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 purchase.
It seemed to Julia that the richer people were, the stranger they became. Given this house and its furnishings, along with the extensive grounds and security, Harrison was saddled with a lot of eccentricities.
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.
