Millions to Spare. Barbara DunlopЧитать онлайн книгу.
office,” said Harrison.
“Yeah,” Alex agreed. “Might as well cancel the reception outright as do that.”
Harrison pushed back in his chair. “And we won’t be canceling the reception.”
Alex nodded his agreement. As Harrison’s right-hand man, he knew full well the real reason behind the reception. It would facilitate under-the-radar consultations on an international oil pipeline.
“You hear anything more on the negotiations?” asked Alex.
“Uzbekistan’s on board, of course. But Kazakhstan can’t move without a Russian security guarantee. That means Turkmenistan has the French over a barrel on financing.”
“No French, no financing.”
“No port access and no pipeline.” Harrison finished what they both knew.
“If it all goes to hell, what kind of a loss are you looking at?” asked Alex.
“Sunk capital or net present value.”
“I don’t even want to think about net present value.”
“A hundred million in drilling anyway.”
Alex whistled under his breath. “Then I guess we won’t be sending up any red flags for the secretary-general’s security staff, will we?”
Harrison gave a nod to that. Russia wasn’t going to budge on their position on the pipeline. And if the secretary-general canceled his attendance at the reception, the high-level diplomats would follow suit. Harrison would lose his one chance for a meaningful conversation between the French, the Uzbeks and the Turkmen.
At the same time, if Julia Nash was some kind of an operative, or if she wasn’t working alone, and managed to pull something off at the reception, he could trigger one hell of an international incident.
“So what do we do?” asked Alex, dropping down into a guest chair.
“Beef up security,” said Harrison. “Talk to her. See if I can get a feel for…” He swung to his feet, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. But she doesn’t strike me as…”
“The best spies never do,” said Alex.
Harrison frowned at his friend. He knew that. But he’d also been around international commerce and politics long enough to get a feel for people. He was usually right in his assessments.
Then again, the stakes weren’t usually quite this high.
“I’ll talk to her again,” he 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