repeated.
“If you’re sure,” said Alex.
“It’s my ass in a sling.”
“Unless the bullets start flying. Then it’s all of our asses.”
Harrison gave a hard sigh. “I lose a hundred million in sunk costs,” he said to Alex.
“Then you’d better talk to her.”
Harrison glanced at the clock. They’d passed midnight a couple of hours ago. “Let’s hope she doesn’t plan to sleep late.”
The next morning, it took Julia a few minutes to orient herself. Her eyes blinked open to bright sunshine, and the bed beneath her was incredibly soft and comfortable. A window was open, and the cool morning air wafted over her comforter, bringing with it the sound of birds and scents of jasmine and roses.
But then she remembered.
Her white, embroidered cotton nightgown was borrowed, and there was a lock on the outside of her door. After marveling for a brief moment over her sound sleep under such frustrating conditions, she dragged back her covers and headed for the bathroom. She had no idea what the day would bring, and she wanted to be ready.
She showered, then discovered that somebody—she assumed it was Leila—had left a simple, cowl-neck dress of ice-blue silk on the freshly made bed. It had three-quarter-length sleeves, a wide, gauzy hood that could be pulled up as a head scarf, and it fell to just below her knees. Whoever it was had also left a pair of practical, low-heeled sandals that hugged Julia’s feet softly as she tested them on the carpeted floor.
Then she opened the French doors and walked onto the third-floor balcony, gazing at the stables and the sea beyond, giving herself the illusion of freedom.
A rap sounded on the door. She assumed it would be Leila or maybe breakfast, but she didn’t bother going back inside to answer it. People seemed to come and go as they pleased around here.
Sure enough, the door swung open without her help.
It was Leila, and she carried a silver tray of coffee, fruit and pastries. The scrolled tray was further decorated with a small bouquet of flowers, as if Julia cared about opulent hospitality.
Leila was followed by Harrison, looking stern and forbidding in a dark business suit. Julia had to admit the man would be considered handsome, even sexy by most. Not that she was into self-assured, self-absorbed powermongers.
Still, she gave herself a quick lecture on the dangers of falling for your captor—Stockholm syndrome—just in case he started looking good.
“Thank you,” she said to Leila, advancing back into the room as the woman set the tray down on a low table between the two armchairs and the love seat. It occurred to Julia that she should probably stand on principle and refuse to eat her jailer’s food. Part of her wanted to be that defiant, but another part urged her to be practical. A debate ping-ponged through her brain as Leila let herself out of the room.
“You need to eat,” came Harrison’s deep voice.
She glanced up to see him gesturing at the love seat.
“I need to make a phone call,” she told him, her tone biting.
Melanie and Robbie must be nearly frantic with worry by now. What if it distracted them from their race preparation?
Then Julia wondered if the authorities would simply inform Melanie and Robbie she was in custody at Cadair Racing. If there was some kind of central database of prisoners, Melanie and Robbie could show up here any minute.
“I’m afraid I still can’t allow a phone call,” said Harrison.
“It’s not that you can’t,” Julia retorted. “The problem is that you won’t.”
He gestured to the love seat. “We need to talk.”
Once again, she wondered how much defiance she should show. She hated to give him his way. Then again, refusing to cooperate might simply slow down her release.
She sat, glancing at the food but not giving in to temptation on that front.
Harrison took one of the armchairs opposite. “Starving yourself won’t improve the situation,” he pointed out.
“It’ll give me emotional satisfaction,” she told him honestly.
“In the short term, maybe. But if you’re planning to fight or escape, or plot against me in any way, doesn’t it make more sense to keep up your strength?”
It annoyed her that he was right. “You’re expecting me to escape?”
He chuckled. “No. I’m expecting you to try.”
Of course he didn’t doubt he’d prevail. He was a member of the privileged class, after all.
“Well, I expected you to quickly discover that I am who I say I am, and let me go. Did you even check me out? Did you call Equine Earth Magazine?”
He leaned forward, lifted the silver coffeepot and poured two cups of the fragrant brew. “I looked them up on Google.”
“Then you found out I’m me.”
“I found out a woman named Julia Nash has written articles for them.”
“That’s me.”
He added two lumps of sugar to one of the cups and pushed it her way. Then he lifted the other.
“What made you decide I took sugar?”
“You’re young, you’re American, you’re a girl.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Do you take sugar?”
She pursed her lips. “Yes.”
“Then drink. Your keeling over doesn’t help either of us.”
She gave in. He was right on at least that count. She should keep up her strength. And the caffeine would help her stay alert, should an escape possibility present itself.
“If you’d give me back my purse, I can prove who I am,” she said. “I have a driver’s license.”
“You also have a passport. Or rather, I have your passport.”
“Then you know I’m Julia Nash.”
He was obviously messing with her head for some obscure reason of his own. He had to have every intention of letting her go this morning. Hunger contracting her stomach, she reached for an almond-glazed Danish. If memory served, it was a long drive back to Dubai.
“Tell me again why you broke into Cadair Racing?” he asked.
Julia chewed then swallowed the first bite of the pastry, dabbing her lips with the white linen napkin. “As you’ve discovered for yourself, I’m a reporter for Equine Earth Magazine. I wanted to do a story on you and
