The Bodyguard's Bride-To-Be
Amelia Autin
A pretend engagement suddenly becomes very real…and dangerousWhen Tahra Edwards sees a suspicious knapsack near a schoolyard, 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…High-level bodyguard Marek Zale knows that a ruthless terrorist organisation 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!
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 (#ulink_dad22a89-6d62-521d-83a5-62f1a863bf4b),
“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
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
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.
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
Cover (#u98f5fbb3-fedf-504c-a81c-6bd8391a148d)
Back Cover Text (#uc4fb0a7b-409d-5298-8c56-514c0dd5a434)
Introduction (#u62118c32-1d65-5839-a4e6-1ad0b72c259e)
Dear Reader (#ulink_662d6871-7278-579e-af2c-1ac31737deee)
Title Page (#ua3beaa0d-5e32-518e-b881-8c9d05986a99)
About the Author (#u7b6f586c-3d8f-5a08-a8e7-7de476de560e)
Dedication (#udf06758a-29dd-5fcf-87a0-52367002510b)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_79749417-889b-5880-92c8-645de4a6cf32)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_b8e54c8b-ab19-56f9-9997-12ab51677e26)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_50bac457-aac2-5668-a7f1-40cbd6773c70)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_e7ea31d3-600a-5d18-9fa8-f5d7a01aca46)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_db8d1520-6f69-58d2-b9fe-78c34232fcce)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_22510a32-f041-557c-be16-877dd01bda8c)
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 bakery 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 nodded 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.
That brought it all down on him again—Tahra could be dying. His darling Tahra...who’d been right to accuse him of not trusting her with the truth. Why hadn’t he told her at some point during the past eighteen months, especially once they became constant companions? Because of Zorina, of course. As if Tahra could ever do what Zorina had done.
“Marek?” Suddenly Alec was standing in front of him, and he looked up at the other man. “The police wouldn’t tell me much about what happened,” Alec said, taking a seat next to Marek. “Other than to let me know Tahra was in the hospital here because she’d been wounded in a bombing. And the receptionist won’t divulge anything,” he added, inclining his head toward the same woman who’d guarded Tahra’s privacy from Marek. “Do you know anything more?”
Marek shook his head in automatic denial, then realized that wasn’t fair to the American. Tahra did work for him. Not only that, but Alec was also the principal security attaché and adviser to the US ambassador. Which meant he was entitled to know of any threat to the embassy’s security. “All I know is what the eyewitnesses in the park told the police. They saw Tahra grab something from the fence next to the preschool and throw it as far away as she could before yelling to the children to run. But she was not able to escape herself before the bomb—”
He couldn’t finish because the idea of a blast anywhere near Tahra threatened his composure. Zakharian men never cried. Hadn’t he been taught that since childhood? And yet...without that emotional release he needed something else. Vengeance. An eye for an eye. But right now there was no one on whom to wreak vengeance. No terrorist organization had come forward to claim responsibility for the attacks. That could change at any time, but for now...
Alec glanced away for a moment, as if to give Marek time to get his emotions under control. Then he said, “I heard you tell the receptionist Tahra’s your fiancée. Probably not the best time to say it, but congratulations—Tahra’s one in a million, and you’re a lucky man.” Alec and Angelina were the only ones who knew how Marek felt about Tahra. Not that he’d ever actually come right out and told either of them, but anyone who’d seen Marek and Tahra together—which Alec and Angelina had—would know...
Alec added, “Tahra didn’t mention the two of you were engaged, but I’ve been pretty busy lately. Guess she didn’t have a chance to tell me.” Something in Alec’s steady gaze told Marek the other man suspected he’d lied about being Tahra’s fiancé, but wasn’t going to call him on it. Yet. Not when the lie had garnered information about Tahra’s condition.
He opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn’t quite sure—when a man in medical garb walked into the waiting room, spoke to the receptionist, then came over to where Alec and Marek were seated. Both men stood quickly.
“You are waiting to hear about Tahra Edwards?” the surgeon asked in Zakharan.
Alec spoke first. “Tahra works for me at the US embassy.”
“She is my fiancée,” Marek threw in, not even waiting for Alec to finish.
The surgeon nodded. “She is in recovery. Her wounds are serious, but not life threatening. There was internal bleeding, but no major damage to any vital organs. We were easily able to effect repairs without complications via a minimally invasive technique called a laparoscopy. She has a broken right wrist, but it was clean and we set it without difficulty. There will be some scarring, of course, from the fléchette rounds that pierced her body.” His lips tightened as if merely the idea of fléchettes angered him. “But she was turned away from the bomb when it detonated, so her face is fortunately untouched.”
