Prologue

Baltimore, May 2007

Prince Fassad Aziz bin Fayhed, youngest and favorite son of the late King Fayhed of Saudi Arabia, stroked his beard in thought as he sat in his hotel room. He had been enjoying with much anticipation the media coverage leading up to the 132nd running of the Preakness Stakes. His horse, Wings of Glory, was a 3:1 favorite to win the prize. He watched with pride as his horse was highlighted in a short segment about its origins and training. The prince saw himself on TV with his horse and marveled at his appearance. I am a very handsome man. Soon the Royals will recognize my rightful place on the throne.

Normally, on race day, the prince would have been at the track, escorting his horse to the gate. Not today, though. Things had not been good for the young prince since the death of his father two years previously. His father did not name him the crown prince before his death, thereby promoting one of his cousins to the throne. His uncles and cousins, afraid of his power and money, had all but banished him from his homeland. The prince lived in fear of assassination at every venue, which is why he was watching the horse race from his hotel room. And by his, he meant his. He owned this Ritz Carlton he was staying in.

But horses were no longer occupying the prince's mind. The broadcast had been interrupted by a news conference. Apparently some women were missing in the greater D.C. area. And Prince Fassad was mesmerized by the blue eyes staring out at him from the TV screen, the red lips speaking to him, the blond hair shimmering for his touch. He had never seen such beauty, never tasted such milky white skin, never lusted after a woman so instantly the way he wanted her. He had to have her. All of her. She was the perfect one to bring forth his son. Together he and his son would return to their country and claim the throne. It was as if Allah himself had handpicked this woman and brought her to him. She would serve him. She would bear him many sons. She would do her duty for Allah and the prince.

Prince Fassad got on the phone at once, the horse race forgotten. Wouldn't his procurers be surprised when he asked them for a woman? They were so accustomed to hearing from the royal princes about children; the orders for children placed every day…a girl with blond hair and blue eyes, the younger the better; a boy with red hair and green eyes, just entering puberty. He did not know this blonde woman's name, but they would find out. They would track her down and bring her to him. Then he could have her, fully. He wanted her. And he always got what he wanted.