by Amelia Autin
“Assuredly. See the two men standing against the wall just behind her, with their eyes glued to her? They are not guests, although they pretend to be. Their sole purpose is to guard her—and there is not a thing I can do about it. You will just have to take that into account.” He took another sip of wine—a bigger one this time—using the alcohol to give himself courage. He is a tool to be used, he reminded himself, needing the false courage engendered by the alcohol. Not an equal. “But do no more than prepare until I give the word. It may not be necessary.”
“It will be arranged.” A slight touch of contempt colored the Russian’s tone. “At no risk to you, of course.”
The first man’s voice held nothing but ice. “There had better not be. Not with what is at stake—for everyone concerned.”
* * *
Dirk excused himself for what he said would be a brief discussion with the film’s producer, but Juliana and Sabrina made humorous faces at each other. They both knew once Dirk got started on a topic of conversation it would be difficult to drag him away. While they waited patiently for his return, the two women wandered toward one of the tall windows open to the night air along one endless wall. They didn’t say much—theirs was an easy yet intimate friendship that didn’t require constant chatter to fill any silence—and both women were guarding secrets.
Juliana knew why she wasn’t ready to share anything about Andre with Sabrina. She’d never told anyone about that time in her life and didn’t intend to start now. But she wondered what Sabrina was keeping from her. Her friend looked strange, unlike herself, and it wasn’t merely the pain Sabrina was obviously suffering that she tried her best to hide. There was just something about her, something Juliana couldn’t put her finger on. The faintest trace of trepidation combined with...suppressed excitement?
A hand touched her bare arm and a voice said, “Juliana.”
She whirled around, her heart suddenly pounding again, but then she relaxed. The voice was similar to Andre’s, deep and strong, but there was just a touch more of a Zakharian accent to this man’s English. She smiled as she recognized him even though she hadn’t seen him for eleven years.
“Hello, Zax. Good to see you again,” she said honestly. Then another man came up behind Prince Xavier, and her smile faded. “Hello, Niko. Good to see you again, too,” she lied with a straight face. She turned to introduce the two princes to Sabrina. “Your Highnesses, may I present my dearest friend, Sabrina DeWinter. Bree, this is...” She hesitated a second and looked up at Zax. “It’s Crown Prince Xavier now, isn’t it?”
Zax shrugged dismissively, then smiled down at Juliana. “Yes, until such time as Andre marries and has male heirs, which will no doubt be soon. I place little stock in the royal title, to be honest. I much prefer my military title.” He turned to Sabrina, shook her hand and murmured formal words of welcome.
Juliana managed to hide the slicing pain Zax’s words caused. For years she’d expected to read about Andre’s engagement and subsequent marriage, and had steeled herself against it. But hearing Zax talk about it as if it were imminent... Who? she wondered feverishly. Of all the names that had been bandied about over the years as the next Queen of Zakhar, who was Andre’s chosen one? And why wasn’t she here tonight?
Niko cleared his throat and Juliana quickly brought her thoughts under control. “I’m sorry, Niko. Bree, this is Prince Nikolai, also of the House of Marianescu. Zax and Niko are the king’s first cousins on his father’s side.”
Niko bent over Sabrina’s hand and said suavely, “Ah yes, Mrs. DeWinter. I had the pleasure of meeting your husband—a marvelous actor, by the way—when I ran into him in the portrait gallery this afternoon.”
Sabrina raised her eyebrows. “Really? Dirk didn’t mention it.” She withdrew her hand as soon as practicable, and Juliana shot her friend a sharp glance. Apparently Sabrina was equally unimpressed with the younger Zakharian prince.
“How is your father, Juliana?” Zax asked. “Is he enjoying his retirement?”
She smiled as she thought about her father. “My dad is still going strong at seventy-five—I hope I’m that active when I’m his age. He volunteers as a tutor at the local high school two days a week and distributes “Meals on Wheels” to seniors even older than he is on the weekdays he doesn’t tutor.”
They chatted desultorily for a few minutes after that, and Juliana assessed her old acquaintances. Zax looked older than she remembered, of course, but he’d already been a man when she’d left Zakhar, and the years had touched him nearly as lightly as they had Andre. His face was austere, and his bearing was as military as it had always been—she wasn’t surprised to learn Zax was now a Lieutenant Colonel in the Zakharian National Forces, on detached duty as head of security for the king.
But it was his younger brother’s appearance that truly surprised her. Niko was only two years older than she was, which meant he was two years younger than Andre and three years younger than his older brother. But there were already tiny lines of dissipation in his face. And though he was still a handsome man—the Marianescu good looks hadn’t passed him by—the overall impression was of a man who’d indulged too often. Wine. Food. Women. And drugs? Juliana never liked to think of people she knew using drugs, even people she didn’t care for, but she wouldn’t put it past him. The press had dubbed him the playboy prince, and they weren’t far off. The moniker wasn’t a compliment.
Juliana suddenly remembered how Niko had ignored her in the early days, only displaying an interest in her once she started showing signs of the beauty that had eventually made her world famous. So very different from Andre, who’d never treated her as an imposition when she and Mara used to trail after him, who’d never made her feel as if either of them were in the way. And this is important why? she asked herself. Andre-then and Andre-now weren’t the same person. Maybe that held true for Niko, too. Maybe he’d improved with age, had become less self-centered, less self-important.
