The Judge and the Gypsy

by Sandra Chastain

  Jannot had forgotten Sandor had been personal adviser to King Stefan-during the tension-fraught period preceding the revolution. It was difficult to connect Sandor Karpathan, the Duke of Limtana, with Sandor Karpathan, the Tanzar. Yet perhaps the latter couldn’t have existed without the former. Sandor’s inborn arrogance, his charisma, had made him a remarkable leader. He was a brilliant man, who handled those from all walks of life with finesse. “He fooled all of us. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Whom else should I blame? I helped Naldona overthrow the monarchy,” Sandor said wearily. “I didn’t realize he was a Marxist, until it was too late. Men have died because I made that mistake.” He finished the beer in two swallows and set the tankard down on the table. “The deaths have to stop. Naldona isn’t going to get his hands on Bruner’s weapons.”

  “You’ll need our help to get you into the palace.”

  “Perhaps not. Who is occupying Princess Kira’s former suite?”

  Jannot blinked in surprise. “I believe that’s where they’ve put Bruner and his mistress. It was the only suite with two bedrooms, and Naldona thought Bruner would prefer to maintain the private-secretary fiction.”

  “Well, that’s a stroke of luck, anyway.” Sandor rose to his feet and stretched lazily. “But since you don’t know when the murder of the woman is to take place, I’ll have to do a little investigating before I can devise a plan. What happens tomorrow evening?”

  “A large cocktail party at seven, followed by a small dinner party. It will be attended by all Naldona’s loyal sycophants.” He frowned. “You’re not planning on going to … Sandor, it would be suicide!”

  Sandor shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re right. I may have to use Fontaine. I’ll decide after I’ve taken the Ballard woman’s measure.” He clapped his hand on Jannot’s shoulder. “But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, old friend, I’d give my soul for a bath and a clean, soft bed. I can’t remember when I last had either.”

  “Use the bathroom in my quarters. They’re in the rear of the café, the first door on the left after you enter the kitchen. I think I can find clean clothes in your size. I try to keep a large stock on hand.” His lips tightened bitterly. “When we’re occasionally able to liberate prisoners from Naldona’s cells, their clothing is almost as torn as their bodies.”

  “But thanks to you and your men, we’ve been able to mend quite a few of those bodies,” Sandor said gently. “Remember that, Jannot.” His smile suddenly lit his face with warmth.

  It was the first time tonight Jannot had been exposed to the charm that was an integral element of Karpathan’s character. The strength of the man’s personal magnetism always came as a shock to Jannot, even after all the years he had known him. No wonder he held sway over Tamrovia with no visible effort on his part. The diplomat and nobleman had evolved into the Tanzar. And the Tanzar must be protected at all costs. “I would offer my bed as well, but it’s not safe for you. I have a bed in the cellar where you can sleep. There’s a trapdoor down there leading to a fruit cellar with a concealed exit to the shop next door. I’ll feel better if you sleep there.”

  “Whatever you say.” Sandor stood up, stretched again, and walked toward the kitchen, stopping just outside the pool of light that shone through the doorway. “Get in touch with Fontaine and tell him I want him here tomorrow morning. I have a few questions to ask him.” He paused in the doorway, his long, lean body framed in silhouette against the light issuing from the kitchen. “Once I get the woman out of the palace, she won’t be able to remain in Belajo.”

  “I’m already working on a way of smuggling her out of the city.” Jannot shook his head. “But I’ll have to double the precautions if you’re going to be with her. You’d be a much bigger fish than Alessandra Ballard for the patrols to net.”

  “I made it through the barricade tonight in the usual way.”

  “We won’t chance it. Leave the matter to me.” Jannot picked up the plate and tankard from the table. “You tend to your business and I’ll tend to mine. That’s how we’ve managed to get this far. Go to bed, Sandor.” He glanced back over his shoulder with a slightly sardonic smile. “With all due respect, Your Grace.”

  Sandor made a sound that was half snort and half growl. “You give me about as much respect as that thorn in my side, Paulo Debuk.”

  “How is Paulo?”

