A soft thump sounded, echoing in her mind. Past and present merged. Rachel’s heart pounded hard in her chest, and her fingers began to shake. Slowly, she came back to the present. The sound of chatter coming from the next room had stopped. Looking up, she could see no one in the adjoining room. Had that thump been real? Where were Simone and Dagmar? The skin along her arms and neck prickled.
Memories that had been taunting her through nightmares flashed through her mind. The pieces all slid together. She kept her eyes on the door, even as she got up from her desk. Listening carefully, she could hear nothing, not one bit of sound. She approached the door. Craning her neck, she could see the two machines. She could see neither girl. Stepping closer, she looked through the crack between the door and the frame.
A part of her brain registered that she should close the door to her office, and turn on the radio to cover the sound of her using the phone to call for help.
Because she suddenly knew who had sent the threatening letters. She remembered. She knew she was in very real danger.
But if she called Peter, or anyone, and someone got hurt, she’d never be able to forgive herself. A quick glance around her sparsely furnished office told her what she already knew. Nothing here could be used as a weapon.
Common sense prevailed. She needed to trust Peter, and anyone else who came to help, to know what to do. She was a princess, not a trained warrior.
Without making a sound, she walked backwards, picked up the receiver of the phone that sat on the corner of her desk—and heard nothing. The line was dead.
Setting the useless receiver back in its cradle, her mind worked frantically, trying to remember where she’d left her cell phone. She had it with her when she arrived this morning. Closing her eyes, she cursed under her breath when she realized she’d left her purse in the next room, on the large table adjacent to the machines.
Screwing up her courage, she took three steps, closer to the door, to the hinged side of it. Looking to the left, she saw no one, and nothing moved. But that covered only the smallest part of the common work area. The majority of the room lay to the right.
If she sprinted, she could hopefully reach the door to the street about fifty feet from where she stood, but on the other side of the room. Maybe, if she stayed low.
Then a soft, pain-filled groan broke the silence.
* * * *
There has to be something. Peter looked up from the reports scattered on his desk and tried to ease the kink in his back. He’d been sitting since after breakfast, reading through all the results of the two intense investigations his team had conducted while he’d been incapacitated.
His people had been thorough, but it would take a long time to rule out every little bit of fiber, lint, and strand of hair collected. Three shell casings, all from a hunting rifle, had been recovered from the farm—specifically, from the public parkland just across the river from where he’d been shot. The bullet they’d dug out of the tree would likely match at least one of the casings. Everything had been sent to the police lab. Although Peter’s official title was chief of security for the royal family, he was in fact a member of the police force as well. In times of national crisis, and an assassination attempt against Princess Rachel could be considered a national crisis, he had the authority to step in and command the small, well-trained force. He’d use them if he had to, but for the moment, he was content to leave it at making sure that all the evidence his team had gathered be given top priority.
The crime lab was good, considering the size of the country, but with only one tech, any extensive analysis would take time.
Unfortunately, he didn’t think they had much time.
Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that the answer really lay in the past. His gut had told him that since receiving the second threatening letter. Sorting through the pile of paper and files covering his desk, he found the large manila envelope Claude had sent him from the Interpol office in Paris.
After clearing a spot on his desk, he ripped it open. Inside, he found two smaller envelopes. One had the year 2005 printed in the upper left-hand corner. Opening it, he dumped the contents out. The investigator’s report, three pages, detailed the events of that time, beginning with Peter’s phone call alerting the authorities of the danger to the princess. Scanning the document, he understood, as he hadn’t in the past, how thorough Interpol and the Geneva police had been. They had wanted to make absolutely certain that what had happened to Rachel had indeed been an isolated incident by two miscreants seeking a ransom and not part of a greater conspiracy of terror. They’d investigated both men, their families, their associates. The investigators had taken dozens of photographs. Copies of them littered his desk, and he scanned them.
There was the one of the dirty room in the three-story rooming house where Rachel had been found unconscious. He still felt a cold fear mixed with anger thinking about it. There were pictures of the two men. Bordeau looked a little worse for wear, and Peter felt no regret at having given the bastard a black eye, a split lip, and some broken ribs. Johansson just looked creepy. That man, Peter recalled, had shown a real sang-froid at the time of his arrest and during his trial. He’d been involved in some sort of political movement, and the police had wondered if perhaps the princess’s kidnapping had signaled a larger agenda. But in the end, the “political” movement had consisted of a few stoned college kids Johansson had seduced into an almost Charles Mansonlike discipleship.
One by one, Peter looked at the photos, seeing shots of the town, the school, and some of the known associates of not only the two men, but of Rachel, too. The back of each picture had a brief, descriptive note.
The packet contained so many photos of so many different people he almost missed it.
In the process of tossing one aside and reaching for the next, his gut twisted, and he focused on the one in his hand anew. The description on the back didn’t give much away, only “some of the regulars at Café Noir, known hangout.” The photographer had captured the faces of several young people, some of them oblivious to the camera, some of them just oblivious, period.
Except for one young woman sitting alone at a table. Eyes cold, tiny mouth drawn up in a snarl, she stared at the photographer with what could only be called malevolence.
