by Amelia Autin
The children I will never have, she reminded herself. The thought was nearly unbearable.
* * *
Alone and restless, Andre stood on the balcony outside his bedroom in defiance of his bodyguards’ wishes, looking up at the full moon. Wondering if bringing Juliana here had been a terrible mistake. Danger for himself he could accept. Danger for Juliana he could not.
He’d lost his temper with his cousin—fear did that to a man. Not fear for himself. Never that. But fear for Juliana, which was becoming his constant companion. Just as he’d wanted Mara safely out of the country after the second assassination attempt and had accomplished two goals by sending her to the United States, now he wondered how he was going to keep Juliana safe here in Zakhar. Not just during the filming of the movie, but forever and a day.
Seeing her on the set this afternoon, her body rounded with the pregnancy she was faking for the movie, he’d suddenly realized just how much was at stake. Not just Juliana, but any child they might have. If she stayed in Zakhar, if she married him, if they created a child from their love...the risk of assassination would be there.
Whoever was behind these attempts on Juliana’s life had to be caught. He could not be allowed to remain a threat to Juliana or their child...assuming they had a child. Assuming Juliana ever grew to love him again enough to make that a possibility.
He breathed sharply. Even if the man behind the threat to Juliana was caught, he still wasn’t sure if she would ever love him again. Yes, her physical attraction to him was undeniable. But would he ever know the joy of hearing those simple words from her that had thrilled him when she’d first said them? Thrilled him at the time and then haunted him over the years. “Please, Andre...I love you...and I have to know...”
He closed his eyes as a wave of desire shuddered through him and his body came roaring to life. He wanted her in every way a man could want a woman. Not just as his lover. Not just as his wife. But also as the mother of his children. He craved that closeness, that bond of the flesh, that pledge for all eternity. Would he ever have a son to inherit the throne? Or would the monarchy’s direct descent from father to son end with him? “God only knows,” he whispered to himself, fighting the despair that crept in unawares, “because I surely do not.”
Time was running out. The producer of King’s Ransom briefed him daily on the film’s progress, and they were on schedule. Another few weeks and the cast and crew would withdraw, returning to Hollywood to finish up whatever odds and ends remained that didn’t require filming on location. And Juliana would leave with them.
No, he told himself, steely determination sweeping through him. She will not leave. Not now. Not ever. She belongs here in Zakhar. With me. Whatever I must do to keep her, and keep her safe, I will do.
He would never know she was safe...always...unless he was at her side. Unless he could listen to her quiet breathing as she lay next to him in the deepness of the night. If he hadn’t promised Juliana her privacy would be inviolate, he could slip into her room this very minute to assure himself she was safe. Then do the same each night that followed. Every night of her life. An assurance even more critical now, after the recent attempts to kill her. But he had promised, so that avenue was closed to him...for now.
Which leaves what? he asked himself.
He could seduce Juliana into staying, into sharing his bed. He knew that much. She’d been fighting herself as much as she’d been fighting him the other night. He could make her want him. He could drug her with sensual pleasure so she would willingly give him her body—a body he yearned to have now even as he’d yearned when she was sixteen...seventeen...eighteen.
But it wouldn’t be enough. He would always live in fear that someday it wouldn’t be enough for her, either, and she would leave again. He couldn’t do that to his people, to his kingdom. No matter the cost to him personally, he couldn’t do that to Zakhar. She had to come to him of her own free will.
If she came to me I would know she loves me again, that she has come full circle. I would know that all the other men in her life were meaningless. If she came to me...
He couldn’t let her go, but keeping her by seduction or any other form of coercion would destroy the dream. And the dream was all he had left. “Come to me, Juliana,” he whispered to the night, to the moon. “Come to me.”
* * *
Come to me, Juliana. Andre’s voice in her head made Juliana shudder with treacherous longing. Come to me.
“Stop it!” she told herself desperately, covering her ears with her hands as if that could prevent her from imagining she was hearing Andre calling to her. She’d imagined it like this eleven years ago and through all the intervening years, but never so strongly. Never as if his hands were caressing her body as he said the words. Never as if his lips were pressed to her ear, whispering in Zakharan, melting her insides as he’d done that first night...and then into the wee hours of the morning. Each time. Every time.
Desperate to escape the memories of Andre and the sound of his voice in her ears, Juliana threw off the covers and stomped out of bed, tearing off her nightshirt as she went. She grabbed a pair of jeans from the dresser and angrily tugged them on, followed by a bra, then rummaged in the drawer for her cotton knit short-sleeved shirts. The first one she pulled out was in a shade of emerald green that matched Andre’s eyes. Don’t think about that now, she warned herself, thrusting the green shirt back and pulling out a white one with tiny blue forget-me-nots embroidered all over it. It wasn’t much better as far as reminders of Andre went, but at least it wasn’t the color of his eyes.
She stepped into a pair of espadrilles, bundled her hair up quickly and slipped quietly from her room.
The palace at night looked very different than it did in the daytime. Sconce lighting spaced periodically through the halls allowed Juliana to see her way clearly, although there were shadows enough to spook anyone who wasn’t familiar with the palace at nighttime.
