The Exiled Prince Trilogy

by Jeana E. Mann

“That’s why I’m here. You need to see this.” She held out her phone so I could view the screen and pressed play on a video clip from a national news station.

  I watched until the end then sat in the nearest chair, afraid my knees might give out. Things seemed to be progressing from bad to worse. “I don’t understand.”

  “If this report is correct, Roman is funding a war in Kitezh, his home country.” A frown tugged the corners of her mouth as she scrolled through different websites. “There are tons of clips, and they all say the same thing.”

  “This is crazy.” The tension in my head increased until I thought my brain might explode. How could he withhold such important information from his wife? “He wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “It gets worse.” She stroked my arm then took my hand in hers. “You’d better sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down,” I said.

  She drew in a long breath as if drawing strength from thin air. “Some reports say that he was killed at an airport in Zurich.”

  The strength left my legs. I sank into the nearest chair and tried to keep my heart beating. “That’s not possible. He went to Los Angeles for a conference.” I refused to give credence to the media. They made up stories about famous people all the time. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation.” Her gentle touch on my shoulder brought the threat of tears closer to fruition. I swallowed down the anxieties. More than anything, I wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

  13

  Rourke

  For a brief time after I woke the next morning, I thought I was in the Park Avenue penthouse. I turned onto my side, eyes closed, feeling for Roman’s hard chest, missing his body heat. The cool, empty sheets slid beneath my palm. I blinked and waited for my vision to sharpen. The patterned damask wallpaper, the giant canopy overhead, and the yawning fireplace at the foot of the bed came into focus. Opulence surrounded me. I was trapped in the house of my dreams, but it meant nothing without my husband.

  “Come back to me, Roman,” I whispered to the empty room. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine the scent of his cologne and the taste of his peppermint kiss on my lips. With a heavy sigh, I dressed and ventured into the mansion. After several wrong turns in the maze of hallways, I finally found the dining room. Gerald hovered outside the double doors. “Good morning, Gerald.”

  “Good morning, madam.” He bowed and opened the doors. Despite the early hour, not one hair was out of place on his head, and he wore an accommodating smile.

  The longest dining room table I’d ever seen stretched in front of me. I blinked and tried not to show my surprise. “Is anyone else up yet?”

  “You’re the first to arrive,” he said. “The chef has prepared a buffet for you.” He gestured toward a row of silver chafing dishes and bowls of fresh fruit on the credenza. The aromas of bacon and spices filled the air. My stomach growled its approval. If Gerald heard, he never batted an eyelash. “Would you like coffee or tea, madam?”

  “Coffee. Yes. Please.” I claimed a seat in the center of the table with a plate of berries and toast, feeling small and alone in the big room. Gerald returned with a large, steaming French press of black coffee and a delicate white porcelain cup, a bowl of sugar, and a small pitcher of fresh cream. I hummed in approval. After a fitful sleep plagued by nightmares, my veins needed a good, stiff shot of caffeine if I intended to last through the day.

  While I sipped on the coffee, I tried to access the internet for news of Roman. One bar? I groaned. “Is there a wi-fi password?”

  “Cellular and wireless service isn’t the best here,” Gerald said. “The walls are more than a meter thick, even more in the older parts of the house, and made of solid stone. Mr. Menshikov intends to install upgrades this summer.”

  “It’s best if you avoid the internet for now,” Lance said. He strode into the room wearing blue jeans and a Bellingham Manor polo shirt. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, reminding me of his tireless efforts to keep me safe. “There’s a lot of misinformation circulating through the media right now. It’s all part of the plan to confuse and mislead whoever is after your husband. You can’t trust anything you hear unless it comes from me, Mr. Menshikov, or Ivan.”

  With a frustrated sigh, I dropped the phone into my lap and took another drink of fortifying java. It seemed like nothing was going my way. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I’ll go crazy.”

  “I contacted your office yesterday and let them know you’ll be unavailable until this crisis is resolved. For now, the best thing you can do is nothing.” Lance filled a plate to overflowing with eggs, baked beans, and bacon then claimed the chair at my right. “I don’t want to speculate, but no news is good news in this situation.”

  “How’s that?” Julie arrived, carrying the baby on her hip. The strain of the past twenty-four hours had added years to her appearance. Her normally bright eyes were puffy and red. She grabbed a muffin from the buffet as she passed. One of the footmen drew a high chair up to the table and helped her seat the baby. One of the kitchen maids carried a silver tray into the room with formula and tiny silver bowls of baby food. Julie gave her a brief smile. “Thank you.”

  “The fact that no one has contacted us leads me to believe that Mr. Menshikov has gone into hiding until the danger has been eradicated.” He dipped a corner of his toast into the baked beans, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Do you think they’ll get in touch with us today?” Not knowing was almost as painful as bad news. I pushed a strawberry around the plate with my fork, my stomach in knots again.

  “I don’t know. I hope so.” A sympathetic smile tilted his lips, but his eyes remained somber.

  “I want to stay positive, but I have a really bad feeling,” Julie said. Her gaze met mine. “Something is wrong.”

