by Amelia Autin
Then he remembered her tears in front of the royal lovers’ tomb and her well-known political stance as a children’s rights activist, and he realized that despite recent evidence to the contrary she wasn’t hard and cold. Cynical? Yes. But not hard and cold—she cared passionately. She’d been wounded, and the pain had turned her cynical. Which of her lovers did it? he wondered. Which one broke her heart? The tabloids, the celebrity magazines and the internet, his only sources of news of Juliana in the early years, had never even hinted her heart was broken. On the contrary, the stories had all indicated she was the original ice queen, moving from man to man but never giving her heart.
It was that last that had kept hope alive as year followed empty year. If Juliana had given her heart to no other man, then her heart could be won...by him. She had loved him once. She could love him again. He just had to find the key to unlock the mystery. If he knew why she had stopped loving him, he could change whatever it was in himself that needed changing. But if Juliana’s heart had been broken it meant she had given her heart to another man. And if she had given her heart irretrievably—not just her body—then hope was dead.
He’d suffered the torments of the damned when Juliana dropped out of college after one year, went to Hollywood and took a lover instead of returning to Zakhar...and him. He could still remember the murderous rage that had possessed him when he returned from his tour of duty with the United Nations peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan and learned what Juliana had done. Could still remember finding himself standing in the midst of the wreckage he’d made of the cottage where they’d shared one luminous night—with absolutely no memory of taking it apart, piece by jagged piece. Only his hands, bruised and bleeding, bore mute testimony to what he’d done.
Then the madness that had gripped him evaporated, and sanity had returned. He’d fallen to his knees in the ruins and wept for the first and only time in his adult life. Not just for the loss of the woman he loved, but for the frightening glimpse of his true self, for the gentleman he wasn’t. And he’d known even as he wept that somehow he’d brought this on himself, that if he hadn’t surrendered to temptation as he’d sworn he wouldn’t do, he wouldn’t be paying for it now. That if he’d been a better man he wouldn’t have lost Juliana.
That had been the turning point in his life. He’d vowed never again would he let himself lose control. Never again would he succumb to temptation. Never again would that murderous rage be let loose. Somehow he would find the inner strength. And in doing so he would change himself into a man who deserved Juliana’s love. Just as the first Andre Alexei had done, he would find a way to bring her back to him, no matter the cost. Somehow he would find a way to regain her love.
“Cut! And that’s a wrap! Great job, Dirk. You, too, Juliana. Let’s call it a day.”
The director’s words broke into Andre’s consciousness, and he realized he’d been so caught up in his thoughts, his memories, that he hadn’t even observed the scene that had just been filmed. Now he looked over to where DeWinter had stood with Juliana minutes before and was surprised to see the other man gone already. Juliana was still there, talking to the director about something, but as he watched she finished her discussion and started to leave. Grips were already tearing down the set, the lights, and moving the cameras preparatory to setting up the following day in another location within the palace. Juliana picked her way carefully through the disarray, holding her skirts up to avoid tripping over the wires everywhere.
Andre moved to intercept her, his bodyguard following him like a determined shadow. When Juliana saw who it was she stopped and looked up at him. He was so disconcerted by the pale blue color of her eyes, different from her normal violet hue, that at first he couldn’t say anything. He slid his right hand into his pocket, feeling the small box there, and the reminder grounded him. Conscious that whatever he said would be overheard, he spoke a few carefully chosen words. “I need to talk to you.”
Juliana blinked a couple of times. “Can it wait? I need to get out of costume, get this makeup off, and I really need to take my eyes out—they’re starting to bother me.” It was so unexpected he chuckled, and so did she. “I didn’t word that quite right,” she said, still laughing softly. “I need to remove my contact lenses. That’s what I meant to say.”
“How long will all that take?”
“A half hour? Maybe less. I need a shower, too, but if it’s urgent I can wait for that.”
“It is important, but not urgent. Have your shower. I will wait for you in the little library.”
* * *
Even if the cast and crew of King’s Ransom hadn’t been shown over most of the palace in the early days, Juliana would have known where the little library was on the second floor, not far from Princess Mara’s suite. She and Mara had often studied there when they were young. Mara had been a much better student than Juliana in just about every subject, but especially in math—Juliana had been hopeless and Mara had been gifted. Mara had tried to tutor her in math, but it was a lost cause.
The only area Juliana had excelled in was in recitation. She could speak blank verse as if it were simple English, and at one point had dreamed of being a Shakespearean actress like her famous mother—the mother who’d had a whirlwind romance with Juliana’s ambassador father and died when her daughter was barely four. But the demand for Shakespearean actresses being what it was, when Juliana had decided to forget college and become an actress she’d headed for Hollywood.
Dressed in a floating sleeveless pale primrose summer dress belted around her tiny waist, sandals on her slender feet, her hair piled atop her head for coolness and held in place with a pair of cloisonné butterfly clips, Juliana hurried toward the little library forty minutes later. Andre’s bodyguard was standing in front of the closed door, but he opened it and moved aside as she approached—he’d obviously received orders to let her pass without challenge. Then the door was quietly closed behind her.