Juliana was. She’d spent enough nights here with Mara—giggling together as teenage girls did during sleepovers—to become familiar with certain sections of the palace on the second floor. And Mara had occasionally spent the night with her in the ambassador’s residence not that far from the palace. Andre’s doing, she remembered suddenly. Andre had wanted his sister to have all the normal experiences young girls had growing up, and had actively encouraged Juliana’s friendship with Mara. He’d stood up to his father, too, especially on Mara’s behalf. Fighting Mara’s battles with their father because Mara had been too insecure.
Don’t think about that now, her heart warned her. Don’t think about Andre.
She passed the little library, her feet making no sound on the thick carpet runners that lined the hallways, resolutely thrusting away the memory of her encounter with Andre there the day before. Don’t think about that now.
She laughed under her breath, a ghost of a sound. Those words were becoming her mantra—don’t think about that now. As if she could ever not think about Andre, especially here in the palace.
A slight sound behind Juliana had her whirling around in sudden panic, her heart jumping.
Her eyes frantically searched the shadows as well as the patches of light all the way down the corridor, but she saw nothing. No movement. Nothing to be afraid of. “Old buildings creak,” she muttered. “That’s all it is.”
She turned back and continued making her way toward the suite that had once been Mara’s. She knew it was unoccupied. She’d run into the master of the household the week before—she’d remembered him as well as he’d remembered her—and they’d chatted about those long-ago days and about Princess Mara. The old man had always had a soft spot for Mara and Juliana, indulgently overlooking their teenage girlish pranks—more Juliana’s doing than Mara’s, who’d always tried to be so perfect to please her father, although that had been impossible. After several minutes the master of the household had told Juliana he’d intended to house her in Princess Mara’s old suite for sentimental reaso
ns.
“But the king overruled me,” the master of the household had said in his formal way. “I trust you are comfortable where you are?” At the time Juliana hadn’t known why the king had overruled him, but it made sense now she knew of the connecting passageway between her bedroom and Andre’s.
Just before Juliana reached the door to Mara’s suite she mentally kicked herself as she realized her quest was most likely for naught—the door would probably be locked, especially with all the strangers—movie people—being housed in the palace for the duration of the filming. And she didn’t have the key. Sure enough, when Juliana tried the old-fashioned latch it refused to budge.
“Damn!” It wasn’t so much that she was desperate to revisit the scene of some of her happiest teenage memories with Mara—although she would have liked to see the suite again—but she’d wanted something to distract her from thoughts of Andre that stubbornly kept popping into her head. Something to block out his voice calling to her.
She jiggled the latch, but it held firm. “Damn,” she said again, but without heat this time. When she reluctantly turned around to head back to her own suite, she froze when she saw four men surrounding her. Guns drawn and pointing at her.
* * *
The phone call hadn’t wakened Andre. He hadn’t been to bed yet—hadn’t even undressed. “Miss Richardson is on the move, Sire,” the voice on the other end of the phone had said. “It is after midnight, and I thought you would want to know.”
“Destination?”
“Unknown. But she does not appear to be leaving the palace. She is still on the second floor.”
“Good man. Stay with her. I will be with you shortly.”
* * *
Four men in camouflage clothing and desert-style boots confronted Juliana outside the door to Mara’s suite. She had no idea how they’d managed to creep up on her with such stealth, and sudden terror brought the metallic taste of fear in her mouth. When the man closest to her—obviously the leader of the team—recognized her he lowered his weapon, but the other three still kept their guns pointing in her direction. “What are you doing here at this time of night, Miss Richardson?” the leader asked.
Juliana opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out because her heart was pounding too hard and she could scarcely catch her breath. Then she saw the badges they wore on the arms of their camouflage uniforms—Zakharian National Forces—and was able to breathe again. Only then did she remember the security briefing she’d received along with everyone else staying in the palace. Motion detectors in the common areas are operational from midnight to 5:00 a.m., they’d all been warned. Please do not leave your suite during this time.
The motion detectors weren’t the only security in the royal palace to protect the priceless antiques, paintings and other objets d’art owned by the king, Juliana remembered now from the security briefing. All the paintings on the walls were wired for touch, as were the numerous display cases. And the crown jewels were housed in a separate area of the palace—strictly off-limits to visitors except by appointment—guarded by electronic eyes as well as human guards. By leaving her suite after midnight in violation of the warning, she’d set off the silent alarm.
“An innocent mistake, I am sure, Sergeant,” said a deep voice from the shadows. All four men immediately recognized the king’s voice—as did Juliana—and at a sign from their sergeant the other men holstered their weapons, turned toward the king and saluted.
Andre moved out of the shadows and into the light, flanked by two men, neither of whom Juliana recognized. “At ease,” Andre told the security guards. “Thank you for your diligence, gentlemen, and your quick response, but I think Miss Richardson is no threat. You may return to your posts.”
“Yes, Sire,” the sergeant said quickly, snapping another salute before he and his men departed with military precision.
