She wouldn’t give up. “Isn’t a young woman’s life worth a little of your time?”

He countered her attempt at emotional blackmail with cold logic. “Her life isn’t in danger.”

She gazed over the wall at a big maple that had turned red. For once, he couldn’t tell if she was sincere or playing him. “Being born in this country gives us opportunities most people in the rest of the world don’t have,” she said. “Where you happen to be born. It’s the luck of the draw, isn’t it?”

He’d been born dirt poor, but… Shit. She was going to make him do this. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was the challenge of what she wanted.


***

The prince smelled of some bullshit cologne that probably cost a couple of oil wells but made Coop queasy. The guy had dyed black hair and a thin mustache shaped like seagull wings. His eyeglasses were tinted a weird blue at the top but clear at the bottom, and he wore western clothes-a suit custom fit to his small build and cap-toe gray oxfords that might have fit Coop’s feet when he was ten. Coop didn’t have anything against small guys. It was Prince Aamuzhir’s big ego that put him off.

“You must sail with me before I sell my yacht. It’s one of the largest in the world, but the pool is in the stern, and I only swim in the sun.” The prince spoke flawless English with a British accent. “With a second pool in the bow, I can swim regardless of which direction I’m sailing.” A chuckle. “I’m sure you can’t understand why this is important enough to me to buy a new boat. Most people can’t.”

Coop was in a foul mood. He’d met more than his fair share of assholes like the prince-wealthy men who fed their sense of self-importance by rubbing shoulders with jocks and, at the same time, condescending to them. Still, he nodded affably. “Me? I’m only a worn-down football player. Now you… You’re a man of the world, a real smart guy. I could see that right away.”

Sherlock had done her research. “Some of the Realm’s princes are fairly stand-up guys,” she’d told him. “Well educated. Businessmen and government ministers. A fighter pilot. Prince Aamuzhir isn’t one of the decent ones. He spends most of his time away from the Realm throwing parties with very expensive hookers.”

The prince blew a plume of cigarette smoke that Coop did his best not to inhale. “Invite some of your friends to sail with me,” he ordered. “Dean Robillard. Kevin Tucker. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting them.”

Fat chance. Robillard and Tucker would dangle this douchebag over the rail of his single-swimming-pool yacht and drop his ass straight in the water.

“I’ll give ’em a call,” Coop said. “See if they can get away.” He took a sip of some very old scotch from a heavy crystal tumbler that he doubted even the Peninsula’s collection of luxury barware kept on hand. He’d been in this suite a couple of times, but he’d never seen that gold fountain in the corner, those jewel-studded ashtrays, or the embroidered purple silk throw pillows.

The prince had taken the chaise that sat near the grand piano. As he crossed his ankles, he revealed the pristine soles of shoes he apparently wore only once.

“Tell me, old sport…” The prince let loose another stream of air pollution. “How do you think you’d have played against Joe Montana or John Elway?” He asked the question as though it had never been asked before, as if rookie sports journalists all over the country hadn’t offered up the same query more times than Coop could remember.

Coop pretended to think it over, took another sip of scotch, then gave his customary answer. “Those guys were my idols. I only wish I’d had the opportunity. All I know is, no matter who I played against, I did my best.”

The prince recrossed his ankles. “It is my observation that too many quarterbacks are impatient. They don’t read the defense properly.”

Coop nodded, as if the prince were one of the great football analysts instead of an egotistical jerkoff who didn’t know shit.

He gestured toward Coop’s hand. “You have worn your Super Bowl Ring.”

Super Bowl rings weren’t known for their subtlety. The Stars latest was a gaudy, oversize son of a bitch with enough diamonds to outfit a high-society ball. Coop gazed down at his finger. “Beautiful, i’nt it?”

“Exquisite.”

Coop could practically see the guy salivating. “I’ll tell you what, Your Highness… I never let anybody try on my ring. I worked too damned hard to earn it, but for you… Aw, hell…” He pulled it off his finger. “You’re a man who understands the game the way most people don’t. See what it feels like to wear one of these.”

Coop didn’t bother getting up from his chair, but merely held it out, which forced the prince to scramble from the chaise to get his greedy hands on it.

The prince shoved the ring on his stubby finger. It immediately flopped to the side. He twisted it back into place and held it there as if he never intended to let it go. “A superb piece.” He took his time admiring it, even wandering toward the glass-topped dinner table where the light was better. Finally, he said, “Some beautiful ladies will be arriving soon. You’ll stay and enjoy them with me.”

Coop had the opening he’d been both waiting for and dreading. “I can’t pass up an invitation like that.” He rose from his chair and pulled out his cell. “I have a PR event, but let me see if I can get out of it.” He carried his cell to the doors that opened onto the suite’s wraparound terrace and dialed Sherlock, who was waiting in his car around the corner.

“Roy, it’s Coop,” he said when she answered. “Something came up, and I need to get out of that event at the Union League tonight. Fix it for me, will you?”

“Are you still with him?” she asked.

He glanced over to see the prince fingering the ring. “Yeah, I know I signed a contract, but I can’t make it.”

“I haven’t forgotten that you’re my first responsibility…” She sounded worried. “I knew this could be risky. If you need me to get you out of there, I’ll come up right away.”

“Hell, no!” That’s the last thing he wanted: Piper Dove rushing in with her magic bracelets and golden lasso. “You didn’t tell me there was going to be that much press.”

“You’re the best.”

