The Bodyguard's Bride-to-Be
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A pretend engagement suddenly becomes very real...and dangerous
When Tahra Edwards sees a suspicious knapsack near a school yard, she leaps into action...and saves children from a bomb. But upon awakening in a hospital, Tahra discovers she’s lost her memory—including any recollection of the handsome military captain who says he’s her fiancé. A charming alpha hero who seems to be hiding something...
As a high-level bodyguard, Marek Zale knows that a ruthless terrorist organization will stop at nothing to silence Tahra—his ex-girlfriend—permanently. To protect her, he must be by her side around the clock. And though he may not be telling her the truth about their engagement, their love for each other was always true...as is the danger threatening them both!
Marek was hiding something.
Tahra didn’t know how she knew, just that she did—Marek wouldn’t sit back and wait for someone else to solve the mystery and bring the perpetrators to justice. Even if she wasn’t involved, even if she wasn’t still a potential target, Marek was too über-alpha, too much of a take-charge man, to sit quietly on the sidelines while someone else ran the ball.
“What exactly are you doing?” Tahra asked.
“What makes you think I’m doing anything?” he parried.
Tahra knew he was keeping something from her...again.
Again?
Tahra stiffened. Where had that thought come from? What would make her think Marek had deceived her about something in the past? The past she couldn’t remember.
She’d ask him, but if he told her too much about her past, how would she know if she ever really regained her memory or just thought she had?
There’s another reason, too, a little voice in the back of her mind taunted her. You’re afraid to know.
Because despite the strikes Marek had against him, he was drawing her under his spell, like a fragile moth to a far-too-tempting flame.
Be sure to check out the previous volumes in
the Man on a Mission miniseries!
Man on a Mission: These heroes, working at
home and overseas, will do anything for justice,
honor...and love
* * *
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Dear Reader,
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave. When first we practice to deceive!” Sir Walter Scott wrote those lines centuries ago, but they still hold true today. One lie begets another, and another, and soon the lies take on a life of their own.
When I wrote King’s Ransom, part of my Man on a Mission miniseries, Captain Marek Zale played a pivotal role, providing secret protection for the woman who would become Zakhar’s queen. And in Alec’s Royal Assignment, he (and we) met Tahra Edwards, administrative assistant to the hero of that book at the US embassy in Zakhar. Marek and Tahra were such compelling characters, I knew I’d have to write their story.
In many ways Tahra reminds me of the heroines I loved in romances years ago. But just as I have grown and changed over the years, Tahra is also very different from those long-ago heroines. She knows what she wants, and she won’t settle for anything less than an equal partnership with the man she loves, despite being “an old-fashioned girl.”
And Marek? Zakhar is fifty years behind the times, and über-alpha hero Marek is a product of his environment. But he has already learned a few home truths about women and their role in society in Alec’s Royal Assignment. Now, in The Bodyguard’s Bride-to-Be, he’s about to be brought into the twenty-first century in the way only Tahra can do it. But first Marek must explain away a tangled web of lies and deception...begun with the best of intentions.
I love hearing from my readers. Please email me at AmeliaAutin@aol.com and let me know what you think.
Amelia Autin
THE BODYGUARD’S
BRIDE-TO-BE
Amelia Autin
Award-winning author Amelia Autin is an inveterate reader who can’t bear to put a good book down...or part with it. She’s a longtime member of Romance Writers of America and served three years as its treasurer. Amelia resides with her PhD engineer husband in quiet Vail, Arizona, where they can see the stars at night and have a “million-dollar view” of the Rincon Mountains from their backyard.
Books by Amelia Autin
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Man on a Mission
Cody Walker’s Woman
McKinnon’s Royal Mission
King’s Ransom
Alec’s Royal Assignment
Liam’s Witness Protection
A Father’s Desperate Rescue
Killer Countdown
The Bodyguard’s Bride-to-Be
The Coltons of Texas
Her Colton P.I.
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Gideon’s Bride
Reilly’s Return
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For my sister, Peggie Autin Schommer, who encouraged me in the early days of my writing career...as well as when I decided to jump back into the fray after many years. For a real-life hero, Shannon Johnson, who shielded a coworker with his body during the San Bernardino massacre, saying, “I got you.” Not every man has it in him to be a hero, but Shannon Johnson’s action that day is the very definition of bravery—conquering your fear and doing what you have to do in the instant you have to do it...even at the cost of your own life. Requiescat in pace, Mr. Johnson.
And for Vincent...always.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Excerpt from More Than a Lawman by Anna J. Stewart
Chapter 1
Tahra Edwards grabbed her lunch bag from the refrigerator in the break room and headed for the elevator. It was too nice a day not to eat lunch outside, and the park across from the United States embassy in the heart of Drago was the perfect place. She ate there a lot, joining the native Zakharians, young and old, who also found the park the perfect midday escape.