Her long white hair was straight and didn’t suit her tiny face. Her skin looked almost ghostlike. And as he stared at her, he knew he looked at someone who teetered on the edge of sanity.
Swallowing hard, he focused on the woman. He knew that face. There was something so familiar about her.
Recognition kicked in, and he surged to his feet. Son of a bitch! No wonder they hadn’t been able to find the man threatening Rachel.
The stalker wasn’t a man at all.
Chapter 19
Rachel crept forward, fear clenching her belly and freezing her blood. The noise had sounded like it had come from behind the sewing area. To her right stood her small office. To her left, across the room, the door to the street. Freedom and safety. Taking one step in that direction, she heard a keening moan, recognizable this time. The sound emanated from behind the machines and she realized with a sinking heart the sound had come from Simone, and she was hurt.
Unmindful of the danger, she ran to the girl’s aid. Simone, unconscious, lay curled up on the floor. A small puddle of blood had collected by her head.
Before Rachel could touch the young woman, the sound of a demon scream made her spin around, arm instinctively raised in self-defense. That instinct saved her life. Instead of plunging into her back, the sharp dressmaking shears stabbed into her forearm, making Rachel cry out in pain.
“No! Die, bitch!”
Dagmar, her face twisted with rage, her eyes wide and wild, pulled back the shears and slashed at Rachel again. Ignoring the fiery pain in her arm, Rachel evaded the weapon, then grabbed Dagmar’s wrist with both hands, using every bit of strength she had to hold off the other woman.
“Bitch! You killed him! You killed hi
m, and now you die!”
Dagmar kicked her hard in the shin. Rachel stumbled and cursed as the shears, released to their downward arc, plunged into her shoulder.
Fury swamped her terror, and she used her crazed attacker’s overbalanced stance to her advantage, jamming her already throbbing and bleeding shoulder into the other woman’s abdomen. The move bought her only a few seconds. Dagmar stumbled back against the table behind her, and bouncing off it, she surged forward.
Rachel kicked out, catching Dagmar in the hip, throwing her off slightly, just long enough for her to regain her feet.
Dagmar charged again, and Rachel had no time to think. She used both hands to grab the arm that wielded the shears. She turned around, her back against the other woman, bracing herself against her in an effort to increase her leverage. Every bit of Rachel’s concentration focused on the deadly weapon, but she knew Dagmar overmatched her in strength. Her left arm was numb, and the blood that dripped down her arm coated her hands and loosened her grip. The shears inched closer and closer on their journey of destruction, this time aimed toward Rachel’s chest.
Screaming in rage, Rachel shoved Dagmar, slamming her against the table hard. The other woman screamed and lunged forward. Rachel lost her balance, and they both hit the floor just as the door to the shop burst open.
* * * *
He’d ordered his team on standby. Edward had taken a casual stroll past the shop, looking in the window while Peter raced there. The man had reported that everything seemed normal, the two assistants at their sewing machines, Rachel in her office.
Peter didn’t want to startle Dagmar into doing something rash. He had no idea if the woman had a weapon, or not.
It killed him to have to move slowly, to sedately pull his car up to the curb near the surveillance van. He stayed out of sight of the window, and as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, Edward left the van to join him.
“Everything seems quiet, Peter.”
Peter nodded, glad now he’d planted the listening device inside. He’d tossed his sling off and flexed his arm, which still ached.
“Yeah, if you call Simone’s constant chatter ‘quiet.’”
The look on Edward’s face spoke volumes, as he slowly said, “She hasn’t said anything for a bit.”
“How long?” Peter asked, drawing his gun.
“About five minutes.” Edward pulled out his own weapon, automatically checking it. “Damn it, Peter, I’m sorry. I thought the girl finally shut up for once.”
Peter ran across the street, and a quick look through the window sent fear coursing through him. Rachel, blood soaking her blouse, struggled with Dagmar. He didn’t even try to open the door. He kicked it at a solid run, Edward behind him.
Peter’s hand came up, right thumb flicking the safety off at the same time he aimed and realized he couldn’t get a shot. The women had fallen to the floor and were wrestling fiercely over something shiny and sharp. All this he registered in the instant he realized he couldn’t shoot the one without risking the other.
“Shoot!” Rachel snarled.
“Fuck. I can’t!”
Peter catapulted over the table, biting down on his own pain. Dagmar rose above Rachel, weapon ready to strike. Peter lunged, wrapped his arms around Dagmar, sweeping her off his woman. For one fierce moment, she struggled. But as soon as he snapped the handcuffs on her, she lost all fight and began to cry.
He spun around, his eyes all for Rachel. She lay on the floor, panting, eyes closed. He dropped to his knees and reached for her.
“Took you long enough.”
“I didn’t want to encroach on your action, Red. No, stay flat. Let me—” He had to stop, to swallow hard. “Let me have a look at you, champ.”
Rachel didn’t argue as he pulled the loose collar of her blouse aside to check her shoulder. Instead, she said, “Simone is hurt.”
Peter motioned to Edward. The man was standing over Dagmar and had his cell phone in hand.
