Millions to Spare. Barbara Dunlop
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The end of the wide passage opened into a great hall. The room boasted sweeping staircases, along with banks of windows and glass doors that led to a veranda overlooking a lighted, emerald lawn. Scattered palm trees waved their way to a white sand beach that met the rolling azure waters of the Persian Gulf.
“I really need to make a phone call,” Julia told him, feeling more than a little self-conscious in her stained skirt and wrinkled white blouse as the crisply dressed, ubiquitous staff members moved silently through the rooms.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Harrison responded as they made their way toward the veranda.
Julia kept her voice even, determined not to let her nervousness show. “I don’t understand. Why not?”
He stopped and turned to look down at her. “Because I don’t know who you are, or what you’re after or who you’ll call.”
She glanced pointedly to where her small purse was tucked under his arm. “You’ve seen my passport, my driver’s license, my Lexington library card.”
He didn’t respond.
“People will start to worry,” she pointed out. Hopefully Melanie was worried already. “They’ll be out looking for me.”
Harrison paused. “Give me a list of names. I’ll have Darla make the calls.”
It was Julia’s turn to hesitate. She didn’t want him connecting her with the Prestons. He might have heard about the Leopold’s Legacy scandal, and he might already know Millions to Spare was the spitting image. Melanie and Robbie’s names could give her away.
Harrison arched a brow. “Problem?”
She stalled. “What’s she going to say to them?”
“That you’re safe.”
“You don’t think they’ll ask questions?”
A sly smile grew on his face. “She can tell them you met a man.”
Annoyance shot through Julia. “You think my friends are going to believe I came home with you?”
“Why not? You’re a modern, twenty-five-year-old American—”
“Watch it, buster.” Sure, there was a social conduct divide between the East and the West, but that didn’t mean she was sleazy.
He slowly perused her sleeveless blouse, short skirt and high-heeled shoes. “I saw your personal effects, remember?”
“You think because I wear a thong I’ll jump into bed with a man I just met?” Of all the insulting, stereotypical assumptions. She wore a thong today to stay cool, because the weather in Dubai was nearly a hundred degrees.
He moved a little closer, lowering his voice. “I think your underwear was designed to share.”
She moved in closer, as well, glaring defiantly into his slate-gray eyes. “Not with an insufferable bastard like you.”
His mild tone belied the mocking glint in his eyes. “But, Julia. Since your friends have never met me, they won’t know I’m an insufferable bastard, will they?”
Even though logic told her to back off, there was something about his smug smile that begged her to retaliate. “I’ll know.”
“Guess I’ll just have to live with your low opinion,” he said, clearly unperturbed by the insult. “Give Darla the list. I promise she’ll convince your friends you’re having the time of your life.”
She kept her mouth firmly shut.
His expression unexpectedly softened. “We can end all this right now, Julia. Just tell me why you’re here.”
“I’m doing a human-interest story for Equine Earth Magazine.”
“On me.”
“Yes.”
“Yet, you didn’t recognize me at the jail. Didn’t look at a picture before you broke in?”
Julia scrambled for an explanation. “You look different in real life.”
Harrison laughed at that one. “You’re really the best they could find?”
They? “Who?”
His cell phone buzzed, and he shook his head as he pulled it out. “Never mind.”
“One moment,” he said into the phone, then he snapped his fingers. A young woman instantly responded to the summons, reminding Julia that Harrison was king here, and his word was law.
“Leila will show you to your room,” he said. “She’ll provide you with clothing, food and anything else you need.” His nod was curt as he turned away to deal with the phone call.
The young woman smiled shyly at Julia, and suddenly the prospect of clean clothes and something to eat overruled everything, even the need to bring überrich Harrison down a peg or two.
“Thank you,” she said to Leila, genuinely grateful for the young woman’s help.
Leila gestured to one of the staircases. “This way, please.”
“You speak English?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there a phone I could use?”
Leila looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”
Julia sighed. She shouldn’t have been surprised the staff had been given instructions about her. Harrison definitely struck her as a detail-oriented kind of guy.
At the top of the staircase, her feet sank into the thick carpet of the hallway as they made their way along an open railing that looked down into the atrium.
Julia didn’t know whether to admire or sneer at the tall trees and the broad-leaved tropical plants below and the brilliant starscape through the domed glass ceiling above. It was all gorgeous, but definitely excessive.
When Leila opened a set of double doors, the opulence of the suite echoed that excess all over again.
A four-poster bed dominated the room, while a plush furniture grouping was tucked into an alcove. The carpet was as luxurious as the one in the hall, potted plants were dotted all around, and a door led to an absolutely decadent marble en suite with an oversize tub, gold faucets and double sinks.
Although the silly gold faucets were probably worth more than her car, Julia had to admit it was a whole lot better than her last prison cell. And, really, with a palace this big, there had to be an unguarded telephone somewhere.
Chapter Three
“So is she a spy?” asked Alex Lindley, stopping in the doorway of Harrison’s study, a snifter of cognac dangling from his fingers.
Harrison kept his gazed fixed on the Web page on his computer monitor. “It would appear a Julia Nash does, indeed, work for Equine Earth Magazine. Of course, it might not be our Julia Nash. And, even if it is, it could be a cover.”
Alex moved into the room. “A fake identity as a reporter would give her an excuse to travel around the world.”
Harrison nodded. He’d also found several dozen horse-themed articles written by Julia Nash, a scientific paper by a professor of the same name, a Julia Nash on the board of directors of Qantas Communications Company, and a couple of genealogy charts naming long-deceased Julia Nashes.
His quick search hadn’t come up with anything that either convicted or exonerated her. It might mean she was an innocent reporter or it might mean she was simply a competent covert operative—since none of them would have their real profession splashed all over the Internet, either.
Alex glanced over Harrison’s shoulder. “You want me to make a couple of calls to my military contacts?”