She settled on her favorite bench in the shade of a massive oak tree, not too far from the preschool that bordered the park on its eastern side. She loved watching the children at play, even though the sight of them had been bittersweet for the past two weeks...ever since she’d turned down the marriage proposal she’d once prayed to receive. Knowing the children she’d dreamed of having with the man she loved would never be. Knowing she’d never watch her own children this way.
She was early—the playground was empty. But she’d deliberately come early to make sure her favorite spot wasn’t taken, as it had been on occasion. That wasn’t a problem today.
Tahra had finished her sandwich—the Zakharian bread from the bak
ery two doors down from her apartment building was worth the extra calories—and was just starting on her apple when the children poured out the door into the preschool’s fenced yard. Happy, high-pitched voices came to her as the children swarmed onto the playground equipment—swings set in motion, bodies whizzing down the slide, the more intrepid climbing to the top of the jungle gym.
She smiled to herself with a sense of nostalgia. Her older sister, Carly, had been the intrepid one growing up, daring anything. Tahra had always been the fearful one, afraid to climb so high, afraid of falling. But not when Carly was there. Somehow, when Carly was there, Tahra had found the courage to clamber until they reached the top, pretending she was as fearless as her sister. But Carly had known. And she’d understood. Carly had always understood.
Sighing a little, and missing her globe-trotting big sister a lot, Tahra stood up and walked over to the discreetly placed trash container, the motion taking her closer to the preschool and the children. She watched them for a moment from where she stood, wishing the world at large could see this playground and take a lesson from the blond, fair-skinned Zakharian children—no more than four or five years old—clutching the hands of the newest arrivals to their nation, urging them to join in their play.
Zakhar, like other countries within the European Union, was taking in as many of the refugees streaming over its borders as it could accommodate...at the express invitation of the king who could do no wrong in the eyes of most of his subjects. These dark-skinned children of refugees from war-torn countries in northern Africa and the Middle East had experienced things no child should ever experience, Tahra knew. Had seen things no child should ever see. But the open hand of friendship from the children in this preschool would go a long way toward helping those terror-filled memories fade with time. And though she wasn’t Zakharian, Tahra couldn’t help feel a tiny thrill of pride in the country she’d once thought would be her adopted homeland...if the man she loved hadn’t...
Tahra had just thrown away her trash when her attention was caught by a lone man standing next to the fenced playground, a knapsack at his feet. One hand clenched the metal fence, and he was staring at the children, who played on, completely oblivious. Something in his intent gaze made Tahra hesitate and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Something wasn’t right. She couldn’t put her finger on it at first, but then she realized the man was too old and too well dressed to be carrying a student’s knapsack.
The man turned suddenly and strode in the opposite direction, and Tahra started forward. “Sir!” she called in her rudimentary Zakharan. “Sir, you forgot your knapsack!”
The stranger cast one long look backward. Their eyes met across the short distance, and Tahra knew she’d never forget those eyes. Never forget that face. Then he turned away and continued walking, faster now. Almost running. Tahra watched him for a couple of seconds, then her gaze moved to the knapsack, sitting at the base of the preschool fence, and she knew. “Oh, my God!”
She darted toward the bag, only one thing in her mind. Away. She had to get it away from the children. She grabbed one of the straps and hefted the knapsack into her arms. It was heavy. Heavier than it looked. At first she ran away from the playground as fast as she could, until she realized how risky that was. She put both hands on the strap and swung backward, then heaved the knapsack as far away as possible. She turned toward the playground and screamed to the children at the top of her lungs, “Run! Run!”
She’d taken only two steps toward the fence when the world exploded behind her.
* * *
Captain Marek Zale was driving toward the base of the mountain where he liked to hike on his day off, when his pager went off at the same time his cell phone pinged for an incoming text message. He pulled over, checked the number on his pager, then looked at the text message, both from the same sender. He cursed long and low before hitting speed dial. “On my way,” he told the man who answered. He glanced at the clock on the dash. “Twelve minutes at the most.” He hung up, made an abrupt U-turn and headed for the royal palace.
He made it in ten minutes, then hurried inside to the palace’s security command post. “What do we know?” he asked the room. “Where is the royal family?”
“Safe,” Major Damon Kostya replied. “The king was just about to leave with Colonel Marianescu for a tour of the air force base outside Timon when we got the news. Major Branko is with him now in the king’s private office.”
Captain Angelina Mateja-Jones—head of the queen’s security detail, who’d just recently returned from maternity leave—answered next. “The queen was with the crown prince in the Royal Garden, but they are now safely inside, with the king. Reports are coming in from all over Zakhar. Four bombs have exploded so far in Drago. Six elsewhere.”
