by Amelia Autin
Then she remembered him saying, “Do you think it was easy for me? Two years. Two years I fought against taking you, knowing I had no right. I was one day away from letting you leave Zakhar a virgin. But then you came to me and you gave me that right. You cannot take it back. Not now. Not ever.”
That made absolutely no sense. The way he talked now sounded like the Andre of old, the one from eleven years ago. The man she’d fallen in love with. The man she’d been so sure loved her. The man whose children she’d wanted to bear. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he loved her now. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he’d loved her then, too, had always loved her.
But she did know better. She knew he hadn’t loved her then. She knew because of the money he’d sent her as a parting gift. The money and the words of rejection. Not just a rejection of her, but of everything she’d ever wanted to give him. He could never have done that if he loved her. Never.
* * *
Andre looked around the conference table at the Privy Council. “We are agreed, then, gentlemen?” he asked politely. Not by a flicker of his eyelids did he betray they had spent far more time than he’d allotted for discussion of this issue, and that the conclusion the council had nearly reached after much dithering was the one he’d already reached the week before, despite Zax’s powerful arguments against it.
Bringing Zakhar into the twenty-first century had entailed far more than bringing in new industry and technology. Far more than instituting sweeping policy changes. Andre had long since determined Zakhar also needed to modify its political structure. Absolute monarchs were passé in this day and age, but the Zakharians had stubbornly clung to their traditional way of life, and that had included a fierce, unshakable devotion to the much-loved monarchy. Zakharians were proud that the House of Marianescu had reigned over Zakhar in an unbroken line for centuries, from father to son, and were resistant to change.
Zakhar had been extremely fortunate the House of Marianescu had been just as devoted to Zakhar as the Zakharians had been to it, and that the kings of Zakhar had—to a man—been worthy to rule. Some more than others, it was true, but Zakhar had never had a truly bad king. Andre’s own father had ruled with a fair and just hand, despite his own personal shortcomings as a father and a husband. It wasn’t common knowledge, but Andre’s father had been instrumental in his wife’s death by insisting on another son to ensure the Marianescu legacy, despite the queen’s doctor warning against a second pregnancy. But as a king Andre’s father had been above reproach.
The Privy Council advised, but the king had final authority. And the Privy Council had always been appointed by the king, so it was unlikely the council would provide any advice that ran contrary to the king’s wishes. That was the way it had been right up through his father’s day. But in the three years since Andre had ascended the throne he had slowly but surely started placing more power—and responsibility—in the hands of the now-elected Privy Council, another change he’d instituted over the objections of nearly everyone, including his cousin Zax. That meant having the patience of a saint at times, something Andre struggled to attain. But he knew it was the right thing to do...for the long term. In the short term, however, he often had to grit his teeth and smile.
He glanced in the direction of his cousin Niko lounging indolently on the other side of the large conference table. Niko had been a mistake, a big one. Andre hadn’t intervened when Niko had stood for election to the council. He’d figured the electors would see Niko’s obvious moral weaknesses and unsuitability for the job the same way he did, and would reject his candidacy without Andre expressing an opinion one way or the other, something he was loath to do in the new political process. I just didn’t count on the Zakharians’ devotion to the royal family, he acknowledged privately. He wouldn’t make that same mistake the second time around.
Niko had easily won his election despite the stellar qualifications of his opponent—a man Andre had really wanted on the council—and had been a royal pain ever since. Andre had hoped Niko’s new responsibilities on the council would steady his erratic younger cousin the way military discipline had shaped his cousin Zax, but that had been a fleeting hope at best. Niko still skated through life like the petulant boy he’d once been. And he delighted in obstructing change, even when it was change for the better.
Not that Niko would ever openly take a stand against Andre any more than his brother would...but for entirely different reasons. Nothing would have been more fatal to Niko’s nascent political career—in a showdown between the king and his younger cousin there was no contest in the eyes of the Zakharians. But Niko agitated the Privy Council in private, raising specious objections to Andre’s best ideas, and encouraging the council to drag its feet on one issue after the other, especially when it came to changes potentially limiting the monarch’s absolute authority.
Andre wondered—not for the first time—if Niko’s opposition to any lessening of royal power and privilege had its roots in his assumption he might one day inherit the throne. But every time the thought occurred to Andre he dismissed its relevance. If anything happened to him, Zax was first in line. The brothers were only three years apart in age, and Zax was in far better physical shape than the self-indulgent Niko. It was highly unlikely Niko would outlive Zax, even assuming Andre had no heirs of his own body to supplant both Zax and Niko in the line of succession.
That train of thought led directly to Juliana, and Andre sighed inwardly without letting it show on his face. He’d planned to drop in on the filming this afternoon, but it was highly unlikely that would happen now. Not unless the Privy Council could get off the stick and reach a resolution.
* * *
Dirk caught Juliana and lifted her effortlessly into his strong arms, cradled her, then carried her the few steps to the massive bed. He laid her gently down, kissed her tenderly, then lifted his head to bellow for the servants and the midwife.
