Barbara Dunlop - Millions To Spare

“You’re not helping,” Harrison told Ahmed.

“You can’t leave,” said Ahmed.

“Well, we can’t stay,” said Harrison. “How long do you think it’ll take desert telegraph to let him know we’re here?”

Ahmed’s gaze darted from Harrison to Julia and back again. “There is another way,” he said.

Julia looked eager.

Harrison was listening.

“We arrange a new passport for her.”

“Oh, no,” said Julia with a shake of her head. “I’m not traveling through the Middle East on a forged passport. That’s a real crime.”

“I wasn’t referring to a forgery.”

“I’m a U.S. citizen,” she said. “My name is Julia Margarite Nash. There’s no way you can change that.”

“Yes, there is.”

Harrison struggled to understand Ahmed’s logic. They didn’t have nearly enough time to change Julia’s name.

Ahmed gave Harrison a searching, speculative look. “We get her a diplomatic passport. From the British High Commission.”

Harrison rocked back, words failing him.

“What?” asked Julia, easily picking up on the unspoken tension between the two men.

And then she understood, and her eyes lit with hope. “Ohhh. Your get out of jail free card.”

“No way,” Harrison barked, and they both blinked at him.

He couldn’t get married in a Bedouin settlement in the middle of the Arabian desert. His grandmother would have a heart attack for one.

“It would solve your problem,” said Ahmed. “Even if they caught her, they couldn’t hold her.”

“A marriage certificate is not some cold, utilitarian document you sign to get a good piece of identification.”

“We’d get divorced,” Julia offered. “Right away if you want.”

“There’s protocol,” said Harrison. “My family.”

“Brittany,” said Julia with a sigh, the hope going out of her eyes.

“Never mind Brittany. I’m Lord Harrison William-”

“Arthur Beaumont-Rochester, Baron Welsmeire,” she finished for him.

“It’s not a curse,” he told her. “But it is an obligation.”

“I understand,” said Julia. “Forget about it.”

Ahmed compressed his lips, and Harrison could feel the man’s disapproval.

“The decision is not mine alone,” he tried to explain. Divorce was strongly frowned upon by the royal family and the Church. Harrison could taint his marriage to Brittany, their future children, perhaps even his family’s title.

“I said to forget about it,” Julia repeated. “We’ll find another way.”

He opened his mouth to argue again, but then he caught her expression. She wasn’t angry or upset. She was genuinely letting him off the hook.

He gave a nod. “Ruwais,” he said.

“Suicide,” Ahmed muttered under his breath.

Harrison glared at him.

Packing up the Jeep for the run to Ruwais, Julia fought hard to keep her fear at bay. Ahmed must have been exaggerating the danger. Otherwise, Harrison wouldn’t be willing to drive her across the desert.

She understood Harrison’s position. He had to get married in St. Paul’s Cathedral amidst the pomp and circumstance expected of a man of his station. He owed it to Brittany, and he owed it to his family. His behavior had been nothing short of heroic in this, and it was unfair of her to expect more.

The rich lived by a different code of conduct, and she had to accept that reality.

She squelched her disappointment and promised herself everything would be okay. They’d take back roads across the desert. They had plenty of fuel, plenty of water, and food to sustain them on the journey.

They wouldn’t have to stop in any towns, so the odds of anyone recognizing them were practically nil. The odds of Muwaffaq running into them on the road again were similarly small. There was no point in ruining Harrison’s life when there was another perfectly good option.

He could drop her in Qatar, and she’d make her own way to London. From there, it was a simple flight to any number of cities on the eastern seaboard. She’d be fine.

They got in either side and buckled up. They’d conserve fuel by forgoing the air-conditioning once again. But this time, Julia had light cotton clothes. She’d also brought along a translucent head scarf in case they came across any travelers. She’d draw less attention to herself if her head was covered, and it would help camouflage the fact that she was a Westerner.

The Jeep was packed tight with the supplies they’d need. They also had two spare tires, extra belts and a small tool kit.

Harrison turned the key and started the Jeep.

Julia tightened her ponytail and stared determinedly down the dusty road. Ahmed had described the route to them. It was pretty much due south, though they’d have to eventually veer east. But they’d wait until they were well clear of Abu Dhabi to avoid the increase in traffic around the capital city.