He hesitated. “The only thing that concerns me is the head injury she received. Severe concussion. Apparently the force of the bomb blast threw her into a park bench, and her head took a terrific blow. There is some swelling of the brain, but there does not appear to be any internal bleeding inside her skull. We have induced a medical coma to allow her body to heal without the distraction of pain. We are monitoring her closely, however, and will deal appropriately with any cause for alarm.” He smiled reassuringly at Marek. “Your fiancée was a healthy young woman before this happened, and the prognosis for a complete recovery is excellent.”
How Marek was able to hang on to his stoic expression, he never knew. “Thank you,” he told the surgeon in a voice wiped clean of emotion. He shook the man’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Always glad to deliver good news,” the surgeon replied with a smile. “You can see her as soon as they bring her up to her room. She will not be able to respond, of course, but remain positive—it is always possible she can hear you even in a coma.” He glanced at Alec and switched to English. “You may also see her as soon as she is conscious, but she will not be returning to work any time soon.”
* * *
“She saw my face,” Sergeant Thimo Vasska reported to his superior officer in the headquarters of the Zakharian Liberation Front. “It is possible she could identify me.”
Before the lieutenant could reply, another man entered the room so quietly he was there before either man was aware. Sergeant Vasska stiffened, then nervously saluted the supreme commander of their revolutionary force.
“That is unfortunate,” Colonel Damek Borka said in his flat, emotionless voice. It wasn’t his real name, of course. Everyone in the Zakharian Liberation Front went by a pseudonym because the danger of disclosure was great...although more for some than for others. “Unfortunate...for her and for you.” The colonel said nothing more, but his face conveyed how badly the sergeant had screwed up.
Failure was unacceptable, the man knew. If the witness could not be silenced, the Zakharian Liberation Front would have no choice but to remove the link between the botched attack today and their secret organization. Sergeant Vasska nodded his understanding. “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting again. “It will be dealt with immediately.”
* * *
Marek stared down at the unconscious woman in the hospital bed, his emotions churning. Tahra, his darling Tahra, could have died today. And he wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing to prevent it.
He took her unbandaged left hand in his and raised it to his lips. Forgive me, he told her silently, aware that the nurse attending Tahra and setting things up could hear every word he said. But until you are conscious, I have no choice. I must protect you the only way I know how.
He waited until the nurse turned away, adjusting something on one of the machines monitoring Tahra’s condition, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the little ring box he’d been carrying for weeks. Tahra had declined his proposal, but that had changed nothing. She was still his mariskya and always would be. He had drawn back, wanting to give her time to see what a mistake she was making, but he’d had to repeat the lie he’d told the receptionist to hospital staff, that Tahra was his fiancée, or else he would have been shut out of her sickroom. And that he couldn’t have borne.
He surreptitiously slid the engagement ring onto her finger, then kissed her hand again. “Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered in Zakharan. “I will keep you safe from this moment forward.”
Tahra slept on, oblivious, but he took comfort in the slight rise and fall of her chest.
Marek caught the nurse’s eye. “I have left my phone numbers with the main desk. Call me immediately, please, if there is any change in my fiancée’s condition.”
The nurse nodded, and Marek walked out, passing the two soldiers from the Zakharian National Forces posted right on either side of the door, returning their salutes automatically. He hadn’t even had to ask Colonel Marianescu to post guards, although he would have if necessary. The colonel was too smart not to realize the attacks today had to all be related and were a threat to national security. Which meant Tahra—a witness to the attack on the school—was also vital to national security. No one else had been close enough to the man who’d left the knapsack to identify him, but several witnesses in the area had indicated Tahra had been much closer to the terrorist. Anything she could tell them about the attack would be crucial. Which meant it was very possible her life was still in danger...and not from the injuries she’d received.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_3d2ddb4a-cb04-5900-8a91-7c78c3042833)
Tahra floated in a sea of disjointed memories. Carly was there, and her parents. Then her parents were gone, and seventeen-year-old Carly was kneeling in front of ten-year-old Tahra, saying gently, “They’re not coming back, honey. They’re never coming back. But I’m here. And I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
Tears and years.