“Little library” was a misnomer. It was little only in comparison to the Royal Library on the main floor. Andre was ensconced in one of the large, comfortable easy chairs scattered around the room, reading what looked to be official dispatches. Juliana remembered him doing something similar years ago while she and Mara studied, their books spread out on the antique table in the center of the room.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I couldn’t resist taking a bath instead of a shower. The suite I’m in has the most amazing marble bathtub.”
“The Queen’s Suite,” he said easily, closing the portfolio of dispatches with a snap. “Yes, the bathtub there is the biggest I’ve ever seen—it is bigger than mine.”
Startled, she said, “The Queen’s Suite? I didn’t realize... Mara once said your father had that sealed off after your mother died and no one was allowed inside. We never even dared to sneak inside for a peek.”
“Yes, it was closed for years, but it was reopened at the time of my coronation. I believe the Queen of England occupied it at that point, but no one since.” His voice dropped a notch. “Eleonora’s suite has been waiting for you, Juliana.”
Something in his tone disturbed her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. For something to say, she asked, “Was it really Eleonora’s?”
“So legend has it, but all the queens of Zakhar in recent memory have occupied it. It has been extensively remodeled numerous times over the years, of course. Candle sconces replaced the torches. Then gaslight replaced the candle sconces. What was then modern plumbing was added, although a plumber today would laugh at it. Then electrical wiring replaced the gaslight. And truly modern plumbing was added in my grandmother’s day. My mother loved it—I have vague childhood memories of her in that suite when I was very young—and she added her own touches.” He smiled at her, a smile of singular sweetness. “You are comfortable there?”
“Incredibly. I’ve felt like a queen since the very first day.”
His smile grew. “That was my intention.”
Sudde
nly nervous for no reason she could think of, Juliana wandered over to the table in the center of the room. “How well I remember this table,” she said, running her hand over its polished surface, loving the smooth feel of the wood beneath her fingertips.
“Yes, I imagine you would.”
Her gaze fell on the portrait of Andre’s father done at the time of his coronation, his wife at his side—both staring out at the world in haughty superiority. She’d met Andre’s father, of course, but his mother had died when Mara was born. It was one of the things she and Andre had in common—he’d lost his mother at a young age, too. Now as she contemplated the picture she realized just how much Mara resembled her dead mother physically, if not in any other way. Regal beauty was reflected in the face of the woman in the portrait, but no sweetness, unlike her daughter. There had been a sweetness about Mara, Juliana remembered, an emotional vulnerability that had made Juliana want to shield her from hurt...just as Andre had always tried to do.
“So tell me about Mara,” she said, succumbing to the sudden longing to know how her onetime friend was doing. “How is she? I remember reading that she received her PhD in math from Oxford University. That was her dream, I know. I was so happy for her I—” Almost called her, Juliana nearly said. But for some reason she didn’t want Andre to know how tempted she’d been to reconnect with Mara despite everything.
“Mara is a professor at the University of Colorado. She and her husband live in Boulder.”
Juliana laughed a little, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe she’s married and it never made the news. I didn’t even know she was in the States.”
Andre smiled as if at a private joke. “I sent her there.”
“Why?”
“Because I hoped she would find there what she could never find here—and she did.”
Juliana wanted to ask what that was, then realized she and Andre were conversing as if they were old friends. As if what had happened eleven years ago had never happened. She wandered toward the bookshelves, running her fingers over the leather bound tomes, then took a deep breath, and with her back to him asked as casually as she could, “So why did you want to talk to me?”
“I need to know. Are you and DeWinter lovers?”
Juliana whirled around, her face pale with shock. “You have no right to ask me that.”
He considered her answer for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. He stood and placed the portfolio on a side table. Then he walked toward her, stopping a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his stance casual. “Then answer me this. Are you in love with him?”
“You have no right to ask me that, either.” Her voice was tight with repressed anger. “Your Majesty.” She threw those last two words at him as an insult.
“Perhaps not. But I am asking anyway. And you will not leave this room without giving me an answer.” His seemingly indifferent tone was belied by his words...and his eyes. His eyes were bright green, blazing with some emotion she couldn’t put a name to, and she knew he meant exactly what he said. Whether he had the right or not, Andre was just stubborn enough to keep her there until she responded, one way or the other.
She took two steps toward him. “No. I’m not in love with Dirk. And no, we’re not lovers. We’ve never been lovers.” Her eyes burned with tears of humiliation she refused to shed as her anger built. “He’s my friend. His wife is my friend. How dare you ask me that!” Her chest was heaving with anger, hurt and a half dozen other emotions that swirled through her.
He didn’t respond at first, just stood there watching her in that assessing way he had. Then he asked quietly, “If you are not in love with him, then why were you pleading with him between takes this afternoon?”
Her hand came up to her throat, where she could feel her pulse racing. “Because...” she began, but didn’t go on because Dirk had told her about Sabrina in confidence and she wasn’t about to betray it. Especially not to Andre.
“Because why?” His voice was quiet but implacable.
