My wrist is suddenly seized in a grip of iron, right below the Bakelite bangle I’m wearing. I look up to see Hamad’s fiery gaze burning down at me.
“Did you not hear the prince?” he asks. “We insist that you allow us to escort you.”
The next thing I know, the prince’s bodyguard is pulling me forcibly toward the car.
“Hamad,” the prince says, followed by a stream of words in Arabic. His tone sounds alarmed—for my welfare, I hope.
But he could be alarmed that Hamad is being so obvious about kidnapping me, especially in broad daylight, with so many people around, most of whom are staring at us curiously, no doubt wondering why the dark-haired guy in the suit and shoulder holster is trying to drag the nice blond lady into his car.
I don’t want to have to break out my self-defense moves. It will make things awkward with the president’s office, I’ll bet, if I jam an elbow into Hamad’s solar plexus or rake my nails down his face. Sadly I have on flats, so grinding a high heel into the small bones of his foot isn’t really an option, but I can still deliver a solid kick to one of his shins. According to Cooper (who’s been schooling me), this is supposed to be one of the most painful blows you can deliver to an opponent, aside from the obvious knee-to-groin, which most trained fighters learn to guard against.
Before I have a chance to do any of these things, however, an extremely familiar—and mightily welcome—sound fills my ears: the siren from an NYPD patrol car.
It only has to give a single whoop before I find myself liberated, Hamad releasing me so quickly I nearly lose my footing. The prince puts a gentle hand to my elbow to help balance me.
“Are you all right?” he asks, concerned.
No, of course I’m not all right, and what kind of weirdos are you employing? is what I want to say, but I don’t get a chance (and probably wouldn’t have said, anyway), since a beige Crown Victoria with a single flashing light on the dashboard pulls up in front of the Escalade, and an older man with a thick head of steel-gray hair—and an equally thick gray mustache—leans out the driver’s-side window, an unlit cigar dangling from his hand.
“You out winning friends and influencing people, as usual, Wells?”
It’s my old friend from the Sixth Precinct, Detective Canavan.
“Something like that,” I mutter, yanking my elbow from Rashid’s grip. I head instinctively toward the Vic, massaging my wrist.
“Officer,” Rashid says, following me toward the car. What is with these people? “I’m so sorry. We were offering Miss Wells a ride home, and my associate got a bit carried away.”
“Is that what you call it?”
Detective Canavan is wearing aviator-style sunglasses, the lenses mirrored, making it impossible to see his eyes. I’m able to see the way his shaggy gray eyebrows are raised in skepticism over the gold-rimmed frames, however.
“You know where Miss Wells lives?” Canavan asks.
“Well, no,” the prince admits. “But I was hoping to spare her a train ride.”
“A train ride,” Detective Canavan says drily. “Of course.”
In the passenger seat beside the detective, a younger, heavier-set man, also dressed in plain clothes says, “But, Sarge, I thought you said Ms. Wells lives right around the—”
“Turner, remember what we discussed? When I need your opinion, I will ask for it.” Canavan puts the unlit cigar in his mouth. “Wells,” he says to me. “This is your lucky day. You got multiple grown men”—he eyes Rashid—“ . . . well, semigrown men, anyway—vying for the chance to drive you home and spare you a train ride. Who’s it gonna be, me or these mutts?”
The prince raises his own eyebrows, which are neither shaggy nor gray. “I beg your pardon?” He’s not used to being called a mutt, which is police slang for a generally unpleasant individual.
“Gosh, Detective,” I say, batting my eyelashes. “You know I’m the kind of girl who can never resist an invitation to ride in a real undercover police car.”
I grab the handle to the rear passenger door and slide into the Vic, my heart still thumping at my narrow escape.
Canavan looks at the prince and says conversationally, “Kid, don’t take it personally. She’s got a thing for cops. In fact, she’s marrying a PI in a few weeks.”
“PI?” I hear Rashid echo. Between “mutts” and “PI,” his head is probably spinning.
It could be my imagination, but as I settle into the back of the unmarked patrol car and slip on my seat belt, I notice Hamad’s gaze seeming to burn into me.
Maybe it’s not my imagination, though. A second later, the bodyguard steps off the curb and strides toward the car, thrusting an index finger passionately in Rashid’s direction.
“Mutt? Mutt? Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?” he demands of Detective Canavan. “This man is the Crown Prince Rashid Ashraf bin Zayed Sultan Faisal, the most sovereign heir to the kingdom of Qalif, and you will address him with the respect he—”
“Aw, zip it,” Detective Canavan growls, and puts his foot on the gas pedal at the same time as he lays his finger on the control button of his window, closing it on Hamad’s temper tantrum.
The Crown Vic slides smoothly out into the traffic on Washington Square West, leaving the bodyguard behind, shaking his fist at us in anger.
“Nice to see you’re still doing such a swell job with customer service at the dorm there, Wells,” Canavan observes. “Probably going to win employee of the year. Or what’s that thing they give you administrators? A crocus award?”
“Pansy. And in case it wasn’t clear, that was the crown prince of Qalif,” I say. “His dad, General Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed Sultan Faisal, donated five hundred million bucks to the school.”
“Oh, well, la-di-da,” Canavan says, holding his cigar out like it’s a teacup, one pinkie raised. “What the hell was all that back there?”
“It looked like the A-rab was trying to stuff her into the Escalade,” Turner says helpfully, “and she didn’t want to go. Probably going to force her into one of those sex-slave rings, or a harem, like in that Liam Neeson movie Taken.”
“Once again, when one of your brilliant insights is needed, Turner, I will ask for it,” Canavan declares, “but not before. I was asking the girl.”