by Amelia Autin
Tahra looked him over. So tall. So über-masculine—although she wasn’t about to use the word über to him again, she thought with an inner smile. Impressively masculine, she substituted in her mind. That’s a better description anyway. “I can’t imagine why I’d want to take you down,” she said aloud, letting her eyes twinkle at him, “but you’re right. You probably shouldn’t mention it.”
That made him laugh. He stopped short and drew her into his embrace, dropping a kiss onto her upturned face. “You are a constant delight.” He stared down at her, and Tahra caught her breath. Everything he was feeling was there in his eyes, his face. Love and desire, and something else. Something she suddenly realized was even more important to her. Admiration.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You are nothing like Angelina. And yet you are just like her in one crucial way.”
Her pulse wasn’t steady and neither was her breathing when she asked, “What way?”
“You have a warrior’s heart.”
* * *
The sun had long since set before Marek, carrying the picnic basket they’d retrieved from the gazebo, led Tahra back inside the palace through the side door they’d used earlier. The guard posted there wasn’t the same man who’d been on the door before, but he snapped a salute at Marek and addressed them both by name...in English.
“Good evening, Captain Zale, Miss Edwards.” He held the door for them.
Marek returned the salute, answering in Zakharan. A quick exchange followed, and though Tahra thought she was ignoring a conversation she wasn’t part of in a language she didn’t know, she was startled when she recognized a half-dozen words. She waited until they were out of earshot of the guard before she asked Marek about it.
“Yes,” he replied as he led her down a short corridor lined with doors. “You have been taking lessons in Zakharan for as long as I have known you.”
“I have?”
“Yes. Zakharan is not an easy language to learn as an adult, but you told me when we met that you felt, since you worked at the embassy here in Drago, it was important to at least try.” He turned a corner, then unlocked a door, opened it, turned on the light and ushered Tahra inside. “Here we are. I have been wanting to show you my office, but the occasion never arose.”
Marek’s office was small but immaculate. No clutter anywhere. Everything had a place, everything was tidied away. Not even a piece of notepaper by the phone or a pen lying haphazardly on the expanse of his desk. And Tahra wondered, If that’s the way he is at work, how is he at home? Would he be driven to distraction by how she left things here and there? Would he try to control her that way, too? She was neat and tidy at work, but that was at work. At home she liked to be...well...not messy, but not quite so organized, either.
A whiteboard covered the wall behind his desk, with a grid of days, dates and what appeared to be blocks of time across the top, and names neatly lettered down the left side. Xs were scattered across the grid in various boxes. When he saw the direction of Tahra’s gaze, he explained, “That is a chart of who is on duty when.”
“Guarding the crown prince.”
“Precisely.”
“I hadn’t realized there were so many,” she murmured.
“Unlike the king, who chafes under the necessity and will accept only one bodyguard at a time, there are always two men on duty guarding the crown prince twenty-four hours a day. Eight-hour shifts times two men per shift means a minimum of six men per day. But of course, they must be relieved for meals and such, which means an additional man per shift, who acts as supervisor in my absence. And then I must also allow for the fact that a man cannot work seven days a week, fifty-two weeks in a year, so additional men are necessary. The queen, too, requires two bodyguards at all times, but that is Angelina’s responsibility now. We share men, so there is always full coverage of the queen and the crown prince and yet no man’s time is wasted.”
“Only men?”
Marek had the grace to look abashed. “On the crown prince’s detail, yes. The queen insisted from the beginning that a certain number of her bodyguards be women, which is how Angelina came to be assigned in the first place. But every bodyguard is a member of the Zakharian National Forces on detached duty. That is, while they are on special assignment as bodyguards and the normal chain of command does not apply, they are still in the military. Which means they are referred to as ‘men,’ even those who are women.”
“Oh.” She tried not to judge, but it seemed somewhat archaic.
“You must be patient with us. Zakhar is still adapting to the change.”
“The change?”
“It has only been since the king ascended the throne that women were allowed in the Zakharian National Forces. And it has not even been three years since they were allowed to serve in combat.”
“I see.” And now that he’d brought it up, Tahra remembered her State Department briefing on the history of Zakhar, its political structure and its attitudes on a variety of issues, including women’s rights. “The king instituted a lot of changes, didn’t he?”
“He is the king.” Implicit in his words and tone was a firm conviction that Zakhar’s ruler was always right.
Tahra smiled to herself. She would never tell Marek, because it was obvious he believed God Himself would not allow the king to be wrong, but she was too American to accept that those in positions of power were perfect beings. Everyone was human. And everyone made mistakes. She was just glad, for Marek’s sake, that the king he admired and served with such dedication seemed to live up to his ideals.