“That is absolutely none of your business.”
He shook his head. “You are wrong, Juliana,” he explained patiently. “You are my business. Anything to do with you is my business.” Her mouth dropped open in amazement but she was too stunned to say anything. “If I must ask DeWinter, I will.”
“Don’t you dare ask Dirk anything!”
“Then you tell me.”
“You have no right!” She was almost shouting now.
“I have the right you granted me eleven years ago,” he said softly, evenly.
Every drop of blood drained from her face, and she felt light-headed, dizzy. And cold. The warm summer day vanished, and she shivered violently. “How dare you use that night to justify your actions now,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her waist to keep from shaking uncontrollably. “How dare you!”
“Juliana, I...” Suddenly she found herself in his embrace, his arms tight bands around her, her head pressed against his chest. And though everything in her rejected the idea of accepting anything from him, especially comfort, for a brief moment she stayed where she was. His heart was beating, beating, beating beneath her ear, and she remembered lying close beside him in that single bed in the cottage, her head pillowed on his shoulder, hearing his heartbeat exactly the same way.
“Tell me, Juliana,” he whispered, his strong hand stroking the nape of her neck with exquisite, insidious tenderness. “If not DeWinter, then who? Someone hurt you. Someone broke your heart. Tell me, little one,” he coaxed. “Tell me who it was.”
She jerked herself out of his arms, appalled at both herself and him. Appalled at herself that she could let him hold her even for a minute. And appalled at him that he had the gall to ask her that question. How could he not know? After what he’d done, how could he possibly think anyone but he had broken her heart? “You,” she said, wanting to hurt him as she was hurting. “It was you.”
His brows drew together in a frown, and his face was stern. “Do not lie to me, Juliana. Your heart was not broken when you chose to go to Hollywood instead of returning to Zakhar that summer.”
She gasped at how he was twisting the facts, and in defense she resorted to sarcasm. “And of course I would have known you wanted me to return to Zakhar because of your numerous phone calls, your impassioned pleas. Oh, that’s right,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You never asked me to return. Instead you—”
The flush on his cheekbones was the only sign her sarcasm had hit its target. “You should know why I never asked you to return. I expl—”
Juliana cut him off as he had done to her. “You’re right. I do know.” You didn’t love me. You didn’t want me. You sent your men to tell me to stop bothering you with my love letters and emails. And you sent me money. You had to know that would be the most hurtful thing you could do to me, giving me money for—
She couldn’t even finish the thought—the wound was still too painful, even after all these years. “So don’t pretend you don’t understand why I didn’t return to Zakhar,” she threw at him.
Now his anger rose to match hers. “And taking a lover? What was that? Experimentation? Comparison? Wanting to see how I measured up?” Her hand came up of its own volition to slap him, but he was too quick for her, and he caught her hand before it could make contact. “No,” he said implacably, forcing her arm down. “I may have deserved it at one time, but not for this.” His whole body tensed. “I was not...sane...when I heard what you had done.”
Denial rose to her lips, despite the fact that he had no right to know anything, no right to question her actions. No rights at all where she was concerned. “I didn’t—”
“Do not lie to me!”
Immeasurably wounded by his accusation that she was lying despite telling herself not to be, she shot back, “Believe what you want. I don’t have to justify myself to you. But believe this, too,” she said fiercely. “You may have been the first, but that doesn’t give you ownership of me. Whether I’ve had a hundr
ed other lovers or none, it’s not your concern. It never was. Not then, and certainly not now.”
“That is where you are wrong, Juliana.” He’d quickly regained his control, but his face was steely with resolve when he said, “It was always my concern. You belonged to me then. You belong to me now. The same way I belong to you—forever and a day. And from this moment on you will have no other lover but me. That is not a threat. Just a fact.” He turned and strode toward the library door, scooping up the portfolio on his way out. He paused on the threshold and looked back, his eyes blazing. “Count on it.”
Chapter 7
Andre stormed into his secluded private office off his suite of rooms and slammed the portfolio of dispatches on his desk. “Out!” he ordered his bodyguard with unwonted harshness, unexpectedly irked by the lack of privacy he normally took for granted—at least until Juliana had reentered his life. As soon as he was alone he uttered an earthy, Zakharan curse, and it felt so good he repeated it, but the second time didn’t give him the same satisfaction.
Too wound up to settle, he paced the large room, back and forth, back and forth. Angry with Juliana. Angry with himself. More angry with himself than with her because he hadn’t meant to confront her, hadn’t meant to accuse her. And he damned well hadn’t meant to throw the threat at her that he had every intention of being her lover again...now and forever. Because it had been a threat, no matter what he’d told her. A threat. A promise. A plea.
He stopped pacing and sank into the leather-and-ebony chair behind his desk, disillusion battling with despair for dominance. This is not working out the way I had hoped, he thought sadly. The way I had planned. He drew the small box out of his pocket and flicked it open, then set it on the desk before him and stared at the ring it contained for several seconds, the central stone reminding him poignantly of Juliana’s eyes. Why did I think it would be easy after all these years?