“Well, not really, but . . .” As interesting as this side of him was, she hadn’t lost sight of her goal. “Maybe I should start from the beginning.”
“Or maybe you shouldn’t. You realize, don’t you, that you blew your cover at the club last night with your jujitsu moves? Nobody’s going to buy you as my social media specialist any longer.”
Something she’d already figured out. Church bells chimed in the distance, and she plunged ahead. “Her name is Faiza. She’s only nineteen, and she’s been working for the family since she was fourteen. She’s sweet and smart, and she only wants what we take for granted. A chance to be free.”
He scowled at a ragged bean plant.
“She dreams of going to nursing school so she can take care of preemies, but right now, she’s little better than a slave.”
He ripped up the bean plant and tossed it aside, crunching on what was left of the lollipop. She moved in on him. “Please, Coop. It’s Sunday. The club’s closed. All you have to do is go to the Peninsula tonight and have a manly chat with the prince. Think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get an insider’s look at a different culture.”
He tossed the lollipop stick in a compost bin. “I’m happy with the culture I’m already in. Except for my thieving waitstaff . . .”
A tiny red sugar crystal lingered at the corner of his mouth, and the memory of that ridiculous kiss came back to her. She instinctively licked her lips. “Your waitstaff is basically honest. And if everybody felt the way you do, there’d be no hope for international peace and understanding.”
“Thank you, Miss Universe.”
“I’m merely pointing out that you’re being very narrow-minded.”
He jabbed a soil-crusted finger at her. “At least I have a mind. And I seriously doubt my spending a night reliving my glory years with a Middle Eastern oil baron is going to do squat for international relations. As for the rest of your plan . . .” He shuddered. “I’ve done a few things in my life I’m not proud of, but what you’re asking is creepy.”
“It’s heroic! It’s a chance at redemption for the sins of your past.” Like that kiss, she thought, but he hadn’t brought it up and neither would she. Although he seemed to be thinking about it. How she knew that, she wasn’t certain. Maybe she simply felt it. Or maybe it was something else . . . The calculating look in his eyes. A certain wiliness . . . What was he up to?
He dipped his head and brushed the corner of his eyebrow with his thumb. “If I were going to do this . . . which I’m not . . . I’d expect something in return. What are you prepared to offer?”
“What do you want?”
“An interesting question . . .”
He started smoking her with his gaze. Burning right through her lame-ass chauffeur’s outfit. Peeling off every ugly piece of it. And taking his time with it. She might not be smart about everything, but she was smart about this, and she rolled her eyes. “Stop messing with me. You can have any movie star you want, and you’re only trying to make me squirm. Just like last night. Well, guess what? It’s not working.”
“Are you sure about that?” The words slid from his lips, all silk and seduction.
“I’m pretty much un-squirmable.”
“Is that so.” He stroked the side of his jaw, leaving a dirty smear behind. “Did I ever mention what a bad lover I was when I first started out?”
One thing she had to say about Coop Graham: he was unpredictable. For a reason all his own, he’d decided to steer them into dangerous waters. She needed to back off, but she couldn’t do that, not with the way she’d responded to him last night. That meant it was kickoff time. “I don’t believe you did,” she said.
“I got lots of complaints, so I had to work at it. Treat it as a job.”
“Put in the extra practice time, right?”
“Precisely. When I think of the mistakes I made . . .”
“Mortifying, I’m sure.”
“But I kept my eye on the ball.”
“Only one? Curious. Oh, well, I hope your deformity didn’t make you too self-conscious. I’m sure you could still—”
“I finally got the hang of it when I was about—”
“Thirty-six?”
“Eighteen. I was a fast learner. All those older women willing to take a young kid like me into their loving arms . . .”
“Blessed are the merciful. But . . .” She smiled her own wily smile. “As entertaining as this is, you don’t have any interest in me. Both of us know you are completely out of my league.”