Marek closed his eyes briefly, trying but failing to suppress his anger at the cowardly terrorists who would do something like this, who would kill innocent victims to make their political statement—whatever that statement was. “Where?” he rasped. “Has any group claimed responsibility?”
“Not yet,” Major Kostya stated, answering the second question first. “All four bombs in Drago appear to be the same type—explosives packed densely inside a loose shell of fléchettes for maximum mortality. Reports from elsewhere in the country are still unconfirmed, but preliminary reports seem to indicate the same. So the working theory is this is a coordinated attack.”
Marek nodded.
“As for where,” Major Kostya continued, “here in Drago, one bomb exploded on a train from the eastern border, just as it was pulling into the main station in the center of the city. Twenty-three people are dead, more than a hundred fifty wounded, both inside and outside the train. Another bomb went off at the refugee processing center downtown. The death toll there is lower...for now. Nineteen dead for sure, but that number could rise. And there are roughly two hundred wounded.”
“Suicide bombers?”
Angelina shook her head. She was Angelina to Marek now that she no longer reported to him, now that they were captains together and he’d become friends with Angelina and her husband, the US embassy’s regional security officer. “Not to the best of our knowledge,” she said. “A third bomb detonated at a Zakharian National Forces training facility on the outskirts of Drago. Two training officers are dead and seventeen enlisted personnel—all new recruits. Twenty-nine are in the hospital.”
Major Kostya cleared his throat. “One of the dead and two of the injured were women recruits. But they do not appear to have been specific targets.”
Marek glanced at Angelina. “What about the fourth bomb?”
“A preschool near the US embassy.”
“My God,” Marek whispered. “Children?”
Major Kostya answered him. “Miraculously, no. Eyewitnesses in the park say someone spotted the bomb and got it away from the playground before it exploded. Only one person was wounded—the woman who saved the children. Apparently she saw the man leave the bomb, which was hidden in a knapsack. Then she—”
Angelina’s cell phone chirped, and she moved away to take the call. The two men watched her stiffen. “Yes, Alec,” she said in a husky voice. “Yes. He is here. I will tell him.”
She put her phone away, drew a deep breath, then turned to Marek, sympathy on her face. “There is no way to tell you except straight-out. It is Tahra. Tahra is the woman who saw the terrorist leave the bomb. She is the one who saved the children.”
Not dead, Marek pleaded with God in his mind as he steeled himself to hear the worst. Please, God, not dead.
“Alec just called me,” she explained, referring to her husband, who was Tahra’s boss at the US embassy. “Tahra is in surgery.”
“Where?” Marek was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. As if his world hadn’t just nearly ended.
“Saint Anne’s Hospital, near the cathedral.” He nod
ded as he took the information in, although his brain wasn’t really functioning. “Do you want someone to drive you there?”
“No, I... My duty is here,” he said automatically.
Angelina grabbed Marek’s arm and pulled him out of earshot of Major Kostya. “Admirable,” she said fiercely. “But stupid. Do you think I will let you anywhere near the crown prince in this state? Do you think that is what the king would wish? You are not capable of functioning as a bodyguard at this moment, and no one expects you to, least of all the king.”
She waited for that to sink in, then added, “You are not even supposed to be working today. Go to the hospital. Go be with Tahra. If the crown prince’s own father is not enough to protect him along with the men who are on duty, then I will personally make sure he is safe. Your duty is with Tahra. Go!”
* * *
Marek arrived at the hospital to find that Tahra was still in surgery. And the waiting room receptionist would tell him nothing of how she was doing. Even when he claimed this was a matter of national security and tried to invoke his authority as head of the crown prince’s security detail, she steadfastly refused to disclose anything until he lied. “She is my fiancée.”
The lie helped a little, but there wasn’t much the receptionist could tell him, except that Tahra hadn’t yet come out of surgery. “But the surgeons here—they are the best,” she reassured him. “She is in good hands—the surgeons’ and God’s.”
Marek collapsed into the nearest chair, abruptly aware his muscles were trembling. Relief flooded him, and he realized he’d been steeling himself to hear the worst. The worst that could still happen, but hadn’t yet. He glanced around the waiting room and was surprised—yet not really surprised—to see Alec Jones sitting across the room. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. Was Alec waiting for a dying declaration, the way a policeman would be? When that thought occurred to him, that was when he saw the two other men in the waiting room. Plainclothes policemen for sure, he thought. Detectives. Which only made sense—perhaps they were hoping Tahra had seen something more than the knapsack she’d managed to get rid of before it exploded and killed the children the bomb had been intended for.