There was Carly, fiercely confronting the secretary of state. “You think you can sweep this under the rug? Hell, no. That’s not going to happen. The State Department is going to come up with a better solution, and this had better not impact Tahra’s career in any way, you hear me? Not in any way. Believe me, you don’t even want to be thinking along those lines, understand? Because I’ll blow the lid off this scandal so fast it’ll make your head spin. And you won’t be the only one affected by the fallout. You got that?”
Carly, so protective of her baby sister, who, Tahra was ashamed to admit, had always had trouble standing up for herself in any confrontational situation. She’d fought off the foreign diplomat who’d attacked her—at least she wasn’t that much of a coward—and had saved herself from being savagely raped by stabbing him repeatedly. But when the State Department had tried to blame everything on her and throw her to the wolves, Tahra had called Carly from jail as her world crashed in around her. And Carly had come charging to the rescue again, bailing her out, then storming the secretary of state’s office. Carly, who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything...except losing those she loved.
In the way of dreams, Tahra was a little girl again, watching from the sidelines as most of the kids in her kindergarten class played Red Rover during recess. She knew she would be good at it. She could run like the wind and she was stronger than she looked—the locked hands could never hold her in Red Rover, she’d break through the line in a heartbeat. But the other kids never asked her to join in the game, and she was too shy to force her way into their charmed circle the way Carly would have had no trouble doing.
Then, through the murky depths of her dreams, she heard a voice. A masculine voice. Deep. Strong. Just a hint of an accent that made the English words sound unbelievably sexy. A voice she knew she should recognize...but didn’t. What was he saying? At first she couldn’t quite force her brain to comprehend, but then...
“I am back, Tahra. I promised you I would be, and here I am. I will always keep my promises, mariskya. Just as I will always honor and cherish you. Just as I will protect you with my life.”
The words floated in the ether surrounding Tahra, but there was something incredibly appealing about them. About the simple way they were uttered, too. There was also something about the voice she responded to instinctively. And she knew he spoke the truth. Whoever he was, she was safe with him, the same way she was safe when Carly was there.
She didn’t recognize the foreign word, though. Mariskya. Didn’t know what it meant. But she wanted to. The way he said it, she knew the word was important. She also desperately wanted to know who he was. Because—like the word—the man who’d spoken it was important, too. She just didn’t know why.
* * *
“The Zakharian Liberation Front,” Colonel Marianescu announced in Zakharan to the seven other men and one woman sitting around the conference table in the War Room inside the royal palace. “They have claimed responsibility for yesterday’s bombings. What do we know about it?”
Marek exchanged a rueful glance with Angelina because he knew the answer was “Nothing.” The Zakharian Liberation Front had never popped up on anyone’s radar until yesterday. And while technically this wasn’t an indictment of Angelina or him because she was responsible for the queen’s security and he was responsible for the crown prince’s, any threat to national security could be a danger to the royals, and they both knew it.
The silence in the room was deafening. “I see,” said the colonel. His lips thinned. “Needless to say, the king is not pleased.”
His last five words were a lash against the pride of all his listeners, but especially Marek. Until he’d met Tahra, nothing had been more important to him than the king he was proud to serve. Keeping the queen safe—and subsequently the crown prince when the king had personally asked him to take over protection of his son—had been especially important to him because those things were of paramount importance to the king. The king had made it abundantly clear that in any life-and-death situation, the safety of the queen and the crown prince came first. Then the king. That had required an adjustment in thinking, but everyone on the three security details had eventually come to accept it.
But from the moment Marek had met Tahra, the royal family had slid one notch in his personal priority hierarchy. Had he somehow overlooked a threat to them because of that? He didn’t know, and the uncertainty ate at his gut. Because duty was everything to him. Or at least it had been...until Tahra.
Marek dragged his attention back to Colonel Marianescu with difficulty. The colonel was saying, “It is fairly obvious from the one-sentence credo stated in their press release that the Zakharian Liberation Front’s political agenda is in opposition to the refugees Zakhar has recently welcomed inside its borders. ‘Zakhar for Zakharians’ leaves no room for any other interpretation. And all the targets of yesterday’s bombings were—”
The door to the War Room opened, and King Andre Alexei IV strode in. Everyone scrambled to their feet, but the king said quickly, “As you were, gentlemen. I apologize for being late—I had intended to be here from the beginning, but I was detained by the Privy Council.” He spoke softly with his cousin, Colonel Marianescu, then nodded and faced the room again, standing. “What I have to say will not take long.”
