“Will the wedding be delayed?”
“Absolutely not. In fact, some of our guests are arriving as early as this evening.”
The reporters flew into a flurry of questions about which royals would be present and where they were staying.
Sander held up a hand to stay further requests. “I won't be giving that information. Thank you all for coming out.”
As a set, the three brothers stepped away from the podium. Reporters jockeyed for position, snapping more pictures while others raised more questions about the map. Sander, having said his peace, collected Chey with a hand low at her back and escorted her out the side door. With guards at either end, this hallway was empty of foot traffic and media. Chey followed the men to a back staircase leading to the upper levels of the castle. Relieved that security prevented strays from wandering onto the royal floor, she tried to relax the tension gripping her shoulders.
“That better be the end of it,” Mattias said.
“I still can't believe he put it in the papers,” Gunnar said with open discontent.
“It'll take a while for the rumors to die down. As long as Paavo backs off and things go forward without disruption, the situation should resolve,” Sander added.
“The wedding will be a good distraction,” Mattias said.
“This was all we needed right now. I could wring his neck.” Sander snarled a noise of irritation as they reached the private wing reserved for the immediate royal family.
Natalia stepped into the hallway from her bedroom, a gift box in hand. Spying Sander and the others, she headed their way.
Chey noted the disturbed set of Natalia's features and wondered what happened.
“Dare! Didn't you have a talk with that man after I left? I thought you were going to put your foot down? What happened to your promise that I wouldn't be going anywhere with him?” Natalia pushed the gift box into Sander's chest.
He caught it after releasing Chey and fished the gift out. A smaller, velvet jewelry box popped into view.
Chey's brows arched. Bashir had come prepared to get a bride.
Sander opened the box, posture at ease, nonchalant. Inside, nestled against a black backdrop, sat a diamond large enough to take Chey's breath away. Sander unfolded an accompanying note.
“'Dear Princess Natalia, please accept this as a token of our forthcoming marriage. If resizing is required, do not hesitate to let us know. Always, Bashir.' He's persistent, I'll give him that,” Sander said after reading the note aloud.
“I don't think it's funny, Dare—”
“I didn't say it was funny, Natalia,” Sander said, cutting her off. He folded the note, set it back in the lid of the box, and snapped it closed. Handing the gift box back to Natalia sans jewelry, he pocketed the ring and looped his arm around Chey's waist. “I said he wasn't leaving here with you, or with the contract in tact as is, and I meant it.”
“What are you going to do about it, then? I want him gone.” Natalia put her hands on her hips.
Sander stared hard at his sister. Silence stretched into the zone of discomfort, until Natalia dropped her hands and glanced at the ground.
“I expect you to start handling yourself with more grace and diplomacy, especially regarding how you speak to me and the rest of your siblings. You don't make it easy to want to help you when you act like the spoiled brat Aksel and Helina raised you to be. I'll take care of it. That's all you need to concern yourself with.” With that he put his gaze on Chey. “I'm heading down with Mattias and Gunnar to have a talk with the council. See you later?”
Chey inclined her head. “Yes, I have some things to do as well. I'll see you around dinner.”
Sander kissed her on the mouth before departing with his brothers.
Chey caught Natalia's gaze just before they passed out of sight. She wanted to believe that was humility she saw in the girl's eyes, maybe even apology. Not sticking around to find out, Chey parted off for the stairs, intending on finding Hanna to see what her schedule was for the rest of the day. Lessons, language training and pinning down the time of the personal interview were only a few of the many things she was sure awaited her attention.
. . .
“Miss Sinclair, there you are. One moment, please?” Hanna said as she caught up to Chey at the top of the second staircase.
Chey smiled, cheered by Hanna's friendly face and demeanor. Whoever had chosen the woman to be her personal attendant had chosen well. Hanna was a delight to work with and be around. “Yes, Hanna? I was just coming to look for you.”
