She hoped he wasn’t one of those men who insisted that he was simply a common man and didn’t want the job of king. She found that kind of thinking hypocritical. Much better to admit to enjoying the power and wealth that came with his station. After all, there were plenty of drawbacks to his position. Besides living in the proverbial fishbowl, his every movement and public utterance reported by journalists, he was surrounded by people currying favor, which made it difficult to tell friend from sycophant, never mind coups and assassination attempts and bottom feeders.
She had to admit that the man seemed comfortable in his own tanned and appealingly weathered skin. Did he fret over the fact that the assassin who killed his father hadn’t been caught? How seriously did he take his position? Did he have doubts about the coronation ceremony which would ensure him of the rank of king for a lifetime? In Vashmira, the heir to the throne was given a year to try out the position of king and decide if he wanted to devote his life to ruling his people. That year was now almost over. According to Vashmiran law, before the coronation ceremony the heir must announce his intention to marry and name a bride. Afterward, he would rule until his death. She fully intended to ask him questions about his decision during their interview, but now was hardly the time, especially when he had yet to admit his identity to her.
As he steered the Mercedes from the airport, two powerful sedans holding his security team followed. Since he ignored them, she tried to do the same.
“Where do you wish to go?” Nicholas asked as if he’d set aside this time just to show her his country. She couldn’t help being pleased. He was asking her what she wanted to see rather than taking her to what he wanted to show her.
“I’d like to take in Junar, your capital. I’ve heard the shops are quite fine.”
“The lady wishes to shop?” She could hear no judgment in his tone, only a wary, withdrawn politeness, and wondered what he would do if she insisted on dragging him from store to store while she ogled trinkets and maxed out her credit cards—two things she hated doing.
“I need to evaluate the economic development in the downtown area for my story.”
As his shoulders visibly relaxed, she suppressed a grin, suspecting he would have been appalled if she’d insisted on shopping. She couldn’t picture him trailing her from store to store and carrying her purchases. He was too vital, too much a statesman for her to visualize him in such a capacity.
Perhaps the look in his eyes wasn’t as interested or as personal as she’d thought. To test the notion, she crossed her legs and her skirt rode up exactly one inch above her knee. Not exactly scandalous behavior.
He looked. Discreetly.
She considered her position, wondering if she should go back to the airport and fly out of here. But it had only been a tiny glance, and he showed more self-control as he pulled smoothly into traffic on a modern two-lane highway. “What does evaluation of the downtown area mean?”
She rocked her foot slightly. A little less nervous now, she hoped he would keep his eyes on the busy road. “Stores, their merchandise and their customers can tell me a lot about a country’s economy.”
He grinned, a dazzling grin of challenge that told her that while she might want to keep their talk impersonal, he wouldn’t stand for it. “You sure you don’t just want to shop?”
She thought she could get used to his teasing. She wasn’t all about work, although she could be when necessary. However much she sensed that this was one of those rare times where work and pleasure could overlap if she allowed it, she wouldn’t. “I have a taste for the finer things in life, so I often find a way to work and enjoy myself at the same time.”
“Efficient. I admire that.”
His second glance at the hem of her skirt told her that her efficiency was not all he was admiring. He’d noticed her on a personal level, and she couldn’t help being pleased by his reaction before she told herself her feelings were totally inappropriate. She’d chosen her clothes this morning with care. The neat navy jacket, white blouse and navy skirt were businesslike, prim and efficient, if one didn’t count her silk hose and the high-heeled shoes she preferred that increased her height a good two inches, though she still barely came up to his chin.
“Tell me about your country,” she requested.
His voice mellowed as he warmed to the subject. “This region of the world had always been a hotbed of political and religious insurrections going back to the eighth century and the Ottoman Empire. Problems continued into the late 1980s when the Iron Curtain fell and twenty satellite states declared their independence.”
“That’s when Vashmira declared independence?”
“Yes. For seventeen years, King Zared I guided Vashmira through astounding economic and political transformations.” His tone revealed the pride he had in his father’s accomplishments.
“The decades of the previous communist regime must have left scars,” she prodded, curious to see if he would deny it.
“Not only on the economy and architecture, but also on the souls of our people.”
“What do you mean?”
“A bottle of vodka can still buy a bribe from government officials. People in the tourist industry must be trained to smile. Gypsies fail to send their children to school. Better health care, higher education and a stable currency are objectives yet to be attained. And the military must still use a major part of their budget to guard Vashmira’s many borders.”
She wanted to take out a notepad but refrained. Past experience told her that people spoke more freely without the visual reminders that their words might show up in print.
Nicholas drove into a city with wide boulevards and many parks. Buildings that looked as if they’d stood for centuries lent an old-world charm while the hustle and bustle of buses, hurrying pedestrians and tourists made the city look like a prosperous economic center. She noted a contrast of cultures, men in western business suits, Arabs in traditional robes, Jews wearing yarmulkes and two old Russian women wearing babushkas. The women were selling trinkets on the corner of a stone church with magnificent stained-glass windows that looked as if the crusaders had built it.
