by Nora Roberts
When he found who— Armand dismissed the thought. It was for later. He promised himself that.
In the spacious, sun-splashed waiting room were three more Royal Guards and several members of Cordina’s police department. Pacing, smoking, was his son and heir, Alexander. He had his father’s dark, clean-lined looks and military bearing. He did not, as yet, have his father’s meticulous control.
Like a volcano, Armand thought, looking at the twenty-three-year-old prince, that simmers and bubbles, but doesn’t quite erupt.
Sprawled across a plush, rose-colored sofa was Bennett. At twenty he threatened to become the newest playboy prince. Though he, too, was dark, his looks reflected the heartbreaking beauty of his mother. Though he was often reckless, too often indiscreet, he had an unflagging compassion and kindness that endeared him to his subjects and the press. As well as the female population of Europe, Armand thought wryly.
Beside Bennett was the American who was there at Armand’s request. Both princes were too wrapped in their own thoughts to notice their father’s presence. The American missed nothing. That’s why Armand had sent for him.
Reeve MacGee sat silently for a moment, watching the prince take in the scene. He was holding up well, Reeve thought, but, then, he’d expected no less. He’d only met Cordina’s ruler a handful of times, but Reeve’s father had been at Oxford with him, where a friendship and mutual respect had been established that had lasted through the years and over the distances.
Armand had gone on to become the ruler of a small, charming country snuggled on the Mediterranean. Reeve’s father had become a diplomat. Though he’d grown up with politics and protocol, Reeve had chosen a more behind-the-scenes career for himself. Undercover.
After ten years of dealing with the less elite portion of the nation’s capital, Reeve had turned in his badge and started his own private business. There’d come a time in his life when he’d grown tired of following other people’s rules. His own were often even more strict, more unbending, but they were his own. The experience he’d gained in Homicide, and then in Special Services had taught him to trust his own instincts first.
He’d been born wealthy. He’d added to his wealth through his own skill. Once he’d looked at his profession as a means of income and a means of excitement. Reeve no longer worked for money. He took few jobs, a select few. If, and only if, something intrigued him, he accepted the client and the responsibility. To the outside world, and often to himself, he was only a farmer, a novice at that. Less than a year before, he’d bought a farm with thoughts, dreams, perhaps, of retiring there. If was, for him, an answer. Ten years of dealing with good and bad, law and disorder on a daily basis had been enough.
Telling himself he’d paid his dues, he’d dropped out of public service. A private detective could pick and choose his clients. He could work at his own pace, name his own fee. If a job led him into danger, he could deal with it in his own fashion. Still, during this past year he’d taken on fewer and fewer of his private cases. He was easing himself out. If he’d had qualms, no one knew of them but himself. The farm was a chance for a different kind of life. One day, he’d promised himself, it would be his whole life. He’d postponed his first shot at spring planting to answer Armand’s request.
He looked more like a soldier than a farmer. When he rose at Armand’s entrance, his long, rangy body moved subtly, muscle by muscle. The neat linen jacket was worn over a plain T-shirt and trim slacks, but he could give them the air of formality or casualness as he chose. He was the kind of man whose clothes, no matter how attractive, were noticed only after he was. His face drew the attention first, perhaps because of the smooth good looks he’d inherited from his Scotch-Irish ancestors. His skin would have been pale if he hadn’t spent so much time out of doors. His dark hair was cut well, but insisted on falling over his brow. His mouth was wide and tended to look serious.
His bone structure was excellent and his eyes were the charming, sizzling blue of the Black Irish. He’d used them to charm when it suited him, just as he’d used them to intimidate.
His stance was less rigid than the prince’s, but no less watchful. “Your Highness.”
At Reeve’s words, both Alexander and Bennett sprang to attention. “Brie?” they asked together, but while Bennett was already beside his father, Alexander stood where he was. He crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray. Reeve watched it snap in two.
