by Jillian Dodd
"Hmm, now I kind of wish I had had them petition the group to allow girls in," I say. "Although I probably couldn't contribute much to a club right now."
He reaches out and smooths my hair. "This isn't just about you and your missions anymore."
"I know. It's about Montrovia. About your country."
"It's your country now, too, Contessa."
"Is that why you granted us citizenship and made us knights?"
He gives me a playful grin. "One of the reasons."
"What's another one?"
"A member of the royal family must marry a Montrovian citizen if they want to rule."
I give him a playful smack on his muscular shoulder. "I knew you had an ulterior motive."
He looks at me seriously. "Were you sincere about our courtship? When we get back, I must discuss it with my mother."
"Yes, I would like for you to court me." I giggle, immediately wishing I wouldn't have. Not only because it hurts but because it feels so frivolous in light of everything that happened yesterday. I tell myself that I am allowing him to court me, because it's good for my mission--that it will help me save Montrovia. But I also know in my heart that's not the real reason. "It sounds so proper and old-fashioned."
"The custom is. Courtship has changed a lot over the years. In ancient times, if I wanted to marry you, I would have raided your village and captured you. Then after you became my bride, we would have had to go into hiding, so your father wouldn't find me and kill me."
I can't help but laugh.
"Then there are arranged marriages. They are typically business relationships, born out of the desire for money, property, or a political reason--usually to keep peace between nations."
"That's still why some people marry today, even without an arranged marriage."
"One thing no one could ever say about you, my dear, is that you want to marry me for my money."
I laugh again. "That is true. It seems I have plenty of that, providing my brother doesn't throw it all away on custom suits, fancy cars, and ridiculously expensive alcohol."
"Did you know that, during Medieval times, things became more romantic? Women were wooed with serenading, flowers, and poetry."
"Like you have been doing to me?" I ask as I kiss his cheek. "You sent me apology flowers, you've read me poetry, and you sang to me on my birthday."
"I made you cry on your birthday. It must have been my voice," he teases. "Good tone is not one of my given talents."
"We can sing badly together then," I say. "I don't have a very good voice either."
"I've never heard you sing, but your voice is like music to my ears," he says, taking a lock of my hair and twisting it around his finger.
I close my eyes, soaking in his attention and letting it wipe away the horrors of yesterday.
"I love you, Lorenzo," I say dreamily, my eyes still closed.
But then I realize what I just said. When I open my eyes, he gazes into them, his love apparent.
He strokes his hand through my hair and says, "I love you, too, Lee." Then he kisses me.
We finally get up and, with an eye on the clock, quickly get ready. We don't bother packing. Anything we need can be shipped back to Montrovia. I grab my hand bag and my backpack. Even though there's really nothing in it of value, it's always been a constant in my life--like the blanket you had to sleep with as a child. I know my attachment to it is silly, but I take it anyway.
"I wish you didn't have to leave," Chauncey pouts. He's just finished eating a meal of strawberry-topped waffles along with a full English breakfast.
"I wish I didn't have to leave either," I tell him. "But Lorenzo needs to go back home for business."
"When will my daddy be done with his business trip?" he asks.
"I hope very soon," I tell him, not wanting to be specific.
At least now though, I don't feel like I'm lying to him. I do think his father is still alive. A photo of Lorenzo and me together at the Royal Ascot yesterday graces the pages of a local London paper this morning, and I'm sure our return to Montrovia will be documented, so it's not like it won't be easy for him to find me.
Chauncey seems to accept this news in stride, but Lorenzo picks the boy up and gives him a hug.
"Plus, Huntley and I will be back in a few weeks for another event."
"What event is that?" I ask.
"Well, the summer season is officially in gear in London. We'll want to come back for both Wimbledon and the British Grand Prix. I'd also love to spend some time with you aboard my yacht."
"Can I come to the Grand Prix?" Chauncey asks. "I love race cars. Someday, I want to drive fast cars like that."
"I'll see what I can do about getting you and your nanny a ticket. How does that sound?" Lorenzo says, putting him back on his feet.
"It's bloody perfect," he replies, causing us to break out in laughter.
"You need to go get your jacket," the nanny says. "You don't want to be late for school."
"Okay," he says with an adorable little sigh.
My pack and bag have already been loaded in the car, so I steal another strawberry and pop it into my mouth while I wait.
"Is Ari coming with us?" I ask.
"No, he messaged me this morning, thanked me for my hospitality, and said to tell you someone named Terrance picked him up. He has something to do here in London but hopes to be in Montrovia by nightfall."