Marek had rarely seen the king like this—cold anger was coming off him in palpable waves. “I will not speak the name of this organization because its very name is an affront to every decent Zakharian. Nor will I repeat their credo for the same reason. All I will say is that this organization’s actions are unacceptable. Unacceptable!” The king paused and clenched his jaw against the anger that obviously threatened to get away from him.
When he had himself under control again, the king continued. His voice was soft, but no one in the room took his words as anything other than a direct order. “I want three things. First, I want the refugees who are here at my invitation to be protected at all costs. Second, I want the individuals involved in these murderous and cowardly acts caught and brought to justice. Third, I want this organization rooted out and destroyed. It is one thing to espouse this credo—every man is entitled to his own thoughts. It is another thing entirely to take violent action to force that on others, and it will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”
A chorus of “Yes, Sire” echoed through the room.
The king nodded with satisfaction. “Very good, gentlemen. I will leave you and Colonel Marianescu to work out the details. Thank you.” He turned and spoke privately with his cousin for a moment, then they headed for the door together. As they had when the king had entered the room, everyone stood and remained at attention until he was gone.
Angelina caught Marek’s eye. “Have you ever seen him this angry?” she whispered as they took their seats again. “Not even the assassination attempt on his son generated this kind of reaction as I recall.”
“I did not witness it myself, you understand,” Marek replied in an undertone that couldn’t be heard by the others sitting around them. “But he nearly killed Prince Nikolai for attempting to kill the queen. That was before she was the queen,” he clarified. “The man who did witness it said the king’s anger was awesome to behold—similar to his reaction today, I would imagine. I do not know how the queen convinced the king otherwise, but somehow she did, and Prince Nikolai lived that night—he went on to stand his trial before being convicted.”
Angelina nodded her understanding. Prince Nikolai was dead now, which they both knew, but not at the king’s hand. Then quickly, as Colonel Marianescu returned to the head of the table, she asked, “What is the word on Tahra? Has she regained consciousness yet?”
Marek shook his head, fighting off his own surge of anger at what had nearly happened to her. “She is still in a medically induced coma. Until they bring her out of it, she will not... That is, she is still—”
“Shh,” whispered the man on Marek’s left. “Colonel Marianescu is speaking.”
“Suggestions?” the colonel was saying.
No one spoke, and once again Marek and Angelina exchanged speaking glances. They were the only two captains in the room, included in this high-level meeting because they headed the security details for the crown prince and the queen, and neither felt comfortable speaking up first. But when the silence dragged on, Marek asked, “Do forensics on all the bombs confirm it was the action of one group? Yes, the Zakharian Liberation Front has taken public credit, but before we rule anything else out...”
“Good point, Captain Zale.” The colonel’s gaze swept the room. “Forensic analysis is not complete, but yes, the preliminary assessment supports the theory that the bombs were all the work of one group. In fact, that they were all the work of one man.”
“That tells us something,” Angelina pointed out. “If all ten bombs were assembled by the same man, we may be looking at a relatively small organization.”
The colonel nodded. “Possible, of course. A good working theory.”
“Especially since the organization has managed to fly under the radar until now,” Marek added. His eyes sought out those of Major Stesha, the head of the secret intelligence service, who had sat himself at the far end of the conference table that could seat many more than the nine who had congregated there, and who—up until now—had avoided catching anyone’s eye. As if he felt the shame of failure more keenly than anyone else. “It is also probable the Zakharian Liberation Front has only recently come into existence,” Marek continued, welcoming the change his words wrought in the expression on Major Stesha’s face. “‘Zakhar for Zakharians’? As Colonel Marianescu said, that credo can only refer to opposition to the influx of refugees who have settled here over the past two years, and in even greater numbers in the past six months.”
“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 of 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 (#ulink_77dd8111-9fec-5745-9e40-c82df1a339b0)
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 conversation. “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—”
“So she could wake up at any time,” said Colonel Damek Borka from the doorway.
The sergeant and the lieutenant both jumped, then turned and saluted the founder and supreme commander of the Zakharian Liberation Front.
The sergeant cleared his throat. “I have taken steps to ensure she will never awaken.”
“How, if she is being closely guarded?”
“There will be an unfortunate mix-up with her morphine drip,” the sergeant explained. “It was not cheap—the aide was greedy and time was short. But the money will come out of my own pocket,” he rushed to add.
“Since it was your mistake to begin with,” the colonel said in icy tones, “I never assumed otherwise.”
* * *
“You did what?” Carly demanded, and Marek couldn’t really blame her. He could hardly believe it himself.