  “Paulo never changes. We all have to make adjustments to accommodate him.”

  “I’m surprised he let you come to Belajo without him.”

  “He’s on reconnaissance in the hills.” Sandor lifted his hand. “Good night, Danilo. And thank you.”

  “You can thank me by being careful tomorrow night.” Jannot growled. “We can’t lose you now, Sandor.”

  “You won’t lose me. I enjoy living too much to risk opting out of the human race.” He shook his head wearily. “Or I will when this damned war is over. I’ll see you in the morning, Danilo.”

  The tall, graceful silhouette of the man vanished from the doorway.

  Alessandra Ballard leaned forward toward the mirror to brush a dusting of powder over her nose. She didn’t know why she bothered. It would be shiny again in a few minutes. Her skin always glowed with the depressingly bucolic ripeness of a peach. “I’ll be ready in a moment,” she said over her shoulder to the tuxedo-clad man standing in the doorway of her bedroom. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I was late getting back to the palace.”

  “Did you have a successful afternoon?” James Bruner strolled into the room and dropped onto the Queen Anne chair. “Lord, I hope so.” He leaned his neatly barbered gray head against the high-cushioned back of the chair and regarded her with mock reproach. “This is the third day in a row you’ve left me to fight off Naldona’s persuasions by myself. I’m too old to enjoy this marathon of verbal fencing.”

  She grinned at his reflection in the mirror. “The hell you are. You know you take great delight in stringing our pompous dictator along. Besides, I certainly couldn’t have helped you with him. He slots all women in the same category as his teenage mistress.” She made a face. “And Lord knows she’s no mental giant.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. However, Naldona is getting a bit desperate. I have an idea Karpathan is pushing him to the edge. I think it’s time we left Tamrovia.”

  She nodded as she scooted the stool away from the vanity table, then rose. “I’ll need one more day. I’ve contacted a priest who will act as administrator, but I still have to discuss the details of the distribution network and bypass procedure.”

  He smiled as he stood. “You always make your projects sound like a very complicated heart operation.”

  “They are complicated.” She crossed the room and linked her arm with his. “And a heart operation isn’t a bad simile, either, is it, James?”

  “No.” He patted her hand. “Whatever you do always has plenty of heart, Alessandra.” His gray eyes softened in affection. “I guess I can stall Naldona for one more day. But no longer.”

  “No longer,” she agreed. She wrinkled her nose. “Now I guess we’d better put in an appearance at that blasted cocktail party. Am I presentable?”

  He frowned. “Barely. The gown you’re wearing must be five years old. We’ll have to stop in Paris on our way home and do some shopping.”

  “If we have time,” she said with a grin. “I don’t know why you insist on trying to make me into a lady of fashion, James. I’d think by now you’d realize what a rough diamond you’ve acquired.”

  “Just hardheaded, I guess.”

  “You’ll have to accept the fact you’ve polished this particular diamond to its highest luster and leave it at that.” Her smile softened to gentleness. “You have to remember what raw material you were given to work with.”

  His expression of mocking amusement faded to be replaced by pain. “I do remember. I’ll always remember, Alessandra.”

  She felt a swift surge of remorse. Dammit, she should have chosen her words more carefully. She knew the b
urden of guilt James carried every day of his life. She quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. “Perhaps I will let you buy me a new gown. I wouldn’t want you to be ashamed of me in Mariba.”

  “Mariba?” Surprise replaced the pain in James’s face. “Where the hell is Mariba?”

  “It’s the capital of an island in the Caribbean called Castellano. I’ve done some research, and I think that most likely it will be our next stop. The government there is on a par with Naldona’s regime as far as oppression is concerned.”

  He chuckled and slowly shook his head. “You’re always one step ahead of me. Do you suppose we could go home for a few days first, so I can see if I still have a factory?”

  The shadow was gone from his face, thank heavens. “I don’t see why not. I believe I can fit it into our schedule.” Her long lashes lifted to reveal dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Provided we skip our visit to Dior and St. Laurent.”

  James chuckled, and he suddenly looked a good decade younger than his sixty-seven years. “We’ll discuss it.”

