The Bodyguard's Bride-To-Be
He came around and held the door for her before she could get out, but then she paused on the sidewalk, staring in confusion. “I live here?”
His heart ached for the touch of panic in her voice. Everything from the past eighteen months was unknown to her. Everything was strange and...yes...potentially frightening. “You moved here six months ago, when your lease expired and the owner raised the rent on your old apartment. You had only lived there a year, and you loved it, but you were adamant about moving.”
“Why would I do that?” she murmured to herself. “I’m not dependent on my salary.” She glanced at Marek, almost as if embarrassed to admit, “Carly and I...we inherited money from our parents. Not a fortune, but enough so that we never had to worry about where the money would come from for college and...well...other things.”
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I had something to do with your decision to move.” When she gave him a questioning look, he added, “I live around the corner.”
“Oh.” Her smile returned. “I guess that explains it.”
* * *
“She is not dead.” Colonel Borka’s voice was always chilling, but now it sent fear trickling down Sergeant Vasska’s spine. “The woman who interfered in our plans is not dead. Worse, the aide you bribed is in custody. And she is talking.”
Sergeant Vasska was surprised into asking, “How do you—”
“I know. Let us leave it at that.” The colonel looked the sergeant up and down. “If you were me in this situation, what would you do, Sergeant?”
The fear moved to his bowels, but Sergeant Vasska forced himself to ignore it. “I would...eliminate the man who had failed to carry out his assignment.” He snatched at a breath. “I would eliminate...me.”
Colonel Borka smiled, but there was no humor in it. In fact, there was not the slightest shred of any human emotion in that smile. “That is why you are merely a sergeant,” Colonel Borka said. “I do not waste men...even men who fail. I do not even demote them—I give them a chance to redeem themselves. But...” He held up one hand. “I do not think it serves our cause to have you here in Drago at this time, where you might be spotted. I am sending you to the eastern border...for now. You will go there directly and await orders. Is that clear?”
Sergeant Vasska saluted. “Yes, sir!”
* * *
“I must leave you here,” Marek told Tahra after he’d seen her comfortably ensconced in her suite in the royal palace. He touched her cheek briefly. “I have work waiting for me.”
He didn’t say it, but Tahra filled in the blanks. He’d neglected his duty for her. She barely knew him, but she knew this much—duty was everything to Marek. “I’ll be fine,” she hurriedly assured him.
“Your luggage will be here shortly,” he told her. “The master of the household has assigned a maid for your use. She will arrive at the same time as your luggage to unpack for you and provide anything else you might require.”
“I don’t need a maid.”
“Nevertheless, one has been assigned.” He unbent enough to add with a hint of a smile, “Please do not make the maid feel she is unnecessary. You would take away her face, wound her pride. And that, I know, your heart is too tender to do, mariskya.”
“No. Oh, no,” she rushed to say. “Of course I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“And even though you have been discharged from the hospital, that does not mean you are completely healed. The doctors told you to resume normal activities slowly, yes?”
“Yes, but...” He headed for the door and she trailed after him, suppressing a tiny dart of panic. So she was in a strange place. So what? So she didn’t know anyone in the palace. Was that really important? So Marek was abandoning her here. He’s not abandoning you, she quickly chastised herself. He has a job to do, and he has already spent the entire morning on you.
She was so lost in her thoughts that when Marek turned around and pulled her into his arms she didn’t resist. Then he kissed her, and—oh, God!—could he kiss. Being kissed by Marek was so much more intense than anything she’d ever experienced. Her breasts swelled, her nipples tightened, her stomach quivered. And that was just in the first ten seconds. He deepened the kiss, and sparks flew everywhere, melting her with incredible heat from the inside out. He wasn’t even touching her between her thighs, but she felt him there and she trembled.
When he finally broke contact, both of them were short of breath. She stared up at him, dazed. Wondering if another bomb had just exploded, knocking her senseless.
“You will let the maid do her job, yes?”
One word was all she could manage. “Okay.”
Only after Tahra closed the door behind Marek did she realize she just might have been had. That his little smile had deepened when she’d agreed to accept the maid’s services. That very possibly she’d been manipulated into doing exactly what he wanted her to do.