Edward nodded and made his way over to the other woman. Peter turned his attention back to Rachel. Pieces of fabric lay folded neatly on the bottom shelf of a table close at hand. He grabbed a hand full and began to sop up some of the blood, so he could get a look at her wounds.
“I realized it was her,” Rachel said, wincing despite Peter’s gentle ministrations. “I was sketching, letting my mind drift, and I sketched her as I’d seen her back in Geneva. I never knew her name, but she used to be like a shadow to Luc’s friend, the creepy guy I never liked.”
Peter managed to tear the sleeve off Rachel’s blouse, and had a look at the damage. The cut to her forearm wasn’t bad, though it had bled a lot. The shoulder looked worse. The bleeding had slowed, but the puncture wound raged purple and ugly against Rachel’s creamy flesh. “Bjorn Johansson. I was going through the old file that Claude sent me and saw a picture of her. Took me a minute to recognize her. The face did it, of course. That white, pasty complexion of hers.”
“She said I killed him. What did she mean?”
“I have no idea, baby. He is dead—traffic accident about a month after he got out of prison.” His terror hadn’t left him yet, and in its shadow, guilt grew in his belly faster than a fungus.
“Damn it, Rachel, I let you down again. I should have seen it. Now that I think back, it seems so obvious the woman was mentally disturbed. The twitchy way she behaved, the language she used that reflected the language in the letters.”
“I did not know you had psychic abilities, mon cher. This is good to know, for the future.”
“Yeah, the future.” The words tasted like sawdust in his mouth.
Edward spoke from where he crouched between Dagmar and Simone, keeping an eye on both women. “Ambulance is on the way, boss. Miss Balieur is still unconscious.”
The sound of a siren erupted in the distance. Outside, brakes squealed, and Peter didn’t have to look up to know that Michael had arrived.
The crown prince walked in and surveyed the damage. When his sister tossed him a little wave with her right hand, Michael relaxed visibly.
“Mon Dieu. I’ve heard it said that women drop like flies around you, my friend. But this is perhaps carrying things too far.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
* * * *
Rachel wished everyone would leave her alone. At least, everyone crowding around her bed at the moment.
She understood her father would need the reassurance of seeing for himself she had survived and would recover. And she’d secretly been thrilled that Hannah had rushed to her side in the hospital, taken her part when she insisted on being discharged, and seen her tucked neatly into her own bed at home. Her sister sat on the side of her bed, holding her hand, and that wasn’t like Sophie at all. Helene paced, ordering juice and cookies for the invalid, ordering the staff to bring fresh flowers and fresh towels. Catharine and Jamie had arrived, the little boy climbing up on the bed to kiss her shoulder better before scrambling down to go and sit on his grandmother’s lap.
But the one person she most needed to see wasn’t there.
“Where is Peter?” She really didn’t care if she sounded whiny or not. Just before Michael had arrived at her shop, she had sensed Peter pulling away from her.
“I did not know you had psychic ability, mon cher. This is good to know, for the future.”
“Yeah, the future.”
His tone had been bleak. He thought he’d let her down again.
She knew he’d felt as if he’d let his mother down all those years ago by seeking his own path in life. A sick dread filled her as she recalled how detached he had seemed once the paramedics had arrived. He’d told Michael to ride with her in the ambulance, telling her he would see to Simone.
She knew he’d gone to Simone’s home, brought her mother and sister to the hospital. He’d checked in on Rachel while the doctor was examining her, to tell her Simone had awakened, had a concussion, but would be fine. Then he’d left.
“He is with the genda
rmes, petite. There is considerable paperwork to be done in the arrest of a criminal.”
Her father’s words came out stilted, an indication of how upset he was. Hannah looked as if she would go to him, but then she wrapped her arms around Jamie. Rachel wondered what had happened between the two of them. Then her father touched her head gently.
“I can tell you truly, I will forever be grateful to Peter for arriving when he did.”
“Perhaps you should tell him that. He seems to think he should have figured everything out and prevented my getting hurt.”
“It is difficult for a man, who loves a woman, to see her hurting in any way.”
“It is difficult for a woman when the man she loves is being unreasonably stubborn,” Hannah retorted.
Her father and Hannah might have been hinting about their own impasse, but it applied to her and Peter, as well.
She only needed to know one thing. How did a woman knock the stubborn out of a man?
* * * *
He was making himself crazy.
The paperwork had been finished for nearly two hours. He’d gone back to the hospital to check on Simone, because he told himself Rachel would want him to. Sitting in his car in his parking spot on the grounds of the palace, he told himself he was not stalling.
Yeah, he was.
He couldn’t get the picture of Rachel, sprawled on the floor bleeding, out of his head. The guilt, that he’d failed to keep her safe, ate away at his soul.
What good was a man if he couldn’t keep his woman safe?
And how the hell could he ask her to marry him if he couldn’t even keep her safe?
Exhausted, edgy, he got out of the car and headed toward the main entrance. Dinnertime had come and gone, but he had no appetite. He hadn’t even had time to report to Alex. With any luck, the king would be engaged elsewhere, and Peter tried very hard not to wince when he thought just what the king might be engaged in.
The Princess and the Bodyguard Page 15