“I told Tahra we are engaged,” he repeated. “I cannot tell you why I said it, unless subconsciously I believed it. But I must ask you not to contradict my statement.”
Carly stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You can’t possibly think I’m going to lie to my sister.”
“Not lie. Just do not disabuse her mind of the notion that I have the right to look after her, both here in the hospital and once she is discharged.”
“You’re crazy if you think—”
“To protect her. That is all I am asking.”
She made a gesture of frustration. “I can take Tahra back to the States. She’d be safe there.”
He shook his head. “Even the United States is not immune to acts of terrorism—you of all people must know this. We know almost nothing of the organization that set the bombs. Ergo, one or more of these men could easily slip into the US, kill Tahra and slip out again before anyone was aware.” Icy determination speared through him. “That is not going to happen to Tahra, even if I die for it. I give you my word, I will not take advantage of the situation. Tahra will be as safe with me as—” He broke off, then finished, “As you could wish her to be.”
“Protecting Tahra doesn’t require lying to her.”
“No,” Marek agreed. “But only I know the memories she is missing. For the past year and a half she and I... That is, I know what her life has been here in Zakhar. I know who she knows, I know who her friends are. Can you say the same?”
Carly shook her head.
“It is also possible that being in close proximity to me will trigger something and those missing memories will return. We were nearly inseparable for most of the past eighteen months, and despite what you might think, Ms. Edwards, the fact that Tahra and I are not truly engaged is a mistake I had every intention of rectifying. When I first proposed, she accepted. Did she tell you that?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It was only later, when I revealed—”
“She told me.”
He continued with barely a pause. “Then you know why she returned my engagement ring. But you cannot think I would leave it at that. I was merely giving Tahra time to come to terms with it. But then this terrorist attack occurred, and I...”
He writhed internally as Carly just stood there for a moment without saying a word, but years of the stoicism demanded of a soldier allowed him to stand calmly under her piercing gaze. Finally she said, “I’ll probably live to regret it, but okay. You’ve convinced me for now not to tell her the truth. But if anything happens to Tahra,” she added fiercely, “I will hold you personally responsible, Captain. That is not a threat—merely a statement of fact.”
“If anything happens to Tahra,” Marek replied, “you will have no target for your vengeance, Ms. Edwards, because I will already be dead. That is also a statement of fact.”
* * *
Marek headed back toward Tahra’s room with Carly at his side keeping pace with his longer stride. He saw a nurse’s aide approach the door carrying something and noted with approval that she was challenged by one of the guards stationed there. He was too far away to hear what was said, but the aide showed the guard something she wore on a lanyard around her neck—hospital badge, Marek guessed, since it was perused intently before she was allowed to pass inside. A minute later Marek quietly pushed open the door and entered the room himself, Carly right behind him.
The aide had already disconnected the drip tube from the half-empty saline bag hanging from the IV stand beside Tahra’s bed and was attempting to insert the tube into another fluid-filled bag, smaller than the first one. She jumped when the door opened, and dropped the full bag she was holding.
“Here,” Marek said, moving quickly to retrieve it from the floor, “let me help you.”
“No. No. I need no help, thank you,” the woman blurted out, grabbing at the bag in Marek’s hands.
Her strange behavior set off warning bells in his head, and he refused to let go. He quickly read the label and went cold all over as he realized exactly what he’d barely managed to prevent. “This is not saline,” he accused the aide. “This is intravenous morphine.”
The woman yanked the bag from Marek’s hands and tried to make a break for it. But he snagged her arm and deftly jerked it behind her back, incapacitating her and making her whimper in pain as she tried ineffectively to free herself.
Carly had swiftly moved to block the door to prevent the aide from escaping but stepped aside when Marek bellowed, “Guard!” and both soldiers on duty burst into the room, guns drawn.
The guards were followed closely by a nurse, and Marek realized someone must have pressed the call button. He shot a look at the bed and saw Tahra—pale and obviously in pain—clutching it in her left hand. Their eyes met for a moment, and another flash of pride in her ripped through him. His Tahra wouldn’t let herself be a victim if she could help it.
* * *
“Retrograde amnesia,” the neuropsychologist explained to Tahra later that morning, long after the aide who’d tried to kill her had been hauled off, under arrest by the Drago police. “Most likely a result of the head trauma you received.”