“She was conscious,” Armand said briefly. “I was able to speak with her.”
“How does she feel?” Bennett looked at his father with dark, concerned eyes. “When can we see her?”
“She’s very tired,” Armand said, touching his son’s arm only lightly. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
Still at the window, Alexander smoldered. “Does she know who—”
“That’s for later,” his father cut him off.
Alexander might have said more, but his upbringing had been too formal. He knew the rules and the restrictions that went with his title. “We’ll take her home soon,” he said quietly, coming very close to challenging his father. He cast a quick look around at the guards and police. Gabriella might be protected here, but he wanted her home.
“As soon as possible.”
“She may be tired,” Bennett began, “but she’ll want to see a familiar face later on. Alex and I can wait.”
A familiar face. Armand looked beyond his son to the window. There were no familiar faces for his Brie. He’d explain to them, but later, in private. For now, he could only be the prince. “You may go.” His words took in both his sons. “Tomorrow she’ll be more rested. Now I need a word with Reeve.” He dismissed his sons without a gesture. When they hesitated, he lifted a brow. It was not, as it could have been, done with heat.
“Is she in pain?” Alexander blurted out.
Armand’s look softened. Only someone who knew him well would have seen it. “No. I promise you. Soon,” he added when Alexander remained unsatisfied, “you’ll see for yourself. Gabriella is strong.” It was said with a simplicity that was filled with pride.
With a nod, Alexander accepted. What else he had to say would have to wait for a private moment. He walked out with his brother, flanked by guards.
Armand watched his sons, then turned to Reeve. “Please,” he began, and gestured. “We’ll use Dr. Franco’s office for a moment.” He moved across the corridor and down as though he didn’t notice the guards. Reeve did. He felt them close and tense. A royal kidnapping, he mused, tended to make people nervous. Armand opened a door, waited until Reeve was inside, then closed it again.
“Sit, please,” he invited. “I can’t just yet.” Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a dark-brown cigarette, one of the ten he permitted himself daily. Before he could do so himself, Reeve lit it and waited. “I’m grateful you came, Reeve. I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how I appreciate it.”
“There’s no need to thank me, Your Highness. I haven’t done anything yet.”
Armand blew out smoke. He could relax, just a little, in front of the son of his friend. “You think I’m too hard on my sons.”
“I think you know your sons better than I.”
Armand gave a half laugh and sat. “You have your father’s diplomatic tongue.”
“Sometimes.”
“You have, also, if I see clearly, his clear and clever mind.”
Reeve wondered if his father would appreciate the comparison, and smiled. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Please, in private, it must be Armand.” For the first time since his daughter had awoken, his emotions slipped. With one hand he kneaded the skin just above his eyebrows. The band of tension there could be ignored for only so long. “I think I’m about to impose on your father’s friendship through you, Reeve. I think, because of my love for my daughter, I have no other choice.”
Reeve measured the man who sat across from him. Now he saw more than the royalty. He saw a father desperately hanging on to control. In silence, Reeve took
out a cigarette of his own, lit it and gave Armand just a few more minutes. “Tell me.”
“She remembers nothing.”
“She doesn’t remember who kidnapped her?” With a faint scowl Reeve studied the toe of his shoe. “Did she see them at all?”
“She remembers nothing,” Armand repeated, and lifted his head. “Not even her own name.”
Reeve took in all the implications, and their consequences. He merely nodded, showing none of the thoughts that formed and raced through his mind. “Temporary amnesia would be common enough after what she’s been through, I imagine. What does the doctor say?”
“I will speak to him shortly.” The strain, having gone on for six days, wore on him, but he didn’t allow it to come through in his voice. “You came, Reeve, because I asked you. Yet you never asked me why.”
“No.”
“As an American citizen, you’re under no obligation to me.”
Reeve blew out a thin stream of Virginia tobacco to mix with the French of Armand’s. “No.”