“And that is not going to continue,” she muttered to herself, despite acknowledging there was some truth to Marek’s statement; the doctors had told her to take it easy, to not overdo anything. But still... “Maybe I’m not as assertive as Carly, but I’m no pushover, either. He’s not going to walk all over me.”
But if he kissed her that way again? Could she stand up to him then? “Doubtful,” she whispered, touching a finger to her lips, reliving the kiss that had turned her entire body into a quivering mass of jelly. “Highly doubtful.”
* * *
Marek checked on the crown prince and the men guarding him in the royal nursery on the second floor—something he did on a regularly irregular basis. Not that he didn’t trust his men. He did. But showing up from time to time accomplished two goals: it kept his men on their toes, since they never knew when he might appear, and it ensured the little prince knew Marek, which could be important if it was ever necessary for Marek to guard Raoul personally. Not likely, but as a belt-and-suspenders man he always wanted to be prepared for any contingency.
There was another reason why Marek wanted to retain a personal connection with the crown prince...something he didn’t like to think about but was always there in the back of his mind. The succession.
Should anything happen to the king—God forbid! Marek always told himself whenever he thought of it—Crown Prince Raoul would ascend the throne. That transition would be difficult enough for an adult, much less a child of tender years, and Marek would do anything in his power to smooth the way. It was his duty, yes, but it was also his honor. The men of the king’s security detail would assume responsibility for their new monarch, but Raoul wouldn’t be familiar with any of them the way he would be familiar with the men who’d guarded him in the past. It would be Marek’s job to facilitate that transfer.
During Raoul’s minority, the king had named his cousin, Prince Xavier, and his wife, Queen Juliana, as regents...something the queen had vehemently protested. Marek had been an unwitting witness to the ensuing argument when that issue had arisen...almost a flaming row, in fact. Not that the queen wanted sole control; that wasn’t it at all. She just refused to accept the king might die and objected to any plan that meant she would have to go on without him.
A smile touched his lips. The timeless bond shared by the king and queen was becoming legendary, rivaling the love story of the first king and queen of Zakhar more than five hundred years ago. Two hearts as one, forever and a day. Words carved in Latin on the tomb of the first King Andre Alexei and Queen Eleonora. Words etched in his heart. Were they also etched in Tahra’s heart? He’d thought they were...until she’d rejected his marriage proposal three weeks ago. Until she’d tugged his ring from her finger—the same way she’d done today—and whispered in a voice that shook, “I can’t marry a man who doesn’t trust me. I can’t. I won’t.”
He’d told himself when Tahra had been in surgery that she’d been right to accuse him of not trusting her. But now a little voice of doubt whispered in the back of his head. If she really loved you as she said she did, would she have returned your ring? He would never know...until Tahra regained her memory. If she regained her memory.
Unless...
Unless he could make her fall in love with him all over again.
When the thought flashed through his mind as he descended the back stairway on his way to his office on the ground floor, he stopped so abruptly one foot was suspended in midair, and he almost missed the step.
Was it possible? Could he do it? Could he accomplish in a few weeks what had previously taken eighteen months...winning Tahra’s trust? Winning her heart?
Gaining Tahra’s trust hadn’t been easy. He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d spotted her in the reference section of the library, and he’d pretended to bump into her just so he could have an excuse to apologize...and start a conversation. But her reaction had been totally unexpected. He hadn’t missed the flash of fear in her eyes, quickly masked. And from the way she’d drawn back, her stammered apology, the color that had come and gone in her cheeks, he’d known instantly she wasn’t pretending—she really was afraid of him.
All of which had intrigued him and immediately aroused his protective instincts. And awakened the wolf inside him at the same time. He’d exerted himself to put her at ease, initiating friendly yet casual conversation, but making sure he kept a physical distance between them to make her feel safe. And eventually she’d rewarded him with a tentative smile.
He’d vowed in that moment that someday she would trust him enough for a real smile. One without the shadows in her eyes.
