to Jada’s apartment opened, and a slender, dark-haired woman carrying a backpack emerged. “You’re our new neighbor,” the woman said as she spotted Piper.
“Piper Dove.”
“I’m Karah Franklin.”
This must be Jada’s mother, although she looked more like an older sister. Dark, curly hair swirled to her shoulders, and her warm brown skin didn’t require even a touch of makeup. The woman’s beauty suggested Coop hadn’t given her a free apartment simply because he’d been friends with her husband but because they were lovers. She looked enough like Kerry Washington to qualify as a movie star girlfriend.
Karah shifted her backpack to her shoulder. “Jada told me you’d moved in. If she bothers you, let me know.”
Piper remembered the sight of Coop sprawled in the alley yesterday morning. “She’s no bother. She seems like a terrific kid.”
“Have you actually met her?”
Piper smiled. “We have an understanding.”
“I’m working and going to school to get my accounting degree, so I can’t keep track of her the way I should.” Guilt oozed from every part of her. “Right now, I’m heading for the library.”
Piper noticed the woman’s tired eyes. Not Coop’s current lover, then, because if she were, he wouldn’t let her work so hard. “That sounds tough.”
“It could be a lot worse. Anyway, nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
When Piper reached her office, she finished her lukewarm coffee while she talked to Jen on the phone about Berni. Then she turned on her computer. Her job at Spiral was temporary, and she had to keep marketing herself. She’d been using her Web site to post tips on self-defense, credit card fraud, and personal security, putting to use everything she’d learned from her father and from the classes she’d taken in the past few years. Now she intended to take some of that information and put it in a flyer as an additional promotion for her business.
She wanted important clients—law firms, big insurance companies that investigated disability fraud. Until that happened, the fastest money she could make was based on suspicion. She typed away:
HOW DO YOU KNOW IF HE’S CHEATING?
IS SHE REALLY OUT WITH HER GIRLFRIENDS?
She began laying out the signs of a cheating partner—too many late nights at work, unexplained phone hang-ups, new interest in personal grooming. She’d hand-deliver the flyer to hair salons, sports bars, coffeehouses—whatever businesses would let her display it. And every flyer would be printed with her logo and phone number.
The phone rang. It was Jen again. “Guess who’s coming to town?” her friend chirped. “Princess Somebody from one of the big oil countries. Along with her retinue. Over fifty people! They need some female drivers.”
“How do you know this?”
“From Dumb Ass. I just heard him talking about it with one of the reporters. Apparently the princess decided to drop a few zillion on the Mag Mile instead of Rodeo Drive. Piper, these Middle Eastern royals tip big!”
“I am so on this!” Piper exclaimed.
She reached one of her father’s old pals, who gave her the number of the owner of a limo company that worked with visiting VIPs, and landed the job. She wasn’t exactly sure how she’d juggle the royals and Cooper Graham, but she’d figure it out.
***
Tuesday morning, she was at O’Hare sitting behind the wheel of a black SUV. She’d never seen herself as a chauffeur, but the job sounded interesting, the pay was decent, and the lure of a big tip at the end made this a no-brainer. She was supposed to meet with Graham that afternoon to talk about the club’s Web site, but she had more than enough time before then to get whomever she was driving from the airport to the downtown Peninsula Hotel.
The royal family, she’d learned, had something like fifteen thousand members, either highnesses or royal highnesses depending on whether or not they were in line for the throne. They always traveled with a huge retinue: other family members, military guards, servants, and—it was said—briefcases stuffed with cash. She sincerely hoped some of that would be coming her way in the form of a huge tip when the job was over.
Their private jet turned out to be a 747, and their VIP status let them avoid the lines at passport control. An armada of SUVs and half a dozen cargo vans for luggage waited for them. When the retinue emerged, only the servants were in traditional Islamic dress. The female royals—at least a dozen of them, ranging from teens to late middle age—wore the latest designer fashions. Diamonds glittered, spindly Louboutins clicked on