  “Of course we will. Haven’t I always been a reasonable woman?”

  “When your determination doesn’t get in the way,” James said dryly. “Then reason doesn’t stand a chance.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re right, we’d better get going. It’s almost seven-thirty, and we wouldn’t want to make Naldona impatient. He’s going to be difficult enough to handle without a fit of temper to contend with.”

  She fell into step with him as they left the bedroom and crossed the sitting room toward the door leading to the hall. “Those fanatical eyes of Naldona’s remind me of that picture of Lenin on display all over the Kremlin.”

  “His eyes aren’t the only thing about him reminiscent of Lenin. His politics fit quite nicely into a Bolshevik niche.” James frowned. “I’ll be glad as hell to get away from here. Tamrovia may have a certain Balkan charm, but when it gets down to basics, civil war is a dirty business whether it’s in Tamrovia or Guatemala.” He stopped, his expression clouding again. He added in a tone just above a whisper, “Or Said Ababa.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm. “But we’re not in Said Ababa now. That’s finished. In the past.” Her gaze held his with compulsive force. “And what happened there is finished too. There are only places like Tamrovia and Mariba and what we can do here and now.” She drew a deep breath and deliberately loosened her tense grip on his sleeve. “And what we can do at the moment is smile and be perfectly charming to Marc Naldona.” She suited action to her words and fixed a brilliant smile on her lips. “Shall we do that, James?”

  He touched her cheek with an affectionate fore-finger. “Yes, we’ll do that.” He grimaced as he opened the door. “After you, my dear.”

  Alessandra found her smile becoming increasingly strained as she circulated among the guests in the ballroom. She was never comfortable in this kind of atmosphere, though she had trained herself to appear at ease. She always felt as if she were drowning in perfume and smoke and the crosscurrents existing beneath the small talk floating on the surface of the party. Lord, when were they going in to dinner? At least at the table she’d only have to be polite to her immediate neighbors.

  “Miss Ballard, may I speak to you for a moment?”

  She broke off in mid-sentence to glance at the young man at her elbow. She had to concentrate for a moment before she could place the rather nondescript face. Michael Fontaine, one of Naldona’s minor aides. “Yes, of course.” She excused herself from the portly businessman to whom she had been speaking and followed Fontaine a few paces away, to the bar against the wall.

  He handed her a fluted glass from a tray on the bar and smiled at her with a charm that made his plain face appear handsome. “I thought you might be thirsty. Our guests have been keeping you so busy, you haven’t had a chance to touch the drink you were served earlier.”

  She studied him thoughtfully as she accepted the glass. “You must have been watching me closely to notice that. Why would you—” She broke off as she felt a piece of folded paper pressed against her palm as he transferred the glass into her hand.

  He met her startled gaze. “Read it,” he said softly. There were lines of tension about his lips as he shifted his position to form a barrier between her and the rest of the guests in the room. “Quickly.”

  She hesitated as she searched his face. It was more than tension. Fear. He was frightened. She put the cocktail glass down on the bar and swiftly unfolded the small note. It was very brief and scrawled in bold black script.

  Come to me on the terrace. If you don’t come, you will quite probably die. Mention this note to Naldona, and the man who gave it to you will most certainly die. K.

  Alessandra slowly crushed the note in her palm. “K.?”

  Fontaine moistened his lips with his tongue. “There are some names that aren’t safe to mention here.”

  Karpathan? She felt a tingle of shock run through her, and her gaze went involuntarily to the French doors. The most wanted man in the country was only a few yards away. Practically in Naldona’s grasp.

  Her gaze shifted across the room to the small, elegantly clad man speaking with burning intensity to James. It wasn’t only Fontaine who would die if she mentioned the note. The man who had written it would have no chance either. She reached for her cocktail and sipped it slowly. “The phrasing in the note could be interpreted as a threat, you know.”

  “No threat. A warning.”

  “Interesting.” Her gaze moved to the French doors again. “He must be quite a man to inspire you to take a risk like this. You must trust his judgment a great deal.”

  “He’s been watching you this evening and thinks you will not betray us,” Fontaine added simply. “And he is the Tanzar.”