"Lorenzo, we're ready for you," one of his guards says, coming in through the side door where his limo is parked outside.
"Go ahead," I tell him. "Chauncey and I will be right behind you."
He starts to head toward the door but stops, turns around, wraps his arms around me, and gives me a deep kiss.
"What's that for?" I whisper in his ear since we are surrounded by his guards.
"I'm better at kissing than singing," he says with a grin.
EPI:LOGUE
The assassin known as The Priest is lying in wait on the roof of an eight-story apartment building that sits on a posh London street. His breathing is controlled and slow as he looks through a long-range riflescope.
It's hard to believe that it's been just two weeks to the day since he took his first job in years. He and Chauncey were doing fine in France. Sure, he was always afraid his past would catch up with him, but he didn't expect to be back in the game.
It's his own fault. He was swayed by money and revenge--mostly money. It's not every day you get a thirty-million-dollar payout.
He thought the first of the three hits would prove to be the most difficult. After all, the president of the United States of America is very well guarded. But it turned out to be quite simple actually.
The reason why most of The Priest's hits seem easy to an outsider is because they don't realize the amount of preparation he puts into a hit. He researches, studies, and watches. Humans, he knows, are creatures of habit, and even well-protected ones do stupid things, like jog the same route every day.
In the president's case, his attendance at the International Summit made it simple to find out exactly where he would be and when. The rest was just a matter of geometry and physics--how to get the bullet to hit his target when the small window of opportunity opened.
The second hit of the Montrovian princess was even easier. The girl lived in France, drank every night at a local pub with friends, and stumbled home--often in the company of a different young man. The times she came home tended to vary, but regardless of how hungover she should have been, she'd religiously walk across the street every morning at the same time for coffee before going to a nearby yoga class. Once the time and place were determined, a good aim and science took over.
In between hits two and three, he headed to the United States for revenge--this time, to a ranch in Texas. It should have been quite simple. Walk in the place and kill the old man.
But the former president was still guarded by Secret Service and lived in the middle of nowhere. It was the kind of place where neighbors were few and
far between but knew each other well, where a rental car stood out, and where dogs barked at everything foreign.
Not sure how to proceed, the assassin decided to simply climb a tree on the property not too far from the back of the home to watch and wait. Very quickly, the right opportunity presented itself when the man who had betrayed him rode out toward the trees on a four-wheeler. The former president was wearing a camouflage hunting jacket even though it wasn't hunting season.
But The Priest had seen many wild boars on the property and knew they were dangerous and destructive animals that had been causing so many problems in the South that they were an exception. They could be killed year-round. The Priest was surprised when the former president continued out into the trees all alone with just two rifles strapped to the back of the vehicle.
He took a deep breath. Normally, The Priest only kills when contracted to do so. It wasn't like he killed for fun. For him, it was all business. But, when a former president with much power and reach wanted you dead, you either killed or got killed. It was the only way he would ever feel safe again.
He stayed in the tree and waited, the four-wheeler stopping a few feet away. The man got off and was studying the dirt, noticing the wild boar prints.
While the man was looking down, the assassin jumped out of the tree, shocking the man and quickly putting a bullet in his head, using a silenced pistol.
What he hadn't counted on were the boars. By the time he heard their snuffles behind him, it was too late. He grabbed a rifle off the four-wheeler and shot one, causing the others to flee. He'd never seen such beasts, and they scared him.
The rifle was very loud and too close to the house. It was sure to catch the attention of the Secret Service, which meant that they would be out here quickly. They would see the single bullet in the former president's head and know that the boars didn't do it. They would have choppers and state and local police here before he could get back to his car, which was parked nearly three miles away.
He took the rifle, put it in the dead man's hands with it facing him, and pulled the trigger. The blast obliterated the man's face and head and, most importantly, hid the original cause of death--for the time being. The Priest grabbed the other rifle off the four-wheeler just in case any boars followed him as he ran for his life.
It wasn't until he had gotten to his car, dumped the rifle in a river, gotten on an airplane, and had gotten back to the UK before he finally felt safe. He checked into a fine London hotel, dressed in a business suit and using an assumed name, where he immediately fell into bed and slept for two days straight.
In other words, he hadn't read the newspapers. He hadn't seen the photos of Huntley and Lorenzo at events in London over the last few days.