“All right. I’ll be there.” He disconnected and shoved his cell back into his pocket. “Damn it all to hell. I can’t skip out. I gotta leave.” He dipped his head regretfully, as if he’d lost the chance of a lifetime. “It’s not too often I meet somebody who understands how to live big the way you do.” More headshaking on his part. More regret. Now came the tricky part.

He went over to reclaim his ring. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but… Oh, well…” He held out his hand.

The ring stayed where it was. “Please. Tell me what it is.”

“This is kind of embarrassing.” Mortifying was more like it. “But you and me… we’re men of the world, right? Discriminating about the finer things. The two of us… we know what we want.”

“Of course.” The prince caressed the ring with his thumb.

“One of the princess’s drivers is a friend of mine-knows I enjoy women. Younger ones. I mean, what man doesn’t, right? You’ve got this servant girl… Name’s Faiza. The driver pointed her out to me.”

“Ahh…” The prince beamed at him. “You fancy this servant girl?”

“She’s my type. Real, real young. Looks about thirteen.” He forced the rest out. “My favorite kind of woman.”

“Ah, yes.”

His skin was crawling. “I was wondering… Do you think you could talk the princess into letting the girl come… work for me? Permanently?” He’d hit the word work extra hard, and he gave the prince a few moments to fill in the degenerate parts for himself. “Heck. I shouldn’t have asked.” Again, he held out his hand for the ring. “Glad you appreciated my ring. I’ll get out of here now and let you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Wait.” The prince moved a few steps away. “It might be possible… But of course, I would have to compensate the princess.”

“Well, sure. You say the word, and I’ll write a check. What do you think the girl is worth? A couple of thousand?”

“Money between friends? No, no. But perhaps, a token of our friendship?”

Sherlock had assumed Coop could simply convince the prince to turn the girl over, but Coop had known better. “By a token, you mean…?”

The prince’s thumb caressed the ring. “Whatever you think the girl is worth to you.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but… You got her papers? Passport? I don’t want to lose that ring and then have her skip out on me.”

“But of course. One phone call.” The prince gave him an oily smile and reached for his phone. Coop pretended to stare out the window during the short, barked conversation in Arabic. He and the prince had struck a deal.

Coop couldn’t wait to get away, but he wasn’t turning over the ring without the girl, and he knew how to take his time. He finished his drink and sidetracked the prince’s story about a particularly repulsive sex game by recounting a story of his own, this one about last season’s Giants game. Finally, the two of them were on the elevator riding down to the lobby.

One of the royal henchmen stood at the front desk riffling through a stack of passports he’d apparently retrieved from the hotel safe. Since the United States and Canada had a loose border, Coop had tried to convince Piper that a passport wasn’t absolutely necessary, but she’d been her own stubborn self.

“Without a passport, it’ll be nearly impossible for her to apply for legal status,” she’d argued. “She won’t be able to go to school and get health care. They’ve stolen her identity, Coop. The passport represents what little of it she has left. Promise me you’ll at least try.”

He hadn’t promised anything, but the short time he’d spent with the prince had steeled his resolve.

The henchman handed the passport over to the prince. A diminutive, robed female figure stood off to the side, clutching a small cloth duffel. Her head was down, so Coop couldn’t see her face. She had no way of knowing what was happening to her, and she had to be terrified.

The prince didn’t spare her a look-she was a mere female-but gave Coop the passport. Coop flipped it open with his thumb. Glanced at the name and the photo. He walked over to the girl and tilted up her chin with his thumb. Just like he was buying a fucking slave.

It was unmistakably her. Dark brows, round cheeks, trembling lips, and deep brown eyes wide with terror, something he couldn’t do anything about right now.

He pocketed her passport and turned back to the prince. “You enjoy the ring, Your Highness. And that Lombardi trophy right in the middle? Solid platinum.”

But the Lombardi trophy on the real ring, which was locked in his bedroom safe, was picked out in diamonds-genuine ones, not the cubics that crusted the reproduction rings. He’d had half a dozen replicas made to donate to various charity auctions. The bidders all knew they were copies, but they’d still been popular items.

“Come on,” he told the girl, hoping she’d cooperate so he wouldn’t have to spook her further by touching her.

Her shoulders hunched, as if she were already trying to protect herself from the atrocity she believed was coming, but she followed him.

“Enjoy her,” the prince said as they passed.

Coop wondered how many guards would jump him if he punched the son of a bitch in the teeth, but he was too well-disciplined for that kind of indulgence. Without a backward glance, he led the terrified servant from the lobby. One reproduction Super Bowl ring. That’s all this girl’s life had been worth.

They passed through the hotel’s front doors. Only as he led her around the corner toward the street where Piper was waiting in his car did he address her. “Welcome to America, Ms. Jamali.”


***

Watching their reunion made the whole ordeal worthwhile. Piper looked as happy as he’d ever seen her, and Faiza was crying. Piper moved to the backseat to be with the girl, and he slid behind the wheel. As he drove, she held Faiza’s hands and explained what had happened. Faiza could barely speak, but the joyous way she threw her arms around Piper spoke volumes.

Piper had chosen Berni Berkovitz’s condo as the safest place to stash Faiza for the night. Berni, of the brisket and divinity fudge, wore an odd combination of red tights and a man’s ragged cardigan. She flapped her arms in greeting. “This is so exciting! So thrilling!”

The Berkovitz apartment was overstuffed, overheated, and smelled vaguely of mothballs, but Coop agreed with Piper that it was safer keeping Faiza here than at the club. “I don’t know what Muslims eat,” Berni said as she drew them inside. “But I have some chocolate cake. Is that okay with your religion?”