Damn it! She’d left him. And he’d bet a year’s taxes the extra guard he’d posted to watch her didn’t even know she was gone.
Fury rose up swift and hard and hot. Not only had she left him, she’d headed for the most dangerous part of Vashmira.
He should have anticipated something like this. He should have known. She’d totally fooled him. And now her life was in danger. A life that was too valuable to risk for a story that would never go into print. He clenched his fingers into fists, aching to hit something, anything, to release the sharp emotions churning inside him.
He’d always feared that Ericka Allen would leave him, dupe him, and now she had. He’d told himself she hadn’t had enough time to adjust to their ways, but deep inside, he suspected she would never change. Her independence was too much a part of her nature.
Where the hell was palace security? How had they just allowed her to go?
He would summon Ira and question him, but he already knew the answer he’d receive. The majority of precautions were to keep intruders out, not to keep people in. One extra guard had not been enough to stop such a determined woman. Nicholas, Tashya and Alexander had avoided palace security and sneaked out many times. No doubt, Ericka hadn’t found it too difficult to leave, either.
But she was traveling alone toward a hostile border. He shouldn’t care so much that she had placed herself in danger. He shouldn’t care that she might need his help. But he did, and that he cared angered him all the more.
He hadn’t expected her to pull a stunt like this during a national crisis. Apparently her work was more important to her than he had thought. He should have realized no one attained her position without dedication, but he’d expected her to fight with him over her right to do her story.
She hadn’t stayed to argue or to discuss or to ask his permission. She simply hadn’t cared what he thought. Just when he’d believed they were getting on so well, she’d left him.
Abandoned him. Abandoned Vashmira. She was not the right woman to be his queen.
ON THE RUSSIAN SIDE OF the border, Ericka swore at the phone. She’d already waited over thirty minutes for the international overseas connection and had begun to doubt she’d get through. This might be her only chance to check in with her boss until she arrived back in the States.
“Larry Hogan here.”
“Larry, it’s Ericka. I sent the story by overnight courier. It’s handwritten, but legible.”
“You lost another laptop?”
“It’s back in…Vashmira.”
“Ericka, where the hell are you?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Someplace on the Russian, Moldovan, Vashmiran border.”
Even across thousands of miles, she could hear Larry’s distressful sigh. “Why do I have the feeling you’re in danger?”
“Don’t start.”
Larry always worried about her, but this time, she might be safer in the hot zone than back at the palace—although she could hardly explain that to him after she’d given Nicholas her word not to speak of the assassination attempts.
“Consider this story a bonus.”
“It’s not about the coronation, is it?”
“War is close to breaking out, and I’m hoping some publicity might make the politicians think twice.”
“What about the coronation and your exclusive interview with Nicholas?”
“It’s on track.”
“But you haven’t sent it?”
“I’m not finished.”
“So you’re going back?”
The phone connection died. Ericka swore but didn’t bother trying to reestablish the link. If she intended to return to Vashmira, she had to recross the border before the shift changed and the guard she’d bribed to let her over the border without a passport or visa went home for the weekend.
Perhaps she should simply fly back to the States. She could make her way to an American embassy. Larry Hogan would wire over her credentials and she could go home.
Although her laptop was back at the palace, she could rewrite the story. She’d never forget the facts she’d gathered about Vashmira or King Nicholas—they were branded forever in her heart.
She should have known when she’d been ready to throw her career away for his kiss that her heart was involved. She should have known when she’d agreed to suppress the assassination story that she was in deeper than ever before. Ever since she’d arrived, she hadn’t been acting like a responsible international correspondent but like a woman in love.
Should she go back to him?
It was a measure of how far gone she was over Nicholas that she didn’t even consider the coronation story first. Or second. No, first on her mind was seeing if she and Nicholas could have a future together. Or if he even wanted her to come back. She needed to know him better, spend more time alone with him, and there was only one way to do that.
And yet, she already knew how he would feel about her unauthorized trip across the border. He’d likely be furious when her story broke in newspapers around the world.
But she could deal with his anger. She recalled once before how easily his anger had turned to passion. And now she wanted more. She wanted to learn everything about the man, not just his hopes and dreams but how it would feel to have him make love to her.
And she wouldn’t ever forgive herself if she ran away like a coward. She raced toward the checkpoint, hiding behind a string of supply trucks, heart pounding. Discovering whether there could be a future for Nicholas and her, a future together, suddenly had her more anxious than ever to recross the border undetected.
She was going back to him—whether he wanted her or not.
Chapter Nine
Three Days Later
Nicholas hadn’t heard one word from Ericka. Not a letter. Not a phone call. Yet, she still had to be in his country because he had her passport. Dimitri had seen her leaving—alone. She hadn’t been forced or kidnapped, and police had reported she’d been spotted purchasing a train ticket. Then her trail had disappeared. His anger increasing with every hour that passed, he thought perhaps it might be better if he never saw Ericka Allen again.