Tahra glanced from Carly standing on one side of her bed to Marek standing on the other, and with her left hand lightly touched the right side of her head, which was still bandaged. They hadn’t shaved it, the surgeon had explained when he’d visited earlier; they didn’t do that much anymore because of the increased risk of infection. And they hadn’t even had to clip it. She had a deep contusion from where her head had made contact with a park bench, but no laceration, which meant no stitches, no staples, nothing of that nature.
Just a headache, and—oh, yes—the loss of eighteen months out of her life.
“At this stage, I would not worry too much about it,” the neuropsychologist reassured her. “Your motor reflexes are excellent. There is no loss of auditory sensation or perception. Your sight is unaffected, and your grasp of language is unimpaired. More than likely your memory will return slowly over the next few days...possibly even a week or two. But,” he said, holding up a cautionary hand, “do not be surprised if your recollection of the actual incident and the moments leading up to it never return. That is very common in trauma of any kind. The brain...” He smiled. “We do not know everything about the brain, you understand, but this much we do know.”
The specialist continued listing what Tahra could reasonably expect in the coming days and weeks, and she tried to stay focused. But running through her mind was a thread of panic and fear—that her memory would never return. There is nothing more frightening than not remembering, she acknowledged now.
Especially when the not remembering included a terrorist attack...and a fiancé.
Her gaze slid surreptitiously to the man standing so reassuringly beside her. A fiancé who was as obviously unforgettable as Marek Zale.
* * *
Tahra was discharged from the hospital three days later. She no longer sported the bandage on her head that made her look like a freak in her own eyes, although she still retained the cast on her right wrist that made it difficult to do something as simple as brushing her teeth. And the open wounds wrought by the fléchettes that had pierced her body from behind had already been replaced with newly formed pink scar tissue. No woman could look at scars on her body with complacence, but Carly had assured Tahra they weren’t that bad, and the doctor had said they would fade with time.
The only thing that wasn’t on the mend was Tahra’s memory. Either the concussion had been worse than the doctors had realized up front, or they’d been too optimistic in their prognosis. Regardless of the reason, eighteen months of her life had been erased, including any memory of the man who had spent every night at her bedside. Who had treated her as gently as if she were made of crystal. Who had gazed at her with the kind of love most women yearned for...although he’d never spoken a word about it. Who’d made no attempt even to kiss her.
Carly had left the day before, at Tahra’s insistence. “I’m fine,” she’d asserted. “You have a job and a fiancé who both need you more than I do now.” Inside Tahra had been afraid of the gaping unknowns in her life, but she hadn’t revealed that to her sister.
“You’re in good hands,” Carly had whispered as she kissed Tahra goodbye. “Let him look after you until you’re completely recovered.” She’d hesitated, then added enigmatically, “Be kind to him.”
Him could only refer to Marek Zale, the man who had solicitously helped her out of the wheelchair the nurse had wheeled her out in as she was being discharged, and then into the waiting limousine, before going around to the other side to sit beside her in the back.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Your apartment first, to pack whatever you need for an extended stay in the royal palace.”
“What? Why would I—”
“The nurse’s aide who tried to kill you has talked,” Marek replied. “She was bribed to switch the IV bags, which tells us you are in danger. Imminent danger. So the king has decreed you are to be housed in the palace for the time being.” He took a deep breath. “Safer for you, and the US ambassador has agreed. You are on short-term disability leave from your job until such time as your memory returns.”
She voiced her secret fear. “But what if it never returns?”
Marek took her left hand and held it in his much larger one, squeezing gently, and the gesture was more reassuring than Tahra could have imagined. “Let us not think that way, mariskya. Let us remain positive.”
Mariskya. For some reason the word was vaguely familiar, but its meaning was tantalizingly just out of reach. And yet it seemed right for him to call her that, as if he’d used it before. Many times. There was a glass barricade between the driver and them, ensuring privacy, so Tahra had no hesitation asking Marek, “What does that mean, mariskya?”
He smiled faintly. “There is no direct translation. It is a Zakharian endearment along the lines of ‘my dearest one,’ although it is much more comprehensive.”
“You can’t expect me to be content with that.” Her brow wrinkled, and she asked hesitantly, “Should I know what it means? Did you tell me before?”
His answer was slow in coming. “Yes. The first time I called you mariskya you asked me. But I would not tell you because you would not have understood. Not then. Only later, after I... That is, after we...”
He seemed to be heading down a path he found difficult to speak about, and Tahra made an educated guess. “After we became lovers?” Her words hung in the air between them, and though he didn’t respond immediately, Tahra knew somehow she’d guessed wrong—that was not what he’d been trying to say.
