Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
During one of the many press conferences in which my pending marriage with Madeline Elliott went global, I was finally able to slip away and out of the limelight. I bloody damn well swear I’ll kill my mate with my bare hands before I walk down the fucking aisle with her. Madeline’s death will be on her Queen’s hands. Still, the public declaration appeased the monarch, aborting her hounds.
Although Burt’s confined to bed at one of my homes, he had my jet readied along with my most extravagant suits. Though I prefer tailored black suits, while I’m here, I need to give the appearance of a lofty billionaire, not the frugal chap I much prefer. I’ve frequented the casinos every night and thrown away hundreds of thousands of dollars for just a glimpse of the sheikh and my lady. In my profession, discretion is always best. Yet within the folds of Saudi Arabia, the flashier the visitors appear, the less attention received.
Although to every advantage, a disadvantage abounds. Now, I have the difficulty of appearing as a frivolous, wealthy man and not pique any interest with my British accent.
The hotel suite on the 134th floor in which I reside is all white. Triple paneled walls stand at a 180-degree angle. Standing in a royal blue suit, I begrudgingly rip open a protein bar while the call connects to Paul.
“Victor, you wouldn’t believe it!”
“What?” I bark.
“I’ve uncovered Gina Whitson’s murderer!” Excitement blares through the receiver.
I stop swiftly mid first bite, although my abdomen growls in protest.
Upon my and Luxury’s return to my duchy, Burt provided the results of Gina’s diary. That happened to be the day my mother attempted to propose to Madeline Elliott on my behalf. I hadn’t even given Luxury the news.
The results were unquestionable.
The diary was authentic.
Gina Whitson had indeed carried on a relationship for over half a decade with her husband’s rival, Dr. Charles Everhart. Dr. Jonah Whitson had been adamant that the diary was false, a figment of the mad scientist's imagination—which went hand in hand with Everhart hiring an assassin to murder Whitson.
Nevertheless, the truth was far more sinister. Gina Whitson had suffered a life crisis after being raped, seeking solace with Charles, as Luxury’s father was emotionally unavailable.
Or rather, the bloke was ramming his prick in every other cunt.
“Paul,” I clear my throat, “what was your last assignment? Have you found her?”
“Monica brought in more assistance. Our team’s searching every square inch of the Arabian desert,” Paul articulates with less enthusiasm. “You’d think they all lived in some sort of underground—”
“My team. Not yours!” I pause for a moment to glare at my watch. I have a meeting in ten minutes with Dayuna and Janae, two young prostitutes, who will assist me with searching for Luxury. For a price, they’ll assume the dangers of searching areas of Al Rafi’s inner circle that are virtually untouchable. Because time is of the essence, I growl, “Paul, I suppose a better question would be . . . do you fucking fancy breathing?” My tone flattens.
He sucks in air. “All five members of the group are accessing aerial views in a hundred-mile radius of Saudi Arabia, Victor. We’re doing everything humanly possible to find Ms. Whitson.”
“We? Or do you mean your mates?” I ask, veins long ago boiled over.
“My apologies. I assumed you’d still want me to continue with the Whitson murder. I was warm on the killer's trail when this incident—”
Paul’s words sail through the air, as does my iPhone, before crashing into a ceramic vase.
A bloody incident?
No, a fucking catastrophe.
9
Luxury
Whispers of Al Rafi’s return ooze through the common kitchen area. I expect more confrontation from Wasim as she and her posse stroll past in fine garments.
“Did she forget the fuss she made?” I murmur out loud.
My own lady-in-waiting sniggers softly. “No. During his absence, she’s taken two, what you’d call prostitutes, in.”
The other one gasps on the other side of me. “My lady, if you’d like to secure favor with Sheikh Al Rafi, tell him that hidden in Wasim’s apartments are the infamous Janae and . . . oh . . . the other woman’s name slips my mind. My apologies.”
I imagine how I could leverage the information. If Al Rafi’s a jealous man, will that send him into Wasim’s arms? Could this information save me? I’ve not been taken by force thus far and would like to keep it that way, yet I’m uncertain.
Another woman bows before me. I can’t tell if she’s another wife or servant as they’re all beautiful and most are respectful.
“Al Rafi requires your attendance at once,” she murmurs.
Blood thrums in my ears as I’m led like a lamb out of the opulent dining hall. When I come to, my servants guide me into my own apartment.
Does the sheikh have a room where he takes his women for the first time?