Julia waited for the Jeep to move.

She waited.

She glanced over at Harrison.

His jaw was clenched, and he was staring at some unseen point on the horizon.

She squinted ahead.

He shut off the Jeep.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He twisted in the bucket seat, crooking his knee around the gearshift. “If we do this…”

If? Weren’t they about to leave? Like, right this minute?

“You can’t tell a soul.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. Was he worried about the consequences of transporting a fugitive?

“I mean it. When I get married next year in London, our divorce is between me, you and God.”

Divorce?

“And we do it as soon as possible.” He pulled the key from the ignition and reached for the door handle.

“Wait!” She grabbed his arm.

“What?”

“Are you saying you changed your mind?” Was he offering to marry her?

“Yes.”

“What about Brittany? All that stuff about your family name and obligations?”

“I’m not about to kill you to protect my family name.”

“But you can’t be-”

“What good is protecting my family name,” he continued as if she hadn’t even spoken, “if doing so costs me my family honor?”

“You don’t have to do this, Harrison.”

It was a grand gesture. It was an amazing gesture. But the odds of success were with them. They could drive through the desert and accomplish exactly the same thing, without screwing up his life.

“Yes, I do,” he said.

“No, you-”

“Yes.” His tone was implacable. “Ahmed is right. I marry you, and you’re home free.”

“But you’re not.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Harrison.”

“I said I would manage.”

“I won’t let you do this.”

His dark eyes became uncompromising. “You’re in the Middle East, Julia. A willing bride is not a prerequisite to a successful wedding.”

She felt her spine stiffen. “You wouldn’t.”

He opened the door to the Jeep. “Watch me.”

Curled up in a corner of her Emirates Palace hotel room in Abu Dhabi, Brittany watched the early-morning waves roll in on the white sand beach of the peninsula. There was a storm brewing out there somewhere, because the wind whipped the palm fronds, and white foam sparkled under the rising sun.

As they had the past two nights, Alex and Brittany had checked into one hotel with Harrison’s credit card, then stayed in a second one using cash. There was no way to know if the police were still following them, but they’d try to give Harrison a few more days to get Julia out of the country before they returned to Cadair.

After that, well, it was back to normal life.

Brittany was experiencing increasingly conflicted emotions about that. She wanted Harrison to propose-what woman wouldn’t? But there was something about Alex, something she had to deal with, something that called to her on an untamed, sensual level.

They’d danced the night away at the Emirates Palace club last night. And, for what was probably the first time in her life, she’d been completely uninhibited on the dance floor. In London, and on official trips with her family, there was always the danger of reporters snapping a picture and writing an unflattering story.

But, last night, in a crowded club, deep in Abu Dhabi, with an anonymous, American lawyer, she’d known the dancing was only about the moment. And it had been brilliant.

A soft knock came at her door, and she rose in the white, embroidered robe. It had been less than ten minutes since she’d called room service for coffee and pastries-just another example of the hotel’s impeccable service.

But when she opened the door, it was Alex, looking sexy and casual in a white, mandarin-collared shirt and lightweight black slacks.

“I didn’t want to call and wake you,” he said.

“Coffee’s on the way.” She stood back to let him in.

“You feeling okay this morning?”

It had been 3:00 a.m. before they’d called it quits last night. A combination of adrenaline, tropical cocktails and, in her case, runaway hormones had kept them lively through the late night. They’d finally ended with a jazzy waltz beneath the lighted palm trees by the hotel’s west pool, where, for a second, she’d thought Alex was going to kiss her.

But he didn’t.

“I’m fine,” she told him now. And she was. Her short sleep had been deep and satisfying.

He smiled down at her as he entered the hallway, voice going low. “Have a good time last night?”

“I did.”

“Different than your regular balls?”

“A little,” she allowed, as the door swung shut behind him.

He waited for her to move, then followed her through the entryway to the cozy set of ice-blue chairs clustered around the wide, arched window.

She sat down, arranging the delicate robe around her legs, half tempted to let it fall open.

Was he attracted to her? He’d seen her in a bikini yesterday and in a slim, little black party dress last night. Fundamentally, he’d behaved like a gentleman throughout. But, every once in a while, she thought she caught a flare of heat in his eyes.