“I’m sorry, Ericka. I knew he died when you were a baby, but I didn’t know he was in Vashmira.”
“To repay us for my father’s loyalty, King Zared sent my mother and me a monthly stipend that helped keep a roof over our heads.”
“That was kind of the king, but I don’t see the problem.”
“There was no other contact between the Zareds and us until my senior year of high school.”
Hogan stuck his head out of her door and yelled to her secretary. “No interruptions.”
“Yes, sir.”
He closed the door, helped himself to a cup of coffee and perched a hip on the corner of her desk, giving her time to gather her spinning thoughts. Ericka swallowed hard, her throat tight with tension.
“On my eighteenth birthday, I received an official-looking package. Purple ribbons made the wax-sealed letter look important; the thick, yellow vellum seemed to indicate the passage of time.”
“King Zared sent you something from your father?”
“When I saw the bold, masculine scrawl of my name across the inner envelope, I hoped so.” She could still recall how her heart rate had jumped just from holding the envelope in her hand. Although her father had died when she was a baby, she’d never given up hoping for a personal message from him, a videotape, a diary, even a letter, but there had been nothing except the occasional fond remembrance from her mother.
“What did it say?”
“I still remember the letter word for word.
Dearest Ericka,
Your father, Erick, and I grew up together in Connecticut, attended the same prep school and were roommates at West Point, but we were much more than comrades. Although we were not related by blood, I loved your father like a brother. He was the finest of men, the bravest of soldiers, and I was proud to call him my closest friend. Either of us would have given his life for the other, but I am getting ahead of myself.
Although I was an American citizen, I always felt a great loyalty to my parents’ country, Vashmira. Perhaps because my family comes from royal blood, I felt a great sense of duty and responsibility to my people. I felt compelled to return to Vashmira and aid my country in our fight for independence. Out of loyalty to me, your father took on my cause as his own.
Our fight succeeded in freeing my people from the dictatorship of communism, but the cost was very high. During the fiercest of battles, your father suffered a grievous wound while guarding my back. Before he died in my arms, we pledged to one another that our firstborn children, Nicholas Zared II and Ericka Allen would one day wed. It is my most fervent wish that our children fulfill a man’s promise to his dying friend.
Sincerely,
His Royal Highness of Vashmira, King Zared I”
Even in high school Ericka had found the notion of marriage unacceptable. She’d intended to remain single and independent, at the beck and call of no one. The idea of an arranged marriage to a man she’d never met was outrageously medieval, simply out of the question. Women were not property to be owned or traded for the sake of ancient promises—no matter how much some men wanted to think so.
Besides, who could visualize her as a queen? What a hoot.
Although she’d never been interested, she had been curious. She’d seen pictures of Nicholas Zared II, studied his features with both fascination and self-disgust at that fascination. The strong jaw, the straight white teeth, the kingly set of his shoulders called to her on a level she didn’t want to acknowledge. Although the expression on Nicholas Zared II’s handsome face was arrogant, intelligence gleamed from his eyes, and she’d wondered what he thought about their fathers’ scheme to get them together.
“You saved the letter?” Hogan asked.
She nodded. “In my safe-deposit box. I never answered King Zared. The year after high school, I worked all summer, attended college in the fall, and you know the rest.”
She and Hogan had been together a long time. He knew she’d worked her way through college, where she’d studied political journalism, and had landed a job with a weekly publication right after graduation. She’d made her career by begging for assignments in dangerous places, willing to enter hot zones to get a story. Hogan knew her ultimate goal of some day writing political thrillers. But that goal still remained a long way off. Over the years she’d built an impressive network of contacts and now worked for him at one of Washington’s most respected papers.
“That’s some story.”
“When I first left the United States on assignment to Europe, I worried the Vashmiran government might try to coerce me into honoring the marriage contract.”
“You’re still here. Single.” He stated the obvious.
“And ten years have passed without any further contact. I figured I was free, the old contract forgotten. But now, I’m not so sure.”
“Zared I died last year. You think his son is making a move on you?”
Like all political analysts, Ericka kept up on international news, taking particular notice of Vashmira after King Zared I’s assassination. His firstborn son had stepped into his father’s shoes quite admirably. He’d kept the monetary and political system stable, an achievement worthy of notice in that part of the world. It bothered her that he hadn’t yet announced whom he would marry, a requirement of Vashmiran law he must fulfill to ascend the throne, but he’d never contacted her, either. Nevertheless, the prospect of going to Vashmira to cover the coronation troubled her.
“You think the exclusive interview is simply bait to get you to Vashmira?”
The idea sounded not just far-fetched but preposterous when Hogan voiced her thoughts aloud.
Yet of all the reporters in the United States, she’d been handed an opportunity as rare as a six-figure advance for a first-time novelist. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“But?” he prodded.
Despite her concerns, she yearned to see the country her father had given his life for. Those stories her mother had told her so long ago had made her curious about the country and its people. “I have no intention of jeopardizing my job, my friends or my citizenship to satisfy a childhood curiosity or to write a story.”