At first he seemed to appreciate her acknowledging this indisputable fact, but then his expression clouded over. “Hold on. Last week you told me how you’re a real man-eater.”
“There are limits. You’re an entirely different species from the Officer Hotties of the world. Way above even my head.”
He actually seemed miffed. “Now why would you say something like that about yourself? Where’s your pride?”
“Firmly entrenched in the real world. You belong in bed with superstars. Look at me. I’m thirty-three years old. At best, I’m average-looking, and—”
“Define average.”
“I have ugly feet, I’m at least ten pounds overweight.”
“For a cadaver.”
“And . . . I don’t give a crap about clothes or the way I look.”
“Now that part is true. As for the rest . . . You’ve heard of power blackouts. All I’d have to do is turn off the lights.”
He said it with such mustache-twirling, over-the-top villainy that she would have laughed if so much hadn’t been on the line. Instead, she advanced on him. “Let’s get serious. A woman’s life is at stake. I need you to do this. And your better self—assuming you have one—needs for you to do this.”
He’d gotten wise to her tactics, and her swipe had no effect. “Try again, Sherlock. That wasn’t even a first down.”
She’d run out of arguments, and she slumped against the brick terrace wall. “Do you have a better idea?”
“I sure as hell do. Mind your own business.”
She took a deep breath, then slowly shook her head. “I can’t.”
***
Coop popped one of the small yellow pear tomatoes in his mouth. It didn’t go well with the remnants of his cherry sucker, but he needed to stall. She was right. He’d been messing with her. Trying to make that wrongheaded kiss seem as meaningless as it should have been.
He gazed over at her. She looked so damned disappointed in him. Like she’d caught him torturing a kitten. What she wanted was over-the-top and doomed to failure, but he still felt about two feet tall, an emotion he hadn’t experienced since his college coach had deservedly called him out for too much partying.
“All I’m asking for is an hour,” she said. “Two at the most.”
He never let anybody put him on the defensive, yet that was exactly what she’d done. She saw herself as some kind of knight-ess in shining armor, and she expected him to join her crusade. She worked for him, damn it. He was the quarterback, and she didn’t get to call the plays. “You’re asking for a lot more than that.”
She wouldn’t give up. “Isn’t a young woman’s life worth a little of your time?”
He countered her attempt at emotional blackmail with cold logic. “Her life isn’t in danger.”
She gazed over the wall at a big maple that had turned red. For once, he couldn’t tell if she was sincere or playing him. “Being born in this country gives us opportunities most people in the rest of the world don’t have,” she said. “Where you happen to be born. It’s the luck of the draw, isn’t it?”
He’d been born dirt poor, but . . . Shit. She was going to make him do this. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was the challenge of what she wanted.
***
The prince smelled of some bullshit cologne that probably cost a couple of oil wells but made Coop queasy. The guy had dyed black hair and a thin mustache shaped like seagull wings. His eyeglasses were tinted a weird
blue at the top but clear at the bottom, and he wore western clothes—a suit custom fit to his small build and cap-toe gray oxfords that might have fit Coop’s feet when he was ten. Coop didn’t have anything against small guys. It was Prince Aamuzhir’s big ego that put him off.
“You must sail with me before I sell my yacht. It’s one of the largest in the world, but the pool is in the stern, and I only swim in the sun.” The prince spoke flawless English with a British accent. “With a second pool in the bow, I can swim regardless of which direction I’m sailing.” A chuckle. “I’m sure you can’t understand why this is important enough to me to buy a new boat. Most people can’t.”
Coop was in a foul mood. He’d met more than his fair share of assholes like the prince—wealthy men who fed their sense of self-importance by rubbing shoulders with jocks and, at the same time, condescending to them. Still, he nodded affably. “Me? I’m only a worn-down football player. Now you . . . You’re a man of the world, a real smart guy. I could see that right away.”