When he woke up, he ordered everything possible from the room service menu and set to work by making a call to the Montrovian Royal Press Secretary. He pretended to be a London-based reporter requesting an interview with the king. He was told that he was in luck. That the king was currently in London and would be attending the Royal Ascot races today. She suggested maybe he could catch an interview there. The Priest thanked the secretary for her time.
He thought about London as the place to complete the third and final hit. He'd rather do it in Montrovia. Security was more lax in the king's home country than abroad. He'd also much rather take a few days to study the man's habits. But it was like a gift had fallen into his lap. They were in the same city. It was fate even though he knew London and the UK were tricky because of the number of CCTV surveillance cameras they had. Estimates say London has over a half million, and the UK has a staggering five million--or about one camera for every fifteen citizens.
But The Priest has thirty million reasons why he shouldn't delay further. He just wants to complete his contract, collect his money, find his son, and live somewhere that doesn't extradite to the US. Interestingly enough, he considered both Switzerland and Montrovia but thinks a nice little island in the Maldives might be better. At least for a while.
He looked up the event schedule for the Royal Ascot and deduced the easiest way would also be the best way. He knows there will be some collateral damage, but it can't be helped. He needs to be finished.
He left the hotel and met with a former contact who supplied him with a simple bomb, one that could be attached to the king's car at the event.
But that was fraught with risk.
No, he decided.
He'd have to sneak on the grounds, put it on the limousine at the king's mansion, and pray that the driver wouldn't start the car until the king got inside.
The gates for day two of the Royal Ascot open at ten thirty, and the first race starts at two thirty, but from what he read online, there are a lot of events going on beforehand. Not to mention, there's the hour and a half drive out there, meaning the king should leave somewhere between eight thirty and twelve thirty. He would have liked to watch the house, scope it out, see what time he left for the race yesterday, and who was with him. He also knew that many wealthy Londoners took a helicopter out to the country, and if the king were doing that, The Priest would be lying here for quite some time, staring at a car, at a doorway, and praying no one saw him doing so.
At a quarter to nine, he is pleasantly surprised when the king and his security team exit out a side door and quickly get loaded into the car. The Priest waits for what feels like hours, but in reality, it is actually one minute and fifty-four seconds.
The Priest wonders what they are doing. Why are they just sitting there? Could they suspect something is amiss with the vehicle? Did he properly hook the bomb up to the starter, or did he screw it up, so the thing won't even start?
"Start the damn car already," he whispers loudly.
But then the side door swings open again, and a young boy dressed in a gray-and-red school uniform is followed by Huntley, the assassin known as X. He focuses on the child, now realizing with horror that it is his own son, Chauncey.
Please don't let them get in, he prays.
But his prayers are not answered.
Because they do get in.
And it is in that moment that The Priest wishes he had taken the bomb-maker's advice to use a cell-phone detonator. If he had, he could have controlled the outcome of this situation by simply not pressing the button.
But he didn't. He knows that modern technology doesn't always work the way it's supposed to, so he rigged it old-school style--straight to the starter.
And that means Huntley and his son are going to die today while he lies here helpless, watching.
"No!" he yells out as he realizes there is nothing he can do to stop it.
Nature kicks in, causing him to tightly close his eyes, his mind overriding his desire to see what will happen next.
A few moments later, the sound of an explosion rocks the city.
THE:END
GET: BOOK 4
THE VALIANT
BOOKS BY:JILLIAN DODD
The USA TODAY bestselling series,
The Keatyn Chronicles(r)
Stalk Me
Kiss Me
Date Me
Love Me
Adore Me
Hate Me
Get Me
Keatyn Unscripted
Aiden
Hollywood Love Series
(A Keatyn Chronicles Spin off)
Fame
Power
Money
Sex
Love
That Boy Series
That Boy
That Wedding
That Baby
The Love Series
Vegas Love
Broken Love
Spy Girl Series
The Prince
The Eagle
The Society
The Valiant
By Jillian Dodd and Kenzie Harp
Girl off the Grid
ABOUT:THE AUTHOR
Jillian is a USA TODAY bestselling author. She writes fun romances with characters her readers fall in love w
ith, from the boy next door in the That Boy trilogy to the daughter of a famous actress in The Keatyn Chronicles series.
She's married to her college sweetheart, has two adult children, two Labs named Cali and Camber, and lives in a small Florida beach town. When she's not working, she likes to decorate, paint, doodle, shop for shoes, watch football, and go to the beach.
FOLLOW JILLIAN:ON HER WEBSITE.
SIGN UP:HERE FOR HER NEWSLETTER.