“And cut!” the director said. He glanced at his watch. “And I guess that’s a wrap for today,” he said with reluctance.
Dirk grinned down at Juliana as a flurry of work went on around them. “Oh, my aching back,” he told her, pretending her featherweight had given him a backache.
“Ha ha ha,” she responded, struggling to sit up, the bulky padding she was wearing to simulate a late-term pregnancy giving her trouble. “It’s not my fault we had to do that scene six times.”
The first take, Juliana’s special padding had shifted noticeably and alarmingly just as Dirk placed her on the bed, and he’d dissolved into laughter. An extra strap had been added to Juliana’s gear to prevent that from happening again. One of the arc lights had gone out during the second take before he’d taken two steps, and they’d had to wait while that was replaced. The third take, Dirk had stumbled and almost dropped her, making her yelp, then giggle. One of the overhead microphones had unexpectedly shown up in the main camera shot just as the camera was panning out during the fourth take, and that had involved much cursing and pointing the finger of blame.
The fifth take had been a near disaster when one of the overhead lights had inexplicably come crashing down in the middle of the bed, right before Dirk was to place Juliana in it. If they’d been two feet closer, Juliana, and most likely Dirk, too, would have been seriously injured or killed by the impact. That had taken almost an hour to repair—especially picking the glass out of the bedding and off the floor where it had scattered in all directions—and both the director and the producer had been furious. The director because of the delay; the producer because of how this might affect the insurance on the film. The producer was still fuming, vowing to fire whomever had been so criminally negligent, but everyone in earshot was disavowing responsibility.
Juliana had shrugged it off; Dirk not so much. Accidents happened no matter how careful people were, but as a man who’d gotten his start in movies as a stuntman, Dirk had never been one to leave things to chance. Juliana had caught him eyeing the lighting setup a few times whil
e the cleanup went on around them, as if trying to figure out exactly how it had happened.
By the sixth take everyone in camera range except Dirk and Juliana was holding his or her breath, wondering what would go wrong this time. But the sixth take had worked like a charm, from Juliana’s initial gasp of pain as labor started, to Dirk’s final bellow. The scene that would end up as roughly thirty seconds in the final cut had taken the remainder of the afternoon to film.
Dirk put his arm around Juliana’s shoulders, helping her to straighten up. “Is it really that awkward?” he asked. “Pregnancy, I mean.”
Juliana laughed. “I can’t speak from experience, but that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve had friends tell me it’s like carrying around a bowling ball. But you’ll know soon enough when Bree—” She stopped abruptly, realizing she had no idea if Sabrina would be able to go full term.
Juliana and Dirk had been shooting on location for almost ten weeks, which meant her friend was nearly five months pregnant and definitely showing. Sabrina had finally confided in Juliana about her pregnancy, but she hadn’t mentioned one word about the cancer, and Juliana—true to her word to Dirk—hadn’t said anything, either. But things had been going well for Sabrina so far, and Juliana was praying they’d stay that way, that her friend would safely deliver her baby four months from now.
Dirk’s expression turned troubled. “I hope you’re right,” he said roughly. “Because it’s not one baby she’s carrying. We just found out it’s twins. And because there’s a tendency toward premature delivery with chemo, she’s resisting that idea, even though she’s now safely in her second trimester and doesn’t have to worry about the chemo causing birth defects.”
“Oh God,” Juliana said helplessly before she pulled herself together. Twins, she knew, usually had lower birth weights, which would explain why Sabrina didn’t want to risk premature delivery at this stage. “Think positive,” she told Dirk stoutly. Her assistant, Maddie, came up to them just then, with bottles of water for both of them.
“I’m trying,” Dirk said. “I’ve got plans for tonight. There’s a full moon and I’ve arranged to take Bree sightseeing...in a horse-drawn carriage.”
Juliana’s face softened. “That’s so romantic, Dirk.” She raised her hand to cup his cheek. “Bree is lucky to have you,” she said, blinking back unexpected tears. “I wish...” She never got the chance to say what she wished, because all at once she saw Andre standing off to one side watching her. Watching Dirk. A brooding expression on his face. She drew her hand away from Dirk’s cheek sharply, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. It had been an innocent gesture, but Andre wouldn’t know that.
“Come on,” Dirk said, helping her off the bed. “Let’s get these duds back to Wardrobe before we hold them up.”
I haven’t done anything wrong, she told herself as she walked past Andre toward Wardrobe with her head held high, refusing to look in his direction. No matter what he thinks, I haven’t done anything wrong.
* * *
“How the hell did it happen?” Andre demanded of his cousin Zax in the privacy of his office, cold anger making him pace and ramping up his blood pressure. “Do you have any idea? Who was guarding Juliana? I thought you doubled the security around her. How did security break down?”
“Be reasonable,” Zax said, answering the last of the machine-gunned questions first. “Who could have predicted this? You cannot blame the men guarding her any more than you can enclose Juliana in a bubble to keep her safe from every possible threat.”
“If she were yours, Zax,” Andre said fiercely, “you would not say that.”
