Despite his having deliberately tamped down his wrath, she kept increasing the distance between them—emotionally, physically. If she’d been anyone else, he would have ordered a guard to block the exit.
Before she left the room, he spoke. “The least you can do is stay and face me. Let’s talk this out.”
“Why? So you can point out the error of my ways? Forbid me to do my job? I don’t see the point.” She kept walking, giving him her stiff back.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“I have things to do. People to see.”
He was furious. “You’re investigating another story?”
She spun to face him, her face battle tight, her mouth grim, arms locked across her chest. “Nicholas, I’m a reporter. Writing stories is what I do.”
“Not anymore.” He snapped open his drawer and extracted the package. He thrust it toward her, but she made no move to come closer as if dreading he’d touch her.
Maybe he should touch her. But he knew what would happen if he did. Sparks would kindle and ignite, and then they’d end up back in bed without resolving anything.
“What is it?”
“Your mail.”
She glared at him. “Why was my mail in your desk?”
He shrugged. “I was waiting for the right moment to give it to you.”
“Why is now the right moment?”
He swore under his breath in Arabic, an exquisite language full of very apt phrases to portray his current rage. “Just open the damned contract.”
She elevated one annoyed brow, her tone barbed, but controlled. “How do you already know what is inside, Nicholas?” Before he could answer, her pitch deepened as if she had every right to castigate him. “You confiscate my mail and then you open it? Don’t you have any laws in this country?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get off your high horse.”
She pivoted like a whirling dervish, her robe floating upward and giving him a look at her trim ankles as she made a beeline for the door.
“Ericka, don’t walk away from me.” He snapped out an order. She pretended not to hear him and kept going. “Please? I didn’t open your mail. I didn’t have to…since I already know what’s inside. It’s a gift.”
“From you to me?” She pivoted, a torrent of quiet tears streaming down on her cheeks.
Damn. He’d made her cry. He’d wanted to give her a gift, and he’d made her cry. Guilt speared his conscience and punctured his heart, but from her ramrod straight spine and the glint of fire in her expression, he knew she would tolerate neither an apology nor solace from him.
“It’s a publishing contract,” he offered since she’d made no move toward the parcel.
“And you’re so knowledgeable about the contents,” she said sarcastically, “without having even opened my mail because?”
He tilted back in his chair and turned his palms up as if to show her he’d meant no harm. “I orchestrated the offer.”
“When did I hire you as my agent?” She narrowed her eyes, clearly furious with him, probably all the more furious because he’d handed her something she wanted—she just didn’t want to accept it from him.
“Don’t worry, I won’t charge you a commission.”
She inched forward, glared at him, then the package, then at him.
He thrust it to her side of his desk. “Go on. Read it. You can thank me later.”
She snatched the package off his desk and tucked it against her chest as if the papers were as precious as a newborn babe. “You had no right to interfere in my career.”
“Look,” he ran a hand through his hair with impatience. “You and I, we are too often at cross purposes.”
“So you thought that by ending my career—”
“By offering you a shot at your dream—”
“—you could mold me into shape.”
“You already have a great shape.” He recalled the firm and sensuous contours of her breasts, the perfect curves of her hips, her lovely, long legs wrapped around his waist and refused to acknowledge desire rippling straight to his toes. She was standing there in just a bathrobe, arguing like a queen, and he had to use every ounce of resolve not to show her how very much he appreciated her shape. Instead he offered the lamest of comments. “I’m surprised you never became a television journalist.”
“I like to write my own stories, thank-you-very-much.”
Sure she did. She wanted to be in charge of every word, not read a teleprompter. But he kept that observation to himself. “Well, here’s your opportunity to write an entire novel, with a seven-figure advance to boot.”
“Seven figures?” Ericka gasped and her fingers tightened possessively on the package. “And just what did you offer the publisher in return?”
“You.”
“What?” She clenched the fingers of her right hand as if she intended to deck him.
“And me.”
“You and me?” If he’d been any closer, her fury would have scorched him. As it was, he still endured a third-degree burn, but he intended to take as much heat as necessary from her if she’d agree to switch careers.
“They want a book about you and me. Us.”
“There is no us.”
He cocked his head and let her see his skepticism. “Do you really believe that after last night, we aren’t a couple?”
She held up the package. “Last night has nothing to do with this.”
“Wrong.”
“Damn you, Nicholas. For someone basically honorable, you can be shrewd and sly and sneaky. And for someone who speaks five languages—”
“Six, if you count Turkish.”
“—you can be remarkably ambiguous.”
“For a woman who’s just been handed the contract of her dreams,” he felt compelled to point out, “you seem remarkably reluctant to read it.”
“You’re trying to bribe me,” she accused him in a frustrated whisper.
He figured that since she hadn’t immediately torn up the papers, there was a chance she might actually, eventually, read them. “And you are afraid that if you read the offer, you’ll be tempted to accept.”