Armand’s lips curved. Like his father, the prince thought. And like his father, Reeve MacGee could be trusted. He was about to trust him with his most prized possession. “In my position, there is always a certain element of danger. You understand this.”
“Any leader lives with it.”
“Yes. And, by birth and proximity, a leader’s children.” For a moment he looked down at his hands, at the ornate gold ring of his office. He was, by birth, a prince. He was also a father. Still, he’d never had a choice about which came first. He’d been born, educated and molded to rule. Armand had always known his first obligation was to his people.
“Naturally, my children have their own personal security.” With a kind of controlled violence, he crushed out his cigarette. “It seems that it is inadequate. Brie—Gabriella—is often impatient with the need for guards. She’s stubborn about her privacy. Perhaps I’ve spoiled her. We’re a peaceful country, Reeve. The Royal Family of Cordina is loved by its citizens. If my daughter slipped away from her guards from time to time, I made little of it.”
“Is that what happened this time?”
“She wanted to drive in the country. It’s something she does from time to time. The responsibilities of her title are many. Gabriella needs an escape valve. Until six days ago, it seemed like a very harmless one, which was why I permitted it.”
The very tone told Reeve that Armand ruled his family as he did his country, with a just, but cool hand. He absorbed the feeling as easily as he did the information. “Until six days ago,” Reeve repeated. “When your daughter was abducted.”
Armand nodded calmly. There were facts to be dealt with; emotion only clouded them. “Now, until we’re certain who abducted her and why, she can’t be allowed something so harmless. I would trust the Royal Guards with my life. I can’t trust them with my daughter’s.”
Reeve tapped out his cigarette gently. The drift was coming across loud and clear. “I’m not on the force any longer, Armand. And you don’t want a cop.”
“You have your own business. I understand you’re something of an expert on terrorism.”
“In my own country,” Reeve pointed out. “I certainly have no credentials in Cordina.” He felt his curiosity pick up another notch. Impatient with himself, he frowned at Armand. “I’ve had the opportunity to make contacts over the years. I could give you the names of some good men. If you’re looking for a royal bodyguard—”
“I’m looking for a man I can trust with my daughter’s life,” Armand interrupted. He said it quietly, but the thread of power lay just beneath. “A man I can trust to remain as objective as I myself must remain. A man who has had experience dealing with a potentially explosive situation with … finesse. I’ve followed your career.” He gave another quick smile at Reeve’s bland look. “I have a few connections in Washington. Your record was exemplary, Reeve. Your father can be proud of you.”
Reeve shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his father. The connection was too damn personal, he thought. It would make it more difficult for him to accept and be objective, or to refuse graciously—guiltlessly. “I appreciate that. But I’m not a cop. I’m not a bodyguard. I’m a farmer.”
Armand’s expression remained grave, but Reeve caught the quick light of humor in his eyes. “Yes, so I’ve been told. If you prefer, we can leave it at that. However, I have a need. A great need. I won’t press you now.” Armand knew when to advance and when to retreat. “Give some thought to what I’ve said. Tomorrow, perhaps we can talk again, and you can speak with Gabriella yourself. In the meantime, you are our guest.” He rose, signaling an end to the interview. “My car will take you back to the palace. I will remain here a bit longer.”
* * *
The late-morning sunlight filtered into the room. Vaguely wanting a cigarette, Reeve watched its patterns on the floor. He’d spoken with Armand again, over a private breakfast in the prince’s suite. If there was one thing Reeve understood, it was quiet determination and cold power. He’d grown up with it.
Swearing lightly, Reeve looked through the window at the mountains that cupped Cordina so beautifully.
Why the hell was he here? His land was thousands of miles away and waiting for his plow. Instead he was in this little fairy-tale country where the air was seductively soft and the sea was blue and close. He should never have come, Reeve told himself ruthlessly. When Armand had contacted him, he should simply have made his excuses. When his father had called to add weight to the prince’s request, Reeve should have told him he had fields to till and hay to plant.