She’d abandoned him and it hurt. It hurt personally and it hurt his country. Most of all, he couldn’t take the pity in his siblings’ eyes when they’d tried to comfort him.
Alexander entered the royal office, took one look at Nicholas’ furious pacing and shook his head, silently telling him that there was no more news concerning the missing American reporter. “Tensions are higher since we’ve closed our northern border, but there have been no outbreaks of violence.”
“I’ve sent out feelers to Moldova through our friends in Bulgaria,” Nicholas told his brother. “They might be willing to deal.”
“Return our men?”
“Yeah but in return, they want—”
“Your Highness,” Nicholas’ secretary barged into his office holding a slip of paper. “Sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty, but you’re going to want to see this.” His secretary slid behind Nicholas’ desk, accessed his computer and pulled up today’s copy of the Washington Herald, then exited the room.
“Crisis On The Russian-Vashmiran Border,” he read the headline with growing horror. Then his gaze went to the byline, “Ericka Allen,” and his rage grew so dark that for a moment his vision tunneled and he couldn’t see straight.
How dare she deliberately disobey him? How dare she break their laws? How dare she break his trust?
Alexander’s voice warmed with a totally different reaction to Ericka’s betrayal. Clearly he admired her audacity. “She not only went to the border and wrote her story, she successfully smuggled it out.”
“Damn her! She could start a war with this kind of rhetoric,” Nicholas complained as he scrolled quickly through the text.
“What did she say?” Alexander asked.
“She describes the horrible living conditions in the border camps. Goes on to explain how Vashmira can’t take them in without causing internal problems and finishes wi
th a claim that the explosive situation must be solved or war might develop.”
“I’d say that’s an accurate assessment of the political situation,” Alexander spoke reasonably.
Nicholas knew that neither the Israeli or American government would be pleased to read this article—even if it was accurate. Anton had been negotiating privately, asking both the Israelis and the Americans to allow the emigrants to quietly resettle in their respective countries. With the debate out in the open for everyone to read, the political posturing would start, lessening the chances of success.
Meanwhile, he would look bad for previously suppressing freedom of the press in Vashmira when his intention had simply been to avoid violence. “Alexander, call Ben Golden. Tell him he now has my go-ahead to brief our press.”
“You think that’s wise?” Alexander asked, pausing on the way out the door to hear his response.
“She’s left me no choice.”
There could be no doubting who she was. Alexander knew better than to question Nicholas more closely, not with his rage bottled so tight that he could barely keep from shouting. Alexander departed and left him alone with his gloomy thoughts.
With his coronation ceremony in a few days, he’d hoped to bring his people together—not an easy task in Vashmira where so many different people with different beliefs lived and worked. Releasing the story in the middle of a crisis would cause debates to proliferate in the cafés and kiosks. Protesters would soon again find their way into the streets. Enemies on Vashmira’s borders would sense the chaos within his country. And where there was chaos, his enemies would find weakness. Violence from within the heart of his country or out on the borders could escalate into a disaster that could tear his country apart.
More importantly, diplomats had more difficulty working together under the limelight of the press. Everyone had to be much more careful to save face. At best, negotiations would slow down. At worst, they’d fall apart.
The Russian army was mobilizing troops across the border. Bulgaria had promised to stay neutral, but Vashmira needed allies. If Ericka’s story fomented civil war, if Vashmiran citizens died, he’d, he’d…he didn’t know what he’d do, but it would be dire. Drastic.
Nicholas slumped into his chair, dropped his head into his hands. He needed to find some of the inner calm that had abandoned him along with Ericka.
“Nicholas.”
Great. He missed the woman so much, now he was hearing her call his name. If word got out he was hearing voices, he wouldn’t have to worry about a revolution, his people would simply have him tossed into the local mental hospital.
“Nicholas.”
“Go away,” he replied, knowing that there was no way Ericka would be there if he looked up, and he was unwilling to confirm that his grasp on reality was slipping.
“Fine, I’ll go. Just give me back my passport, and I’ll be happy to oblige you.”
“Ericka?” Her sarcasm got through to him and he lifted his head.
She stood up straight before his desk, one hand on her hip, her eyes twin pools of quiet concern as if uncertain whether she was welcome, but unwilling to reveal her misgivings.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Her eyes widened at his dark tone, but to give her credit, she didn’t retreat. “I left you a note, didn’t you—”
“I took you into my confidence, took you into my home, and you betrayed me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “My story didn’t mention the assassination attempts—only the difficulties on the border. And I told you everything was on the record.”
He threaded his fingers through his hair. “I expected you to use more discretion.”
“Look, I hate to shock you, but my goal in life is not to live up to your expectations. I had a job to do. I did it.” Her quiet words were defiant. And honest.
He tried to remind himself that it was not her fault that she didn’t fit into the mold for ideal queen of his heart. She came from a culture where women took their careers as seriously as he took ruling his country. It was his bad luck to have fallen for her.
