Crown of Solana

by Susan Sheehey

  “A man that skilled would’ve made sure she died before he left the house. But he didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  Stefano’s hard stare drained the blood from André’s face. “To draw you out.” The man shifted his gaze to Gemma’s closed door. “He had no way of getting on Solana, not with U.N. forces there. But you wouldn’t leave unless she did. He knew she’d come back. Yet when she did, she was alone. So, he had to change his plan. Delay her death to force you out. Which is why you must go back to Solana. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving her.”

  Stefano turned harsh, his eyes dark. “You’re the target, André. You always have been.”

  “Then let me be the bait.”

  Stefano ground his teeth and shook his head. “Too many have died to keep you safe.”

  “If he’s still around,” he urged, “someone will recognize him. This is ranch country. It’s hard to miss a man with his description around here.”

  The soldier glared back at him. “He’s done that twice already.”

  “How then? How is he doing it?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what’s pissing me off.”

  “Are there any abandoned farms around here? Or someone reported missing? He’s hiding out in their house.”

  Stefano shook his head. “That’s for local authorities to figure out. We need to get you back to Solana.”

  He opened his mouth to fire back, but Quintana rushed up to him with a nervous look. Quintana was a former soldier, with them during the invasion into the Royal Palace. He’d taken a bullet in the leg and was now unfit for the military. But he was smart. After that horrible night, André trusted him as much as Stefano. So, he appointed him one of his personal aides. “Your Highness, forgive my interruption. But there’s been another attack.”

  His stomach clenched. Everyone turned to listen. “Where?”

  “The royal yacht.”

  Blood flooded his body, turning everything numb. “The charity dinner…”

  “The princess is safe,” Quintana added quickly. “She and Mr. Flynn had only just left the palace. But authorities reviewed the footage: it was a bomb.”

  “Casualties?” Stefano asked.

  “Eighteen dead, thirty-four wounded. Most of them crew and the invited family members.”

  Jesus. They haven’t suffered enough? “Did they apprehend any suspects?”

  Quintana shook his head. “Not yet. They recovered the detonation device, signature of Raul Lozano, Santos Lozano’s youngest. They are certain of it.”

  “Mierda.” André ground his teeth together. “That means those bastards are back on the island.” The stare Stefano gave him sent goose bumps flaring on his skin. “How did he get the device on board? There should’ve been guards all over that thing.”

  “Sir,” Quintana interjected. “Her Highness informed me that just before the explosion, Prime Minister Barilla called for a special vote on the parliament floor. The monarchy dissolution bill.”

  His heart cinched even more. That son of a bitch.

  Stefano paled.

  “When?” André asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. O-eight hundred.”

  “You need to get back there, now.” Stefano pulled out his phone, his expression desperate. “On the flight over, you can request the United Nations’ forces beef up the military outposts. If you leave now, you’ll get there just in time to implore the prime minister to stop the vote.”

  André sighed, deep from his heart. “No.”

  Quintana’s jaw dropped, and Stefano’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  He swallowed hard. “I’ll call the U.N. delegate for extra help, but if the people feel their royal family is no longer necessary, or we’re inadequate in our duties, then they have the right to vote us out. I will respect their wishes.”

  Crestfallen was too mild a word to describe Stefano’s defeated posture after the prince made his announcement. Quintana bowed his head, then eyed Stefano before walking away dialing another number on his phone.

  “You’d give it all up?” Stefano’s voice was almost too soft to hear. “Sacrifice everything your father died to protect?”

  His chest ached. “My father died protecting our name. What we stood for. We have to protect the Peralta name, ensure it will go on. The royal title is less important if that’s what the people want.”

  Stefano deflated in front of him, and cleared his throat several times before his injured eyes met his prince. “The people want a leader. Someone to show strength and make them proud again. It was your father’s wish that you would become that leader. It was my wish as well.”

  Stefano lowered his head, turned, and walked away with his hand in his pocket.

