She trusted Imogen. By running off with Imogen, her father had sunk to a new low in her estimation.
But Taylor Smith could not be found. No one knew where he—and Imogen—had gone. Holed up in a resort someplace, enjoying a faux honeymoon, no doubt. Tiffany had given up trying to reach her father.
“What else don’t you like?” Rafiq’s voice broke into her unpleasant thoughts. For the first time he was starting to look approachable—even amused.
What would he say if she responded that she didn’t like arrogant men who thought they were God’s gift to womankind?
The diamond-cutter gaze warned her against the reckless urge to put him down. Instead she gave him a fake smile and said in dulcet tones, “There’s not much I don’t like.”
“I should have guessed.” His mouth flattened, and without moving away, he managed to give the impression that he’d retreated onto another planet.
Had there been a subtle jibe in there somewhere that she’d missed? Tiffany took a sip of water and thought about what he might’ve construed from her careless words. Not much that I don’t like. Perhaps she’d imagined the edge in his voice.
Across the booth Renate whispered something to Sir Julian, who laughed and pulled her onto his lap.
Conscious of the flush of embarrassment creeping over her cheeks, Tiffany slid a glance at Rafiq. He, too, was watching the antics of the other couple, his face tight.
What in heaven’s name was Renate up to?
The rising heat resulting from the crush of bodies in Le Club and the sight of Renate wriggling all over Sir Julian compounded to make Tiffany feel … uncomfortable … unclean.
She downed the rest of the water. “I need the bathroom,” she said in desperation.
In the relative safety of the bathroom, Tiffany opened the cold water tap. Cupping her hands, she allowed the cool water to pool between her palms. She bent her head and splashed her face. The door hissed open behind her.
“Don’t.” Renate’s hand caught at hers. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”
“I’m hot.” And starting to fear that she was way out of her depth.
“Now we’ll have to do your face again.” Renate sounded exasperated.
Tiffany held her hands up to ward Renate off. She didn’t want another thick layer of foundation caked onto her skin. “It was too hot. My face doesn’t matter. I’m not here to find a date,” she said pointedly.
“But you need cash,” Renate responded, her makeup bag already open on the vanity counter. “Jules says that Rafiq is a business acquaintance—he must have a fat wallet if he’s associated with Jules.”
“Fat wallet? You mean I should steal from him?”
Disbelief spiked in Tiffany. She turned to look at her newfound friend. Was Renate crazy? Tiffany was certain that Rafiq’s retribution would be swift and relentless. She was feeling less and less comfortable about Renate’s idea of easy money. “I could never do that.”
Renate rolled her eyes. “Don’t be dumb. I don’t rip them off. You don’t want to get arrested for theft. Especially not here.”
“Certainly not here—or anywhere,” Tiffany said with heartfelt fervor. As desperate as she was, the idea of a Hong Kong jail terrified her witless. “Yesterday’s visit to the police station was more than enough.”
She’d had her fill of bureaucracy after spending the entire day yesterday and most of today reporting the loss of her purse to the police, followed by hours queuing at the embassy, trying to secure a temporary passport … and a living allowance for the weekend. All hope of cash assistance from the embassy had been quashed once the official had realized who her father was. A father who was nowhere to be found.
On Monday a shiny new credit card would be couriered to her by her bank back home. And her temporary travel documents would be ready, too. For the first time since leaving home, Tiffany almost wished she had access to the allowance her father had cut off when she had chosen to do this trip with a friend against his wishes. What had started out as an exciting adventure was turning into a nightmare, costing much more than she’d ever dreamed.
But buying an air ticket home was Monday’s worry. For now she only had to make it through the next two days.
Thank goodness for Renate.
Despite her sexual acrobatics in the booth, the other woman had saved Tiffany’s skin by offering her this chance to earn some cash tonight. She owed her. “Renate, are you sure flirting with Sir Julian is a good idea? He’s old enough to be your father.”
“But he’s rich.”
Renate was fiddling in her purse, and Tiffany couldn’t read her expression.
“That’s what you want? A rich man? You think he’ll marry you?” Concern made her say, “Oh, Renate, he’s probably already married.”
Renate drew out a lipstick tube and applied the glossy dark plum color then stood back to admire the dramatic effect against her pale skin and bleached-blond hair. “Of course he is.”
“He is?” Shocked by Renate’s nonchalance, Tiffany stared. “So why are you wasting your time on him?”
“He’s a multimillionaire. Maybe even a billionaire. I recognized him the instant he arrived—he’s been here before, but I’ve never gotten to—” Renate broke off and shot Tiffany a sidelong glance “—I never got to meet him. He’s already promised to take me with him to the races later in the week.”
Tiffany thought of the aching hurt she’d detected in her mother’s voice yesterday when her mom had blurted out that Dad had taken off with Imogen.
“But what about his wife, Renate? How do you think she’ll feel?”
Renate shrugged a careless shoulder. “She’s probably too busy socializing with her country-club friends to notice. Tennis. Champagne breakfasts. Fancy fundraisers. Why should she care?”
Tiffany was prepared to stake her life on it that Sir Julian’s wife did care. Speechlessly, she stared at Renate.
“The last girl he met here got a trip to Phuket and a wardrobe of designer dresses. I’d love that.” She met Tiffany’s appalled gaze in the mirror. “Don’t knock it—maybe Rafiq is a millionaire, too. He might be worth cultivating.”
Cultivating? An image of Rafiq’s disdainful expression flashed before Tiffany’s vision. He was so not her type. Too remote. Too arrogant. And way too full of his own importance. She didn’t need a gazillionaire, much less one who had a wife tucked back in a desert somewhere.
All she wanted was someone normal. Ordinary. A man with whom she could be herself—no facades, no pretence. Just Tiffany. Someone who would learn to love her without drama and histrionics. Someone with a family that was real … not dysfunctional.
“Tiff, you need money.” Renate flashed a sly look over her shoulder as she turned away to a soap dispenser set against the tiled wall. “What could