“Oh!” Hanna smiled, shuffling her notebook into the crook of her arm. “I guess it's good that I was looking for you as well. I wanted to let you know that your interview is ready to go. The reporter is here and the room has been set up.”
“Right now?” Chey, surprised at the immediacy of the interview, wondered if she should change her clothes again.
“Yes. They arrived with the other reporters for his Majesty's public address.” Hanna glanced at Chey's outfit, brushing a hand gently along a shoulder and over Chey's hip.
“I see. Should I change again? Since--”
“You might want to change--”
The women laughed as they talked over one another.
“You had this on for his Majesty's conference, so it might be a good idea to go ahead and wear something different for the interview. People will notice,” Hanna said, confirming Chey's thought.
“All right. Where am I supposed to go?”
“They're waiting in the second media room. It's two doors down from the one his Majesty used for his address this morning.” Hanna gestured with her pen down the stairs and generally to the right. “I'll be waiting at the head of the hallway for you though. Just find me when you're done. Do you need help choosing an outfit?”
“I think I know what I want to wear, thank you though. I'll see you in a little while.” After leaving Hanna, Chey retreated to the bedroom suite, mind on the interview rather than the clothes. She traded the wine pantsuit for a sensible skirt and matching jacket in pale blue. The jacket nipped high under her breasts rather than across her waist, helping disguise any hint of pregnancy. A cream silk shirt beneath showed whenever the panels of the jacket came apart—which wasn't often. Chey didn't think there was much to see, but wouldn't take the chance since the camera would be so focused on her.
Checking her make up and hair, she retraced her steps to the stairs and the main floor, where Hanna waited with predictable diligence. The attendant paused to look over Chey's choices, then nodded approval.
“Perfect. Right this way, Miss Sinclair.” Hanna gestured ahead and set a brisk pace for the correct door.
Chey fell into step, schooling herself to remain calm, to pretend as if the camera wasn't there. Arriving at the media room in short order, Chey wasn't surprised to find opulence reigned throughout, from gilt framed paintings to elaborate Persian rugs and decadent velvet chairs set across from each other, perfect for an interviewer-interviewee situation. The camera, stabilized on a stand, was an imposing piece of machinery focused at an angle to the seating arrangement. Lighting illuminated the furniture just so, creating a soft halo to swath Chey and the interviewer in.
“Miss Sinclair, this is Charlene. She'll be doing your interview,” Hanna said, indicating a woman in her mid thirties, blonde hair combed back into a sleek chignon. Dressed in red, her skirt hitting modestly an inch above the knee, Charlene appeared professional and businesslike.
“So nice to finally meet you, Miss Sinclair. Care to have a seat and we'll go over the details?” Charlene asked.
Struck with a another bout of nerves, Chey smoothed her palms down the outside of her skirt. She wished Sander was here, watching over the proceedings. Hanna, who must have correctly interpreted her unease, gave Chey a smile of encouragement from across the room.
“Miss Sinclair?” the woman in red repeated.
“Sure, yes. Nice to meet you, Charlene,” Chey said, belatedly catching up to the int
roduction. Although she'd been prepped for this in her lessons, Chey's mind blanked out the second she sat down in the chair and felt the big eye of the camera aimed her way. She couldn't remember what she was supposed to say or not say, or what topics she needed to dance lightly around. Always before, the camera had been focused on Sander. Now it was focused directly on her.
Crossing one leg over the other, she adjusted her jacket and hoped her attire was appropriate for the mood the advisers wanted to convey for the 'personal' interview. Comforting herself with the idea that Hanna would have said something if her clothes were wrong, she glanced at the staff as they walked over to attach mini microphones to the lapel of her coat.
She reminded herself that heavy emphasis had been stressed on a serene but strong presence with maybe a little touch of humor on her part. Now if she could just remember her own name, things would be fine.
Chey slipped a look at the camera men, at the others with notes and more clipboards. Everyone was busy. Hanna and a thin balding man conversed near a set of high chairs out of the way of the crew.