Within a month of knowing her, he’d known she was The One. As he’d told Alec Jones, a man would have to look far and wide to find someone like Tahra. Sweet without being cloying, with a tender, loving heart that made him determined to win her for his own. So he’d sat down, and with the deliberateness with which he’d planned his whole life after Zorina, he’d charted a course to accomplish his goal—Tahra as his wife.
It had taken him almost seventeen months, but he’d persevered. And three weeks ago he’d been the happiest man on earth when Tahra had agreed to marry him. Only to have his dreams come crashing down around his ears.
But he hadn’t given up hope. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Tahra’s sister he was merely giving Tahra time to come to terms with what he’d disclosed right after his proposal. Time for her to remember they shared a bond that could not be broken—especially not for so insignificant a reason.
Marek walked into his office just as the phone was ringing, and he answered it with his name as he always did. “Captain Zale.”
He listened to the voice on the other end without saying a word, his eyes growing hard and cold. Then he asked one question. “How could that happen when she was in custody?”
Chapter 5
Tahra took a book from the sitting room to the daybed in her bedroom, thinking to read for a bit until her luggage arrived. But the novel, one of an eclectic collection that seemed to have been placed in her suite to appeal to a wide variety of readers, couldn’t hold her interest...because her eyelids fluttered, then suddenly became too heavy. She laid the book facedown on her lap, intending only to rest her eyes for a couple of minutes. But before she knew it, she’d dozed off.
She floated dreamlessly at first. Then things changed, and faces flashed through her mind. Faces she knew she should recognize...but she didn’t. The only man whose name she knew was the man who’d kissed her senseless earlier—and she only knew him because he’d been a nearly constant companion since she’d woken in the hospital. I should remember you, she confessed to Marek in her dream, but I don’t. Then pleaded, Please don’t be upset with me.
A knock on the door to Tahra’s suite startled her awake, and with the dream still vividly in her mind, her first thought was that Marek hadn’t been upset. He’d been understanding. Too understanding? Shouldn’t he be more upset she didn’t remember him?
The knock sounded again, and Tahra hurried to answer the door. I guess Marek is right, she thought, although she’d never tell him that. I’m not completely recovered. She’d never fallen asleep in the middle of the morning before. Well, not since I was a toddler, she added with a dart of humor. I must have been more exhausted than I thought.
The knock at the door turned out to be the delivery of her luggage...and the arrival of the maid, just as Marek had predicted. Tahra made only a token protest, then allowed the fresh-faced maid—who’d introduced herself as Ani, and looked to be somewhere in her late teens—free rein. But Ani had barely begun unpacking when there was another knock.
Ani said something in Zakharan when Tahra headed to the door to answer it, then bustled past her and switched to English. “No, miss, I will do that. You are to rest and take it easy—that is what Captain Zale said.” Ani shooed Tahra back into the bedroom, then returned two minutes later, a cream-colored envelope in her hand, excitement bubbling over. “An invitation from the queen,” she said in reverent tones, handing it to Tahra.
Ani’s excitement quickly transferred itself to Tahra. Like many Americans, she was fascinated by royalty—other countries’ royalty. Especially this queen, who was as American as Tahra was, a film actress who’d reigned as queen of Hollywood for years before she became a queen in real life by marrying the king of Zakhar.
“Open it, miss,” Ani pleaded.
Tahra was able to restrain herself just enough to keep from ripping the envelope open, forcing a calm she was far from feeling. Then read aloud the handwritten note card with rising excitement.
Dear Ms. Edwards, the note said. Thank you for accepting my husband’s invitation to stay in the palace until such time as it is safe for you to return to your home. I realize your memory is temporarily impaired, but I would love to renew our acquaintance. I would also appreciate the opportunity to thank you in person for saving the lives of all those schoolchildren. Would you do me the honor of lunching privately with me today? If that’s convenient for you, I’ll send a footman to bring you to my private dining room at noon. Sincerely, Juliana Marianescu.
“Lunch with the queen!” Ani breathed. “What will you wear?”