  I wanted to comfort her, but the words never appeared. We stared at each other in mute commiseration. Her marriage to Ivan had been a pleasant surprise, and I’d come to treasure them both. Finally, I managed to find my voice and patted her hand. “We’ll get through this.” With a heavy sigh, I dropped my napkin onto the table and stood. “Promise me that you’ll let me know the moment you hear anything, Lance.”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  I needed to occupy my mind until word of Roman arrived and might as well put my time to good use. “Gerald, can you show me around the estate?” Once I became familiar with the property, I’d have a better idea of what it took to run daily operations. After learning how much the community needed the jobs provided by Bellingham Manor, I understood that the estate was as much a business venture as a vacation getaway. The enormity of Roman’s position began to hit home with me. Thousands of people around the world depended on him for their daily survival through his corporate and private holdings.

  Gerald’s eyes lit with delight. The man truly loved his job. “It would be an honor, madam.”

  We started the tour on the ground floor with the kitchen and worked our way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Gold filigree glittered on the muraled ceiling. The empty room seemed larger and more imposing without dozens of guests milling about in their fancy ballgowns and elaborate masks. Standing in the place where I’d met Roman exacerbated the hole in my heart left by his absence. I blinked back the burn of tears and desperation. He’d come back to me. I couldn’t consider any other option.

  To distract myself, I asked questions about the staff and the history of the property. Gerald answered my questions with patience and pride.

  “Do you always dress like that?” I asked, once I’d grown more comfortable with him.

  He tugged at the cuffs of his formal dress coat with white-gloved hands. Pin-striped trousers and shiny black shoes completed his outfit. “Yes, madam. Why do you ask?”

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in regular clothing?”

  His thick eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “The estate agent has always worn this attire.
It’s tradition.”

  Obviously, I’d struck a nerve. I scrambled to soothe his ruffled feathers. “And it’s a great one. But I’m sure Mr. Menshikov wouldn’t care if you chose to wear something less formal.”

  “I’m quite happy upholding the traditions of my predecessors,” Gerald said, with finality. Despite his strong opinion on the subject, I made a mental note to investigate further into the employee dress code. Comfortable attire made for a more relaxed and happy work environment, and it was possible the footmen, who were younger and more contemporary, didn’t share his sentiments.

  “You’ve done a fine job of it,” I said, giving him a genuine smile. If any changes were to be made, I wanted his full support. Making him angry on my first full day wasn’t the best approach.

  “Thank you, madam. Bellingham Manor is not only my place of employment, it’s my home.”

  We walked in silence through the upper gallery. Portraits of the former dukes, lords, and ladies from previous generations lined the walls. The final painting took my breath away. Roman stared down at me. The artist had captured his blazing blue eyes and stunning features with amazing accuracy. My chest burned as I blinked back tears. Would I ever look into those eyes again?

  Gerald touched my elbow. “Madam?” I had a feeling he’d addressed me more than a few times. “Your chambers are this way.” He gestured toward the nearest door. My feet moved forward, but they were heavy, like slogging through wet cement.

  “What’s in here?” I rattled the door knob next to my room.

  “That would be Mr. Menshikov’s private study.” I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was reluctant to provide further information.

  “Do you have a key?”

  He hesitated. “Yes, madam.” When I lifted an eyebrow, he rolled his lips together as if to protest then removed the key ring from his belt and unlocked the door. “Mr. Menshikov has requested that only necessary staff be permitted into this room due to the sensitive nature of his business.” I crossed my arms over my chest. He sighed. “But I’m sure he’d extend that permission to encompass his wife.”

  “Don’t worry. If Roman gives you a hard time, you can say that I forced you to do it.”

  The moment I stepped across the threshold, I felt Roman’s presence. Dark, rich colors covered the walls and furnishings. I trailed fingertips along the mahogany desk surface, touching the pens and pieces of paper, the things Roman had last touched. One of his sweaters was draped over the back of a chair. The soft loose knit smelled of his spicy masculine scent. I lifted it to my nose and drew in a deep breath.

  “Are there any televisions in this place?” I asked, still holding the article of clothing, unable to let it go. Maybe the news channels could shed some light on Roman’s situation, since no one else seemed to be talking. I slipped my arms into the sweater. The sleeves hung past my fingertips, but it was the closest I’d been to my husband in days.

  “No, madam. Mr. Menshikov had the televisions removed.”

  As much as I hated this tidbit of information, I wasn’t surprised. We never watched TV in our Park Avenue penthouse. When we weren’t at the office, we were too tired or too busy. Roman used his spare time for conversation with me, for reading classic novels, or exercising in his home gym.

  Gerald waited by the door. Clearly, he was ready for us to leave, but I had other plans. “Thank you for the tour. I think I’ll stay up here for a while.” I wanted to hang out and enjoy the illusion of Roman’s presence for a few private moments. I also wanted to see if I could access his computer away from Gerald’s disapproving eyes.

  “Very well.” After a quick bow, he left, leaving the door open behind him.

  I sat down in Roman’s leather desk chair and ran my hands over the armrests. The leather creaked with each of my movements. Knowing that he’d sat here, had touched these things, gave me a small kernel of comfort. I smiled at the doodles on the desk calendar and traced a fingertip over my name written in Roman’s neat script. He’d been thinking of me.