“So what’s this?” she asked as she glanced at the whiteboard on the wall across from Marek’s desk, where a series of squares had been blocked out—four in the first row, then three and three. She moved closer when she saw her name written in a box in the top right corner, circled in red.
“I think best when I can visualize what is happening. Ten nearly simultaneous attacks in one day...”
“This is everything that happened that day?” She turned to look at him and he nodded. She faced the board again, touching the numbers written in each of the squares, a chill running down her spine as she recognized what those numbers signified. “Oh, God,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. “So many dead.”
Scarcely two seconds later, strong arms enfolded her from behind. “None from the preschool,” he reminded her in a deep voice. “Thanks to you.”
“Yes, but why? I mean why all these attacks?” She turned and burrowed into Marek’s comforting embrace. “Who would do something like this?”
He hesitated, as if there were things he knew he couldn’t share with her. Finally he said, “An organization called the Zakharian Liberation Front has taken public responsibility. Have you heard of it?”
She didn’t even raise her head from where it resided. “No.”
“Their credo is ‘Zakhar for Zakharians.’”
This time she was forced to look up. “Immigrants?” she asked, appalled. “Those pitiful refugees? That’s their reason for mass murder?”
“That is what they say, yes.”
Something in his voice made her ask, “You don’t believe it?”
He didn’t answer right away, just stared over her head at everything written on the whiteboard. “I do not know,” he said slowly. Deliberately. “All the targets so far have some connection with those who have made their way to Zakhar and are settling here with the king’s blessing and encouragement.”
He pointed to the top left. “A train from the eastern border, packed with asylum seekers.” His finger moved across the top to the next square. “The refugee processing center in the middle of Drago.” He pointed to the next block. “The Zakharian National Forces training facility, where seventy percent of the new recruits were male émigrés.” He hesitated, then indicated top right. “A preschool, whe
re almost half the children enrolled are émigrés. And the other six targets across Zakhar have similar makeups.”
“Seems pretty obvious to me the refugees are the focus.”
“It would seem that way, yes. And yet... It is nothing I can name, just a feeling there is something we are overlooking.”
“What’s being done about it?”
“The king has stated the Zakharian Liberation Front’s actions are unacceptable to him, and has expressed his desire for three things.” Tahra correctly interpreted “expressed his desire” to mean “issued a royal command,” at least where Marek and the men who served the king were concerned.
“What are those three things?”
“Protect the refugees at all costs. Bring to justice all who are involved in the attacks. Root out and destroy the Zakharian Liberation Front so something like this never occurs again.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Not me personally, but yes, the secret intelligence service, assisted by the Drago police and the Zakharian National Forces, is doing everything in its power to make his wishes a reality.”
“What else?”
“The head of the king’s protection detail asked Angelina and me to form a task force with him, so any potential threat to the royal family is immediately nullified. We have already met twice. I cannot disclose the specifics, but rest assured the royals are as safe as we can make them.”
“Yes, but what exactly are you doing?” She 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—there’s that word again, she chastised herself silently—too much of a take-charge man to sit quietly on the sidelines while someone else ran the ball.
“What makes you think I am doing anything?” he parried. “My job is to ensure the safety of the crown prince, and tangentially the safety of the royal family as a whole. That I am doing. Always.” But she 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. That has to be it, she reasoned. Because she couldn’t think of anything he’d said or not said since she’d woken up in the hospital that could qualify for “again” in that context.
She started to ask him but changed her mind at the last minute because Marek had been right earlier—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.
Shocked, Tahra acknowledged the little voice was right. She was afraid. Because despite the strikes Marek had against him—that control thing he had going, not to mention his less-than-ideal attitude toward women—he was drawing her under his spell, like a fragile moth to a far-too-tempting flame. She was falling in love with him all over again...in the space of four days.
Four days? She mentally counted back to what she referred to as Day One, when she’d woken from a coma in the hospital in the wee hours of the morning, Marek at her bedside. And yes, today was only Day Four.
Okay, it wasn’t really four days. She’d grown to love him at some point in the past year and a half. But she didn’t remember that. Didn’t remember him. So in some ways it was as if she’d opened her eyes, taken one look at his handsome features and incredible body, and decided he was the man she’d been waiting for all these years. Not like her at all.
Unless...subconsciously...she remembered him, her body as well as her heart. Which was where the fear came in. Because he’d done something—what, she hadn’t a clue—but something to break her heart. She was sure of it.
Chapter 8
Marek walked out of the police station on his day off with more questions than answers. The nurse’s aide who’d attempted to kill Tahra—who’d been bribed to try to kill her—was dead. Ostensibly by her own hand, but he wasn’t buying it. The aide had been talking to investigators, telling them what little she knew in exchange for a plea deal, and it made no sense she would have committed suicide. Which meant she’d been murdered...while in custody.