“Do you have open-market bazaars?” she asked.
He glanced at her, looking both amused and surprised. “On the weekends the farmers bring their fresh produce in from the villages to market.”
“Vashmira has its own currency and the value seems to be holding.”
“Yes, and dollars are just as acceptable as Vashmiran money.” He spoke in a serious tone, his voice rich and dark like fine whiskey. “We have our own stock market and a stable currency and hope to accept Euro dollars soon.”
She peeked over her shoulder at the two cars full of royal guards. “I think someone’s following us.”
“Really?” He sounded so innocent, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.
She pressed him harder to admit his true identity. “You’re amazingly knowledgeable for a…driver.”
He pulled over and parked, making his own spot in a tow-away zone. He had the grace to appear just a hint sheepish, yet still commanding and much too handsome. “You recognized me right away, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid I did. Would you mind explaining the reason for the ruse?”
“It was kind of you to go along, as my people are doing.” He gestured to a park filled with laughing children, barking dogs, tourists and Muslims answering the call to prayer. “How about a stroll, some lunch and then a drive to a village?”
“Sure.” While the seat of the car gave her plenty of room, she had a yen to escape the intimate quarters. No matter how much she tried to forget that she had a marriage contract with this man—she couldn’t.
She’d travelled widely, but rarely had she met a man as quietly complicated as this one. He’d admitted to his deception with no explanation, only gentle evasion, and she suspected he would say nothing more if she didn’t prod him for an answer.
He opened her door for her and she stood, refraining from st
retching like a lazy cat. “Were you hoping I’d say I thought the king was an idiot?” she teased.
“Certainly not.” He feigned indignation, then chuckled, a merry laugh that she wanted to hear more often. “I suppose my ruse seems odd to you.”
“No odder than other customs.” They headed away from the street and into the park’s center, and she thought she was handling the small talk quite well. If she directed the topic of conversation away from the personal, their relationship could remain professional. Eventually he’d feel comfortable enough with her to answer her questions about the difficulties of being a head of state. “I’ve covered stories about Tibet’s holy men when they find a reincarnated soul. I’ve stayed in castles where intelligent people tell me there are ghosts. And I’ve been in countries where it’s considered risqué for a woman to show her ankles.”
“It must have been very difficult for you, since you have such lovely ones,” he complimented her.
Damn! She’d stepped right into that one and barely refrained from wincing. That he didn’t mind revealing that he’d noticed struck her as way too personal, but she cautioned herself that his statement didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to hit on her. Some men offered compliments as easily as others opened a door for a woman.
“Thank you. Now tell me why your people pretend they don’t recognize you,” she said, again bringing their talk back to a more neutral topic.
The look he arrowed at her from the corner of his eye told her he understood what she was doing. Still, he responded with courtly courtesy. “The answer is really simple. Being a king is hard work. Sometimes I need a break.”
His genuine response appealed to her on a basic level, but she restrained her feet from skipping along the sidewalk. This man’s smooth European manners combined with an honesty that was rare in a head of state kept breaching the walls she’d built to keep the conversation and her emotions impersonal.
They headed into gardens of soaring sculptured hedges and intimate curving paths. “So what do you like to do when you’re pretending not to be king?”
He eyed her with more than feigned suspicion. “Is this on the record?”
“Nick,” her eyes challenged him, “with me, everything is on the record.”
NICHOLAS COULDN’T WAIT to see his brother Alexander’s face when he got a look at Ericka Allen, especially when he recalled his brother’s comment that maybe she wouldn’t be ugly. Her shoulder-length curly auburn hair, fair skin and green eyes were drawing more glances than he was. She was knock-your-boots-off gorgeous. Her fabulous hair sparkled in the sunlight. She had straight white teeth and full lips that were made for kissing. And her legs! Her legs made his mouth water. Those heels set her legs off to such advantage he had trouble not thinking of them wrapped around…
But it wasn’t just her looks that had him thinking his father might have made a fine bargain after all. She was the complete package, beauty, brains and bravura all wrapped up into one alluring woman.
He admired her boldness and her businesslike attitude that was both pragmatic and adaptable. He suspected she and his sister Tashya would hit it off, but he was not eager to share her yet. Having her to himself was proving a delightful morning’s diversion, certainly much more interesting than the budget analysis meeting with his finance minister that he’d skipped or the briefing with his secretary of state.
Instead of the refreshing Miss Allen, he’d expected a hard-nosed reporter who would pester him with questions he preferred not to answer. However, she was busy soaking in the atmosphere of the city, smiling at the kids flying kites, sniffing appreciatively at the rich aroma of Turkish coffee from a street vendor.
She was obviously a woman who enjoyed life, one who knew her own mind. She could exchange a glance of amusement with him, but there was nothing coy about her demeanor. Bold, direct and very American were adjectives that fit her. Despite the heels, she set a quick pace that most Vashmiran women would have found hurried. Her eager questions indicated a genuine interest in his people, and he wondered what she would write about his country. About him.
