by Lisa Childs
Whit was glad that he’d given Gabby the gun because Zeke was smart. He would find her eventually—unless Whit could outsmart him.
“You’re like a cat with nine lives, huh?” Zeke remarked almost idly. He obviously wasn’t surprised to see Whit either, or to find him alive and on this island. “You just keep coming back from the dead.”
“I haven’t died once,” Whit corrected him. Yet. He had a feeling this man intended to change that.
“I heard about the bullet you took in Michigan,” Zeke said. “That’s why the king had me resume my duties at the palace, as his royal guard.”
“We agreed that would be best,” Whit admitted, “while Aaron and I concentrated our efforts on finding Charlotte and Princess Gabriella. But Charlotte has been found.” And Aaron should have resumed his duties as chief of security, dismissing Zeke again.
“The princess has been, too,” Zeke claimed.
Whit’s stomach muscles tightened as if he’d taken a blow. But he resisted the urge to glance toward the shelter and make sure Gabby wasn’t being dragged from her hiding place. Zeke could have other men searching the island. One of them could have found her.
But she was a fighter. He doubted she would have been taken without firing at least one shot, which he would have heard even over the drone of the generator engine.
Denying Zeke’s claim, Whit shook his head. “She’s gone…”
“The king sent you to retrieve her from Charlotte’s aunt’s orphanage.” The man had obviously been briefed—either by the king or by someone else. “You had her. You two were on the royal jet together before it went down.”
“It went down?”
Zeke nodded, but his face displayed no emotion. He didn’t give a damn that men he’d worked with had probably lost their lives. Probably while they’d been trying to carry out his orders…
“Were there any survivors?” Whit wondered.
Zeke shook his head now. “Just you and the princess.”
So he had been in contact with the men on the plane—obviously right up until the moment it went down. “Why would you think that?” Whit asked, trying to get the man to make the admission. Not that it mattered if he confessed…
Whit was convinced Zeke Rogers wasn’t there to help him or Gabby.
“Well, obviously you’re alive.”
Whit nodded. “Obviously.”
“You and the princess parachuted out of the plane.”
There was no point in denying what Zeke had apparently been told. “That’s true.”
“You weren’t easy to track down,” Zeke said, resentment flashing in his beady eyes. “I had to talk to some parachuting experts and some experts on ocean currents to figure out where the hell you might have washed up.”
Whit had a feeling the man had been hoping to find bodies rather than survivors. “It really was nice of you to go to all the trouble to rescue me.”
“I’m not here to rescue you,” the man ominously corrected him.
Whit lifted his arms, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder, and gestured around the empty house. “Well, I’m the only one here.”
Zeke chuckled. “Where are you hiding the princess?”
Whit forced a ragged sigh of regret and resignation. “She didn’t make it.”
“She wasn’t on that plane when it went down,” Zeke insisted. “She parachuted off with you.”
“Yes, but that was much too dangerous in her condition. There were complications…” He paused, as if choked up.
“With her pregnancy?” Zeke asked.
He was too superstitious to lie about that, not wanting to tempt fate. So he just shook his head. “She was weak and the water was just too damn cold. We were in the sea overnight.” He shuddered, for real, as he remembered the frigid water and how it had numbed his muscles and burned his skin. How the hell had they survived?
He shuddered again. “She didn’t make it…”
Zeke narrowed his eyes. His voice terse with skepticism, he asked, “You just let her die?”
“I couldn’t do anything to help her.” He really hadn’t. She’d fought for herself and for their child.
Zeke snorted, derisively. “So you’re not the hero everyone thinks you are.”
Whit shrugged. “I never claimed I was a hero.”
“You haven’t needed to—all those men you hired that you served with—they make the claims for you. That’s why the king made you his right-hand man.” Along with the resentment, there was hatred.
“You’ll probably get that job back now,” Whit said, “since I failed to protect what matters most to the king.” No matter how callously he’d treated his daughter, the man did love her. He had been so genuinely distraught over her disappearance that he had to care. And as Whit had learned for himself, the woman was damn hard not to love. He’d fought his feelings, but it was one of the first battles he’d ever lost.
“I thought she mattered to you, too,” Zeke remarked.
“Why would you think that?”
“Heard she was following you around like a puppy before she disappeared,” he said. And now there was jealousy. He was too old for Gabby. But hell, at thirty, with the life he’d lived, so was Whit. “And nobody missed the way you looked at her, too.”
“She’s a beautiful woman.”
Zeke arched one of those creepily bushy brows.
“Was,” he corrected himself, silently cursing the slip. “She was a beautiful woman.”
“She was pregnant, too,” Zeke said.
“Did you have a bug on that plane?” he wondered. The men wouldn’t have had much time to tell him everything. But the first man, the one Gabby had shot, would have had time to inform him of the princess’s pregnancy.
“I’m just thorough,” Zeke said. “I believe in doing a job well.”
Whit couldn’t argue with him. While Zeke had protected the king, the monarch had not been harmed. But Charlotte hadn’t trusted the former mercenary. She had suspected that his loyalty was for sale to the highest bidder, and that if someone paid him more than the king, that Zeke Rogers would do whatever they wanted. The man had no morals, no principles and no conscience. Obviously Charlotte had been right.
