“Please. Come talk with me.” The king indicated to a nearby couch. “Have you interest in working for House al-Zahrani?”
Owen casually moved to the spot and perched on its edge. “It would depend on what that job entails.”
King Faruq tilted his head to the side. “If I offered you”—lips pursed, he waved a hand in a circle—“a million dollars, would the entailment matter?”
He held the king’s dark gaze. “It always matters.”
“So, you have a code.”
“I do.”
“Does that come from your time in the American Army?”
Man, it was whack that this guy knew so much already. “Yeah…”
Faruq laughed and considered him. “You do not like that I am so well-informed on your history, eh?”
“It’s…unsettling.”
“I would expect so.” The king gave another chuckle, then sobered, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve vetted your history, you’re American, and—quite simply, you are skilled”—he indicated to Omar—“as his arm can attest.”
Owen gave a nervous smile.
The king again stroked his beard. “I would have you provide protection for my daughter.”
Perfect. But Owen couldn’t act too eager and assume the wrong princess, since Leighton’s true identity was not public knowledge. “I…um, why? She had a dozen guards?—”
“Not Princess Daria,” the king corrected. “I was referring to another daughter. She needs…protection.” That hand waved again with a flourish.
“Okay…” Owen drew out the word. “But you have fifteen men in this room with guns ready to?—”
“But only one man who is fleeing the law and in debt to the tune of fifty thousand dollars.”
Owen stilled. Man, Omen sure had built up his need for a job well. He just hoped they hadn’t made things too obvious. “How do you know that?”
“What is important,” King Faruq said, “is that I have a daughter who needs protection, and you need the money I can pay you to serve this purpose.”
“I don’t know, man. This sounds sketch…” The warnings from Pike to make sure he didn’t sound eager-beaver rang in his head. He heard a door open and noticed the king’s gaze shift past him, so Owen checked over his shoulder. His gut cinched at what he saw.
In brown garb that wasn’t a far cry from a paper bag, Leighton stood, arm trapped in the vise-grip of a surly man. She winced, drawing attention to the dark bruise on her right cheekbone. Her swollen lip. Someone had struck her. Beat her.
A dark storm rolled through Owen, bringing him to his feet as he pointed to her and met the king’s eyes. “She was not battered when I helped her into that limo.”
“If I remember the report correctly,” the king challenged, “you ran off to chase her attacker. Who is to say what happened to her after that? Nouri, is this”—he swung a hand toward Owen—“the man who intervened on the streets of Paris?”
Owen had no hat to hide his face this time, so he prayed she had zero recollection of him at Soph’s party two years ago and that the reassurances he’d given Pike would hold true. They’d had him bleach his hair to alter his appearance, but he hadn’t been convinced it’d be enough.
Staring at the floor, she barely skated a glance in his direction to check. “I…I believe so.” She swallowed. “It happened so fast.”
King Faruq appraised Owen for a ten-count. “And…what do you think about the look of him?”
What kind of question was that? Owen had no problem letting a scowl into his expression. “How does that matter?”
“I don’t understand, Your Majesty,” she said quietly, hunching in on herself like a frightened, cornered cat.
“Do you like him? It is not so difficult a question.”
Her fingers curled into fists as a long pause lingered. “Why would I? He’s American.”
