by Amelia Autin
“Do they know...? Have they found everyone?”
A muscle twitched in his cheek as he said in an undertone, “Do you think I would have left there tonight otherwise?”
And as he said it Juliana knew it was the simple truth. Andre wouldn’t have left the site until everyone—every man, woman and child—was accounted for. How she knew this she wasn’t sure. Eleven years had wrought changes in him she was just beginning to comprehend. He’d always had a compassionate nature—she couldn’t have loved him otherwise. But the selflessness involved in a search like this—ignoring the risk to himself—the empathy he obviously felt for the suffering of his subjects, were new to her. Sterling aspects of his character she’d never really encountered before.
She ached for him, knowing his pain as if it were her own. She wanted to raise her hand and brush away the dust from his golden-brown hair. Wanted to take a warm, damp cloth and soak the blood from his cheek. And she wanted—desperately wanted—to hold his head against her breast and let him ease his suffering in the shelter of her arms. But all she could do was gaze at him, her heart in her eyes. Telling him without words everything she yearned to do for him.
Andre caught his breath and mouthed her name. And the little thaw that had begun in the chapel turned into a strong Chinook blowing warmly across the frozen wasteland that was Juliana’s heart.
She would never forget this moment, she knew. Would never forget the need in his eyes. Not a physical need. This wasn’t wanting. This wasn’t desire. He felt those things for her, too, of course. He was a man, after all. She’d known he wanted her, desired her the night of the reception. But this wasn’t anything like that. This was raw, emotional need. Need, like the way a man admitted he needed a woman to complete him. Need, like the way a strong man needed a woman he could be vulnerable with. The kind of need that went hand in hand with love. The way Andre had looked at her eleven years ago, his brilliant green eyes alight as he whispered, “Now it begins.”
* * *
He would never forget this moment, he knew. Would never forget the soft compassion in Juliana’s eyes, would never forget the yearning he saw there. Not a physical yearning, but rather a desire to hold, to comfort, to heal. The way a woman looked at the man who held her heart when she knew he was suffering, the desire to take away his pain. The way Juliana had looked at him eleven years ago, when she came to him in the night, saying, “I heard you calling to me... Please, Andre... I love you... Let me give you tonight...” Her beautiful violet eyes telling him she loved him even without the words.
If he were just a man she would be in his arms now. If he were just a man he would carry her up the stairs to his bedroom, and then she would tell him the words he longed to hear again, the words he’d craved for eleven years. He would lose himself in her arms, then awake refreshed, strong, able to take on the weight of the whole world. If he were just a man he would have gone to her years ago, taking whatever she offered...however little or much that was. If he were just a man...
But he wasn’t just a man. He was a king. A king in chains—chained to his duty, his responsibility, his subjects. He couldn’t ask his people to accept a queen who might leave him someday. Divorce was out of the question. Juliana had to come to him. Did she understand? Could she understand? For himself it would not have mattered. But for Zakhar he could not take that risk.
So instead of blurting out the words in his heart, he merely said, “Thank you.”
A puzzled look crept into her eyes. “For what?”
Unsmiling and with deep sincerity, he said, “For your prayers.”
She let out her breath in a soft little rush. “It’s little enough. I couldn’t think of anything else I could do when I heard the news.”
He shook his head. “Not a little thing, Juliana. You care. You care about the people around you. You hurt for them. Feel their pain. Your prayers are heartfelt. No, it is not a little thing, your prayers.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
He hesitated. “The Red Cross will be making an appeal for donations. Your face, your name is well-known. If you would...?”
“I’d be happy to. That, and anything else you can think of.”
“Thank you.” He stared at Juliana for endless seconds, wanting to say more, but knowing now wasn’t the time and place. Knowing they needed privacy for what was in their hearts. But he was comforted by the knowledge that the time was coming. He could sleep tonight for once, knowing the time was surely coming. Juliana would come to him, and then they would say everything they needed to say.
* * *
When Juliana woke the next morning, her first thought was of the tragedy that had occurred the day before. Her second thought was of Andre. His face last night. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Needing her the way she’d once believed he needed her. Loved her. Could she have been wrong about him all these years?
Forgive me, he’d begged her that day at the cemetery. Did he regret what he’d done years ago? Had he subconsciously been asking forgiveness for that as well as his rough treatment of her in front of the lovers’ tomb? But she had still been too wounded to forgive. She’d still been clinging to her own anger and pain. She’d lashed out at him and told him she would never forgive him.
But it wasn’t true. In her heart of hearts hadn’t she already forgiven him for almost everything? Could she remember their one night of love so poignantly if she hadn’t?
Everything he did, everything he said, the way he’d looked at her last night—needing her in such an elemental way her heart had responded instinctively—everything told her that even if he’d never loved her all those years ago, he loved her now. And love was too precious to waste.
Too precious to waste.