“Maybe you should have been sent to retrieve the princess then,” Whit said.
“I have been,” Zeke retorted. “Now.”
The skin on the nape of Whit’s neck tingled with foreboding. “It’s too bad that you’re too late.”
“It would be if I actually believed you.” The man pushed past Whit and strode purposely through the house, searching every room.
Feigning shock and offense, he asked, “You don’t take me at my word?”
Zeke snorted in reply and just continued to search.
Whit followed, breathing a sigh of relief that he’d stripped the bed in the room in which he’d awakened. It didn’t look as though anyone had slept in it. It didn’t look as though anyone had slept in Gabby’s bed, either. The sheets were tangled and damp.
But Zeke didn’t seem to notice. He checked under the bed and the closet and continued through the house.
“Satisfied?” Whit asked. “She’s not here.”
“I won’t believe Princess Gabby is gone,” Zeke replied, “until I see her dead body.” And if her body wasn’t dead, did he intend to make it that way?
“You’re not going to find it in the house.” Whit managed to furrow his brow with feigned confusion. “I’ve been checking the beach…”
“Waiting for her to wash up?”
He flinched at the agonizing thought.
“Give up trying to sell me on this line of bullshit, Howell,” Zeke said. “There’s no way in hell you lost her in the ocean.”
He nearly had—when her hand had slipped out of his. But he’d caught her before she’d slipped beneath the water.
“We didn’t land near each other,” Whit lied. “By the time I swam toward where she’d landed, the chute lines had pulled her under. She was gone…”
&n
bsp; Zeke pulled his gun from the holster beneath his jacket. “You better hope you’re telling the truth, Howell, because if I find her…”
“You’re going to kill her?”
Those bushy brows arched in question. “Why would that matter to you—if she’s really already dead?”
“Just didn’t think the king would order his daughter killed,” Whit said. “So who are you working for now?” He knew Zeke didn’t intend to let him live, so he might actually tell him the truth.
“Someone who wants the princess to never return to St. Pierre.”
“Who?” Whit persisted.
Zeke taunted him, “If she’s really dead, what does it matter?”
Whit couldn’t say it—couldn’t bring himself to utter the lie. Before today he had never been superstitious, but he couldn’t risk it now—that saying she was dead wouldn’t somehow make it come true.
“I want to know who you’re working for,” Whit persisted.
“Why?” Zeke asked. “It’s not like you’re going to need a job anytime soon.”
Whit shrugged. “You don’t know that. The king is not going to be happy with me for not bringing the princess home.”
“The king won’t fire you,” Zeke assured him. “Because he won’t need to. I’ll fire you for him.” And he lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twelve
The sound of the gunshot echoed off the hilltop. Gabby felt the vibration of it in the sliding door against which she leaned, trying to see inside. But Whit had pulled the drapes across it, blinding her to what was going on inside the house.
Who had gotten off the helicopter? And had Whit just calmly let them inside the house to shoot him?
Her heart pounded furiously and so loudly she could hear it ringing in her ears. Or was that just the echo of the shot yet?
The wind picked up, whipping her hair around her face. And she realized what the noise really was: the sound of another helicopter.
Was it backup for the first? More of the men from the plane?
She clutched the gun she held. Should she storm inside the house? Or should she run to the helicopter in the hopes that it might actually be someone to help? Her head pounded with indecision and fear. Her instincts had her wanting to storm inside the house—wanting to protect Whit.
So she followed her instincts and pushed open the patio door. She listened but heard no voices, no sound above the pounding of the helicopter blades as it approached that small pad on the other side of the house. She drew in a deep breath and lifted the gun before stepping inside.
Glass crunched beneath her feet as she crept across the living room. The coffee table top had shattered, leaving only the brass frame. And that had been twisted. Chairs had toppled onto the slate flooring.
There had been a struggle. But there was no body left behind to tell her who had won or who had lost. Where was Whit? And with whom had he struggled?
He had rested for a day, but he hadn’t completely recovered from their overnight in the sea or his gunshot wound. As she studied the mess, she noticed the dark liquid spattered across the glass fragments and the slate. She crouched down, as far as her burgeoning belly allowed, and reached a trembling finger toward the spill. Then she lifted her hand and analyzed the stain smeared across her fingertip. A bright red stain.
Had Whit’s wound reopened or did he have a new one?
Tears stung her eyes. Tears of regret and guilt and anguish. She shouldn’t have waited so long before coming out of the shelter. She should have followed him right back inside the house. What kind of mother was she going to be for her baby if she’d done nothing while his father had been harmed?
Where was Whit? How badly was he hurt?
She wasn’t just concerned that her baby might have lost her father. She was concerned that she might have lost the man she loved…and before she’d even had a chance to tell him how she felt.
*
WHIT HAD HAD to get Zeke outside—because he’d noticed the shadow outside the slider. And he’d known that Gabby had been too worried to stay where he’d put her. She’d been worried about him—when she should have been more concerned about herself and their child.
