Under the King's Command

by Ingrid Weaver

  "Whoops." Reilly dropped Kate's hand and straightened immediately. Although his demeanor was instantly respectful, his eyes still twinkled with mischief. "Sorry, ma'am."

  Kate shook her head. "Don't worry about it, Reilly."

  "It's just that when I saw you with Cass I never—"

  "Cass?" Kate asked.

  "Sure. Casanova Coburn." He cocked his head toward Sam. "That's what we call him."

  "We've got to keep moving before we cool down," Sam said, taking Kate's elbow. "We don't want to be stiff in the morning."

  She shook off his grip. "Casanova? Why do you call him that, Reilly?"

  "Well, it wasn't me who gave him the nickname, it was the other guys on the team."

  "He's talking about my SEAL team," Sam said. "Who are all supposed to be on leave, the last I heard. Weren't you in Greece, Reilly?"

  "Everyone's leaves got canceled, Coburn. We're assembling here. I thought you knew."

  Sam frowned. "This is the first I heard. What's going on?"

  "We're using Montebello as ajumping-off point for the operation. The rest of the team should be here within four hours. I'll be briefing them then."

  " You 11 be briefing them?"

  He lifted his hands, palms up. "Sorry, Coburn. While you're on this special assignment for King Marcus, looks like I'm in charge."

  Kate watched the emotions flicker across Sam's face. She saw a flash of anger in his gaze, followed by regret. A moment later, his expression had smoothed into the businesslike competence he had displayed every day during their mission.

  She was sure he would rather be leaving with his team. Wherever they were heading, whatever they had been ordered to do, it would probably be more exciting than this waiting and watching he was doing in Montebello.

  Well, as soon as this mission was over, he'd be joining his team on the next one. He'd leave her behind and he'd resume whatever lifestyle had earned him the nickname Casanova.

  Fine. Another easy, no-strings goodbye. And all this... disturbance he was bringing into her life would be gone. That's what she wanted, wasn't it?

  Well, wasn't it?

  * * *

  Sam stared at his untouched beer and rolled the base of the glass along the bar, making a ring on the varnished wood. Most of the customers in the Flying Jib were Navy personnel. He'd recognized many faces on his way in and had given everyone a friendly greeting, but he wasn't feeling particularly friendly right now.

  "You could always request to be reassigned." Reilly slurped at his cola, the strongest drink he ever allowed himself so close to a mission. "Unless that bullet wound is giving you trouble."

  "It's pretty well healed."

  "Good. Admiral Howe's going to be at the briefing. If we said you were vital to the mission's success, he could make the red tape disappear."

  Sam made another ring with his glass and turned his head toward Reilly. "My mission here isn't over."

  "Sure, but we could use your input on this operation. From what you've told me, you've got everything set up here. It'll run without you, won't it?"

  Would it? Perhaps. The surveillance grid was firmly established, and it had proven to work well on several occasions. The cooperation between the Montebellan police and the U.S. Navy was going better than anyone could have hoped. Sam's leadership wasn't absolutely necessary to the success of the mission. Kate was fully qualified to handle it on her own from here.

  Kate. He'd wanted to bring her, not Reilly, to this restaurant. He had been certain she was softening toward him. With a little more time, he'd have her back in his arms for sure. The longer the hunt for Chambers dragged on, the better his chances....

  No, that was wrong. He wanted Chambers apprehended as soon as possible.

  "We're doing an extraction," Reilly said, lowering his voice. "One of our reconnaissance aircraft went down in the Gulf. We've picked up the pilot's signal. He's in unfriendly territory."

  "How long has he been down?"

  Reilly checked his watch. "Six hours, forty-five minutes."

  "What kind of shape is he in?"

  "No way of knowing. But his signal has been stationary for the past three hours."

  "Stationary?"

  "He's not on the bottom, he's inland. Two klicks from the shore."

  Sam listened as Reilly shared the sparse information he had. He discussed some options, made a few suggestions and nodded agreement as his friend told him his plans. The operation was going to be risky. It would require every man giving his all. It was exactly the kind of challenge Sam thrived on.