After a long silence, Marek finally said in a low voice, “We have never been lovers.”
Chapter 4 (#ulink_4fd48507-bb2a-5eb9-b205-ae7231a2a600)
“Why not?” Tahra’s question seemed to take her by surprise as much as Marek, because warm color rose in her cheeks and she gave a little embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. Please forget I asked.” She tried to pull her hand away from his, but he held tight.
“But I want to answer that question.” His thumb brushed the engagement ring on her finger. “I have said this to you before...when I asked you to marry me.”
Her eyes sought his, and she said softly, almost shyly, “Please tell me again.”
“It was harder than you know leaving you at the door to your apartment,” he confessed in a low voice. “Holding you...kissing you...” He shook his head. “Letting you go every night took every ounce of determination I have.”
“Why did you?”
He smiled faintly. “Because you are the first woman I have ever envisioned as my wife. And in Zakhar a man does not... That is, we are taught...”
To his amazement, Tahra’s cheeks whitened and she jerked her hand away from his. “In other words, you have a double standard where women are concerned.” Her voice was cool, but he heard a thread of anger running through it. “I thought that went out of fashion fifty years ago.”
“That was not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” She gave a scornful snort. “Virgin brides are the exception nowadays, Marek, not the rule. Are you a virgin?”
He couldn’t believe she was asking him, but his answer was automatic and immediate. “Of course not. I am thirty-three and I am a ma—”
She cut him off. “Man. You’re a man, and therefore it’s expected that a thirty-three-year-old man wouldn’t be a virgin.”
He tried to possess himself of her hand again, but she refused to let him. At a loss to understand what was happening, he asked, “Why are we arguing about this?”
“So what you’re saying is that if you knew I wasn’t a virgin, we would have been lovers long ago...but you wouldn’t have asked me to be your wife.” She tugged furiously on his engagement ring, which wasn’t easy with the cast on her right wrist. When it was finally free, she grabbed his hand and slapped the ring in it, then forcefully closed his fingers around it. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t hold you to an engagement entered into under false pretenses.”
“Tahra!”
“I can’t believe you told me this before, and I agreed to marry you,” she said under her breath. “I don’t believe it.”
“I did not tell you that part.” He opened his fingers and stared at the ring it contained...the second time Tahra had returned it to him. The second time she’d turned him down. “That is not why—” He broke off when he realized what he’d almost said.
She wasn’t listening to him, and Marek could only thank God. “How could I?” she was saying to herself. “How could I possibly... Especially since...”
Then he focused on what she’d said earlier, and a savage pain slashed through his heart. “...if you knew I wasn’t a virgin, we would have been lovers long ago...but you wouldn’t have asked me to be your wife.”
Was Tahra telling him she wasn’t a virgin? Could it be possible his sweet, shy Tahra hadn’t waited for him? Had...slept with other men?
Just as swiftly her scornful question leaped to mind. “Are you a virgin?”
A two-word litany began repeating in his brain—double standard, double standard, double standard—and shock sent icy shards everywhere. Tahra was right. He had slept with other women. Women he’d desired but hadn’t loved. He had not waited for Tahra. Why had he automatically expected she would have waited for him?
This new thought struggled with the Zakharian concepts with which he’d been raised, a culture clash of momentous proportions. Out of the maelstrom, only one thought emerged—he loved Tahra. That hadn’t changed. Could never change. No matter what, she was still his darling to cherish. To protect. And that meant maintaining the fiction they were still engaged so long as she needed his protection.
“No,” he told her firmly, capturing her left hand and sliding the engagement ring back on her finger. “Do not.” His voice was as implacable as his words when she opened her mouth to protest. “Do not fight me on this, mariskya. Your accusation is untrue. Whether you believe it or not, I would have asked you to marry me no matter what.”
Tahra stopped resisting, but her eyes searched his face, as if needing confirmation of his words. Finally she nodded. “Okay. I believe you.” Then she smiled and he could breathe again. “They told me in my pre-assignment briefing that Zakharians are a little...shall we say...behind the times where women are concerned. Not like some other countries where women have to go around covered head to toe and aren’t even allowed to drive a car, but...”
