grandfather clock ticked three times before Alex spoke. “You want me to head down to the lockup and sleuth around?”
Harrison pushed back on his chair and came to his feet. “No. I’ll get her. If she is an assassin, it’s my neck on the line.”
“We could leave her locked up until the reception’s over. She can’t hurt anyone from jail.”
“That only works if she’s acting alone.”
Alex went silent as Harrison stood up, pressing a hidden button to reveal a wall safe.
“Jobar’s on duty,” Alex warned.
“It figures,” Harrison grumbled. He spun the dial back and forth then clunked the lever. He pulled out three stacks of bills.
Jobar was usually expensive. If the woman was CIA, Harrison hoped the American government would consider reimbursing his bribe.
Julia had to get out of jail.
She had to get out of this cell, and then she had to pee.
Okay. Not necessarily in that order.
The need had been growing steadily worse for the past two hours, but neither of the hijab-clad women spoke English, Spanish or French, and her sign-language repertoire didn’t extend to urination.
There was a drain in the middle of the sloping stone floor. Crude. But it was looking better and better all the time.
She could be discreet.
She was alone in the cell. And it wasn’t as if she still had her underwear. And the voluminous gray dress they’d forced on her was essentially a tent with sleeves. It was drab and scratchy, with a musky smell that made her gag. But it would certainly hide her activities.
Of course, the drain might not be the toilet. In which case, she might be committing some horrible faux pas. She might even be breaking another law. They’d already added immodest dress to her charges of break-in and attempted theft.
And they hadn’t let her make a phone call. In fact, they’d confiscated her cell phone along with every other one of her possessions. She’d repeated the words American and embassy until she was nearly hoarse. She could only hope someone had called them.
If not…
She glanced around at the stained cement walls and the iron-barred door, shivering despite the close air. Voices shouted down the narrow hallway, and metal clanked in the distance. A centipede wriggled out from under the bare mattress laid across the floor.
Julia shuddered, swallowing a shriek.
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