No one at the police station seemed to know how it could have happened. At least...no one who was talking to him. But if they wouldn’t talk to him, he knew who the police would talk to...and probably already had.
* * *
“Major Stesha will see you now,” the major’s administrative assistant told Marek, who’d been cooling his heels in the outer office for the past twenty minutes.
Major Stesha wasn’t a major in the Zakharian National Forces any longer, but Marek gave him the traditional salute anyway. He’d been Marek’s superior officer years ago, before the king had personally asked a then-Lieutenant Zale to go to Hollywood on his behalf and had asked the major to reform the secret intelligence service as soon as the king had ascended the throne. No sinecure, that, Marek thought to himself. But Major Stesha had quickly brought order out of chaos. Even more, he’d returned esprit de corps to a service that had sunk in nearly everyone’s estimation, especially in the eyes of the men in the Zakharian National Forces. The secret intelligence service was necessary to national security, though, and under Major Stesha it had established itself as second to none.
But that was before the Zakharian Liberation Front had emerged onto the national scene.
Major Stesha returned Marek’s salute, then offered him a chair and reseated himself behind his desk. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, sir. I have been trying to ascertain some information on the nurse’s aide who attempted to kill my fiancée last week.” The lie came easily to Marek’s lips because in his heart it wasn’t a lie—Tahra was his fiancée...until she renounced their engagement.
“Ah yes, Miss Edwards. The woman who saved the children.”
“Yes, sir. I have just come from the police station, where they would tell me nothing about the supposed suicide. Understandable, in a way, since I am not officially involved in the investigation. But—”
“But it was your fiancée whose life was almost taken.” Major Stesha smiled, not unkindly. “Your motivation in seeking this information is also understandable.”
Marek drew a deep breath. “If anyone knows anything, it is you, sir. I am not asking for classified information. Nor am I asking to be part of the official investigation into the woman’s death or its connection to the Zakharian Liberation Front. But you know me, sir. I cannot—cannot—simply do nothing.”
The major considered this for a moment, then asked abruptly, “What do you intend to do with this information...assuming I give it to you?”
“Nothing that would interfere with you or your men,” Marek assured him. “You have my word on that.”
Again the major considered Marek’s statement in silence. Then he reached into a side drawer and pulled out a thick file folder, which he slid across the desk to Marek.
Marek swung the folder around and opened it, reading the first few sentences. Then he glanced up sharply. “You had it ready for me, sir? Before I asked for it?”
A tiny smile touched the major’s lips. “As you say, I know you, Captain Zale. I knew you would want this information. I was expecting you yesterday.”
There was a slight question in his voice, and Marek rushed to explain. “I was on duty, sir. Today was my first opportunity...”
“Ah, yes. Duty. Your sine qua non.” The major’s smile took on a hint of understanding. “Just remember, there is duty to king and country...and there is duty to one’s family. And then there is loyalty, to the men under your comma
nd and to one’s superior officers. You are no longer my officer, Captain Zale, but you spoke up to defend me in a meeting where all looked upon me as a pariah—especially myself. That kind of loyalty earned you the file in your hands. I am breaking the rules giving it to you—do not let me down.”
“No, sir. You have my word.”
* * *
Marek intended to take the file home to read, then changed his mind and headed for his office in the palace. Any information relevant to the case needed to go on his whiteboard, so he might as well start from there. He never turned off his cell phone or pager—the head of the crown prince’s security detail was always on call for emergencies—but he could let any phone calls to his office phone go to voice mail, allowing him to work uninterrupted.
He took a quick detour to the second floor to assure himself all was well with the crown prince, then passed Tahra’s suite without stopping...although he was tempted. He jogged down the Grand Staircase, the file still clutched in one hand, and passed the Privy Council Chamber just as a meeting was letting out.
He paused politely to let the king’s senior advisers precede him down the corridor and was surprised when Colonel Lermontov turned to address him. “Captain Zale. A moment, please.”
Like Major Stesha, Colonel Lermontov was no longer an officer in the Zakharian National Forces, having retired after twenty years of stellar service. His impressive record as an officer had stood him in good stead when the king had ascended the throne and turned a once-appointed Privy Council into an elected one. The colonel had easily won his seat, and when the king had slowly but surely started placing more power and responsibility in the hands of the Privy Council, the ambitious and politically astute colonel had soon risen to the position of chief councillor.
All of this flashed through Marek’s mind in a couple of seconds, so he saluted and gave the older man the honorific. “Yes, Colonel?”
“What is the word on your fiancée? Has she recovered her memory yet?”