* * *
Juliana walked out of her meeting with the producer and director of King’s Ransom with a new shooting schedule in her hand and a copy of a legal document that had already been scanned and emailed to her lawyer agent, Marty Devens. The time difference between Zakhar and California meant that Marty was still sleeping. He wouldn’t have had a chance to review the contract modification and give it his blessing. But she already knew even if he didn’t she would sign it. For the first time in their ten-year friendship Dirk needed her help. Dirk and Sabrina had given her so much—now when they needed something from her in return she wasn’t about to refuse.
She glanced down at the schedule. She’d already reviewed it with the producer, but she just wanted to confirm what he’d said, that she had no scenes to shoot for the next three days. All the scenes involving Dirk alone had been escalated. For the next three days Dirk would be playing Andre Alexei during the time Eleonora was a captive far away. Including his lightning raids on neighboring kingdoms for the treasure he needed to ransom his queen. They would also be shooting the daring final raid, the one where Andre Alexei was fatally injured.
She was free until Friday, when she and Dirk would film the scene that took place between the first king and queen of Zakhar right before that final raid, among others. The scene where Eleonora begged her husband not to go after the ransom he’d paid for her sixteen years earlier. Not to try to exact vengeance for something so far distant.
But Andre Alexei couldn’t let it go. Recovering the ransom was secondary, he’d told his wife. Someone was going to pay in blood for everything she’d gone through. Someone was going to pay in blood for every scar she bore, every nightmare that still haunted her. Someone was going to pay in blood for the humiliation and helplessness he’d suffered knowing his wife—the woman he loved—had been raped and tortured, and there hadn’t been a thing he could do to prevent it. And now that the opportunity had finally presented itself, he was damned if he’d turn the other cheek.
His fatal flaw, she realized. The first king of Zakhar had carried that anger inside him for years. Not white-hot, but simmering below the surface. A powerful anger born of a powerful love. And because he couldn’t forgive, because his thirst for vengeance had finally overpowered him
, he’d died, and Eleonora had died, too. Would he have done it if he’d known? she wondered. If he’d known Eleonora would choose him, would choose death with him over life without him, would he have risked his own life merely for vengeance?
There was no way to know for sure, but she wanted to believe he wouldn’t have done it. Wanted to believe his love was strong enough to put Eleonora’s life above his own needs, the way he’d done years before when he ransomed her.
Her thoughts moved to Andre. Her Andre. And he was her Andre, she recognized with a shock. Maybe he hadn’t been hers eleven years ago, but he was now. For the time being anyway. Maybe he didn’t love her the way she loved him. Maybe he didn’t love her the way Andre Alexei had loved Eleonora. But he loved her now. Needed her now. Maybe not forever and a day. But enough. Enough for now. And on that thought she went in search of him.
Juliana finally ran Andre to ground, after much searching, in the official royal office suite that had once been his father’s. She remembered his father as a stern, unsmiling man, who tolerated her friendship with Princess Mara merely because he barely tolerated Mara herself, and cared little for anything to do with Mara’s life. It was different with Andre. All the then-king’s hopes and dreams were tied up in his heir, and he begrudged anything that took Andre’s attention away from learning the business of running the country. Zakhar first and foremost had been his credo, and Andre’s father had demanded his son’s attendance at nearly every official function.
The old king had bitterly resented any attention Andre had paid to Mara, too, not just to Juliana. Mara had never said anything, and neither had Andre. But Juliana had known. She’d contrasted her own father’s loving treatment of her with the way Mara’s father had brushed his daughter aside, time and again. She’d compared her own father’s interest in the minutiae of her admittedly less than stellar school accomplishments with the complete indifference Mara’s father had shown toward Mara’s outstanding academic achievements and her brilliance in mathematics, and had pitied her friend.
She remembered now that Andre had never knuckled under to his father, not regarding Mara or anything else. Mara had told her once that Andre was stronger than anyone who went against him, and not just physically. The old king had ranted and raved against it, but Andre had insisted on serving the requisite four years with the Zakharian National Forces demanded of every other Zakharian male—and had done so.
He’d even voluntarily served an additional year when his unit had been called upon to go to Afghanistan on behalf of the United Nations, she remembered. She hadn’t known it at the time, but she’d read about it when he ascended the throne—the tabloids had been full of stories about him and his exploits, and she hadn’t been able to resist reading everything written about him.
The old king had also ruthlessly tried to separate Andre from Mara—and failed. Juliana had watched as Andre had quietly, but insistently, done his best to fill the void in Mara’s life, and if she hadn’t already loved him she would have loved him for that alone—for his tender, loving attitude toward his younger sister, for the protective shield he threw around her. The same way he’d treated Juliana, until...
And Mara had adored Andre. Wasn’t that why Juliana had broken off her friendship with Mara, rather than disillusion her friend about her beloved brother? Because she couldn’t bear the hero worship in Mara’s voice when she talked about Andre? Because she’d wanted to scream the truth about him the last time they’d spoken on the phone...but couldn’t hurt Mara that way? Couldn’t destroy the only loving influence in Mara’s life? Better to let her friend think Juliana no longer cared. Better to let Mara think Juliana didn’t need her friendship anymore. Anything except tell Mara what Andre had done when he’d repudiated any relationship with Juliana.