He hadn’t. With a sigh, Reeve admitted why. His father had asked so little of him and had given so much. The friendship that bound Ambassador Francis MacGee to His Royal Highness Armand of Cordina was strong and real. Armand had flown to the States for his mother’s funeral. It wasn’t possible to forget how much that support had meant to his father.
And he hadn’t forgotten the princess. He continued to stare out the window. The woman slept behind him in the hospital bed, pale, vulnerable, fragile. Reeve remembered her ten years before, when he’d joined his parents for a trip to Cordina.
It had been her sixteenth birthday, Reeve remembered. He’d been in his twenties, already working his way up on the force. He hadn’t been a man with illusions. Certainly not one to believe in fairy tales. But that had been exactly what Her Serene Highness Gabriella had been.
Her dress—he could still remember it—had been a pale, mint-colored silk nipped into an impossibly small waist, billowing out like clouds. Against it, her skin had been glowing with life and youth. She’d worn a little ring of diamonds in her hair, glittering, winking, sizzling, against that deep, rich chestnut. It was hair a man wanted to run his fingers through, possessively. Her face had been all roses and cream and delicacy, with a mouth that was full and promising. And her eyes … Reeve remembered them most of all. Her eyes, under dark, arched brows, surrounded by lush, lush lashes, had been like topaz.
Almost reluctantly, he turned to look at her now.
Her face was still delicate, perhaps more so since she’d grown from girl to woman. The sweep of her cheekbones gave her dignity. Her skin was pale, as though the life and youth had been washed out of it. Her hair was still rich, but it was brushed straight back, leaving her face vulnerable. The beauty was still there, but it was so fragile a man would be afraid to touch.
One arm was thrown across her body, and he could see the sparkle of diamonds and sapphire. Yet her nails were short and uneven, as though they’d been bitten or broken off. The IV still fed into her wrist. He remembered when she was sixteen she’d worn a bracelet of pearls there.
It was that memory that caused the anger to roll through him. It had been a week since her abduction, two days since the young couple had found her collapsed on the side of the road, yet no one knew what she’d been through. He could remember the scent of her perfume from ten years before. She couldn’t remember her own name.
&nbs
p; Some puzzles could be left on the shelf and easily ignored; some could be speculated on and left to others. Then there were those that intrigued and tempted. They called to the part of him that was seduced by questions, riddles and the often violent way of solving them that, he’d nearly convinced himself, had been overcome.
Armand had been clever, Reeve thought grimly, very clever, to insist that he see Princess Gabriella for himself. What was he going to do about her? he asked himself. What in hell was he going to do? He had his own life to start, the new one he’d chosen for himself. A man trying for a second beginning didn’t have time to mix himself up in other people’s problems. Hadn’t that been just what he’d wanted to get away from?
His brow was furrowed in the midst of his contemplations; that was how she saw him when she opened her eyes. Brie stared into the grim, furious face, saw the smoldering blue irises, the tight mouth, and froze. What was dream and what was real? she asked herself as she braced herself. The hospital. She allowed her gaze to leave his only long enough to assure herself she was still there. Her fingers tightened on the sheets until they were white, but her voice came calmly.
“Who are you?”
Whatever else had changed about her over the years or over the past week, the eyes were the same. Tawny, deep. Fascinating. Reeve kept his hands in his pockets. “I’m Reeve MacGee, a friend of your father’s.”
Brie relaxed a little. She remembered the man with the tired eyes and military stance who’d told her he was her father. No one knew how restless and frustrated a night she’d spent trying to find some glimmer of memory. “Do you know me?”
“We met several years ago, Your Highness.” The eyes that had fascinated him in the girl, and now in the woman, seemed to devour him. She needs something, he thought. She’s groping for any handhold. “It was your sixteenth birthday. You were exquisite.”
“You’re American, Reeve MacGee?”