Tahra laughed a little at that, because Ani’s question had been the first thing she’d thought of, too. She mentally reviewed the clothes she’d packed. Most were utilitarian—the slacks, blouses and blazers she usually wore to work, and more casual clothes. “There’s a flowered dress,” she began, remembering the one dress she’d thrown in at the last moment with Marek in mind. Most of her dressier clothes were unwearable...until the scars had time to fade, so she hadn’t bothered to bring them. The flowered dress was different. It was deliciously feminine, yet had long sleeves and a cowl neck. Beneath the taupe nylons she’d also packed, those pinkish scars would be completely hidden. “But it may have gotten wrinkled when I—”
Ani interrupted her. “Leave it to me.” Her eyes twinkled suddenly. “The queen’s beauty is beyond compare—but you are beautiful, too, miss.” Tahra couldn’t help but blush a little at the compliment. Ani nodded to herself and added with a touch of self-importance, “When I am done, you will see.”
* * *
Tahra followed the footman who’d been sent to fetch her through a maze of corridors, unsure if she’d be able to find her way back unaided. They passed priceless objets d’art displayed in glass cases as well as out in the open on massive mahogany side tables. And what were obviously masterpieces hung in splendor from the walls, rivaling a museum. She recognized two famous Rembrandts, a Botticelli, several Sheridans and dozens of paintings whose artists she couldn’t name for sure but which she guessed. She would have stopped to confirm the signatures...if she wasn’t being led to lunch with the queen.
Finally the footman stopped and rapped on a closed door, which was almost immediately opened by another impassive footman, who bowed, ushered Tahra into the relatively small but exquisitely appointed dining room, then...surprisingly...left with the first footman, closing the door behind them. A tiny, dark-haired woman she recognized as Queen Juliana rose impulsively from the table and hurried toward her.
“Don’t you do that, too,” she laughingly chided when Tahra attempted a curtsy. “It’s bad enough I have to accept it from every Zakharian around me,” she confided. “But I don’t expect it from my own countrywomen.” She took Tahra’s left hand in a friendly way and led her to the table already laid for two. “I thought it would be more comfortable for both of us if we dispensed with service and just helped ourselves from the buffet. Oh, I forgot,” she added as an afterthought. “I’m Juliana. We met last year, but you probably don’t remember me, Tahra.”
“I know who you are, Your Majesty,” Tahra said shyly. “You were one of my screen idols before you married the king.”
“Oh dear, such a lowering thought—being someone’s screen idol makes me feel quite old.” But the queen’s smile conveyed she wasn’t really bothered by it. “And please call me Juliana. We’re not that far apart in age, you know. I’m thirty-two and you’re...twenty-eight, right?” When Tahra nodded, the queen explained, “We’ve actually had this conversation before, when we first met. Your boss at the embassy and my husband are friends, and we were first introduced at a reception here in the palace.” She was serving herself from the tempting variety of dainty dishes on the sideboard as she spoke, and Tahra made haste to follow suit, albeit a little awkwardly with her left hand. “I’ve also met your older sister, Carly,” the queen continued.
“You have?”
Juliana nodded. “A couple of months ago. Another reception.” Her barely perceptible sigh informed Tahra the queen was not a fan of formal receptions, although they were a mandatory duty in her life now. “This one was at the Zakharian embassy in DC. She accompanied the man who’s now her fiancé, Senator Jones.”
“Carly told me about him...when she was here while I was in the hospital,” Tahra volunteered hesitantly. “And she said I flew home to meet him when they became engaged a couple of weeks ago. But I don’t remember him.” She rushed to add, “I know who he is, of course, the same way I know who you are.” She couldn’t help the bleakness in her voice when she added under her breath, “But I don’t remember him any more than I remember Marek.”
The queen set her plate down and took a seat at the table, then darted a quick glance at Tahra’s face and changed the subject. “You resemble her, you know.”
Tahra seated herself and shook her head. “Carly’s beautiful.”
“So are you.” She was as discomfited by the queen’s unexpected compliment as she had been by Ani’s. “Oh, I know you weren’t fishing.” Juliana laughed softly. “I know you well enough to know you don’t see yourself in the same league as your sister.”
“Carly is famous. Deservedly so.”
“Yes, and unlike me, she’s famous for much more than her beauty.”
“That’s not true!” Tahra said, putting her fork down and leaping to the queen’s defense. “You’re a wonderful actress.” Then she paused. “Or rather, you were before you retired. Two best actress Oscars and those Golden Globe awards,” she reminded Juliana, as if the queen needed reminding. “And you were fabulous in King’s Ransom.”