  André gave a silent gasp. It was the first time his former bodyguard left without being dismissed. Protocol dictated the royal determined the topic of conversation, and chose when the discussion was over. No one was to leave his presence unless dismissed.

  Stefano had turned his back and walked out on André.

  “YOU’RE A FOOL.” GEMMA HAD no other words for the stupid move André just made.

  “I thought you were sleeping.” He caressed her hand from the chair next to her hospital bed. The lines in his forehead cracked, and his skin was paler than normal.

  “Seriously,” she started as the heart rate monitor increased tempo. “Don’t be dense. Get your ass out of this hospital and on that plane.”

  He threw an incredulous look at her, his jawline hardening.

  “I heard everything loud and clear through the door,” she continued. “Your country is under attack again. And that jackass prime minister wants to vote you out of existence. Show him you won’t allow it.”

  “The people will decide. Not him.”

  “Fuck that.”

  Everything about him hardened. But he was clearly too stunned to respond.

  Gemma pulled her hand out from under his grasp. The heart monitor beeped faster, and she felt the heat permeate into her face. “The people want you to stand up and protect them. To speak for them. So do it. Don’t let that fucker take it from you.”

  “Gemma, calm down.”

  “No!” she barked. Pain ricocheted through her body, but she grimaced through it—like a kickboxing session—and kept her eyes locked on his. “Don’t take the easy way out.”

  “This is not easy for me!” He raised his voice back at her.

  About damn time. “Backing off is easier than fighting for it. Stefano was right about you. When the stress gets too high, you run.”

  He reared back like she just rope-a-doped him. “When the hell did he say that?”

  “On the boat into Solana. And he has you pegged. You’re scared. Scared of failing, of disappointing, so you don’t even try. But this time, your mistake is going to cost your sister, too.”

  André sighed, clearly swallowing back a defense. “Alanna and I already spoke on the matter a few days ago. We’ll do whatever the people want.”

  Rage churned in her stomach, pushing against the stitches. She wished she had the strength to take a swing at him and knock some sense into his thickheaded royal pride. She pushed herself with her good hand to a sitting position, her body screaming in protest.

  “What are you doing?” he started with a panic. “Lie back down before you pop a stitch.”

  Bracing her weight on her good hand on the mattress, she glared at him. “It’s her birthright, too. If you don’t want it, tell her. But don’t let greedy politicians steal it away from both of you. Don’t let Lozano take it from you either. Go back to Solana, stand next to Alanna, and fight it together. That’s what your people want.”

  “How do you know what my people want? You only spent two weeks there.”

  She ground her teeth. Oh, you dense bastard! “In two weeks, I saw what you clearly haven’t in twenty-eight years. Get off your ass and go home!”

  “I’m not leaving you like this.”

  He feels obligated. He was t
hrowing away everything for her, but he was wrong. She’d have to take away any obligation he felt, so he could be free to go back and save his own legacy. “Fine.” She swallowed hard through the pain, but she couldn’t tell if it was from her injuries or the heartache of what she was about to do. “I don’t love you anymore.”

  André sat back in his chair, his glare deafening. He didn’t say a word.

  “You were fun while it lasted, but we’d never work out.”

  “I thought you hated liars. A bit hypocritical now.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “What we had was nothing more than sensational sex.”

  “That part’s true.” He raised a brow. “The sex is sensational.”

  “You can’t make a life with just sex.”

  “So, make it more…with me.”

  She ground her teeth. “Get out.”

  The Micronesian prince of her dreams shook his head. “You’re just pushing me away because you’re scared. Scared to admit that you love me, to place your trust in someone. Guess that makes us perfect for each other.”

  “Don’t make me get out of his bed and slug you. I will.”

  He shook his head. “Always a fighter. One of the things I love most about you.”

  Tears stung her eyes, but she growled them back and tossed the blanket off her legs. She struggled to slip her feet off the edge of the bed, clamping her jaw through the excruciating pain as her toes found the floor. Standing drained her energy faster than she expected, but her rage had taken her this far. She was hell-bound to finish it. “I don’t want you here. You’re a coward. Cowards are shit to me.”