“All right. I thought we could start with your background. Where you grew up, where you went to school, that kind of thing,” Charlene said, looking up from her notes.
Chey glanced back. “All right. That sounds fine.”
“We'll cover some of your favorite things, such as your photography. Then we'll lead into how you met his Majesty and your courtship.” Charlene smiled. Her lips, as red as her suit, framed a set of startling white teeth.
“I think that will work.” Chey inclined her head.
“Of course, after we're done, special effects will be added, along with music. The whole thing.” Charlene made a gesture with one hand as if encompassing a whole.
Chey remembered the video she'd watched of Sander's other wedding. How the media had portrayed Valentina as a glowing paragon of perfection. Her stomach knotted with discontent. She didn't want everything to be so contrived that it made her out to be someone that she wasn't.
Wishing Sander would surprise her by showing up, she answered a few more mundane questions and glanced at the door in time to see Mister Urmas enter. As ever, the liaison between the King and the advisers wore a blemish free suit in pewter with a crisp, white shirt and blood red tie. He came straight to Chey's chair, giving her clothing a critical once over. When he didn't suggest a wardrobe change, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“This should take about twenty minutes, no more. Remember everything from your lessons, yes? Take care not to appear too emotional, or too animated, and please don't use any kind of curse word. We'll have to edit it out if you do,” Urmas said. He picked at a piece of lint or something on her shoulder, then directed the lighting crew to adjust this or that piece, and fired off another round of commands for the cameraman.
“Excuse me, Mister Urmas?” Chey asked, discreetly rubbing her sweaty palms on the arms of the velvet chair.
“Yes, Miss Sinclair?” He arched a dark brow when he turned to face her.
“Will Sander be here in time for the taping?”
“He's in meetings right now and is unable to attend,” Urmas said. “Would you like me to deliver a message?”
“No thank you. I'll see him after.” Chey focused on Charlene after that, pretending that she didn't feel like she was walking down a street buck naked with so many lights pointed at her along with the stare of the camera. How ironic that she should be so uncomfortable on the other side of the lens.
Urmas pivoted away, making a few notes on his way to the door.
The interviewer smiled. “Are you about ready, then? Feel prepared, upbeat?”
“I'm ready.” Chey wasn't ready at all. She wasn't as prepared as she thought she should be, and then she wondered if she would ever feel prepared. Living her life out of the spotlight, she wasn't used to all the decorum, rules and regulations of royalty. It bothered her that she might be upbraided for waving wrong, speaking wrong, or behaving out of the realm of what the advisers considered proper. They hadn't said much about it before the engagement. Now that she was to be Queen, there was a plethora of things to remember.
Breathe in, breathe out. She could do this. Tenacious in the face of adversity, Chey bit the proverbial bullet and prepared to do her best.
Ten minutes later, as the room grew quiet and the other non-essential lights dimmed, the producer counted down with a gesture of his fingers. Three, two, one.
Go.
All Chey could think at that moment was the old adage don't let them see you sweat.
Too late.
The interview went exactly as Charlene said it would in the beginning. They covered certain aspects of Chey's background, touched on the passing of her parents, and highlighted an anecdote or two about her photography. Careful not to show too much emotion, or laugh too harshly, she kept any gestures subtle and remembered to sit straight instead of slumped or slouched.
Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.
Then, out of the blue, Charlene hit her with a bomb.
“What do you say to the rumors that you support the idea of splitting Latvala into regions?”
Chapter Nine
Every heartbeat hammered against Chey's ribs and her ears filled with a rush of blood. The seconds slowed down to an eerie crawl, each one lasting an excruciating amount of time. Pinpricks of heat swarmed across her nape, around to the front of her throat, coloring her skin and spreading up over her cheeks. She licked her lips.
What the hell was she supposed to do? The camera was rolling. In periphery, she picked out the glowing little red light atop the equipment that was trained right on her. Natural instinct demanded she rise up in her own defense and read Charlene—all of them—the riot act for trapping her. Lulling her with passive questions so her guard was down. Who condoned this, anyway? Had the advisers known? Urmas? Obviously, it had been pre-planned.
