of Brittany in a veil and a white dress, walking the nave at St. Paul’s. He could see his grandmother’s smile and his mother’s joy.
Then he imagined the two of them making babies. He’d have to be careful not to hurt her. Unlike Hanif’s sons, nobody would describe Brittany as robust. It would be sweet, gentle sex, under a lace canopy, beneath billowing white sheets, Brittany’s fresh face smiling up at him—for the rest of his natural life.
Which wouldn’t be so bad.
A man could certainly do worse.
And there was a lot Harrison could teach sons or daughters, not to mention the perfectly good title he had to pass on.
Jamal scored, and Hanif whooped with delight.
Harrison clapped Hanif’s shoulder in congratulations. Making up his mind, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed number one on his speed dial.
“Cadair Racing,” came the immediate answer.
“Darla please.”
“Right away, Lord Rochester.”
A moment later, his assistant Darla’s voice came through the speaker amidst the lingering cheers of the crowd. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to add a couple of names to the guest list.”
“Of course.”
Harrison’s stomach tightened almost imperceptibly. But it was time. And, fundamentally, Brittany was a good choice. “My grandmother and Brittany Livingston. There shouldn’t be any security concerns.”
“Certainly. I’ll send out the invitations right away. By the way, the French ambassador accepted this morning, and so did Colonel Varisco.”
“That’s great. So are they back?”
“The horses are en route now. Ilithyia placed and Millions to Spare won.”
“Not bad,” said Harrison, nodding to himself.
“Brittany Livingston?” asked Darla, the lilt of her voice seeking confirmation, even though she knew full well what the invitation had to mean. In her midthirties, single, yet hopelessly romantic, Darla made no bones about the fact she thought Harrison should find a suitable wife.
“You think it’s a bad idea?” he asked, remembering Darla singing the praises of Yvette Gaston from the French embassy only last week.
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” said Darla with clear enthusiasm.
“Yes. Well. So will Grandmother.”
“And you?” Darla probed.
“How could I go wrong?”
“How, indeed. A beautiful hostess improves any party.”
Harrison’s stomach protested once again. But he supposed being his hostess was exactly what he was asking Brittany to do. “Millions to Spare won, you say?” He redirected Darla.
There was a trace of laughter in her voice when she answered. “The purse was six figures.”
“Tell Nuri to give that boy some oats.”
“Mr. Nuri!” The teenager’s round dark eyes fixed disbelievingly on Julia where she stood frozen in the corner of the horse trailer.
Sweat prickled her skin, and her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. With her back pressed against the warm metal wall, she attempted to swallow her fear, telling herself she should have made a run for it when they first arrived.
“Quiet down,” came a harsh, heavily accented voice from outside the near-empty horse trailer. Stern footsteps clomped up the ramp.
A tall, brawny, dark-haired man appeared. He wore a turban and a black robe, and he carried a riding crop. His piercing eyes took in Julia, and then shifted to the teenager. Then he was back to Julia before rattling something off in Arabic.
The teenage boy scuttled from the trailer.
“I’m sorry,” Julia rasped, straightening away from the wall, moving toward him, frantically scrambling for a cover story. “It’s just. Well. I was—”
The butt of his crop landed square in her chest, forcing a cry from her lips and sending her stumbling back. “Save it for the authorities,” he grated.
Chapter Two
“An intruder?” From behind the desk in his study at Cadair Racing, Harrison stared at Alex Lindley—lawyer and senior vice president of Cadair International.
“An American,” said Lindley, dropping down into the diamond-tuft leather chair, next to the potted palm trees and the bay window that looked out across Harrison’s lighted lawn. “The police have arrested her.”
“And she was hiding in my horse trailer?” The pieces of Alex’s story weren’t coming together in any sort of coherent order inside Harrison’s head.
The only thing certain was that he had trouble.
The United Nations International Economic Summit was only four days away, and Harrison was hosting the secretary-general’s reception here at Cadair. Surprises couldn’t happen at this stage of the game.
“Nuri thought she was stealing a horse,” said Alex. “But she insisted she was a reporter.”
“What? Was she interviewing Ilithyia?”
Alex choked out a laugh. “Didn’t seem likely. That’s why Nuri called the police.”
Good move on Nuri’s part. Reporters knocked on the front door. They didn’t sneak onto the estate in the back of a horse trailer. Unless they were from a tabloid. And since Harrison wasn’t a movie star, and there was nothing remotely salacious going on at Cadair Racing, this could hardly be an exposé.
Then Harrison’s brain hit on a worst-case scenario.
“Son of a bitch,” he all but shouted.
“She can’t be,” said Alex, correctly interpreting the outburst.
“Sure she can,” said Harrison.
There was no reason in the world the woman couldn’t be attached to a foreign spy agency or blackops organization.
“A covert operative in a horse trailer?”
“It got her past security.”
“She’s an American,” Alex pointed out. “The CIA doesn’t have anything against the UN.”
“Yeah? Well, they’ve got something against the Syrians and the Iranians.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Maybe. But that’s bizarre behavior
