by Amelia Autin
“Confirmed by the targets of yesterday’s bombings, at least here in Drago,” Angelina threw in. “A train from the eastern border, carrying mostly émigrés. The refugee processing center in downtown Drago. The Zakharian National Forces facility where new recruits were training—almost seventy percent of whom were male refugees eighteen and older who had joined pursuant to Zakharian law.”
Marek, along with every other man in the room, knew what Angelina was referring to. All Zakharian men were required to join the military when they turned eighteen and serve for at least four years. Service in the military would be part of the émigrés’ path to Zakharian citizenship.
“And the preschool that was targeted but was miraculously spared due to one woman’s bravery?” Angelina reminded them all. “When the king decreed that as many refugee children as possible be placed in the same schools to keep friends together and ease their assimilation into Zakharian life, that preschool was one of the magnet schools chosen for placement. Nearly half the children in that yard yesterday were émigrés.”
Pain slashed through Marek as Angelina spoke, reminding him of how close Tahra had come to dying. But while he fought to retain his stoic demeanor, this time the pain was accompanied by an intense wave of pride. From the moment he’d heard the news about Tahra, all he’d focused on was how much she was suffering and how he’d nearly lost her. Now he realized just how courageous she was, risking her life without hesitation to save those children. If he hadn’t already loved her to the last drop of his blood, he would have for that selfless act alone.
He’d slept in her hospital room last night. And he had every intention of doing the same tonight and every night until she regained consciousness and was able to tell the nurses herself that Marek was not her fiancé and had no business being there. Some men might not have been able to sleep slouching in a chair, but Marek was not one of them. He was a soldier—he could sleep anywhere. And where he chose to sleep was at Tahra’s side.
He couldn’t guard her 24/7—there were soldiers posted outside the door to her hospital room to do that. And besides, it would be unthinkable to request leave during this national crisis, despite his desperate worry over Tahra.
But he could guard her when he wasn’t on duty. He could sit beside her. Sleep beside her. Express his love—the love she didn’t believe in—the only way he could while she was unconscious. He would do this because he couldn’t not do this.
And when Tahra came out of her coma? When she banished him from her side the way she’d done when she’d rejected his marriage proposal just over two weeks ago? I will cross that bridge when I come to it, Marek thought, his eyes narrowing with determination. For now, she is mine to protect.
* * *
Marek abruptly halted on the threshold of Tahra’s hospital room when he saw a strange woman sitting in his chair beside the bed. The woman looked up, and though he’d never met her, he recognized her from a picture Tahra had shown him, and from his own research into Tahra’s family. Carly Edwards. Tahra’s famous older sister.
Someone must have called her, he realized. Guilt stabbed through him because he should have called Tahra’s sister himself, as soon as he learned Tahra was in the hospital. But the idea had never occurred to him—too many other things to worry about. Alec, he thought. Alec must have called her.
His supposition was confirmed when Tahra’s sister stood and walked toward him, then took his arm and led him out of the room, saying softly, “The embassy notified me immediately because I’m Tahra’s next of kin. I’m Carly Edwards, and you’re Marek, right? Captain Marek Zale? I want to talk with you, but I don’t want to do it where Tahra might hear.”
She dropped his arm once they were outside, and she headed down the wide hospital corridor, not even looking to see if Marek was following her. He smiled a little to himself, remembering the bits and pieces Tahra had mentioned to him about her older sister...and Carly’s formidable reputation in the world of journalism. “Tiger Shark” was her nickname—a well-deserved one—and his smile faded as he followed her to the waiting room on that floor. Alec hadn’t called him on it when Marek had declared Tahra was his fiancée, but he didn’t think Carly would afford him the same consideration. Which meant he’d better come up with a story—in the next sixty seconds. One that would satisfy Carly. Or else his little fiction was going to be blown out of the water.
She stopped when she reached a quiet corner of the waiting room, then turned to confront him. “Imagine my surprise,” she drawled in the soft Virginia accent that reminded him of Tahra, but at the same time held a note of steel Tahra’s voice never had, “when my fiancé’s brother called me to say Tahra was in the hospital...but her fiancé was keeping close tabs on her and could keep me apprised of her condition.”
Marek had forgotten. Tahra had mentioned her sister had recently become engaged to Senator Shane Jones, who—in one of those quirks of reality—was Alec’s oldest brother.
“I can explain.”
“I hope you can, Captain. Because I’m this close—” she held her thumb and forefinger up to show him exactly what she meant “—to having you thrown out of this hospital, and arrested if I can swing it.” When Marek didn’t immediately speak, she pounced. “You are not Tahra’s fiancé. She told me all about your proposal, and why she turned it down. So you have no business being here.”
His face hardened. “Whatever Tahra may have told you about that fiasco is meaningless. She loves me. If she confided anything to you, she would have confided that. Yes?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Carly countered quickly.