Paavo. He was the one with the most to gain should she stumble and falter. Create a sense of confusion, make her look as if she doubted Sander's decision. It wouldn't take much to chop the interview up in a way that made her replies look like something they weren't.
Charlene stared at her, toothpaste ad smile in place. Stared like there wasn't anything at all wrong with the question, or that she hadn't just nailed Chey to the proverbial cross.
In as calm a voice as Chey could command, she said, “Since I support his Majesty's decision, there are no rumors.”
Charlene's brows arched. “According to our sources, Miss Sinclair--”
“Your sources are wrong. I know what I said and what I didn't. My support of his Majesty's decision has never wavered. Now then, are we going to get back to the interview I showed up for, or are we through?” It took every ounce of Chey's self control not to light into Charlene and the crew for their duplicity. With determination she didn't realize she had, she retained a neutral expression as she stood up from the chair. She had never intended to give Charlene the choice of whether they were through or not. Dislodging the microphone, she tossed it into the seat and headed for the exit.
“Miss Sinclair!” Charlene's voice tilted up an octave.
Chey ignored her. In periphery, she saw the camera swivel to follow her progress out the doors and into the hallway. A mild commotion erupted in her wake. Chey heard voices barking back and forth.
Hanna, hot on her heels, said, “Oh my heavens, Miss Sinclair. That went dreadfully wrong.”
Chey paused not far from the doors, looking for guilty faces or anyone acting out of the ordinary among the pedestrian traffic in the corridor. Staff members and those with close connections to the royals walked to and fro on whatever business they had for the day. A few individuals met her gaze and inclined a distracted nod of greeting. Chey didn't see anyone who looked suspicious or like they were waiting for the outcome of the interview.
“Yes, it took an unexpected turn, didn't it,” Chey said. It wasn't a question. One glance at her assistant was enough to convince Chey that Hanna had nothi
ng to do with the interview. Hanna looked as distressed as Chey had ever seen her, hugging the organizer tight against her chest.
“That last question was not on the list they gave me,” Hanna said. She pulled the organizer away from her chest and flipped it open.
Chey laid a gentle hand on the organizer, stilling Hanna's anxious fingers. She met her eyes. “I know it wasn't. Don't worry, Hanna. I think you would have said something if you'd known about this in advance.”
“Oh yes. Yes, I would have.” Hanna tucked the organizer against her side this time.
“Do me a favor, would you? Stay down here and observe the crew. See where they go and what they do. I'd like to know if Charlene reports to anyone in the castle,” Chey said, lowering her voice so only Hanna would hear.
“Certainly, Miss Sinclair,” Hanna said. “I'll let you know what I find.”
“Thanks.” Moving at a quick clip, Chey followed the hall to the stairs and ascended while Hanna went the other direction. On the private floor dedicated to the family, Chey made quick work of the distance to the bedchamber she shared with Sander and went in after unlocking the door.
Grabbing her cell phone off the nightstand, she sought the contact menu and made her way onto the balcony, seeking the brisk wind that always buffeted the high terrace. Right away her careful hairdo went askew and the flaps of her jacket fluttered like bird's wings. Finding the speed dial for Sander, she almost pressed it before motion out of the corner of her eye over the thick stone banister drew her gaze. She peered down, momentarily suffering vertigo from the angle and height.
Not far away, near the base of the castle against the wall, Chey saw two of Bashir's security members talking with none other than Natalia. She knew they were Bashir's men because of the skin color. Even from that height, the swarthy hue was recognizable. That and their mustaches and goatees, a feature every man in the entourage wore.
What were they doing with Natalia? Had the woman changed her mind and decided to visit Bashir on the sly? No. That wasn't it. The longer Chey watched, the more sure she became that something was amiss. Any conversation they had whipped away with the wind, though it was doubtful she would have heard anyway from up here.
The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) Page 9