He told himself to take care and then—he spit words at her like bullets. “And it doesn’t matter how many people may die—as long as you do your job?”
“Who’s died?” she demanded, placing both palms on his desk and leaning forward, her gaze direct, her eyes flaring an angry dark green.
“Vashmira is close to having riots in the streets.”
She didn’t flinch, as her lips tightened into a grim line.
“Yesterday,” she countered with anger and defiance, “I watched a Russian mother bury her infant. You know why that baby died? She needed a bottle of milk.” She ended up with her voice breaking in sorrow.
He recalled the visual images from her story, the suffering she’d seen and told so poignantly and softened his own tone. “You can’t expect Vashmira to feed the world. We don’t have the resources—”
“Other countries do.” She slapped the desk with her palm. “My story will cause people to become uncomfortable, maybe struggle with their consciences. If we’re lucky, some of them will act. Some might even offer refuge to those poor people—which will solve your problem.”
He never doubted that her intentions were good, however, she was naive to think that all she had to do was write a story and some white knight would ride to the aid of those people. Until her story had come out, Russia had been willing to let those people go. Now, she’d backed diplomats in five countries into a corner—the result might be that the Russians simply gunned down anyone who tried to leave.
As angry as he was, he couldn’t throw that awful possibility in her face.
“We were working to solve the problem through diplomatic channels. Since your story broke, Russia has mobilized their troops along our border. Moldova has refused to help, and our crew have not been allowed to come home. Our Israeli contact has backed off for discussion with his government and the U.S. ambassador is…no longer taking our phone calls.”
“Which all might have happened even if my story hadn’t come out.”
“True, but my people wouldn’t be demonstrating in the streets.” He flicked on the television, letting the grim pictures make his point.
The news station showed angry people carrying signs and shouting. Some protesters wanted to give the refugees asylum. Others demanded the border stay closed.
“Protesting is a healthy form of political expression,” she argued.
“Sure, until someone throws a rock or shoots a gun.”
“Look, if that’s the way you feel, hand me back my passport, and I’ll be out of your country within the hour.”
“If you’d had your passport with you, would you have left Vashmira?” he questioned her, almost casually, but she paused to lock gazes with him.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Still defiant, she glared at him. “I crossed the border into Russia and made it back—without a passport. If necessary, I could have made my way into Bulgaria and the American embassy there—without a passport. But filling out the paperwork required to explain losing an American passport is a nightmare. And any explanation could cause you political embarrassment.”
“So you returned to the palace so I could avoid political embarrassment?” This was the explanation of a woman who’d just written an article about the problems on Vashmira’s northern border for the entire world to read?
“I returned…to cover the coronation. My boss insisted. But if you want me to go—”
“Not so fast.” If he hadn’t been almost shaking with anger, he might have smiled. Of course, she intended to cover the coronation—that was her job.
He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head and eyed her warily. “You knew I didn’t want you to write that story.”
“So?”
“So, obviously you didn’t care about my wishes.”
“Wrong.” She stared at him and then dropped her eyes along with her voice. “I cared. I knew you woul
d be…upset.”
“But my wishes didn’t matter?”
“Your wishes as a head of state didn’t matter. But your wishes as…someone I’ve come to care about, matter a great deal.”
“Not enough to stop and talk to me before you went.”
“If I had made my intentions known, you would have found a way to stop me.”
“That’s so damn true.”
“I don’t suppose we could just agree to disagree?” Her words were wistful, soft and melancholy.
Nicholas believed his country needed to come together to solve its problems, and despite the fact that Ericka seemed insistent upon pointing out Vashmiran differences in her story, only history would tell how much good or harm she’d done. What disturbed him more than her politics was her complete unwillingness to follow his wishes.
Every contemplation of the facts told him to end all thought of a union with this woman. Perhaps if he had not been a king, perhaps if she wasn’t an American journalist and they had met under different circumstances, they could have happily wed. However, the way they looked at the world was bound to cause conflicts between them.
And yet, he knew himself well enough to recognize that he would never have been so angry with her if he didn’t have feelings for her. In just a few days, she’d touched his heart in a way no other woman had done. She was constantly invading his thoughts during meetings, and slipping into his dreams. Erotic dreams where he held her naked in his arms.
He couldn’t allow passion to make his decision. Perhaps he should send her away. Was he simply looking for a reason to nullify the marriage contract?
What would his father have done? Nicholas’ own mother had been just as stubborn as Ericka Allen. And Brigette had died disobeying his father’s wishes. Not only had she brought about her own death, the children had come close to death, too. Yet, for the first time Nicholas truly understood why his father had never said a harsh word against the woman who had left him. His heart had been broken.
Nicholas looked at Ericka, bold, sassy and sensually appealing, and he let out a soft groan. “What am I going to do with you?”
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