“If you know that much, you know I love her, too.” The words poured out of him, the words he hadn’t been able to say to Tahra herself, but which she’d known were true when he proposed.
“Again, not germane to the situation.”
He didn’t know what germane meant—he prided himself on his English, but it wasn’t perfect. He could infer the meaning by the context, however, and there was even more steel in his voice than in Carly’s when he answered her. “The hospital would give me no information on Tahra’s condition until I said I was her fiancé. Have you never told a lie for the purest of reasons, Miss Edwards?”
A flash of something that might have been guilt crossed her face, but she raised her chin and said, “Ms. Edwards. Not ‘miss.’”
“I apologize, Ms. Edwards,” Marek said stiffly. “We do not have that distinction in Zakhar, and Tahra never—” He chopped that sentence off before he could finish it, then returned to his initial point. “I would tell any lie I had to in that situation. I would do it again, no matter the consequences. In my heart Tahra is mine to cherish, and I could not bear—”
He broke off as emotion threatened to swamp him. When he had himself under control, he said, “My deception has harmed no one, least of all Tahra. Ask yourself what you would have done under the circumstances, Ms. Edwards.”
Her eyes searched his face for a full minute before they softened. “Okay, I’ll buy that. But what are you going to do when Tahra regains consciousness?”
“That will be up to Tahra. If she asks me to leave, I will leave.” He hesitated, then added, “I pray she will not, but that is in God’s hands.”
“Okay,” Carly repeated, and the confrontational tone in her voice was noticeably absent. “So what can you tell me about how Tahra was injured? Alec wasn’t all that specific when we talked on the phone, and I came directly to the hospital from the airport.” She gave a delicate snort. “And though the guards on the door let me pass—after I showed them my passport and they checked with their commanding officer, who consulted with the US embassy—they either wouldn’t or couldn’t give me any details.”
“I can tell you what I know...but only as Tahra’s sister.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “This information cannot be broadcast because these attacks are a breach o
f national security, and an investigation is underway. You are a journalist, and—”
She cut him off. “You have my word. Anything you tell me as Tahra’s sister will be in strictest confidence.”
Marek quickly relayed the facts he knew. “So you see, Tahra could still be in danger. We do not know this, but it is very likely. If the terrorist who left the bomb at the preschool thinks she can identify him, he will likely stop at nothing to silence her.” Marek let that sink in before adding in a low voice, “There are guards protecting her, but I...I slept in her room last night because I could not stay away. Because I had to protect her myself. I will do the same every night until she regains consciousness. Until she personally rejects my protection. Can you understand this?”
“I understand.” A tiny smile flickered over Carly’s lips and spread to her eyes. “I understand something else, too. You really do love her.”
It wasn’t a question, but Marek answered anyway. “But of course.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it.”
Marek shook his head. “To know Tahra is to love her,” he said simply. “I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice,” she insisted.
“Not with Tahra.”
* * *
Tahra was tired of swimming through the murky waters of her memories. She swam and swam, but no matter how hard she tried there was something just out of reach. It was important—she knew it was important—but her head ached dreadfully whenever she tried to force herself to remember.
Giving up for now, she latched onto the memory of her sister, so fresh and crisp in her mind. There was Carly at Tahra’s high school graduation. So proud. So happy. Tahra hadn’t known it at the time, but Carly had passed on an exclusive interview to be there for her little sister. Carly had done something similar when Tahra had graduated from college. “Don’t sweat it,” Carly had told her. “You’re more important than the senior commander of the US forces in Afghanistan.” Tahra hadn’t really believed it, but it had made her love Carly even more...if that were at all possible.
Love. That was it. The thing she couldn’t remember had something to do with love. Not the love of sisters for each other, but someone else. And though she couldn’t remember the details, she knew one thing for sure. Whatever it was—whoever it was—she’d wept bitter tears. Then she’d picked up the shattered remnants of her life and forged ahead. Just like Carly.
The room was shrouded in darkness when Tahra groggily opened her eyes. She didn’t know where she was—this wasn’t her bedroom in the quaint apartment she’d just moved into a half mile away from her job at the US embassy. She liked her new apartment better than her old one, even if it was farther away from work. And she liked her new boss, too, a lot more than her old one. She hadn’t worked for Alec Jones very long—less than a week. And he wasn’t an easy man to work for unless you were a perfectionist like him—which she was. The previous regional security officer had done a slipshod job, in Tahra’s estimation, and she’d been glad when Alec had replaced him with almost no notice.
Tahra gave herself a little mental shake as she suddenly realized she’d allowed her thoughts to wander. Where am I? she wondered now. She wasn’t in her bedroom. She wasn’t in her bed. Where am I?
She blinked at the darkness and turned her head, then caught her breath at the pain that throbbed behind her eyes when the side of her head touched the pillow.
She hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the room, but someone had heard her gasp, because a dim light over the bed was suddenly switched on and adjusted so it wasn’t shining directly into her eyes. A strong hand curved beneath her neck and lifted her head, turning it until the damaged area was no longer in contact with anything.
Tahra sighed with thankfulness and smiled up at the stranger at her bedside. Then her eyes widened because this man was so handsome he took her breath away. His close-cropped golden-brown hair and deep blue eyes adorned a face that—even without a smile—could have been the model for Adonis. Her heart skipped a beat, and she blinked. Then her gaze took in all the equipment surrounding her bed, some of it faintly beeping. The IV connected to the back of her left hand. The cast on her right wrist. And though she didn’t remember coming here, she felt she was on solid ground asking, “Am I in the hospital?”
“Yes.” There was just the slightest trace of an accent to this man’s English, and it seemed familiar somehow.
She frowned. “I could have sworn I heard Carly talking earlier, but—”
“Your sister was here. She left around midnight.” He darted a glance at his watch. “That was almost three hours ago. She will return in the morning.”
“Oh.” So she hadn’t imagined it. “I’m in Zakhar, right?”
“Yes, Tahra.” The back of his hand brushed her cheek in a way that seemed too intimate for a doctor or nurse, and she shrank away from it.
“Please don’t,” she whispered. She’d once let a man touch her this way without voicing an objection, not wanting to cause a public scene. That had eventually led to a nightmare she’d only recently recovered from, and she’d learned a hard lesson about speaking up for herself. “I don’t know you, and I—”
The stranger froze. “You do not know me?”
Chapter 3
Of all the things Marek had envisioned happening when Tahra came out of the coma, he’d never imagined she wouldn’t recognize him. For just a moment his mind went blank. Then, before he could calmly and rationally consider what he should do, he heard himself saying, “I am your fiancé, Tahra.”
He gently raised her left hand so she could see the old-fashioned engagement ring he’d placed there, a large pearl surrounded by diamonds in an antique setting, a ring that had been in his family for more than two hundred years. The ring she’d first accepted...then returned. “We are engaged.”
“We are?” Her eyes squeezed shut and her lips moved silently. When she finally looked at him again, there was a bewildered expression on her face. “I don’t remember. Why don’t I remember?” When he just shook his head at her, unable to answer, she pleaded, “Your name. Tell me your name.”
“Marek. Marek Zale. Captain in the Zakharian National Forces, on detached status. I am the head of security for the crown prince.” He watched closely for a sign that his name or occupation might mean something to her, but they didn’t.
“Marek.” His name on Tahra’s lips was soft and sweet, and Marek’s heart ached for all the times she’d uttered it before in exactly the same way. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed deeply. “I’m sorry,” she said after a minute. “I don’t remember you.” And he could tell by the poignant catch in her voice that she really was sorry. Then to his amazement her eyes fluttered closed. “Marek,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.” Her breathing slowed until he knew without a doubt she was asleep again.
“Oh, Tahra.” Her name was torn from his throat, and he touched her cheek with fingers that trembled.
* * *
Marek was waiting outside Tahra’s door when her sister showed up punctually at seven, the exact time she’d told him last night she would arrive. “We need to talk,” he told Carly urgently. He glanced at the two guards standing at attention on either side of the door, who were due to be relieved at eight. “Privately.”
“We can’t talk in there?” Carly asked, pointing toward Tahra’s room. He shook his head. “Well, can I at least go in and see her first?”
“She is sleeping, but she is no longer in a coma. She woke around three this morning, and we spoke for a few minutes. That is what I must discuss with you.”
“Tahra’s no longer in a coma?” she asked eagerly. “That’s great news! Why didn’t you call me immediately?”
He held out his hand, indicating the waiting room at the end of the corridor they’d used last night for their private conversati
on. “Please.”
They’d no sooner seated themselves in a secluded corner when Carly said, “Something’s wrong. Hemorrhage? Stroke?” Her lips tightened. “Just tell me straight-out—I won’t fall apart, I promise you.” Her quickened breathing was the only indication she wasn’t as calm as she appeared.
“No, nothing like that,” Marek assured her. “But I spoke with Tahra’s doctors an hour ago. They examined her again and questioned her minutely. Physically she is fine. Still in great pain, of course, but nothing that will not heal.”
“Then what? She doesn’t remember the explosion, is that it?” Carly shot at him. “It’s not all that unusual, you know. People’s brains often block out traumatic events, and—”
Marek cut her off. “It is not just that,” he said vehemently. “Tahra remembers nothing of the past eighteen months...including me.”
* * *
Sergeant Thimo Vasska saluted his superior officer, and when told to stand at ease he did so. “What news do you have to report, Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked.
“She is being closely guarded. She had not regained consciousness as of last night, but the nurse’s aide I bribed for information said the doctors had lessened her morphine dosage, preparatory to bringing her out of the medically induced coma. So—”