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“And he prefers to remain a captain.”
“What?” The king tried to sit up, but started coughing, racking his chest and turning his face ruddy.
Raif rose to get the doctor, but the king waved him off.
“I am not dying yet,” the king wheezed, dropping back down.
“Jacx wants to earn his commission. He doesn’t want it handed to him because he married Aimee.”
Though Jacx’s stance on the matter didn’t suit Raif’s current purpose, he had to admire the man for taking it.
“He did his duty,” the king noted with conviction. “He will be rewarded.”
“He wanted to marry Aimee.” Raif had seen the determination in Jacx’s eyes.
Adhering to ancient tradition, Jacx had stepped into the breach five months ago and married Raif’s cousin Aimee when the groom had left her at the altar. Jacx had saved the king, Aimee and the royal family from intense embarrassment.
“That proves he’s intelligent. Aimee is the best of the lot. Make him an admiral.” The king’s eyes closed.
“You should sleep, Father.”
“What of the Gold Heart?” The king’s voice grew fainter, and his puffy eyes remained closed.
“We’re still looking.” Raif felt his tension rise to new heights as he answered the question.
“Find it,” the king ordered. “Find it, and Kalila will cease this nonsense. It’s the curse. You know it’s the curse.”
“Father,” Raif sighed.
“You can’t deny your history,” said the king.
“Folklore is not history.” Raif didn’t believe for one moment that luck or a cursed statue had anything to do with their current troubles.
“Then explain Salima’s death? The demise of that branch of the Bajal dynasty?”
“War, disease and poor judgment,” Raif countered.
“Bah,” the king scoffed, bringing on another coughing fit.
“Sleep,” Raif told him again.
But the king’s eyes opened, revealing the determination and intelligence that had allowed him to stay on the throne of a volatile country for nearly thirty years. “I shall not rest until the Gold Heart is home. I dare not.”
“Then I will bring it home,” Raif vowed, straightening his father’s covers.
Cursed or not, the statue would bring peace to his ill father and allay the fears of the Rayasian people. And Raif knew who had stolen the priceless heirloom. He was about to grant Ann Richardson’s request and confront her in person.
* * *
Though he’d spent two years in Britain at college, it had been a long time since Raif had seen a woman in slacks, her shapely legs and rear end delineated by the soft fabric, indecently so by Rayasian standards.
But out in the garden, Ann Richardson wore a pair of clinging, faded blue jeans set off by high heels and a gleaming copper tank top. Her bare shoulders were creamy smooth, her short hair shimmered blond in the setting sun of the Valhan Palace gardens, while strands of teal beads decorated her neck, and matching earrings dangled from her delicate lobes. He’d seen pictures and knew her skin was honey-pale, eyes jewel-blue. And when she looked in his direction across the garden, he felt an unexpected and unwelcome jolt of arousal.
He reminded himself that this woman was the enemy. She’d taken from the Khouri family one of their most prized possessions.
“You brought her to the palace?” he asked his cousin Tariq, letting the censure come through his tone.
