eyes that matched his neatly trimmed hair. His suit was Armani, the shirt and tie likely Richard James. Whoever he was, he had money and style.
She shifted, more conscious than ever of her drab dress. They’d scrubbed off all her makeup, and her hair had definitely suffered from the wind whipping through the openings in the horse trailer.
“The British embassy?” she asked. Perhaps the Americans were busy.
“Harrison Rochester.” His pause was definitely for effect, and he watched her closely as he delivered the next sentence. “I own Cadair Racing.”
For the first time in several hours, a spurt of anger overtook her despair. It was this man’s fault she’d been manhandled, humiliated and strip-searched. “You had me arrested?”
He considered her for a short second. “You broke into my stable.”
“It was an accident.” She sure hadn’t meant to travel halfway across the United Arab Emirates pinned to the side of a horse trailer.
He eyed her with suspicion. “You mistook my trailer for the loo?”
She could feel her face flush, and she tried not to squirm under his intent scrutiny.
She had only a split second to decide how much to tell him. The truth might give her the best chance of getting out of jail. Then again, if she told him she was trying to discredit his racehorse in advance of the Sandstone Derby, he might be tempted to leave her right where she was.
“I was after a story,” she told him. She could always elaborate later.
His slate gaze locked with her blue one. “In my horse trailer?”
“I liked your horses.”
“You’re lying.”
“Check my credentials,” she countered, her confidence growing, since everything she was about to tell him was the truth. “I work for Equine Earth Magazine.”
His eyes narrowed. “I will.”
“Good.”
He glanced back into her cell, and it was all she could do not to beg him to help her, to please call Equine Earth right here and now. Or, better still, take her with him while he checked out her credentials. Just don’t, please don’t let them put her back with the rank air and the centipedes.
She knew they’d turn off the lights soon. And she wouldn’t be able to see the bugs. And, the truth was, she was kind of wimpy for an investigative reporter—especially when it came to creepy-crawly things.
She swallowed and waited.
His broad hand reached out and latched on to one of the iron bars, bracing him beside her. He stared down for a moment. Then he took a breath. “They’ve agreed to release you into my custody.”
Relief burst through her, along with an urge to throw herself into his arms. Her elation must have shown, because his frown deepened.
“You’re not out of the woods yet,” he warned. “You’re in my custody. I’m keeping your passport, and you’ll not be permitted to leave Cadair until I figure out who you are and what you’re about.”
Julia quickly nodded her agreement.
Her story would check out. Harrison would discover she was a bona fide reporter, and he’d have no reason to suspect she was after anything other than a human-interest story.
Meanwhile, if they gave her back her purse, she’d still have the DNA sample and a chance of getting it to the lab. Plus, the Cadair staff might know something about Millions to Spare’s history. Hanging around and talking to them for a few hours could be a blessing in disguise.
Besides—she glanced around at the mottled white walls while resisting the urge to rip the gray dress from her body—whatever conditions they kept her in at Cadair Racing, it had to be a damn sight better than this.
As it turned out, the palace at Cadair Racing was about as far from a prison cell as a person could get. Harrison was definitely one of the superrich. He easily surpassed the Prestons and pretty much anybody else Julia had ever met in the horse world.
A huge, multistoried, marble-pillared rotunda served as his entryway. It was decorated with gilt mirrors, antique statues and hand-carved mahogany settees. A painted mural dominated the domed ceiling, while chandeliers, suspended on gold chains, fairly dripped with glowing crystal.
Past a center table that boasted a massive fresh flower arrangement, the tiled mosaic floor opened into a wide hallway. The hallway itself was an oil painting gallery, inviting guests to browse their way through the center of the palace. Doorways to the left and the right revealed a library, several sitting rooms, an office and an arboretum.
Growing up with her widowed father in a Seattle suburb, Julia hadn’t crossed paths with the wealthy. She knew they lived on the lakefront and went to private schools in Bellevue. Other than that, she’d always assumed they were just like her, but with pools and chauffeurs.
Not true.
When she’d started hanging out with the Thoroughbred racing crowd, she’d learned the rich were closed-minded and paranoid. One racehorse owner refused to eat anything that wasn’t from France. Another put an armed guard on his poodle. Yet another was rumored to carry a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills, in case he wanted to make an untraceable