  He felt a familiar prick of adrenaline. What he wouldn't give to be going on this mission with his men...

  But there would be other missions. It wouldn't kill him to miss one. What he was doing here was important, too. It wasn't as urgent as rescuing a downed pilot, but there were people who were depending on him to see that justice was done.

  And he couldn't leave Kate yet. Yes, he would leave eventually, but they had unfinished business between them.

  No, not business. What they had was pure pleasure.

  "We'll be leaving right after the briefing," Reilly said. "Are you with us?"

  Sam deliberately drained half his beer. "Not this time, Joe. I'm going to see what I've started here through to the end."

  "Right. No problem." He stood and gestured toward Sam's glass. "Can I buy you another before I go?"

  "Not a chance. You'll lie and say I owe you money."

  Reilly laughed. "That's true. How about sitting in on the briefing with me anyway? Let the rest of the team see that you're still alive."

  Sam put his glass on the bar and stood up. "Sure, why not?"

  "Lieutenant Coburn?"

  He turned toward the voice. A young blond woman was standing near his shoulder, a half-empty wineglass in her hand and a wide smile on her face. She looked different without her uniform, so it took him a moment to connect the face with a name. "Hello, Sergeant Winters."

  She tilted her head, giving him a slow perusal. "We're off-duty. Don't you think you could call me Shannon?"

  "And I'm Joe," Reilly said. "But you can call me whatever you like."

  "Sergeant Winters is with the Montebellan police, Reilly," Sam said. "She's part of the team who is working at the base."

  Reilly smiled. "You can play on my team anytime, darlin'."

  The blond policewoman spared Reilly only a brief glance before she turned her attention to Sam. She dipped the tip of her little finger in her wine, then lifted it to her mouth while she watched him. "Mind if I join you?"

  Sam was certain the wineglass she held was far from the first she'd emptied this evening. He gave her a polite smile and took a step to follow Reilly. "I'm sorry, Sergeant Winters, but I need to get back to the base. I'll see you tomorrow."

  She lifted one shoulder in an uncoordinated shrug. "Okay. Can't blame a girl for trying," she muttered, moving off.

  Reilly gave Sam an elbow in the ribs as they reached the parking lot. "Yup, that's our good old Cass, all right. Wouldn't know an opportunity if it wiggled in front of his face."

  "Shut up, Reilly," Sam said mildly, heading for the jeep Reilly had borrowed.

  "You're so ugly, I don't know how you do it. What do women see in you, anyway? Do you think it's the challenge? This blond cop, that tall chick you were running with who had legs that went on forever—"

  "Her name is Lieutenant Mulvaney, mister. She's not just some chick, so give her some respect."

  Reilly lost his smile. "Hey, take it easy."

  "Kate and I work together."

  "Right. You mentioned that." Reilly climbed behind the wheel and slipped the key in the ignition, then paused. He watched Sam settle into the passenger seat. "It just hit me. Your friend with the legs is named Kate."

  "Right."

  "She wouldn't happen to be your Kate, would she?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Kate. The woman you told me about. The one you spent that leave with in Florida and have
n't been able to forget. The one who got away. That Kate."

  Sam hesitated. "Yes, she's that Kate."

  Reilly gave a long, slow whistle and started the engine. "Oh, man, I had no idea. Sorry if I came on too strong to her back there on the road."

  "She ignored you. Most women do."

  "Damn, she's as much of a knockout as I imagined. No wonder you wanted to stay put."

  "I'm in Montebello under the king's command. Kate just happened to be here, too. It was a coincidence."

  "And I thought it was your bullet wound that was making you look this way."

  "What way?"

  "Like you've been hit by a truck."

  The comparison made Sam uneasy. That's how he'd described Prince Lucas on more than one occasion. But the prince looked that way because he was in love.

  Sam knew what was between him and Kate was far simpler than that. He wasn't in love. There was no room for love in the career he'd chosen. Love meant marriage and family. Responsibility, commitment and roots.

  He'd left that behind when he'd joined the Navy. Oh, sure, he loved his family, but he'd shouldered the responsibility for them from the time he was a teenager. Love meant giving up a part of yourself, giving up your freedom.

