The Rogue's Fortune

Her gaze locked on him as he neared. Eyes hard, she offered him a neutral smile. “Roark, these are Special Agents Matthews and Todd. They would like to ask us a few questions in private.”

Roark eyed each in turn, recognizing Todd as an agent he’d seen in passing, but had never had any direct interaction with. Agent Matthews was brand-new. Tall and lean with black hair that spilled over her shoulders in abundant waves. Her dark brown eyes had tracked his progress across the room toward them, and Roark knew this one looked at him and thought career advancement.

“We can speak out on the terrace.” Whipping off his tuxedo jacket, he draped it over Ann’s shoulders as they headed to the door that led out onto a small outdoor space. Elizabeth’s deft touch could be seen here, as well. With white lights tangled in white pine boughs and candles in modern hurricane lanterns, the terrace oozed romance.

After three months in the jungle, Roark appreciated the cool November evening as he enjoyed the glow of Manhattan visible beyond the terrace’s cement half wall. Most of the time he found the city too tame for his taste. But there was no denying it sparkled at night.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Roark spoke.

“What can we help you with?”

“This is about Rayas’s missing Gold Heart statue,” the first FBI agent said. “We’ve had a new report from Prince Mallik Khouri that a masked man with Mr. Black’s exact build stole the statue from his rooms at the royal palace.”

“You can’t possibly think Roark stole the statue,” Ann protested, but it was all for show. She didn’t look a bit surprised that Roark was being accused of theft.

“We have reports that he was in Dubai at the time,” said Agent Matthews. “It wouldn’t be impossible for a man of his talents…” the FBI agent twisted the last word to indicate what she thought of Roark’s abilities “…to slip into Rayas, get into the palace and steal the statue.”

“It’s completely within my power to do so.”

Ann’s grim glance told him to let her handle the accusation. “He wouldn’t.”

“Just like a thousand other illegal things are in my power to do,” Roark continued, staring Agent Matthews down. “But I don’t do them.”

“Sorry if we can’t take your word for it,” Special Agent Todd said.

“There’s no proof that Roark was involved.” Ann showed no sign of believing otherwise and Roark appreciated that whatever her opinion of him, she hadn’t thrown him to the wolves.

“The thief made the mistake of cursing during the scuffle.” Matthews nodded. “The voice was deep and very distinctive.” Her gaze locked on Roark. “He claims it was your voice, Mr. Black.”

“We met briefly once in Dubai years ago. I can’t imagine that he’d remember my voice.”

But Roark recognized that he was the perfect scapegoat. And Mallik had another reason to suspect that Roark would break into his rooms at the palace.

“Why is this the first we’re hearing about this thief?” Roark demanded.

“Prince Mallik was embarrassed to explain his failure to stop the thief to his nephew, the crown prince.” Matthews arched her brows. “But he’s convinced it was you.”

“He’s mistaken,” Roark snapped.

Ann put her hand on his arm and spoke in a calm, but firm voice. “I’ve met Prince Mallik. He seemed like an honest, gracious person. However, in the midst of a fight, I imagine being overwhelmed by adrenaline, with heightened senses, he may only think he heard Roark’s voice. Didn’t you say the thief wore a mask?” Ann didn’t wait for the FBI to confirm her statement. “Perhaps his voice was distorted by the cloth.”

Roark was working hard to keep his temper at a low simmer. “Have you questioned Dalton Rothschild about the theft?” The rival auction house owner had been a thorn in Waverly’s side for years. “He’s got a bone to pick with Waverly’s and I wouldn’t put it past him to send one of his minions to Rayas to steal the statue and pin the blame on me.”

“Dalton Rothschild doesn’t share your controversial methods for procuring artifacts, Mr. Black,” Agent Matthews said. “We would have no reason to question him in this matter.”

Of course they wouldn’t. It wouldn’t surprise Roark to find out that Rothschild was the one that pointed the FBI to Waverly’s in the first place. The guy was a slick operator, but as greedy as they came.

While Ann escorted the FBI out, Roark stayed on the terrace and let the chilly fall air cool his ire. Through the large half-circle windows he searched the party for Elizabeth Minerva. She drifted through the well-dressed guests like a wraith, her blond hair confined in a neat French twist, stunning figure downplayed by the simple, long-sleeved black dress.

Hot anger became sizzling desire in seconds. From the moment he’d set eyes on her an hour ago, he’d been preoccupied. Petite, curvaceous blondes weren’t really his type. He preferred his women long and lean with flashing black eyes and golden skin. Passion ruled him when it came to antiquities and lovemaking.

His sexual appetites would probably break a dainty, graceful creature like Elizabeth.

“Roark, what are you staring at?”

Without his notice, Ann had returned to the terrace and stood beside him. Roark cursed his preoccupation. Being caught unaware could get him killed in many of the places he ventured.

“How can I get in touch with your party planner?” he asked.