Sherlock had done her research. “Some of the Realm’s princes are fairly stand-up guys,” she’d told him. “Well educated. Businessmen and government ministers. A fighter pilot. Prince Aamuzhir isn’t one of the decent ones. He spends most of his time away from the Realm throwing parties with very expensive hookers.”
The prince blew a plume of cigarette smoke that Coop did his best not to inhale. “Invite some of your friends to sail with me,” he ordered. “Dean Robillard. Kevin Tucker. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting them.”
Fat chance. Robillard and Tucker would dangle this douchebag over the rail of his single-swimming-pool yacht and drop his ass straight in the water.
“I’ll give ’em a call,” Coop said. “See if they can get away.” He took a sip of some very old scotch from a heavy crystal tumbler that he doubted even the Peninsula’s collection of luxury barware kept on hand. He’d been in this suite a couple of times, but he’d never seen that gold fountain in the corner, those jewel-studded ashtrays, or the embroidered purple silk throw pillows.
The prince had taken the chaise that sat near the grand piano. As he crossed his ankles, he revealed the pristine soles of shoes he apparently wore only once.
“Tell me, old sport . . .” The prince let loose another stream of air pollution. “How do you think you’d have played against Joe Montana or John Elway?” He asked the question as though it had never been asked before, as if rookie sports journalists all over the country hadn’t offered up the same query more times than Coop could remember.
Coop pretended to think it over, took another sip of scotch, then gave his customary answer. “Those guys were my idols. I only wish I’d had the opportunity. All I know is, no matter who I played against, I did my best.”
The prince recrossed his ankles. “It is my observation that too many quarterbacks are impatient. They don’t read the defense properly.”
Coop nodded, as if the prince were one of the great football analysts instead of an egotistical jerkoff who didn’t know shit.
He gestured toward Coop’s hand. “You have worn your Super Bowl Ring.”
Super Bowl rings weren’t known for their subtlety. The Stars latest was a gaudy, oversize son of a bitch with enough diamonds to outfit a high-society ball. Coop gazed down at his finger. “Beautiful, i’nt it?”
“Exquisite.”
Coop could practically see the guy salivating. “I’ll tell you what, Your Highness . . . I never let anybody try on my ring. I worked too damned hard to earn it, but for you . . . Aw, hell . . .” He pulled it off his finger. “You’re a man who understands the game the way most people don’t. See what it feels like to wear one of these.”
Coop didn’t bother getting up from his chair, but merely held it out, which forced the prince to scramble from the chaise to get his greedy hands on it.
The prince shoved the ring on his stubby finger. It immediately flopped to the side. He twisted it back into place and held it there as if he never intended to let it go. “A superb piece.” He took his time admiring it, even wandering toward the glass-topped dinner table where the light was better. Finally, he said, “Some beautiful ladies will be arriving soon. You’ll stay and enjoy them with me.”
Coop had the opening he’d been both waiting for and dreading. “I can’t pass up an invitation like that.” He rose from his chair and pulled out his cell. “I have a PR event, but let me see if I can get out of it.” He carried his cell to the doors that opened onto the suite’s wraparound terrace and dialed Sherlock, who was waiting in his car around the corner.
“Roy, it’s Coop,” he said when she answered. “Something came up, and I need to get out of that event at the Union League tonight. Fix it for me, will you?”
“Are you still with him?” she asked.
He glanced over to see the prince fingering the ring. “Yeah, I know I signed a contract, but I can’t make it.”
“I haven’t forgotten that you’re my first responsibility . . .” She sounded worried. “I knew this could be risky. If you need me to get you out of there, I’ll come up right away.”
“Hell, no!” That’s the last thing he wanted: Piper Dove rushing in with her magic bracelets and golden lasso. “You didn’t tell me there was going to be that much press.”
“You’re the best.”
“All right. I’ll be there.” He disconnected and shoved his cell back into his pocket. “Damn it all to hell. I can’t skip out. I gotta leave.” He dipped his head regretfully, as if he’d lost the chance of a lifetime. “It’s not too often I meet somebody who understands how to live big the way you do.” More headshaking on his part. More regret. Now came the tricky part.