Her thoughts in turmoil, Juliana entered the outer office, where three male secretaries guarded entrance to the inner sanctum with smiling but unshakable resolution. “I am sorry, Miss Richardson,” the appointments secretary told her. “His Royal Majesty is extremely busy this morning. I could make an appointment for you at...” He looked at the computer screen, checking the calendar there. “Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled, anticipating her acquiescence, his next question merely a formality. “Would that do?”
Juliana stood her ground. “His Majesty asked me last night if I would film an appeal for the Red Cross relating to the landslide. The sooner, the better, I thought. Could you ask him about it? He didn’t give me any details when we spoke.”
“Of course, Miss Richardson. Excuse me a moment.” The secretary slid from his chair, knocked on the door to the inner office and waited for a response before opening the door, entering and closing it behind him. He was back in less than a minute. “Please come this way, Miss Richardson,” the appointments secretary said. And while he’d always been respectful, there was a different intonation now, a deference that hadn’t been there before.
Andre was on the phone when she entered, but he smiled his faint smile as soon as he saw her and indicated a chair in front of his desk. Juliana seated herself and looked around the room as she waited. She couldn’t remember ever having been in the inner office before, but she imagined it had been completely redone when Andre ascended the throne, because it didn’t look like the kind of office the old king would have had.
The furniture here now suited Andre somehow. Not modern, not casual, but not stiffly formal, either. Comfortable. She imagined he spent a lot of time here. Zakhar wasn’t a large country—probably equivalent in size to the state of Vermont, she thought abstractedly, although even more mountainous. But running a country wouldn’t be a sinecure, not if you threw yourself into the job heart and soul, the way Andre did.
When she turned her head all the way to the right she saw Andre’s bodyguard—not the one who’d accompanied the king in the chapel last night, a different one—sitting motionless in a chair in the corner. After she thought about it for a moment, she realized he looked like the same bodyguard who’d been on duty the night of the reception. She remembered him because after Andre had spoken to him he’d faded back into the crowd, but his eyes had never left the man he was guarding. And now that she thought of it, he was also the one who’d been on duty outside the little library the evening she and Andre had confronted one another.
She gave the bodyguard a friendly smile of recognition, but he didn’t smile back. He merely acknowledged her smile with an inclination of his head and a slight softening of his expression, and with Andre still on the phone her thoughts went on a tangent.
Bodyguards. She’d gotten used to the necessity in the United States. There were crazies out there, and no one recognizably famous was safe. It had been refreshing not to need a bodyguard here in Zakhar, but then again, she was just an actress. She wasn’t in Andre’s shoes. Even though Zakhar was fiercely loyal to the monarchy, there was always a chance someone might try to assassinate him. There had been two attempts on his life since he ascended the throne—that had been front-page news; it had been impossible to avoid...even if she hadn’t read everything she could about Andre over the years. But judging from the careful way this man watched over his king, Andre was in good hands.
Only one bodyguard, though? she thought, suddenly worried for Andre’s safety, remembering the team of Secret Service agents who surrounded the US president whenever he went anywhere. Shouldn’t Andre have at least two people guarding him? Or more? Maybe he did...when he was outside the palace. No, that can’t be right, she reminded herself. There had been only one bodyguard in evidence at the cemetery.
Andre made one last forceful statement into the phone, and Juliana understood enough Zakharan to know he didn’t agree with whoever was on the other end before he hung up the phone with a decided bang. She raised her eyebrows in a question, and Andre made a derisive sound. “That was my chief councillor. The Privy Council is dragging its feet...again.” She saw the struggle for patience on his face. “As usual, Niko is... But that is not why you are here,
Juliana,” he said with another faint smile. “Thank you for coming so quickly to help with the disaster relief. But are you not needed on the set today?”
She shook her head. “I’m free until Friday. They’ve rearranged the schedule so Dirk can leave earlier.”
He frowned. “Why is that? The producer never mentioned it to me.”
“It just came up yesterday evening,” she explained. “And you were otherwise occupied.”
“But why?” Juliana’s gaze slid in the direction of Andre’s bodyguard, though she didn’t say anything. But Andre got the message. “Lukas,” he told his bodyguard, “would you leave us, please? I will let you know when we are done.”
“Yes, Sire.”
The man got up, casting a searching look over Juliana, as if he thought she might be concealing a weapon somewhere. Although where he thinks it’s hidden is a mystery to me, she thought, suddenly amused despite the seriousness of the situation. She was wearing a lightweight summer dress similar to the one she’d worn the other night in the little library, but this one was in a deep shade of rose, a vibrant color that set off her ebony hair and made her skin look translucent. It had a fitted bodice and swirling skirt, but a skirt that clung to her figure, leaving no room for anything bulky hidden beneath it. Add to that bare legs and sandals, and she didn’t think she looked like a threat. On the other hand, she didn’t fault Lukas for his devotion to duty. Terrorists didn’t always look like terrorists, and women could be assassins, too.
When they were alone finally, Andre steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips before asking, “Why?” And Juliana knew the time had come to tell him the truth.