  Above all, love meant vulnerability. He'd seen how devastated his mother had been after his father had died. And there was no mistaking the prince's grief over losing Jessica. Sam wanted no part of that.

  No, he wasn't in love with Kate. She had it right. What was between them was sex. Great sex. Any red-blooded male who'd had a taste of what they'd shared would want more. That's the reason she had haunted him for five years. That's why he couldn't leave her alone now.

  And when this mission was over, they would... What? Go their separate ways again? He wouldn't feel her lithe body next to his or inhale the scent of gardenias for another five years. Is that what he wanted?

  Sam was silent as they drove to the base, his gaze on the darkness beyond the headlights. He'd been too focused on chasing Kate and on wondering what she was running from.

  One of these days he was going to have to consider what he was running toward.

  Chapter 10

  Ursula crossed the room to the plain wooden table where she'd left her handbag, her shoes stirring up puffs of dust as she went. Coughing, she took a nail file from her bag and went to work on the rough edge of her thumbnail. Somebody really should clean the place. This so-called hillside cottage was a hovel. She deserved better than this, but Edwardo Scarpa swore it was the best he could find for her.

  She put away her nail file and inspected the dirt on her pumps with dismay. She'd already had to get rid of one pair of shoes because of the blood that had seeped into them when she'd had to kill Desmond. She'd had to get rid of the dress she'd worn that day, too. It had been one of her favorites, but the bloodstains had ruined it.

  If things had gone as she'd planned, she would have been shopping for designer gowns by now. She'd be rubbing elbows with royalty at the palace instead of hiding in this miserable excuse for a shack.

  She moved to the room's only window, checking her reflection in the darkened glass. Why did these things happen to her? She was beautiful and sexy. She was smart. That should have guaranteed her what she wanted. It should have been enough for Desmond. Yet again she wondered why he had spoiled all the plans they'd had by messing around with that little brunette princess.

  Men. They were all the same. Not an ounce of loyalty in the lot of them. She'd thought she'd picked a winner this time. Desmond had been so suave and sophisticated, he'd been nothing like the jerk in New York who had mismanaged her acting career, yet he'd betrayed her, too.

  Still, being betrayed by men had started long before Ursula had hooked up with Desmond. It had started with her father. He'd never given her a chance once his darling Jessica had come along. He'd made no secret about loving Jessica best. She could still hear his grating, sanctimonious voice. "Ursula, if you concentrated on your schoolwork instead of carousing with those boyfriends, you'd get straight As like Jessica." And, "Please don't swear like that, Ursula, you're setting a bad example for your little sister." And, "If you don't start demonstrating some responsibility and pulling your weight around this ranch the way Jessica does I'll have to cut off your allowance."

  It wasn't fair. Little Miss Goody Two-shoes hadn't had to work for anything. And as a final betrayal, their father had even willed the ranch to Jessica when he'd died. It should have gone to Ursula. She was the oldest. She needed the money its sale would have brought. Yet again, Jessica had stood in the way of what Ursula deserved.

  And now Jessica was dead. Her body was in the grave where Gretchen's stupid brother, Gerald, had buried her. Jessica's death had been a necessary part of the plan. How else would Ursula have been able to use the prince's baby to ensure her own future?

  For a split second, Ursula thought she saw Jessica's face superimpose itself over her reflection. Soft blue eyes stared into hers with unfathomable sadness.

  Ursula gasped and took a step back from the window. Her eyes were so much like her baby sister's, it had momentarily startled her. And just for an instant, she felt a stab of something sharp, something uncomfortably close to guilt.

  She remembered how Jessica had been toward the end, swollen and awkward with the last stage of her pregnancy. Jessica hadn't been the favored sister then. She'd been helpless and vulnerable, devastated because her Prince Charming had deserted her. She'd been completely dependent on her older sister. For the first time in their lives, Ursula had been the one on top, the one with the power.

  She spun away, clasping her hands over the back of a rickety wooden chair. What was done was done. She wasn't going to feel guilty about it. Why should she? Jessica had stolen their father's love on the day she was born. For twenty-nine years she had robbed Ursula of the life she should have had. Jessica's death had evened the score.

