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.