Chapter 5 #2
Blinking, he looked around the room. Gaped at the luxurious setting.
Unbelievable—it’d worked. It’d really worked.
This had to be Omnia Palace. A half dozen seating groups lined the length of the room.
Straight ahead, against the wall in front of him, squared-off columns stood tall, curtains draping the corners and marking off a sort of room that remained open to the rest of the hall.
Beneath the cornices sat a man. On…a throne.
His gut cinched as the man rose from a tan high-backed leather chair.
None other than King Faruq.
Owen tried to stand, but a firm hand clamped his shoulder in a viselike grip, forcing him back down. His knee crashed into the veined marble floor, making him grunt.
Faruq came forward another step but stayed a conservative ten feet away. “As you can imagine, my guards are zealous in protecting me.” Wearing a white thobe and ghutra, he had a graying beard and more than a few age lines. “What is your name?”
Sniffing, Owen knew they needed to see strength. “You come into my hotel room—I’d like to know how you got past the security lock, by the way—put a hood over my head, fly me here, but you don’t know my name?”
A fist slammed toward Owen, who caught it, drove it down and came up, effectively hooking the man’s neck and pinning him to the ground, the arm strained painfully backwards, making the guy cry out.
He put a knee in his spine. Clearly, King Faruq was not used to being talked to that way, but Owen wasn’t here to play nice.
“Enough!” the king barked.
Guns came to bear via the half dozen men in white thobes, who’d been sitting in the tufted leather couches on either side of the “throne room.”
Owen hopped back and away, hands in the air. “Sorry.” He gave a light shrug. “I really don’t like people coming at me.”
Three men surrounded King Faruq, and he signaled them to lower their weapons. “Omar, you are well?”
The guard cradled his arm and gave a humiliated nod.
Faruq’s gaze never left Owen’s. “You seem…hotheaded, Mr. Apollo.”
Another sniff. “Nah, just…” He deliberately scanned the room, noting the men who watched him with unabashed interest. “No offense, sir—”
“Your Majesty,” someone hissed in correction.
Owen lifted his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “Maj—” Drawing his head back, he widened his eyes. “You’re what, a prince or something?”
“You want me to believe you do not know who I am, yet you saved my daughter?”
His pulse skipped a beat. “I…” Not too dumb, he warned himself, or they’d call it and plug him with lead.
“Daughter?” He let himself pause, as if thinking.
“Wait—the chick on the street? Paris—is that what this is about?” Slowly, he let a frown into his expression as he scanned the onlookers again.
“Maybe I’m confused—I thought you said I saved her, yet…
you treat me like some criminal. Gun to my head at the hotel. Bag over my head.”
“You speak very freely.”
“Call it nerves.” It wasn’t. He had to show himself strong. Willing to do what most men wouldn’t.
The king chuckled. “Why were you in France?”
Owen stretched his jaw. “There’s a cool tower there, not sure if you’ve heard of it.” He saw the incoming side-strike too late. Pain exploded across his jaw.
“Watch how you talk to the king!” a guard growled.
Feeling a slick warmth sliding down his jaw, he steadied himself. Tried to shake the ringing in his ear. He held out placating hands. Looked at the king. “Sorry.”
The king inclined his head in slow acknowledgment. “Why were you in Paris, Mr. Apollo?”
Owen hesitated at the repeated question. “A job.” It was true in more ways than one.
The king paused as he considered him, but seemed annoyed. “What kind of job?”
“Security. I was supposed to meet the guy at a café, but he never showed.”
“The café you were at when you saw my daughter get attacked.”
“Yeah.”
“Let me get this straight,” the king said, cocking his head to the side. “You just happened to be there, drinking a cappuccino, eating a pastry, and you just happened to see someone coming at her from across the street.”
The fear Owen showed now was legit. “I never said where the café was.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Or what I had to eat or drink.” Now time to play it off. He gave them an uncertain look, then laughed. “Did you happen to find the guy I was supposed to meet too?”
The king smirked as he considered him. “Clever, Mr. Apollo.”
One of the men—princes?—next to him leaned in and whispered something.
Listening, King Faruq studied Owen for a long minute and stroked his beard, then nodded. A second later, the prince strode over and spoke to a guard, who then left as the prince returned to his seat.
“Mahid, help him to his feet.” King Faruq motioned two fingers toward Owen. “Would you like a job, Mr. Apollo?”
Owen braced under the guard’s rough handling.
Halfway up, he faltered. A job had been the intent of the op, but that it’d worked so quickly caught him off guard.
“Uh…” He wiped his mouth. “I mean—yeah, I need work. Guy ghosted me, and I spent a fortune to get to Paris.” He exhaled heavily and shook his head.
“Look, man—King…” Gaze tracking across the room, he shrugged.
“I get it—you’re loaded. Could probably compensate me well for…
whatever. But considering the gun to my head and hood over my face… ”
“A man in my position must give great consideration to whom he invites into his home.”
Invites. Yeah, aggressively.
“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.”
Oh cr—
“How do you know he’s American?” the king asked, his expression darkening.
Owen fought the urge to interdict for her, but clearly she’d remembered him. If he stepped in now, he’d look guilty too. Instead, he cocked his head and frowned. Praying she came up with a legitimate explanation. One that at least sounded legitimate.
“During the attack,” she said, no hint of nerves in her voice, “he spoke to me. In clear English. Not French.”
Nice save. Impressed since he barely recalled talking to her, Owen watched, anxious for the king’s decision.
Let his gaze drift to her and felt the blow at his core when their eyes connected.
He saw in those caramel eyes the truth mirrored in his soul—their lives were on the line, caught up in a very dangerous game. Had her hiccup there tanked it?
“Take her back,” the king said, returning to the curtained throne room.
So, were they good?
King Faruq walked past him, then paused and looked at Owen with muddy but sharp brown eyes. Still uncertain, unconvinced.
Half expecting him to accuse, Owen readied for the challenge. Or could it be the king had decided he liked him? That he’d hire him and—
“Take him to the cellars,” King Faruq pronounced and walked out of the room.