  So Ursula should have been happy. The hard little core of discontent that gnawed away inside her should have dissolved. Why hadn't it?

  Why? Because her plan hadn't worked, that's why. Everything would have been different if Desmond hadn't made her kill him, if Gretchen hadn't told the cops Ursula's name, and if that loser Scarpa had done what he'd promised and had found her a boat by now. She was surrounded by idiots. It wasn't her fault.

  A mouse scurried across the floor. Ursula lifted the chair and smashed it toward the mouse, but she wasn't fast enough. The rodent raced away unhurt.

  Ursula stared after it, her chest heaving. Suddenly, her frustration boiled over. With a cry of rage she brought the chair down again and again, striking at the dust-covered floor until the wood splintered in her hands.

  A dog barked in the distance. The door to the shack swung open, and Edwardo Scarpa slipped inside. "Hey, what's going on?" he demanded, closing the door behind him and throwing the bolt. "I could hear the noise from the street."

  Ursula flung the remnants of the chair at him. "And who's fault is that, you fool? There are mice in here. Vermin!"

  Scarpa jerked aside to avoid being struck by the pieces of wood, then hurried to the window and pulled down the shade. "You have to be more careful or someone's going to notice you."

  "Then you should have found me someplace more decent to stay." She breathed deeply a few times, waiting for the rage to subside. When she had regained control, she smoothed her hair and straightened her blouse, then regarded Scarpa with narrowed eyes.

  He wore a ridiculous black hat pulled low over his forehead and his collar turned up to his chin. During the past few days his caution about being caught with her was turning to paranoia. For a palace guard who always talked like a big shot, he was surprisingly spineless. It made him easier to manipulate with her threats, but it was proving to be a disadvantage. "Have you obtained a boat yet?" she asked.

  "I'm working on it."

  "What does that mean? Either you have one or you don't."

  "It's been more difficult than I thought it would be.
I figured my cousin would lend me his fishing boat, but he says he lent it to someone else for the week."

  "Not only can't you get a boat, you can't even come up with a good excuse."

  "It's the truth. My cousin's a policeman, he wouldn't lie."

  "Right. And neither would a palace guard, eh?"

  Scarpa didn't appear to notice her sarcasm. "Tonight I went to check out the marinas to see if I could rent something," he said. "But there were people hanging around there. I'm sure they were cops."

  "You've got cops on the brain. How do you know who they were? Did you see their badges?"

  "No. They weren't in uniform, but they had this look about them, and they seemed to be watching me."

  "Most of the Montebellan police are watching the airport. Any idiot can see that. That's where they're concentrating their manpower because that's where they're expecting me to go. Which is why I intend to outsmart them and leave by boat." She flicked a contemptuous gaze at his hat, his sorry attempt to conceal his features. "Besides, if they were at the marina, they would have arrested you for fashion crime."

  He snatched off his hat and ran his stubby fingers through his hair. "We shouldn't risk the trip to Tamir tonight, anyway. I heard there's a storm predicted for tomorrow. We'll have to wait until it blows over."

  "Another excuse. I don't accept it. Go talk to your cousin again."

  "I told you, his boat's been loaned for the week. You'll just have to be patient and stay here for a few more days until—"

  "Patient?" Ursula went to the table and picked up her bag. "I've waited all my life for a break. I don't want to be patient."

  "What are you going to do?"

  She dug through her bag and whipped out a silk scarf. She put it loosely over her hair, wrapping the ends around her neck European-fashion, then took out her sunglasses. "You're going to go back to have another chat with your cousin, of course. And this time, you'll take me along."

  Scarpa wrung his hands. "It won't do any good."

  "Leave it to me, Edwardo. I'll get him to change his mind." She took out her compact, touched up her lipstick and kicked aside the broken chair as she walked to the door. Men. Apart from their usefulness in bed, they weren't good for anything. If she wanted something done right, she'd have to do it herself. Mmm. Come to think of it, even in bed it was usually better when she did it herself.