An expression Tahra couldn’t quite decipher flitted over the queen’s face. “We had this conversation before, too,” Juliana said softly, and Tahra realized what she was seeing was sadness on the queen’s part for her lost memory. “Almost verbatim.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything to add to that, so she picked up her fork with her left hand and resumed eating.
“That brings me to one of the reasons I wanted to lunch with you today. Andre,” she said, referring to her husband, the king, “and I are awed by your courage in saving those children. He expressed his own gratitude and appreciation via an official letter sent to the president, the State Department and the ambassador at the embassy.” She picked up a long white envelope that had been sitting beside her plate, with the official seal of Zakhar embossed in one corner, and handed it to Tahra. “This is a copy for your records. And when you’re fully recovered, Andre plans to hold a reception in your honor.”
Tahra stared at the envelope without opening it, then raised her eyes to Juliana’s. “I...I don’t really remember doing it.”
“But you did—do you know how many witnesses came forward to say what they saw you do with that knapsack?—and we can never thank you enough. Every parent would feel the same—that could have been my child in that schoolyard.” She touched a hand to her abdomen in an unconscious gesture, and Tahra’s eyes widened.
“Are you...? That is...” She fumbled for words to a question she wasn’t sure she should ask, and the queen nodded.
“We haven’t announced it yet—we wanted to wait until after I pass my first trimester—so please keep the news to yourself. But yes, by this time next year your fiancé will be heading the security detail for two royal children, not just one.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Tahra gushed. Then shook her head. “I don’t mean for Marek, I mean for you and the king.” A smile curved her lips. “Another baby. That’s so exciting!”
“You love babies, I take it?”
Tahra glanced down at her plate, then back up at the queen. “I know it’s terribly old-fashioned. I know I should want a challenging career as my sister has in order to feel fulfilled,” she confided. “But all I ever wanted was to be a wife and mother.”
“There’s nothing more fulfilling than being a mother, Tahra,” the queen said gently. “Nothing.” Her unusual violet eyes glowed for a moment before turning mischievous. “And being a wife is pretty darn fantastic, too...with the right husband.” Her expression conveyed that her husband was the right husband for her...and Tahra immediately thought of Marek. She could so envision him as her husband. Not perfect. No man was perfect—no woman, either—but even though she couldn’t remember anything about him from before the explosion, his stellar qualities shone clear and bright. Not to mention the way he’d kissed her this morning. If that was the way he always kissed, she had no idea how it was remotely possible they’d never been lovers, because her body had ached in secret places, and her mind had surrendered completely to the—
“So what are your plans?”
She blushed, as if the queen knew where her thoughts had wandered. “I don’t really have any. I’m just following doctors’ orders and taking things one day at a time.”
The queen nodded her understanding and sipped at her water, which she was drinking in place of the excellent Montrachet that had been poured for Tahra. “That’s probably wise. Not easy for your fiancé, of course. Zakharian men are...” She cleared her throat. “A tad on the alpha side,” she said, tongue in cheek. “If you haven’t already discovered that for yourself.”
“A tad?” Tahra forgot for a moment she was chatting with the queen of Zakhar and answered the way she would have answered with one of her girlfriends. “Marek is über-alpha, not just a tad.” She snorted delicately. “And controlling. He thinks he knows best in everything.”
Juliana’s laughter pealed out. “Oh, tell me about it. Andre is just the same. It must be something in the blood. Zakharian men like to see themselves as masters of their fate, and Viscount Saint-Yves is no exception.”
A little chill ran down Tahra’s back, as if the name should mean something to her...but it didn’t. “Viscount Saint-Yves?” she repeated slowly, feeling as if something was right there on the outskirts of her memory, but try though she might, it wouldn’t appear. She shook her head in puzzlement. “Who’s he?”
Juliana’s mouth formed an O. After a pregnant pause she said, “I forgot you don’t remember.”
Tahra could add two and two. “Is Marek...Captain Zale...Viscount Saint-Yves? Why didn’t he tell me?”