Zax waited until Andre calmed down enough to listen to reason, then offered up what evidence had been collected so far. “It was no accident. That much we know. The anchor points were nearly filed through on two sides, leaving enough to bear the light’s weight for a time, but eventually gravity would cause a stress failure. Other than that...”
Andre stopped pacing to nail his cousin with an angry flash of his eyes. “Who is responsible?”
Zax shook his head. “It could be anyone. One of the crew...or not. According to the producer, those lights were set up yesterday in preparation for today’s filming. Again, according to the producer, it was not necessarily aimed at harming anyone. Filming of that scene was expected to be completed long before the light actually fell, so it might have been merely someone with a grudge against the film. According to the producer.”
“No, Zax. Juliana was targeted, the same way she was targeted when she was nearly run down weeks ago. Follow the money trail. Someone was paid to do this.” Andre clenched his fist as tight as his jaw. “Somewhere there is a record. Find it for me, Zax. Find whoever is trying to kill Juliana.”
Chapter 10
“Another failure.” The man tried to hold on to his temper because the Russian’s cold stare unnerved him, but it wasn’t easy. “That makes twice you have failed to eliminate the threat Juliana Richardson entails.”
“The first failure—yes,” the Russian nodded, “I will take responsibility for that. My man failed to run her down. He should have been successful despite the interference—we will not be surprised like that again. But you were the one who wanted to try the ‘accident’ on the set,” the Russian reminded him. “Not us. We arranged it...at your insistence.” His expression clearly conveyed what he thought of that amateurish attempt.
“Juliana’s death has to appear accidental,” he justified. “With the tight security around her, what else could we have done? I cannot afford to—”
“Yes, yes,” the Russian said, cutting him off. “You cannot afford to show your hand in this, not if you are to achieve your goal. I am aware. But the head of my organization is displeased with the lack of progress in the overall plan. Not the woman—he cares nothing for her—it is the king who stands in his way. And when Aleksandrov Vishenko is unhappy, unpleasant things happen...to everyone.”
The deadly tone in the Russian’s voice sent a chill down his spine, and his bowels cramped. I should never have gotten involved with the Russian Mafia, he realized now. Now...when it was too late. But he could not draw back at this stage. He could not become uninvolved with the Brotherhood. And the reason he’d cut a deal with Vishenko in the first place—that reason still existed.
No, he acknowledged with a grimace, attempting to calm his fears, I have no choice. Not anymore. Because his ultimate goal—to take his destined place as king of Zakhar—that goal was still attainable...but only with the Bratva’s help. “So what are you going to do?”
“The Pakhan says,” the Russian stated flatly, referring to Vishenko, “that the woman has distracted you—us—from our real goal long enough. It is time to forget the woman, and return to the original plan.”
* * *
Alone and restless, Juliana stood on the balcony outside her bedroom, looking up at the full moon. Somewhere out there, she knew, Dirk and Sabrina were riding in a horse-drawn carriage beneath that full moon, and once again she felt an ache of envy. Even knowing the precariousness of Sabrina’s situation, she would have traded places with her friend in a heartbeat. Not to be with Dirk, but to be with Andre. To know herself loved the way Dirk loved Sabrina. To be carrying Andre’s children, even at the risk to herself.
“No!” she whispered in a desperate undertone, appalled at where her thoughts had strayed. How can you even think that? Haven’t you learned the hard way that Andre doesn’t love you?
But she wanted him to. It wasn’t just that her body craved his touch. Her heart yearned for him, too, despite everything. And her desire for Andre’s children was a part of that yearning. The scene they’d filmed this afternoon had brought that desire achingly to life.
She wondered if Eleonora had ever faced a situation like this. It seemed unlikely, but you could never know for sure. The chroniclers of the time had painted the first Andre Alexei with a heroic brush, granting him all the virtues and none of the vices. Had he really been faith
ful to Eleonora for nearly five empty years?
There was nothing in the history of the day to suggest otherwise. In other words, no bastards attributed to him, she thought with a wry tilt to her lips. And that was at a time when royal bastards were an everyday occurrence and rarely hidden. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have what it took sexually—Eleonora had conceived their first night together, and then had borne him six more children in the sixteen years after she’d been ransomed. So it seemed likely Andre Alexei had remained faithful.
But had he really paid a king’s ransom to redeem her and her son, the son whose paternity had yet to be proved? Again, relying on the historians at the time, it seemed probable. Andre Alexei had beggared his kingdom—that was a known fact.
And Raoul had been his son, she remembered from the story Andre had told her and Mara so long ago, although it had taken a genetic defect to prove it—a crook in the pinkies of both hands, in father and son. A dominant gene—one that had come down through the centuries, but that hadn’t impaired their fighting abilities. Both Andre Alexei and Raoul had been fearsome warriors. Mara hadn’t inherited that defect; her fingers had all been perfectly straight. But Andre had.
Juliana remembered examining his hands minutely the night they’d become lovers, fascinated by the little thing that had made such a vast difference in whether or not Zakhar accepted Raoul as Andre Alexei’s legitimate heir. Wondering if the children she would someday give him would have the same odd but endearing genetic defect.