“Of course I’m afraid I’ll accept. I’ve always wanted to write a book and now you’ve given me the perfect opportunity.”
“So you’re terrified your work won’t be any good?”
“No.”
“You’re afraid you’ll fail?”
“No.”
“Afraid of writer’s block?”
She shook her head.
“Or are you afraid of me?”
She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So what exactly is the problem?”
“I’m afraid I’ll accept for the wrong reasons.” With tears brimming once again in her eyes, she marched toward the door, clutching the contract as if it was a death sentence instead of the chance to fulfill a lifetime goal. Once again he wondered if he’d ever understand her.
Once again, she’d left him very much alone.
ERICKA WOULD NOT CRY. Tossing the unopened envelope onto her bed, she charged into her closet and tore a pantsuit off the hanger. Who the hell did he think he was? Going behind her back. Negotiating her publishing contract. Damn him. How did he know what she wanted to write?
Obviously Tashya had betrayed her confidence. Thrusting first one leg into her pants, then the other, Ericka let her fury surge through her, hoping to cleanse away her hurt and confusion. She was here to do a job, report on the coronation ceremony, and she intended to complete her assignment. She would not allow Nicholas to bribe her. She would not read the contract.
So then why did the plain envelope attract her like specialty chocolate wrapped in gold foil? Why did the package draw her like a hungry Survivor contestant to a big, juicy hamburger?
She’d never let any man come between her and success. Now was no time to start. Before, she’d always put her career first, no matter what, but already she’d agreed to delay writi
ng the assassination story, possibly compromising her scoop. Now was not the time to let a man get under her skin, influence her decisions or orchestrate her career.
Just because they’d just shared the most passionate, exquisite sex of her lifetime. Certainly not. Just because she wanted to go back into that office and drag him over the desk and kiss him silly did not mean that she was in love.
She couldn’t be in love. It had to be lust. Simple, uncomplicated lust. She could enjoy making love with Nicholas and then say goodbye with only fond memories to look back upon. So why did her insides feel as though she’d been flayed with a razor-sharp blade? Why were her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t put on her shoes? And why was she having trouble seeing through the tears she wasn’t going to shed?
“Ericka?” Nicholas poked his too-handsome and much-too-cocky head through the door.
She muttered the most unladylike of curses, hurled her shoe across the elegant room in his general direction. He ducked and kept advancing. “Now I know why you dyed your hair auburn—to match your hot temper.”
“Get out.” In no mood for his teasing, she collapsed on the satin coverlet. The envelope poked her shoulder.
Ignoring her temper, Nicholas stalked further into her room, eyes full of concern, which only increased her fury.
Yanking the package out from beneath her, she considered pitching it at him or into the trash. But she couldn’t.
For one heart-stopping moment, she let her gaze lock with Nicholas’ and read hope, concern and an edge of dark amusement. “Go on, open it.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Fine.”
Bouncing onto the bed beside her, he plucked the envelope from her nerveless fingers and tugged at the tab. A stapled document slipped out and into his hands. “Usually a verbal offer is made and accepted before the publisher issues a contract, but they made an exception in your case.”
“Why?” Her gaze flickered from him to the document and back, her throat tight, a bevy of hatching butterflies in her tummy.
“I thought holding a contract in your hands might make the offer more real.”
Her life had changed so drastically since she’d arrived in Vashmira that nothing seemed real. Nicholas’ hands, which now held her publishing contract, had skimmed over every inch of her flesh. He’d kissed her and made love to her, but that didn’t give him the right to interfere in her career.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to give up journalism,” she told him, distracted by the fine print of the contract which called her Queen Ericka and gave her address as the palace in Vashmira.
“Your work and mine are too often at cross-purposes. If you consented to write the book—”
She scanned the document, flipping the pages. “You still might not like what I choose to put in my book.”
“But the timing factor wouldn’t be so critical,” he told her. “After you finish the first draft, there are revisions and edits, and then it’ll take another full year to come to press.”
Her hands shook. “This contract is for two books—not political thrillers but biographies. One about our engagement. One about our first year of marriage.” She wanted to toss the pages in his face, yet he looked so hopeful that she reconsidered. “You don’t think I’ll be able to cause you lots of trouble with a book? Two books?”
He grinned confidently. “Somehow, I expect you’ll always be able to cause me trouble, especially if you agree to become my wife.”
She dropped the contract. “We’ve known one another less than a week.”
“Ah, but I’ve already learned a great deal about you,” he told her with a roguish grin and proceeded to plant a simmering kiss on her earlobe.
“I can’t think when you do that.”
He nibbled a path down her neck. “Don’t think. Say yes.”
“To what? The contract? Making love? Keeping you?”
“How about all three?”
If she’d ever dreamed of a proposal, it wouldn’t have been like this. However, as a practical career woman, she tried to consider the options and ignore her galloping pulse—and the very significant fact that he hadn’t once mentioned the word love. “I don’t even know what a queen is supposed to do.”