  I powered up the desktop and bit my lower lip while the monitor changed from dark to a screensaver of the estate. If I knew Roman, he had some sort of internet rigged to service his computer. The man gloried in technology. With a little luck, I might be able to do a web search for information about Roman and up his email inbox. He received hundreds of emails a day. One of my job duties had been to open and sort through his messages, assigning them to folders according to subject matter or sender. Doing something normal might lessen my anxiety.

  The security prompt blinked at me. As part of my job, Roman had given me most of his email and computer passwords. I stared at the screen, running through a mental list of password possibilities. The first attempt failed, but the second one put me online. I logged into his personal email account, the one he used for his most important correspondence, and blinked at the blank screen. All his emails had been wiped clean.

  “This can’t be right,” I muttered and tapped more keys. My hacking skills bordered on nonexistent, but I knew how to check the log file and download history.

  “What are you doing?” I jumped at the sound of Lance’s voice near my shoulder.

  “Nothing.” I’d been so engrossed into breaking Roman’s password that I hadn’t heard him arrive. His gaze roved suspiciously over my face. I could tell he was pissed by the muscle flexing in his jaw, but I didn’t care. “Working.”

  “You can’t do that. Someone might be able to trace your location.” In two long strides, he reached my side and stabbed the power button with his index finger. The screen winked into darkness.

  “What the hell, Lance.” We glowered at each other. I was too frustrated and exhausted to think clearly.

  “You guys! I can hear you all the way to the dining hall.” Everly came into the room and took a seat on the corner of the desk. Without the benefit of cosmetics, her clear skin glowed. The length of her auburn hair had been twisted into a simple bun. “You’re going to bring the entire house in here if you don’t put a lid on it.”

  14

  Roman

  I’d dealt with loss before, starting with the assassination of my parents, and had developed a type of numbness to death. Losing Ivan wrecked me in ways I never anticipated. He’d been the singular constant throughout my life, always the voice of reason in a chaotic world. When I’d begun the journey to right the wrongs done to my family, I knew there’d be casualties along the way, but I’d never anticipated the loss of the man who’d given light to my darkness. He’d sacrificed his life to protect me. The hole left in my heart hurt worse than any gunshot wound of the flesh.

  “Been shot four times,” Spitz said, giving me a sideways glance as we left the airport. “Three times in the line of duty and once by my ex-wife. They all hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. You’re not gonna die, but it’ll hurt like hell for a while.”

  Spitz had rented a plain, no-frills pickup truck to get us out of the city. I slouched in the passenger side and tried to think of anything but the burning hole in my side. I’d avoided taking pain medication to keep my head clear. The narcotics made it difficult to think at a time when I needed every facet of brainpower. Blood seeped through the dressing and left a dark stain on my shirt. The wound throbbed and pulsed with each beat of my heart.

  “Good to know,” I replied and shifted to find a comfortable position. Every time I moved too fast, pain shot into my legs and the world reeled.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” His critical gaze dragged from my face to my feet and up again. “You look like shit.”

  Like me, he wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. We’d traded in our suits for jeans and T-shirts. Neither of us had shaved in days. To the casual onlooker, we probably looked like regular guys on our way home from work.

  “Quitting isn’t an option.” Too many lives depended on what happened next. If I abandoned the cause, my family and I would never be safe. My country would fall to the heartless bastards who’d taken Ivan and my parents from me. �
�We need to end this.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Ivan had put together a plan for this type of situation. Conflicting reports of my injuries were leaked to the press to confuse and mislead the assassins. While they scrambled to uncover the truth, I would use the time to implement Plan B. Worry for Rourke distracted my thoughts. I couldn’t risk calling or texting her. The false reports of my death would devastate her.

  “I need to get a message to my wife.”

  “No way,” Spitz replied.

  “I have everything we need at the manor house to finish this.” The sixteenth-century home had been a fortress long before it became a country estate and had all kinds of secret passages to protect the owners from siege. It was one of the many reasons I fell in love with place. “There’s a tunnel from the stable to the main house. No one will even know we’re there.”

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t like it.”

  “Do you have a better suggestion? Because I’m all ears.” Now that the shock had begun to subside, adrenalin kicked in. I’d never been the kind of man to cower in the face of adversity, and I didn’t intend to start now. More than anything, I needed to find Rourke.

  “Fine.” Spitz scratched his grizzled whiskers. “But for the record, I haven’t been briefed on the logistics of this place. I can’t protect you on unfamiliar ground.”

  “Objection noted.” Although he came off as gruff, I appreciated his candor.

  “A hot shower would be nice.” He shook his head.

  “You admitted the heat is off for the time being. The media is convinced I’m in Switzerland.” I removed the baseball cap long enough to run fingers through my unwashed hair. “I need to see my wife.” He stared at me for a long minute, his jaw clenched. I didn’t really know him, but Ivan had trusted him. I had no choice but to do the same.

  “I’ve had four,” he replied, dryly. “None of them could deal with my lifestyle.”