He went over to reclaim his ring. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but . . . Oh, well . . .” He held out his hand.
The ring stayed where it was. “Please. Tell me what it is.”
“This is kind of embarrassing.” Mortifying was more like it. “But you and me . . . we’re men of the world, right? Discriminating about the finer things. The two of us . . . we know what we want.”
“Of course.” The prince caressed the ring with his thumb.
“One of the princess’s drivers is a friend of mine—knows I enjoy women. Younger ones. I mean, what man doesn’t, right? You’ve got this servant girl . . . Name’s Faiza. The driver pointed her out to me.”
“Ahh . . .” The prince beamed at him. “You fancy this servant girl?”
“She’s my type. Real, real young. Looks about thirteen.” He forced the rest out. “My favorite kind of woman.”
“Ah, yes.”
His skin was crawling. “I was wondering . . . Do you think you could talk the princess into letting the girl come . . . work for me? Permanently?” He’d hit the word work extra hard, and he gave the prince a few moments to fill in the degenerate parts for himself. “Heck. I shouldn’t have asked.” Again, he held out his hand for the ring. “Glad you appreciated my ring. I’ll get out of here now and let you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Wait.” The prince moved a few steps away. “It might be possible . . . But of course, I would have to compensate the princess.”
“Well, sure. You say the word, and I’ll write a check. What do you think the girl is worth? A couple of thousand?”
“Money between friends? No, no. But perhaps, a token of our friendship?”
Sherlock had assumed Coop could simply convince the prince to turn the girl over, but Coop had known better. “By a token, you mean . . . ?”
The prince’s thumb caressed the ring. “Whatever you think the girl is worth to you.”
“You drive a hard bargain, but . . . You got her papers? Passport? I don’t want to lose that ring and then have her skip out on me.”
“But of course. One phone call.” The prince gave him an oily smile and reached for his phone. Coop pretended to stare out the window during the short, barked conversation in Arabic. He and the prince had struck a deal.
/> Coop couldn’t wait to get away, but he wasn’t turning over the ring without the girl, and he knew how to take his time. He finished his drink and sidetracked the prince’s story about a particularly repulsive sex game by recounting a story of his own, this one about last season’s Giants game. Finally, the two of them were on the elevator riding down to the lobby.
One of the royal henchmen stood at the front desk riffling through a stack of passports he’d apparently retrieved from the hotel safe. Since the United States and Canada had a loose border, Coop had tried to convince Piper that a passport wasn’t absolutely necessary, but she’d been her own stubborn self.
“Without a passport, it’ll be nearly impossible for her to apply for legal status,” she’d argued. “She won’t be able to go to school and get health care. They’ve stolen her identity, Coop. The passport represents what little of it she has left. Promise me you’ll at least try.”
He hadn’t promised anything, but the short time he’d spent with the prince had steeled his resolve.
The henchman handed the passport over to the prince. A diminutive, robed female figure stood off to the side, clutching a small cloth duffel. Her head was down, so Coop couldn’t see her face. She had no way of knowing what was happening to her, and she had to be terrified.
The prince didn’t spare her a look—she was a mere female—but gave Coop the passport. Coop flipped it open with his thumb. Glanced at the name and the photo. He walked over to the girl and tilted up her chin with his thumb. Just like he was buying a fucking slave.
It was unmistakably her. Dark brows, round cheeks, trembling lips, and deep brown eyes wide with terror, something he couldn’t do anything about right now.
He pocketed her passport and turned back to the prince. “You enjoy the ring, Your Highness. And that Lombardi trophy right in the middle? Solid platinum.”
But the Lombardi trophy on the real ring, which was locked in his bedroom safe, was picked out in diamonds—genuine ones, not the cubics that crusted the reproduction rings. He’d had half a dozen replicas made to donate to various charity auctions. The bidders all knew they were copies, but they’d still been popular items.