His fingers tightened on hers. “I am a product of my upbringing, yes,” he admitted. “But I am not wedded to my ignorance. You know I have already learned a few home truths about women and their role in society from Angelina, and I—” He stopped when confusion spread across her face. “Captain Angelina Mateja-Jones,” he explained patiently. “Head of the queen’s security detail, a post I held until the king asked me to take over the security for the crown prince. She is married to the man you work for at the US embassy, Alec Jones.” He paused for a moment, then stated flatly, “None of this strikes a chord in your memory, does it?”
She shook her head, a shadow creeping into her eyes. “No, it doesn’t. I wish it did.”
“We are friends with them,” he continued after a moment. “Alec is the regional security officer—RSO, you call it—at the embassy, and you are his administrative assistant. That created a slight problem at first, because Alec and I are friends, as are Angelina and I. But we all agreed that when you are at work, you and Alec act as professionally as if that is all there is to your relationship. When we are together as friends...that is a different story.”
“I see.” There was a tinge of doubt in her voice, but she didn’t add anything.
“As I started to say, Angelina has taught me much about women and their place in society.” His voice dropped a notch. “As have you, mariskya. You must believe me. I am not the man I was two years ago. I am not even the man I was two weeks ago.” That was getting dangerously close to revealing too much he was concealing from Tahra, and he gratefully changed topics when he saw they had arrived at Tahra’s apartment building. “Ahh, here we are.”
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 (#ulink_40d130a6-53d3-54f9-805b-cb8beb328628)
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?”
Juliana cleared her throat. “That’s another thing about Zakharian men...most of them, anyway,” she explained. “Andre was that way when he was in the Zakharian National Forces, and woe betide anyone who addressed him as anything other than Lieutenant Marianescu when he was on duty! Zax, too. Prince Xavier,” she clarified. “Andre’s cousin, the head of internal security. He prefers his military title, Colonel Marianescu. So I’m not surprised Marek—Captain Zale—hasn’t mentioned it to you. Military service is a particular source of pride to Marianescus.”
Tahra gave up trying to eat with her left hand and laid her fork on her plate. “Wait,” she said with a mixture of bewilderment and denial. “What do you mean, military service is a particular source of pride to Marianescus? Marek isn’t a Marianescu.”
The queen hesitated. “Well...actually...he is. He has the Marianescu fingers, you know, and that’s a dead giveaway.”
Tahra just stared blankly. “The Marianescu fingers?”
“Hadn’t you noticed? It’s a slight genetic defect that marks many of the Marianescus—a crook in the pinkies of both hands. Andre has it. Zax, too. And my son inherited it from Andre.”
“But...”
“Apparently it’s a dominant gene, because it has come down through the centuries from the first Andre Alexei right through to the present day. Not every Marianescu inherits it. Princess Mara didn’t—her pinkies are perfectly straight. But Marek did.”
“But...” Tahra couldn’t seem to process that the man she thought was merely a captain in the Zakharian National Forces, and the head of the crown prince’s security detail, was in fact a viscount and related to the king.
“Marek’s grandmother on his father’s side and Andre’s grandfather on his father’s side were brother and sister. She married the Count of Mortagne, whose family name is Zale. Which makes Marek... Let me think.” The queen touched a finger to her lips as she tried to figure the exact degree of relationship. “If Andre’s father and Marek’s father were first cousins, that makes Andre and Marek second cousins? I think that’s right, because they share great-grandparents.”
“You mean I’m engaged to...royalty?”
Juliana shook her head. “Not exactly. Royalty doesn’t follow the female line, not in Zakhar. So Andre’s sister, Mara, bears the courtesy title of princess, but her son and daughter aren’t considered royalty and aren’t in the line of succession. The same goes for Marek. While one of his grandmothers was a royal princess, he inherited no title from her and he’s not in line to the throne.”
“But he is a...a viscount, you said. Right?”
“Right. He’s the oldest son of the current Count of Mortagne, and as such bears the title Viscount Saint-Yves.” Tahra’s confusion obviously showed on her face, because the queen smiled. “You’ll get the hang of it eventually. Who married whom, the role Zakhar’s nobility played in its history, et cetera.”
“You mean—”
“When you marry Marek, of course. But don’t worry about it now, just remember what I said. His military title is more important to him than his inherited title. The first one he earned. The other was merely a gift of fate.”
Tahra couldn’t take it all in. Had Marek told her all this before? Was that what he’d been referring to when he said he’d explained what mariskya meant at some point during the missing eighteen months of her life? His words replayed in her mind. “The first time I called you mariskya you asked me. But I would not tell you because you would not have understood. Not then. Only later, after I... That is, after we...”
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