But probably not, she mused with a touch of cynicism, although she maintained an air of sweet interest on the surface. She’d always seen right through Niko, had seen his pursuit of her years ago for what it was. From his appearance and the avid way he was acting now, he hadn’t changed one bit.
* * *
Zax showed up on the set nearly every day, but Juliana put that down to the meticulous way he did his job and not a particular interest in her. As head of security for the king, he was responsible for—among other things—making sure the cast and crew of King’s Ransom weren’t a threat to the king’s safety in any way. They conversed sometimes when she had a few minutes between scenes—reminiscences for the most part—including memories of Juliana’s father, who’d been the US Ambassador to Zakhar when she’d lived here. Although Zax reminded her poignantly of Andre in the way he looked, the way he spoke, even his mannerisms sometimes, and though she could tell he appreciated the beautiful woman she’d become, there was no spark and he never went beyond the line. He never said anything to which Juliana could take exception.
Niko also showed up on the set frequently over the next few weeks, and his presence watching the filming didn’t bother Juliana one iota, any more than Zax’s presence did. Nor did his attempts to get her alone cause her anything but amusement. Niko was just another in the long line of men who pursued her because of who and what she was—a status symbol. She’d dated men like Niko back in Hollywood, men who thought she was an easy mark. Not as many dates as the tabloids had trumpeted to the world, but a few. Like those Hollywood Lotharios, Niko would soon learn Juliana was no man’s conquest, and eventually he’d lose interest.
The problem was, Andre occasionally visited the set, too, much to Juliana’s dismay. Every scene was doubly hard to play with him there, and she never knew when he would show up. She had a well-deserved reputation with directors for being the consummate professional, able to do most scenes in one or two takes. That was something else she’d learned from Dirk.
But when Andre was there it was
nearly impossible to act naturally. And more than once she was forced to apologize to the director and her fellow actors for some stupid screwup on her part, especially her scenes with Dirk. She told herself to ignore Andre. Told herself he was nothing to her now, no more than any casual acquaintance, so she shouldn’t let him upset her. Told herself she didn’t care what he thought of her, that the respect of her director, Dirk, the rest of the cast and the crew was all she cared about. But she was lying to herself, and she knew it.
She was dreading the two intimate love scenes scheduled for filming tomorrow: the wedding-night scene, where Eleonora and her husband consummated their wedding vows just hours before Andre Alexei was almost slain and Eleonora was kidnapped; and the reunion scene years later, after the king finally ransomed his queen and her young son at a cost that beggared his kingdom. A stupendous cost equivalent to a king’s ransom, not just a queen’s. And then had brought them home to Zakhar...to him.
The scene where Eleonora bravely confessed everything to her husband and offered to enter a convent to hide her shame and his—an offer Andre Alexei had adamantly refused. The scene where he made love to his wife so gently, so tenderly, she was finally able to respond to his lovemaking despite everything she’d endured in captivity.
That scene reminded her poignantly of a scene between Terry O’Dare and Tessa in Jetsam. Dirk had said the same thing to her when he’d first read the King’s Ransom script, and they’d already discussed just how they were going to play it. But that made it incredibly intimate, more than just the words in the script. It was supposed to a closed set, with only the bare minimum cast and crew necessary to film both scenes. But who on the set would have the nerve to tell the king of Zakhar he couldn’t be there?
* * *
Andre knew his presence on the set was having a negative effect on Juliana’s abilities as an actress, and it bothered him not at all. He welcomed it as a sign she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she pretended. But the night before the scheduled love scenes he knew he couldn’t be there. He couldn’t watch Dirk DeWinter and Juliana making love, take after take, angle after angle, fully and partially clothed. He knew the scenes would be tastefully done—Juliana was never fully naked in any of her films. And he knew it wasn’t real, that they were merely actors playing the roles of the first king and queen of Zakhar. He still couldn’t watch it.
I should have ordered the screenwriter to remove those scenes from the script, he told himself angrily. But in his heart he knew the scenes were necessary. The audiences had to see the love scenes, both before and after their long separation, in order to understand the eternal love that bound the two together even through years apart. They were actually beautifully written—the screenwriter had outdone herself.
But Andre couldn’t watch those scenes being filmed. He also knew he would never be able to watch the completed movie—not with those scenes in it. It was too personal, would remind him too much of the one magical night he’d shared with Juliana. And if Juliana never came to him again, it would be like watching the nails being pounded into his own coffin, knowing that unlike his renowned predecessor, somehow he’d failed to win back the woman he loved.
He opened the French doors onto his private balcony, hesitated for only a second as he heard his bodyguards’ warnings in his head, then walked out anyway. It wasn’t that he thought himself invincible, but he couldn’t live his life always afraid of assassination, even though in the three years of his rule he’d survived two attempts by traditionalists who resented the political and military changes Andre was trying to implement. One of those attempts he’d used as an excuse to send his sister, Mara, to Colorado, where she’d met and fallen in love with the man who was now her husband. So at least something good had come out of what could have been a national tragedy for most Zakharians.