  His brilliant mocha eyes flashed, and he snarled. Pushing himself to a stand, he towered over her frail but furious form. She had to look up into his scruffy yet still angelic face.

  Then he cradled her cheeks and laid his delectable lips on hers. The sweet, salty mixture of the ocean and sunshine brought her back to the night on the quilt where they first made love. His expert tongue didn’t ask for permission to probe her mouth, to lay claim on her heart and soul. She felt her will caving in on itself, water filling her eyes, and sobbing only a blink away.

  He won’t leave unless I force him.

  She pressed her hand on his chest, the muscles trembling beneath her fingers. Oh, I’ll miss these. Watching them shift and contract as he pulled her down onto himself, his touch on her bare breasts, the feel of him on every inch of her skin…falling asleep on his heartbeat. With one agonizing move, she pushed him back—hard.

  Their lips broke apart, and he staggered back.

  She howled at the daggers in her abdomen, warm streaks trailing down her cheeks. The room twirled over her head and blackened, only to blur into view once more at André’s lost expression. She’d miss his smooth, wavy hair, and gripping on to it mid-thrust. His fresh cologne was meant for the true Casanovas, and it was easy to lose herself in it. But worse was missing his angelic eyes, now dejected from her last attempt of saving him from himself.

  The heart monitor beeped incessantly to the point of erratic skips and jumps. The next words were going to rip them both apart. Him, because they would hit him where it hurt the most. Her, because she’d despise herself after. “You’ve never had to lift a finger to do anything. To save yourself, let alone your people. You’re spoiled. You don’t deserve your royal status or my heart. You’re worthless.”

  His stature shrank several inches after her words. His face turned ashen, with splotches of red at his cheeks. “Gemma,” he strangled out on a whisper, fisting his hands at his sides. “Por amor de Dios, don’t do this.”

  Just as her howl turned to a sob, she did the only thing she had left. With her good hand, she threw a weak left hook, barely missing his square chin. Something popped inside her, and the stabbing tripled. And she’d inadvertently ripped out her IV.

  “What’s going on in here?” A nurse charged in. “Why is she out of bed?”

  “Go!” Gemma screamed through the agony. “Get out!”

  He staggered back, disbelief washing over his shoulders. “When you push everyone away, Gemma, it’s a very lonely life. I would know.”

  “Sir, you need to leave,” the nurse ordered harshly. She pressed the intercom button on the bed. “Code white, 306.”

  But instead of a doctor or more nurses rushing in, three of André’s bodyguards barged in, stern-faced and massive.

  André held up his hand and slowly backed away from her. His bottom lip quivered, but he quickly clamped his teeth to stop it. “I’m sorry I wasn’t the man you needed. Good luck breaking that damned brick wall you’ve erected around yourself.”

  He turned and left.

  The jagged pieces of her heart crystallized, just in time for the world to fade out of focus. She collapsed onto the bed, the nurse’s head above her doing something. Then one of the bodyguards mumbled over her, but the pain was too much to make out the words.

  She grabbed her abdomen, anything to relieve the knives ripping inside. More people rushed into the room. When she pulled her hand away, red trailed down her fingers.

  THE HOSPITAL DOORS SWOOSHED OPEN to a barrage of lights and flashes. André’s entourage of bodyguards circled him like a wagon train, and pushed through the mass of cameras and microphones, reporters desperate to get a statement from the shamed prince.

  I may not be a prince much longer.

  André put up his hand to cover the blinding flashes from all angles. Amazing how so many news cameras swarmed this tiny town so quickly. As if they had a GPS device hidden somewhere in his suit. He moved forward through the crowd, fighting back the oncoming tears.

  She called me a coward. Worthless. Even Stefano called me weak.

  “Prince André,” a reporter yelled over the noise. “Are you and Gemma Westfall back together?”