  Tanzar. “Does that mean he walks on water?”

  He shook his head. “Loosely translated, it means the man who gives all. But when the people refer to Karpathan, it means something more. The man who is all.”

  “I see.” She didn’t really, yet she was undoubtedly intrigued. She had no use for politics or folk heros, but she had a sudden desire to meet this Tanzar and hear what he had to say. She put the glass back on the bar. “Can you cover for me if I slip out?”

  An expression of profound relief appeared on his face. “With no difficulty. I’ve gained considerable practice in the art in the last two years. Drift over to the terrace doors. I’ve arranged for Naldona to be summoned to the study for a phone call. He’ll be kept busy for fifteen minutes. I’ll watch the doors and make sure no one goes out on the terrace while you’re there.”

  “You have it all planned.” She turned toward the door. “Just make sure James isn’t worried about me while I’m gone.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  She began to wander casually in the general direction of the French doors leading to the terrace.

  Sandor hadn’t expected her to be tall. Jannot’s terse description had brought to mind the image of a Bardot-type sex kitten, but there was nothing kittenish about the woman slowly making her way toward the terrace doors. Alessandra Ballard was close to six feet tall, built on queenly lines, and every inch radiated voluptuous earthiness. The aura of lushness she projected filtered through the sheer Austrian drapes of the French door and reached him clear and vibrant as a siren’s call. No wonder Fontaine had been sure she was Bruner’s mistress. Though she was probably twenty-seven or -eight and Bruner rapidly approaching seventy, Sandor doubted that even Methuselah would have been immune to her sexuality.

  There was certainly no question of his own arousal, he realized half incredulously. His body had responded the moment he had seen her, and now he felt it hardening to near-painful readiness as she walked toward him. Hell, what was wrong with him? It hadn’t been that long since he’d had a woman, and Alessandra Ballard couldn’t even be termed pretty. Her shining nut-brown hair was worn in a severely simple bun on the top of her head. Her features were definitely irregular. Large, wide-set dark eyes glowed
serenely beneath winged brows. Her nose was a trifle long, and her lips were a little too full. However, her neck and shoulders were truly magnificent, and the sight of the full globes of her breasts springing from the low-cut square neckline of her white gown made a simmering heat start to tingle through him.

  He stepped back into the shadows as she opened the door and stepped out on the terrace. She closed the door behind her.

  “Karpathan?” Her voice was a mere thread of sound, but clear and unafraid. Her eyes, searching the shadows beside the door, were also free of fear. “Let me see you. You’ve obviously been out here watching me. It’s my turn now.”

  His surprise was instantly replaced by amusement. He stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. “Miss Ballard.” He bowed mockingly. “I assure you it wasn’t my intention to deprive you of your feminine rights. I’m afraid it was an instinctive act of self-preservation to cling to concealment. Shall I revolve like a runway model to make amends?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I can see you quite well now.”

  Perhaps more than she wanted to see, she thought suddenly. She was experiencing an unaccountable tension that had nothing to do with fear. She could feel it in the contracting of the muscles of her stomach and the tightness of her chest. She had seen newspaper photographs of Sandor Karpathan and knew he was good-looking, but now she saw he was more than handsome. The perfection of his classic features and the crispness of his dark hair were overshadowed by the force field of strength surrounding him. He was wearing a dark sport jacket over a long-sleeved dark shirt and close-fitting trousers, and his tall, sinewy body looked hard and fit.

  Hard. Why was she so conscious of the unflinching masculinity of the man? She was suddenly excruciatingly sensitive to the soft fullness of her own body—the swell of her breasts against the chiffon of her gown, the teasing brush of the material against her thighs as the gentle summer breeze pressed the skirt against her body. She drew a deep breath and ignored the urge to scurry into the shadows from which she had called him. The instinct for self-preservation, he had said. She knew that particular instinct well enough to recognize it when she felt it, and it was here throbbing between them. “May I ask why I’m honored by your attention?” With an effort she managed to keep her tone light and slightly mocking. “When I received the note, I wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a warning. Fontaine said it was a warning.”