Andre’s eyes never left Juliana as he waited for the security guards to leave. Then he said, “I am sorry they frightened you, but were you not warned about the silent alarms?”
Juliana nodded, then found her voice. “I was. But I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted...” She wasn’t about to tell Andre she’d been trying to distract herself from thinking about him by revisiting old haunts, and had completely forgotten the warning until it was too late. Especially not with two strangers listening to every word she said.
A faint smile touched Andre’s lips, and he lifted his chin in the direction of the doorway behind her. “You were trying to enter Mara’s suite. A trip down memory lane?”
She swallowed hard. “Something like that.”
Without turning his head, he said, “Privacy, please, Dmitri. Yakov.”
“Yes, Sire,” both men responded before moving several paces away, out of earshot.
Andre took a step toward her. “You could not sleep, either, little one?”
His tender voice was as tangible a caress as if he’d touched her, and Juliana shivered and backed away. “Please don’t,” she begged. “Please.”
She wasn’t sure what she was asking, except that she couldn’t bear knowing she was as vulnerable to Andre as she’d been eleven years ago. And that he knew it. That he would take advantage of her when she had no defenses against him.
His smile faded, and his eyes darkened. “No, Juliana. Since you ask it, I will not. Nor will I impose myself on you any further tonight.” He turned and strode away with his determined tread, saying as he went, “Dmitri, please escort Miss Richardson back to her suite.”
Chapter 11
Once back in the Queen’s Suite Juliana paced. No more able to sleep now than she had been before. But it was worse now, because seeing Andre tonight had brought home an undeniable truth she could no longer escape—whether he loved her or not, whether he deserved it or not, her heart irretrievably belonged to him. Forever and a day. She had to accept that...and move on.
So what do I do now? she wondered. She looked down the years of her life and realized she had come to an end of sorts. King’s Ransom could be her swan song, just as it would be Dirk’s. She wasn’t under contract for anything yet, even though she’d received half a dozen scripts to read and offers were on the table. She didn’t need the money any more than Dirk did. She’d never lived lavishly, so she’d saved enough money to retire comfortably even though she was only twenty-nine.
Even if she hadn’t saved her money, she’d inherited a trust fund from her mother—a highly successful stage actress before she’d married Juliana’s father—that would support her if she needed it. She’d never been a starving artist, not even when she first started out in Hollywood. And eventually her father’s money would come to her, too. But not for a long time, she prayed. She couldn’t really remember her mother, so her father was the only parent she’d ever known. Money could never fill the void in her life the loss of her father would bring.
But the bottom line was that she didn’t need to support herself with her current career, had never needed to work at all. Not for money anyway. She had needed to work to escape.
She still had her charity work. She was on the governing boards of two organizations related to children’s rights—one advocating strict child labor laws in developing countries similar to laws in the United States, and one fighting the sexual exploitation of children. They’d invited her for marquee name value to raise awareness of the issues, not realizing just how actively involved she’d become—because anything related to safeguarding children pushed all her buttons and always would. So she still had that to focus on.
Maybe she’d give stage acting a shot, too, although that was very different from acting in the movies. Once upon a time she’d daydreamed of following in her mother’s footsteps and becoming a Shakespearean actress—maybe now she’d give herself the chance to find out if she could do it or not.
Daydreams. Once upon a time she’d daydreamed of Andre, too. But not anymore.
* * *
The helicopter hovered over the site of the landslide for
a moment as Andre stared at the shocking devastation below. “Take her down,” he called to the pilot through the headsets they both wore, the noise of the rotors making headsets a necessity. The pilot nodded acknowledgment, his eyes searching for a good spot for the helicopter to land. Andre spotted it first. He touched the pilot’s arm to draw his attention, then pointed silently, and the pilot nodded again.
Once down, Andre wasted no time. He jumped out, followed by his bodyguard, but Andre didn’t wait for him. Both men bent over until they were out of range of the still-whirling rotors, then picked their way over the rough ground from the landing site to the houses that had been hardest hit. A fire-and-rescue crew was already there, frantically digging through the rubble, searching for survivors. Other crews, including teams from the Zakharian National Forces, were working on other houses. Andre saw them helping the surviving victims, sorting through those who were injured and those who were merely badly shaken when half the mountainside had unexpectedly come down upon this tiny village, nearly wiping it out.
There were other victims, too, he saw, his brows twitching together. Bodies laid out side by side in the sunlight, blankets drawn over them to give them a measure of dignity in death. Six of the blanket-covered mounds were much smaller than the rest, and Andre felt a pang in the region of his heart. Children. Six of the known dead were children. How many more?
A bell tolled frantically from the church tower of Taryna. The church itself had suffered extensive damage, but the bell tower was miraculously still standing with no apparent structural damage amid the rest of the devastation, and Andre hoped that sound would carry through the mountain passes and call the men back from the mountain meadows. Most of the villagers were sheepherders, making their livelihood from the mountain the way their ancestors had for centuries. But even in this day and age of cell phones, coverage in these mountains was spotty at best, and the bells were still the best way to send an urgent message.