LITMIR.BIZ

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Through the large half-circle windows he searched the party for Elizabeth Minerva. She drifted through the well-dressed guests like a wraith, her blond hair confined in a neat French twist, stunning figure downplayed by the simple, long-sleeved black dress.

      Hot anger became sizzling desire in seconds. From the moment he’d set eyes on her an hour ago, he’d been preoccupied. Petite, curvaceous blondes weren’t really his type. He preferred his women long and lean with flashing black eyes and golden skin. Passion ruled him when it came to antiquities and lovemaking.

      His sexual appetites would probably break a dainty, graceful creature like Elizabeth.

      “Roark, what are you staring at?”

      Without his notice, Ann had returned to the terrace and stood beside him. Roark cursed his preoccupation. Being caught unaware could get him killed in many of the places he ventured.

      “How can I get in touch with your party planner?” he asked.

      “My assistant made all the arrangements.” She sounded surprised that he’d asked. “I’ll have her email you the contact information.”

      “Wonderful. In a few weeks we’re going to have reason to celebrate.”

      “You mean because of the Gold Heart statue?” Ann paced toward the terrace wall. “Are you sure it’s not the one stolen from Rayas?”

      “Are you asking me if I stole it?” He’d grown weary of her lack of trust in him these past few years.

      “Of course not,” she said, her tone smooth and unhurried. “But you’re sure your source for the statue is completely legitimate?”

      “Absolutely.” He touched her arm. “You can trust me.”

      Some of the tension seeped out of her. “I know, but with this new accusation, we have to be more careful than ever.”

      And careful wasn’t something he was known for.

      “I need you to bring me the statue,” she continued. “The quickest way to resolve this issue is for me to take the statue to Rayas and have the sheikh verify that it isn’t the one stolen from the palace.”

      “It’s not.”

      “Neither the FBI nor Crown Prince Raif Khouri are going to take your word for it.” A determined firmness came over Ann’s expression. “You’ve been missing for three months, Roark. Waverly’s is in trouble.”

      He might have been off the grid, but that didn’t mean he was out of the loop. Roark knew about the collusion scandal that had rocked Waverly’s and Ann Richardson’s link to it. His half brother, Vance Waverly, was convinced the CEO had never been romantically involved with Dalton Rothschild and that there was no truth to the rumor of price fixing between the rival auction houses. Roark trusted Vance’s faith in Ann where illegal practices were concerned, but he wasn’t as convinced that Rothschild’s hostile takeover of Waverly’s was just hearsay. Nor was he sure Ann hadn’t fallen for Dalton. Which meant Roark wasn’t sure how far he could trust Ann.

      “It’s important to clear up the matter of the statue,” Ann continued, handing him back his tuxedo jacket.

      “I understand, but getting the statue here quickly is going to present a problem.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean with all the publicity surrounding the statue and Rothschild’s obvious determination to cause a problem with the auction, it’s more important than ever to safeguard it.”

      “Get it here as fast as you can. Or it may be too late to save Waverly’s.”

      Ann Richardson’s resolve resonated with Roark. He faced difficult situations with the same strength of purpose. It was part of the reason why he was willing to do what it took to help her save Waverly’s.

      In a thoughtful mood, he escorted her inside. While Roark slipped back into the jacket, he noticed a pair of eyes on him. They belonged to a very influential member of Waverly’s board. Something behind the man’s stare piqued Roark’s curiosity. He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and strode over to shake the man’s hand.

      “Nice collection you secured,” George Cromwell said. “I had no idea Tyler was such a connoisseur.”

      “He was a man of many secrets.”

      Cromwell lifted his glass. “Here’s to hoping he takes most of them to the grave.”

      Roark offered a polite smile while impatience churned in his gut. Was he seeing trouble where there was none? Had his instincts been wrong about what he’d glimpsed in the man’s manner? Or was he growing paranoid after years of dodging danger and the past three months spent in a deadly game of hide and seek with a bloodthirsty cartel?

      “What were the FBI doing here tonight?” Cromwell asked.

      Reassured that his instincts were right on track, Roark offered the board member a dismissive smile. “They’d received some bad information and came to clear up the matter.” In its own way, this concrete jungle was just as perilous as the tropical one he’d left behind.

      “And was it cleared up?”

      Roark wasn’t going to lie. “I believe they still have some doubts.”

      Cromwell grew grim. “I’m concerned about Waverly’s future.”

      “How so?” Roark sipped at his champagne and played at nonchalance. He hated all the political maneuvering and missed the familiar danger inherent in guns, knives and criminals who didn’t hesitate to kill anyone who got in their way.

      “A number of Waverly’s shareholders have been approached about selling our shares.”

      “Let me guess,” Roark said, annoyance flaring. “Rothschild?”

      “Yes.”

      “Selling to him wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest.”

      “With the troubles of late, there is concern that Waverly’s is being mismanaged.” Cromwell was both stating his opinion and digging for information.

      Roark’s true connection to Vance Waverly wasn’t mainstream knowledge, but a few people knew Vance and Roark shared a father. If Cromwell assumed Roark would divulge what he knew about Waverly’s problems, he’d be wrong.

      “That’s ridiculous. Ann is the perfect choice to run Waverly’s. Any troubles we’ve had recently can be attributed to one person. Dalton Rothschild.”

      “Perhaps. But your activities of late haven’t helped.”

      Roark remained silent. It would do no good to protest that what he did had no bearing on Waverly’s, but as long as he remained connected to the auction house, anything he brought in would be suspect. Being someone accustomed to operating alone, Roark found a sense of discomfort stirring in him to have others relying on him.

      “What I do is completely legal and legitimate.”

      “Of course.” The board member nodded. “But the world of business is not always interested in facts. Markets rise and fall on people’s perceptions of what’s going on.”

      “And I’m being perceived as…?”

      “Too freewheeling in both your professional and personal lives.”

      Roark couldn’t argue. He based his actions on his needs and desires. Taking others into consideration wasn’t part of the equation. But the older man’s assessment poked at a tender spot, bruised earlier by the scathing opinion of a petite blonde.

      His attention wandered in her direction. He knew exactly where she was. Her presence was a shaft of light to his senses.

      Pleasure flashed like lightning along his nerve endings when he caught her staring at him. He winked at her and grinned as she turned away so fast she almost plowed into a passing server.

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