She’d done the same thing at the orphanage—making sure the men had seen her, so that they would leave her aunt and the kids alone. She had used herself as bait to lure the danger away from the others.
She cared so much about everyone…but herself.
“It took two of you to replace one of me,” Zeke taunted him as he pushed Whit forward with the barrel of the gun buried between his shoulder blades. “You really think you alone are any match for me?”
“Are you alone?” Whit asked. He had seen no other men with the guard. And Zeke had been a helicopter pilot when he’d served his country and later when he’d served whatever country had paid him the most.
Zeke snorted. “More alone than you are. Where is she?”
“I told you. She’s dead.” He hated saying it; hated how the words felt in his mouth. Bitter and sickening. And he hoped like hell his superstition wouldn’t be proved a reality. Ever.
“The next time I shoot, it won’t be a coffee table,” Zeke warned him. “And the only one who’s going to be dead is you.”
Whit chuckled and reminded Zeke, “But you’re the one who’s bleeding.”
When the guard had shot the coffee table, Whit had struck him hard—trying to knock him out. But the man had an iron jaw. All Whit had done was broken his skin and drawn blood.
And rage.
Zeke had swung the gun toward Whit then. But he’d kept him from firing by saying that her body had washed up on the beach. And so he’d drawn Zeke outside to the steepest edge of the hilltop.
The wind picked up, and the pounding of helicopter blades alerted them to the arrival of another aircraft. Backup for Zeke?
But all his men must have been gone because he lifted his gun and aimed it at the helicopter. As it flew over them, Whit recognized the royal seal of St. Pierre. Maybe Aaron was inside—maybe he and Charlotte had figured out Zeke’s duplicity and followed him here.
Zeke must have come to the same conclusion because he squeezed the trigger, getting off one shot before Whit struck him. Instead of swinging toward the man’s iron jaw, though, he slammed his fist into Zeke’s arm—with enough force to knock the weapon for his grasp.
The Glock flew from the man’s hand, dropping over the cliff. While Zeke turned toward where it had fallen, Whit pushed—sending the man tumbling over the side.
But Zeke’s arms thrashed. And as he reached out, he caught Whit’s shoulder and pulled him over the edge, too. He felt the weightlessness that he had when he and Gabby had jumped from the plane. But this time he had no parachute strapped to his back—nothing to break his fall on the rocks.
*
AARON’S HEART LURCHED as the helicopter took the hit. His gaze flew to the pilot, who grappled with the controls as the aircraft shuddered and shook. “This is why I wanted you to stay at the palace,” he told his fiancée.
“And let you take on Zeke Rogers alone?” Charlotte asked, shaking her head at the thought.
“I would have brought some of the men Whit and I trust,” he said.
She passed over the island, struggling to bring the helicopter under control again. Over open water, the engine sputtered once. Twice.
“We can’t trust anyone,” she said. “But each other…”
He trusted her. He trusted that if anyone could save them right now—it was her.
But what about Whit? Were they already too late to save him and Princess Gabriella? Were they on this island—as the parachuting and ocean current experts had told first Zeke and then them?
Or had they been lost at sea as Charlotte had been so convinced? She wouldn’t let herself hope. Instead she’d been intent on tracking down who was responsible for the attempted kidnapping that had gone so very wrong…
And when they’d gotten on Zeke’s trail, it had led them here. To
this private island getaway. Or rather, hideaway, given that the man who owned it had used questionable methods accruing the wealth to acquire the island.
He could have been the one shooting at them. Whit wouldn’t have been. He would have recognized the royal seal and waited to see who landed. Then he might have started firing if he’d realized Zeke Rogers had sold himself to a higher bidder.
Why had it taken the king so long to realize that Charlotte had been right not to trust the man? Why had he?
It was a mistake that had cost him. He’d aged another ten years with the realization that he had been the one who’d put his daughter at risk. Not Charlotte. Not Whit.
And what about Whit?
No bodyguard had ever taken an assignment as literally as Whit. He would do whatever was necessary to protect a client—even give up his own life for theirs. Aaron suspected that was never truer than now, with Princess Gabriella carrying Whit’s child. The guy had always claimed that he would never get married, never be a father. Aaron didn’t know his reasons why, but he doubted one of them had been death.
A dead man couldn’t become a husband or father…
Aaron should have married Charlotte before they’d ever left Michigan. He shouldn’t have let him talk her into making sure Gabby was safe first.
“That’s definitely the helicopter Zeke took,” Charlotte said. The royal seal was on the bottom of it but it was the same royal blue and bright magenta of the one she flew. Or tried to fly.
The engine sputtered again. They needed to land. But Zeke had planted his helicopter in the center of the small cement pad. The island wasn’t big enough to have a clearing where they could land. There was only the house and then the hill dropped steeply off to the rocky beach below.
He trusted Charlotte. But there was only so much she could do. The helicopter was going down whether or not she found a place to land safely.
*
GABBY’S THROAT BURNED yet from the scream she’d uttered when she had watched the two men tumble over the cliff on the other side of the helicopter pad. She’d checked out the island earlier—when Whit was asleep. She knew this side had no stairs leading to a beach. It had no sand—only jagged rocks from the top of the hill to the water below.