“The paper can provide you with protection.”
“Who can be sent back at the border.”
“Have you had an attorney—”
She was a step ahead of him. “The contract isn’t binding in the United States, but my lawyer is sure it’s legal in Vashmira.”
“No modern king would resort to forcing an American to marry him. And we could take precautions by informing the U.S. ambassador of your presence and intention to leave Vashmira at the completion of your assignment.”
“An embassy only has limited powers in foreign countries,” she reminded him, having already considered all the angles.
“Look, even if I was willing to send another reporter, no one else is free. No one else has your experience or knows the territory better. And now you have an inside track. If you refuse this assignment, I’ll have to fire you.”
“What?” His words stunned her. She hadn’t even considered that she’d be given an ultimatum.
“I’m sorry, but your excuses won’t wash with management. They might be sympathetic to your problem, but to them, the coronation story is the bottom line. Besides, are you sure the younger Zared even knows about the old marriage contract?”
Thoughts swirling, gut churning, she shrugged. “I’m not sure of anything.”
Chapter Two
Ericka could be flying straight into danger, she thought as the flight attendant handed her a glass of orange juice. Yet she preferred the risk to being fired if she refused the assignment. She’d taken more serious risks flying into war-torn countries or traipsing into hot zones where she could have been kidnapped, raped or killed. The worst thing that could happen to her in Vashmira was a trip to the pokey for refusing to honor a ridiculous marriage contract. The bad publicity alone that such a move would attract would more than likely ensure her freedom. Vash
mira was a new country struggling to exist in the modern world. Arresting her would be counterproductive at best and stupid at worst. Besides, she could hardly blame her boss. She was the most experienced reporter on staff. Two of the three other correspondents capable of taking over were on assignment, one in Africa, the other at the Middle-East peace talks in Jordan, the third on vacation in the Australian outback. Which left her in the lurch.
She’d briefly considered refusing the assignment and finding another job even if it meant taking a step backward in her career, but if the Vashmiran government really intended to kidnap her, they could have hired a mercenary to come after her. Since she’d had no problems, her marriage contract had probably been long forgotten. Even if Nicholas remembered the old agreement, she couldn’t conceive of him wanting to marry a stranger. He was royalty, no doubt accustomed to women throwing themselves at him, something she had way too much self-respect ever to do.
After changing planes in Munich yesterday, she’d flown to Istanbul and slept through the night in a hotel there, recovering from jet lag before catching a short flight north into Vashmira this morning. Having finished her juice, she peered out the airplane’s window and was disappointed by thick cloud cover that hid the ground. Taking out her laptop, she intended to scan her extensive files, but couldn’t concentrate. Flying normally relaxed her, but she was unable to contain her mixture of excitement and trepidation. This was the story of any reporter’s dreams, and she hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity, not just to further her career, but for more personal reasons. She yearned to see the country her father had given his life for and possibly to add to his legacy by writing about Vashmira and introducing the country to the West.
She had no patience for the mountains of political, historical and geographical data in her laptop and found herself once again preoccupied with a picture of Nicholas Zared’s face on her screen. What kind of man was he? He looked as if he’d brushed his hair for the picture, then impatient, raggedly run his fingers through it. His face was all aristocratic lines and noble angles—eyebrows, mouth, nose, looked European, royal, almost arrogant except for the glimmer of mirth in his eyes. Ericka didn’t mind arrogance. She possessed plenty of that herself.
Arrogance helped her interview world leaders, dictators and royalty. She took pride in her job, in doing it well by telling her stories so that her readers felt as if they were there in the room with her. She asked the questions her readers wanted to ask themselves without suffering the discomforts of traveling halfway around the world for answers.
While her readers would appreciate Nicholas’ handsome face as much as she did, it was unlike her to become so fascinated with her subject matter. But this story, this country, had more personal ramifications than usual.
Annoyed with her absorption in Nicholas’ features, she snapped her laptop closed and prepared for landing. The flight attendant repeated instructions in Russian and English in which she was fluent, and Arabic, of which she couldn’t understand a word.
In the modest but modern Vashmiran airport, all signs were painted in those same three languages. She headed briskly toward baggage, then paused in puzzlement when she spied a tall, broad-shouldered man, a cap low over his forehead, holding up a sign with her name. Neither she nor her newspaper had requested the services of a guide, since she’d been invited to stay at the palace.
She almost strolled right by, until she got a look at the man’s distinctive visage. King Nicholas Zared! After just studying his computer picture, she could not be mistaken. Yet why was the king dressed in the rough clothing of a taxi driver? Why was he holding up a sign with her name on it? And why was he eyeing her with a look of a tiger about to pounce?
She almost halted in her tracks, but because it amused her, she decided to play along with his ruse. She approached him, warily, taking in not just the king, but a team of security guards who tried and failed to blend in with the crowd of travellers as they kept back onlookers. She told herself her quickened pulse was from his surprise tactics, not due to the striking man himself.
