The Rogue's Fortune. Cat Schield

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.

      “My assistant made all the arrangements.” She sounded surprised that he’d asked. “I’ll have her email you the contact information.”

      “Wonderful. In a few weeks we’re going to have reason to celebrate.”

      “You mean because of the Gold Heart statue?” Ann paced toward the terrace wall. “Are you sure it’s not the one stolen from Rayas?”

      “Are you asking me if I stole it?” He’d grown weary of her lack of trust in him these past few years.

      “Of course not,” she said, her tone smooth and unhurried. “But you’re sure your source for the statue is completely legitimate?”

      “Absolutely.” He touched her arm. “You can trust me.”

      Some of the tension seeped out of her. “I know, but with this new accusation, we have to be more careful than ever.”

      And careful wasn’t something he was known for.

      “I need you to bring me the statue,” she continued. “The quickest way to resolve this issue is for me to take the statue to Rayas and have the sheikh verify that it isn’t the one stolen from the palace.”

      “It’s not.”

      “Neither the FBI nor Crown Prince Raif Khouri are going to take your word for it.” A determined firmness came over Ann’s expression. “You’ve been missing for three months, Roark. Waverly’s is in trouble.”

      He might have been off the grid, but that didn’t mean he was out of the loop. Roark knew about the collusion scandal that had rocked Waverly’s and Ann Richardson’s link to it. His half brother, Vance Waverly, was convinced the CEO had never been romantically involved with Dalton Rothschild and that there was no truth to the rumor of price fixing between the rival auction houses. Roark trusted Vance’s faith in Ann where illegal practices were concerned, but he wasn’t as convinced that Rothschild’s hostile takeover of Waverly’s was just hearsay. Nor was he sure Ann hadn’t fallen for Dalton. Which meant Roark wasn’t sure how far he could trust Ann.

      “It’s important to clear up the matter of the statue,” Ann continued, handing him back his tuxedo jacket.

      “I understand, but getting the statue here quickly is going to present a problem.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean with all the publicity surrounding the statue and Rothschild’s obvious determination to cause a problem with the auction, it’s more important than ever to safeguard it.”

      “Get it here as fast as you can. Or it may be too late to save Waverly’s.”

      Ann Richardson’s resolve resonated with Roark. He faced difficult situations with the same strength of purpose. It was part of the reason why he was willing to do what it took to help her save Waverly’s.

      In a thoughtful mood, he escorted her inside. While Roark slipped back into the jacket, he noticed a pair of eyes on him. They belonged to a very influential member of Waverly’s board. Something behind the man’s stare piqued Roark’s curiosity. He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and strode over to shake the man’s hand.

      “Nice collection you secured,” George Cromwell said. “I had no idea Tyler was such a connoisseur.”

      “He was a man of many secrets.”

      Cromwell lifted his glass. “Here’s to hoping he takes most of them to the grave.”

      Roark offered a polite smile while impatience churned in his gut. Was he seeing trouble where there was none? Had his instincts been wrong about what he’d glimpsed in the man’s manner? Or was he growing paranoid after years of dodging danger and the past three months spent in a deadly game of hide and seek with a bloodthirsty cartel?

      “What were the FBI doing here tonight?” Cromwell asked.

      Reassured that his instincts were right on track, Roark offered the board member a dismissive smile. “They’d received some bad information and came to clear up the matter.” In its own way, this concrete jungle was just as perilous as the tropical one he’d left behind.

      “And was it cleared up?”

      Roark wasn’t going to lie. “I believe they still have some doubts.”

      Cromwell grew grim. “I’m concerned about Waverly’s future.”

      “How so?” Roark sipped at his champagne and played at nonchalance. He hated all the political maneuvering and missed the familiar danger inherent in guns, knives and criminals who didn’t hesitate to kill anyone who got in their way.

      “A number of Waverly’s shareholders have been approached about selling our shares.”

      “Let me guess,” Roark said, annoyance flaring. “Rothschild?”

      “Yes.”

      “Selling to him wouldn’t be in