  “Did she tell you how many men she’s been with?” another one asked.

  “What will you do now that your monarchy is on the verge of collapsing?” another barked.

  His head pounded, and his stomach churned with acid, threatening to crawl up his esophagus. Shit. Don’t lose it out here. No emotion. No weakness.

  He clamped his teeth together, refusing to give these vultures anything.

  “You bastard!”

  André froze. Everyone around him stopped and looked in the direction of the vicious voice. Then more cameras flashed and the crowd parted. A burly cowboy with faded boots and nearly bursting buttons around his bulging belly trudged forward wearing a venomous scowl.

  Rock Pierce.

  Three hundred pounds of rage and revenge, directed solely at André.

  “You had my son arrested! How many lives are you going to ruin?” Two bodyguards moved forward and blocked him. But Shane’s father continued to rail at him over their shoulders. “Reyna’s dead, thanks to you. That wonderful woman who never hurt nobody!”

  More camera flashes and microphones shoved into Rock’s face, but he ignored all of them. André tried to keep pushing forward, but his entourage had a harder time clearing the way. Nothing would be gained by engaging with him. With Solana under attack again, this was the last thing he needed.

  “Don’t ignore me, you coward. It’s all her fault!”

  He threw a glance at the red-faced ogre. Her?

  “Shane’s better off without her. She’s the biggest mistake ever to happen to this town.”

  Just get in the car, André. Your next move will be captured on dozens of cameras. Get in the car.

  “Anyone who gets close to that girl ends up dead,” he spat.

  André stopped. The crippling heartache instantly vanished, replaced with boiling clarity. Lights flashed all around him, and whispers filled the air. He turned to face Rock head on, his hands already fisted at his sides.

  A barely-visible smiled tinged the man’s disgust.

  Fuck it.

  André charged forward, bumping through his bodyguards, and snagged Rock’s lapels. “She didn’t ask for this, you narrow-mind
ed redneck! Leave her alone!”

  Rock shrugged him off and swung at him. But his fist only found air. A bodyguard and a policeman pushed him back. But the sucker was strong.

  “You’ll end up dead, too. Mark my words, she’s a rotten apple. If you really knew her past, you’d run like the spawn of Satan were on your heels!”

  Heat rushed André’s face and adrenaline coursed through his veins. “If you have any respect for Reyna Lawson, you’ll leave right now.”

  “Don’t you dare say her name!” His red face turned purple, and he shoved back on the guards. His cowboy hat tipped off his head as he fought to get at André. His sweaty, thinning hair revealed his advanced age. “You haven’t earned the right to speak of that angel! Royalty or not, you’re a scoundrel! You ain’t worth the manure under my boot!”

  André wanted to pound his fist into the man’s face, and pummel him until he was a bloody pile of pus on the pavement. More flashes blinded him, and his stomach turned to lead. He let the bodyguards maneuver him through the crowd and into a waiting black sedan. Moments later, they sped away, heading for his private plane.

  Quintana fidgeted in the seat next to him, his phone vibrating again and again. But André focused on the tinted window, watching the hospital fade from view.

  Watching Gemma fade from his life.

  It was then he realized he was panting. His hands still fisted over his knees.

  “That altercation will be all over the news tonight.” Quintana kept his voice low.

  A lot of photographers will get rich tonight. He dropped his head back on the neck rest, the vibration of his aide’s phone reaching his skull.

  “I want Shane Pierce released, no charges filed. He has every right to be upset.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. What of the elder Pierce?”

  André sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s a mean old prick, but he’s grieving, too. Just tell them he better stay away from the hospital. He’s not allowed anywhere near her, or I’ll come back and thrash him with his own belt buckle. Dignitary protocol be damned.”

  Quintana nodded and answered the phone. “Fifteen minutes, fueled and ready.”

  “Get Tom Willows on the phone. We need to secure Solana’s military posts immediately, and we need the U.N. to back us up.”