Just because up close and personal he was so much better looking than his picture was no reason to come unglued. After all, she’d interviewed the U.S. president and Mel Gibson. No worldwide celebrity, Zared was merely head of a very minor country. However the word “merely” seemed much too understated to apply to anything concerning Nicholas Zared. Larger than ordinary men, he had a commanding presence. And neither a long plane ride nor his assumption of her stupidity could account for the tingle of awareness she felt zinging through her veins when she approached him.
Did he think her so dense she wouldn’t recognize the man she’d been assigned to interview? What game was he playing? Even as she wondered whether she should be insulted or not, wary or not, she couldn’t help feeling amused.
“I’m Ericka Allen,” she told him, willing to go along for now. One glance and he shot the full impact of his personality at her. Intense. Focused. Interested.
He looked at her like any man sizing up a woman. She read his interest in the arrogant tilt of his head, in the way he surveyed her from head to toe as though he had the right to judge her.
He would soon learn that this American woman had come here to work—not play. She had to balance her moves as if she were on a tightwire—remain friendly in order to obtain her critical interview and reject any advances in such a way that he believed he was the one doing the rejecting. To manage this, she couldn’t reveal that she recognized his personal interest in her. At the same time she had to do some serious risk evaluation. She needed to discover whether he’d forgotten about the old marriage contract or remembered it but had no intention of honoring it. Holding his gaze, she smiled at him warmly. It was a smile she’d practiced—personal, but not too inviting.
In person, she found his face more compelling, bolder and more riveting than the picture on her computer screen. Although she was here to work, she saw no reason why she couldn’t appreciate his looks. The longer their eyes held, the more she wondered what he was thinking. Reportedly, he was a master at keeping his thoughts locked up, hidden. A little work, a little easygoing conversation might be a good thing. No harm in some small talk while she took the measure of the man.
“The king has sent a car to take you to the palace.” His words were truthful but misleading and spoken in a deep tone that spiked a shiver of pure womanly appreciation.
“That’s very kind of the king.” She widened her eyes innocently. “And you are?”
“Among other things,” he tipped his hat and flashed her a charming grin, “your driver. My friends call me Nick.”
A killer smile. A hunky build. And he seemed most polite. No doubt about it. He was wealthy, powerful and about to be crowned king. A girl could do worse. And once the photographer took his picture and her story made headlines, his worldwide popularity would soar. If he wasn’t already, he’d be fending off women with a sword.
“Nick.” She sent him her most pleasant smile and ignored the fact that he couldn’t seem to take his gaze off her face, ignored the way her breath seemed to catch, ignored the lightness of her step. She knew what it meant when a man studied her that way, but she pretended she was unaware of his interest in her as a woman.
This game was one she was an expert at, a game she played to win—which meant obtaining her story, getting him to open up and trust her, without permitting their situation to become personal. Accustomed to offers from men, she understood the steps necessary to evade entanglement.
She and Nicholas walked through the terminal side by side, and she pretended not to notice how his security guards cleared a path for them. While she thought his ruse silly, she felt a certain amusement in his having taken so much trouble to disguise himself, although she still couldn’t figure out why.
Actually meeting under these informal circumstances, without the presence of his formidable family or ministers of state, would allow her to gauge his character more easily. A bit impressed that he was
n’t already talking about himself, she glanced at him again. A taxi driver’s uniform couldn’t hide his commanding presence any more than she could curtail her burgeoning curiosity. And, all-male animal that he was, he was responding to her interest with a smoky glance, his eyes pleased and full of mischief.
When he turned to exit the terminal, she halted. “My baggage?”
“Will be delivered to the palace.”
His tone suggested that they weren’t going to the palace, at least not straightaway, and that he expected her to ask questions. Ericka understood that the best way to get a man to talk was often to say nothing at all. So she simply waited for him to explain his plans.
A man like Nicholas always had plans. She could practically see them swirling in his mind. Ericka enjoyed a thinking man, one who could take charge as easily as he breathed, a man like Nicholas who wouldn’t feel threatened by her intelligence or good looks. Powerful men were usually so wrapped up in their work that they were often inconsiderate, selfish with their time and their feelings and couldn’t even make decent dinner conversation, never mind an enjoyable companion for a week.
They ambled outside past double glass doors, stopping beside a spit-shined black Mercedes, which was parked in a no-parking zone. Two guards gestured the crowds back. A cop suggested that travellers use another entrance.
Chivalrously, Nicholas took her elbow, his touch light, but not impersonal. So why did she feel as nervous as a rookie journalist on her first story?
He opened the front passenger door of the Mercedes for her with a polite and graceful ease. “Would you like to sightsee or go straight to the palace?”
She slipped into the cool, elegant leather seat. “A drive would be great, and maybe a walk, please, to get my bearings.”
Nicholas shut her door, strode around the car and took the driver’s seat. She watched him shift into gear, admiring the coordination of his hand on the gearshift, one foot on the clutch, the other on the brake. Clearly, he was accustomed to driving, another surprise. Most heads of state had a driver and preferred the luxury and status of being driven.
Royal Target Page 2