He’d noticed that she didn’t like personal comments. Very professional, she let him know she was all business, yet she still managed to remain friendly. He suspected he would enjoy watching her work, but he would most especially enjoy the challenge of making her disregard that professionalism. Yet, he had to take care. He was not just any man pursuing any woman.
Her words could prove critical to the future of Vashmira. Stories about their multicultured country and recently stable economy would help their tourist industry. Just a short plane ride from Istanbul, Vashmira was well situated to attract more sightseers. However, if she emphasized their proximity to the troubled states of the former Soviet Union or to the volatile Middle East, she could scare away not only tourists but companies who might otherwise invest in their growing satellite industry.
Ericka wandered toward one of Junar’s more famous fountains, built during Stalin’s era, and his security team followed. Since King Zared’s assassination, no one in the royal family ventured out without protection. The ongoing murder investigations had come to many dead ends, and at this late date, Nicholas had little hope of ever seeing justice done. He worried that others in the royal family might become targets of an assassin still at large.
But there had been no other trouble since that fateful day. Not even a whiff of danger. The guards had caught no one attempting to sneak into the palace or trying to break through a crowd. There hadn’t been so much as a threatening letter. Neither, however, had there been any such warning before his father’s murder. Constant vigilance wore on Nicholas’ nerves.
The ever-present security precautions had become an irritation. Now, however, the royal guards, apparently sensitive to Nicholas’ wishes, fanned out, allowing Ericka and him the illusion of privacy.
The fountain’s centerpiece consisted of a spectacular, massive stone sculpture of a soldier and his rearing warhorse, the animal’s face a mask of terror, the soldier’s triumphant.
He expected her to ask about the statue’s history. But she brought up the topic he would have liked to avoid. “Have there been any new developments in the search for your father’s assassin?”
Her inquiry came out of the blue, soft and sinuous. She’d swept right to the hard question, and he suspected that she was interested in his reaction as much as his answer. The subject still pained him, he supposed it always would, but he could speak of the loss now without a lump in his throat.
That his father’s and his last words had been argumentative still filled him with sadness. His father had been a loving man and well-loved in return. Nicholas would miss not only their spirited debates, but his wise advice, his honest humor and his example of how to rule sagely. But most of all, he would miss his infectious laughter.
The responsibility for attaining justice now rested on Nicholas. With the Ukraine to the north, Moldova, Romania and Bulgaria to the east and Turkey to the south, Vashmira was located at the point where Europe and Asia swirled together in a kaleidoscope of conflict, an area rife with enemies in the guise of neighbors—any one of which might have targeted his father. Finding the assassin had proven much more difficult than he’d hoped, but justice would be done.
King Zared had been a loving father, a great soldier, a crafty politician, and he owned the hearts of his people. The “Hero of the Revolution’s” legacy must live on.
To ensure that his father’s legacy continued, Nicholas had had to curb outward signs of his grief and assume the leadership role his father had prepared him for. He hadn’t felt ready to accept the vast responsibilities or the weighty burden so suddenly thrust upon him, but he’d had no choice. The past year had been the toughest of his life, but he’d held Vashmira together.
And while marrying a woman for political reasons sat no better in his gut now than it had while his father still lived, the political necessity was greater. Required to announce his engagement before the coronation ceremo
ny, he was truly snared by his father’s wishes and the old marriage contract. He still could refuse to abide by it, but his father was so beloved by the Vashmiran people that if Nicholas balked without good reason, his people might refuse to follow his leadership. With his father gone forever, it was now up to Nicholas to keep the different factions from dividing his country. He couldn’t risk a civil war—not even to pursue personal happiness.
Besides, even if he refused to marry the American, he had no one else to take her place. No one dear to his heart. Maybe his father’s choice was for the best. His advisors expected him to make a political alliance, and his marriage to the American would strengthen badly needed ties to the West. His people had mourned their fallen leader, indeed would never forget him, but they also needed hope for the future. A royal marriage could give Vashmira a sense of stability, a chance for his father’s legacy to continue.
Naturally, Ericka Allen would have her own opinions about a union between them. Odd, how she had never contacted him once in the decade since her eighteenth birthday when his father had notified her of the marriage contract. Hadn’t she at least been curious? Obviously, she was no more keen on fulfilling their fathers’ wishes than he, but was that admirable or not? On the one hand, he preferred a woman capable of independent thinking, one who didn’t believe that becoming a queen meant a free ride and riches. On the other hand, a malleable wife would make his life easier—and Ericka Allen clearly had a mind of her own. Grave doubts over the wisdom of marrying a stranger was the reason he’d delayed meeting the American. However, now that she was here, he would try to persuade her to marry him.
Long before she’d arrived, he’d decided honesty was the best policy. After all, if his courtship succeeded, she might soon be his wife and part of the family. So he would have to discuss difficult subjects such as losing his father with her. But he’d console himself by drawing nearer to his inquisitor, breathing in her scent.
Royal Target Page 3