He was a little more cautious these days—the attempts on his life had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and he no longer took unnecessary risks. But here in the palace—even exposed as he was on his private balcony—he was fairly safe.
Andre breathed deeply and looked down upon the twinkling lights of the sleeping city where he’d been born and raised, the city that was such a part of him he knew he could never live anywhere else even if he wasn’t its ruler. There were precious memories here, too—memories of himself taking fourteen-year-old Juliana and his sister, Mara, thirteen, from one historical site to another, relating the history of Zakhar to them as they listened, spellbound. Juliana, even more than Mara, had been captivated by the love story of the first Andre Alexei and his beloved Eleonora, and never tired of hearing him tell the tale.
Even that long ago he’d been drawn to Juliana. Her lovely violet eyes set in what was then a plain face had glowed with an inner light that told him she understood far beyond her tender age the anguish of lovers torn apart for years. The longing. The yearning. The hope and despair. And then, incredibly, the joyous reunion, never to be parted again in life. Not even in death.
They had stood together at the lovers’ mausoleum in the royal cemetery as he translated the Latin script carved upon the walls for her:
Two hearts as one,
Forever and a day.
He’d watched the words seep into Juliana’s soul, watched her eyes fill with tears of empathy for what the lovers had endured before being reunited. She had felt the story, the same way he always had.
He’d been immeasurably wounded when she’d mocked the love story the night of the reception. The Juliana he remembered could never have said those things, could never even have thought them. He’d struck back with a statement calculated to flick her on the raw. But then he’d seen the fear in her eyes, and that had wounded him far more. He’d never given Juliana reason to fear him. Even when he’d taken the gift she’d offered him so many years ago he’d shown her nothing but tenderness, had shown her how precious she was to him.
Once upon a time Juliana had believed in immortal love—he knew it. He didn’t know what had happened to change that belief, but if he had anything to say about it she would believe again. Somehow he had to find a way to reach her. Come to me, Juliana, he urged, closing his eyes as if that would help deliver his silent plea. Come to me.
* * *
Juliana studied the next day’s script lying in a bubble bath with a half dozen scented candles surrounding her, her favorite way to memorize lines. But somehow tonight it wasn’t working. Instead of the intimate, romantic dialogue between the newly wedded king of Zakhar and his queen on their wedding night and the poignant reunion scene she was supposed to be committing to memory, she kept hearing Andre’s voice in her head like a siren’s song, calling her to him.
She could have sworn she’d heard him calling to her eleven years ago, the night before she was to leave Zakhar, the same way she was hearing him now. The same way she’d heard him calling to her over the years. She knew it was just her own yearning—her own desires—projected in her mind as Andre’s voice calling to her. Usually she was able to block him out by focusing on a script, but not here in Zakhar. Not where everything reminded her of him. Not where everywhere she turned memories tugged her into wondering what had happened to the beau ideal prince she’d known.
She tried to drag her concentration back to the script, but it was impossible—the script itself reminded her of Andre. Too much. Finally she gave up. I’ll just have to get up extra early tomorrow morning and memorize, she told herself.
She got out of the tub and dried herself off, then slipped on one of the oversize cotton T-shirts she preferred instead of the silky, slinky, diaphanous gowns the public imagined she wore to bed. This one had a picture of a sleeping pink-and-white kitten curled up on the front, and it came down to her knees. She crawled into the comfy bed, set her little traveling alarm clock and tried to force herself to sleep. Tried to block out the eerie sensation that Andre was calling to her.
Come to me, Juliana. Come to me.
She remembered how she’d woken from a restless sleep hea
ring him calling to her eleven years ago, and she’d gone to him in secret. They’d shared one luminous night, a night she would remember on her deathbed. But she would never go to him again. Would never sleep with him again. Would never let herself be vulnerable to him again.
Would never let him break her heart again.
* * *
Dirk came over to where Juliana was trying to get into character as she waited for the set to be ready. Both of them were already in costume, their colored contact lenses in place. The makeup artists had done their jobs well, making them look years younger. History had it that Andre Alexei had been twenty and Eleonora had been seventeen when they were wedded. Dirk had needed to erase a few years of living from his face in order to play the twenty-year-old king in this scene. Juliana had no wrinkles, not yet, but camera close-ups could be brutal. Her face still looked like her when the makeup artist was done, but her mirror had given her a pang. She had looked just that innocent, just that eager yet untouched when...
“Are you okay?” Dirk asked her quietly. “You look...haunted. Yeah, I know your character’s about to be kidnapped, but you’re not supposed to know that ahead of time. You’re supposed to be deliriously happy on your wedding night.”
Juliana shot him a quick glance, taking in the bleak expression on his face. “You don’t look much better. What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” But his voice lacked conviction.
“Don’t lie to me,” Juliana insisted, placing a hand on his arm. “And don’t pretend everything’s okay. Something’s wrong, I know it. It’s Bree, isn’t it? Please tell me.”
Dirk hesitated, then took a deep breath. “You’re the first to know—I’m quitting the business.”