“Your primary responsibility will be pleasuring the king,” he teased.
She pushed him away. “Damn it. I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” He sighed and gathered her into his arms.
Resting her head on his shoulder, she relaxed against him and tried to ignore the nervous sweat on her palms. “I might embarrass you.”
“Embarrassment never killed anyone. What I’m most concerned about is the danger you may be in by agreeing to marry me.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
His look said he was well aware of that. “If we’re going to make this marriage work, I would ask a promise from you.”
Oh, no. She didn’t want to make such important decisions, didn’t feel ready even to hear out his request. Somehow, she dredged up the courage to look at him. And saw his pain, confusion and determination. She held her breath. “Yes?”
He made his request oh-so-casually, but she knew it had to cost him to say the words. “If you ever decide to leave me again, please, have the decency to tell me first.”
“That’s quite a request.” She released the air in her lungs slowly. Especially since they both knew that if she warned him by declaring her intentions ahead of time, he would have the power to stop her. She didn’t want to give anyone that kind of control over her. But she couldn’t say no, either. Not after the passion they’d just shared. Not after he’d told her the heartbreaking story of his mother leaving his father during the middle of the revolution. He’d given her so much to think about—a new career, marriage, a new life—that her thoughts spun.
Why couldn’t she drop into reporter mode? Sort the facts and make a decision? Because she couldn’t catalogue her emotions so easily. However much it helped to pinpoint the problem, it didn’t solve her dilemma. Right now she didn’t have a clue what she wanted.
Did she love him?
Yes.
Was she willing to give up everything that had always mattered to her for him? She didn’t know. Deciding the rest of her life on the spur of the moment wasn’t going to happen.
He waited several tense moments for her answer, but she couldn’t give him one. “I can increase the guards around you, but it cuts down on privacy. You’ll have to promise me not to leave the palace without making security arrangements.”
“That’s not acceptable.” So much for romantic proposals and everlasting promises of love. The conversation about security arrangements wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined she’d be discussing immediately after receiving a proposal. “I can’t—”
“You can, at least until we catch whoever is after you.”
She sat up and crossed her legs. “I’m not convinced someone’s after me.” Her voice shook a little. “Steering a boat by remote control cannot be easy. The boat only aimed once in my direction. It’s far more likely you are the target—just like your father was.” She rolled to her side and propped her chin in her palm, considering him with a frown.
When she didn’t speak, he sat up and took her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m starting to understand what accepting your offer entails. Living with the possibility that any moment one of your loyal subjects might step out of a crowd and shoot you.”
“Our security is much improved since my father’s death.”
“Yeah, but all the security in the world won’t do us a bit of good if the killer is someone we trust.”
Chapter Eleven
After Nicholas left to attend to the growing international crisis, Ericka did what she always did when she had a personal problem. She worked.
Sitting at the desk that probably cost ten times more than her very expensive laptop, she typed all the facts she’d gathered about Nicholas’ immediate family. Alexander and Tashya req
uired several pages each, others like Sophia and the little boys only took up a paragraph. Next, Ericka sorted information on Nicholas’ staff, starting with Ira Hanuck, his security chief, then moving on to General Vladimir, Peter Surak, the economic advisor, and his unpleasant wife Janna, Secretary of State Anton Belosova, his wife Natalie and daughter Larissa, and finally Ben Golden, the press secretary.
Who had the most to gain from Nicholas’ demise? His brother, who would inherit the crown? The general who controlled the military? The Islamic economic advisor who feared Nicholas would admit the Jews into the country? Or Ben Golden who feared he wouldn’t? And what of Larissa Belosova? Could she have her heart set on becoming queen? Nicholas had cut their relationship off and her interest had turned to Alexander. Maybe she intended to pursue him and make him king. The idea seemed far-fetched, but possible.
As Ericka considered the possibilities, she laced her fingers together and stretched. She needed a break and more information. These people were mostly still strangers to her. While Nicholas had known them for years, he might be too close to see their real motivations. She’d intended to interview each member of his cabinet, but the crisis had made that impossible.
That left Tashya, who had gone straight to Nicholas about Ericka’s private revelation that she wanted to write novels, and look where that had led; Sophia, who didn’t seem much interested in politics; Janna and Larissa, neither of whom seemed likely to be able to help her. And Natalie. The wife of the secretary of state had even offered to show her around and talk to her.
Ericka stood, strolled through her suite to the efficiency kitchen and helped herself to a cup of coffee. Natalie seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. She didn’t excite easily and she was knowledgeable enough for Nicholas to trust as a hostess when Tashya or Sophia weren’t available.
“Ericka,” Nicholas’ voice came to her from the intercom system. She walked over to it and pressed the talk button.
“Yes?”
“Are you expecting a package from the Washington Herald?” he asked, his voice tense. Her boss might have sent over research material, background information or other related stories. However, he hadn’t mentioned it during her phone conversation from Russia.
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