by Amelia Autin
Her expression was suddenly serious, too. “I know.”
He broke the long silence that followed, saying, “Are we still on for dinner tonight? You have not seen Alec and your baby for more than two days. Tahra and I will understand if you prefer to postpone.”
“Alec would be disappointed,” she said firmly. “So no, let us not postpone. Besides, I have already ordered the meal from Mischa’s.” She laughed softly. “I would not afflict you with my own cooking.”
Angelina excused herself after takeoff, and Marek correctly interpreted the slight strain on her face as she picked up the overnight case she’d brought on board and carried it with her to the restroom in the rear. He reclined his seat back and shifted to a more comfortable position, realizing as he did so that it still bothered him to think of Angelina doing what breast-feeding mothers who worked outside the home had to do as a matter of course.
He didn’t want that for Tahra. And he believed she felt the same way. Except for one brief time in his life, he had never touched his inherited wealth, preferring to live modestly on his soldier’s salary. But he could afford for Tahra to be a full-time mother if she wished it. And when they’d talked before—in a roundabout way—of children, she’d given him the impression that was her desire, too. To be a full-time mother as her own had been before she died when Tahra was ten.
Tahra...and children. Little girls with their mother’s soft eyes and tender, loving heart. Little boys with his muscle and devotion to king and country.
And all he had to do to make that happen was undo the damage that had been done. All he had to do was win Tahra’s heart again, no matter how long it took.
Failure is not an option, he reminded himself as he fell asleep. Failure is not an option.
Chapter 13
“That is all we know,” Angelina concluded, then sat down. This top secret convocation had been assembled as soon as they returned, and both Angelina and Marek had been summoned to report on what they’d uncovered in Timon.
Good job! Marek mouthed at her, and she rewarded him with a tiny smile.
“So what are your conclusions, Captain Zale?” Major Stesha asked.
Marek almost responded that the question should have been addressed to Angelina first—she was the one who’d tricked answers out of the suspect, after all, not him—but she shook her head at him. Do not, her eyes warned. This is not the moment to fight that battle.
Instead, Marek rose and addressed the assemblage. “We know now we have been lured into reducing the overall strength of our fighting force here in Drago to dangerous levels by the erroneous belief that the target was the refugees. Cold-blooded murder on such a vast scale must have a reason. The oldest motive in the world comes to mind—a grab for power. And that means the Zakharian Liberation Front’s true target is the royal family, as I previously suggested.”
Having gone this far, he cared not that he was a mere captain in a room of higher-ranking officers. “I strongly recommend we send no more soldiers to the borders and the cities and towns where they have been deployed. I also strongly recommend surreptitiously recalling as many fighting men as possible. I say surreptitiously because we do not wish to show our hand—we must let the Zakharian Liberation Front think we have been duped.”
“And how do you propose we do this, Captain?” General Miroslav was the head of the Zakharian National Forces, and at sixty-two was the oldest man in the room. He’d seen action in Iraq during the first Gulf War as a coalition fighter pilot and had commanded the Zakharian peacekeeping contingent in Afghanistan. The king himself—when he’d been the crown prince—had served under the general’s command. General Miroslav had ordered the troop deployment as soon as the king had declared martial law. And now Marek was telling him both he and the king had been wrong.
“The troop carriers must stay where they are. The country has seen them rolling out—they are unmistakable. Which means the Zakharian Liberation Front has also seen them deployed. But the men those troop carriers drove to the borders and elsewhere? Leave a token force in place, sir, but recall two of every three. Quietly. By plane, if possible, but not via military transports—that would be too noticeable. So commercial flights. Not in uniform. Tell the men to leave their gear and their weapons behind—they can be recovered later.”
“Commercial flights will be expensive,” the general said.
“But fast, sir. And right now I think speed is more important than cost. We do not know when the Zakharian Liberation Front intends to strike, but I am not willing to risk my king’s life that it will not be tomorrow.”
“How do we know the Zakharian Liberation Front has not infiltrated the Zakharian National Forces? If the order goes out—quietly or not—to recall two-thirds of the troops, how do we know the enemy will not instantly know what we have done?”
Marek took a deep breath. “We do not know, sir. But that is the beauty of this solution. If they do not know of the recall and attempt to take over the government, we will have the manpower necessary to defeat them. If they do know of the recall, they will know their deception has failed, and they will attempt no coup. Not now. Which gives us time to infiltrate their organization and bring them down. The immediate threat is now. Our solution must meet the current threat. Future threats can be dealt with in the future.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Colonel Marianescu said from the head of the table. “We will take your suggestions under advisement.”
“Yes, sir.” Marek started to sit, then changed his mind. “One more thing, sir,” he said, looking straight at Colonel Marianescu. “With regard to the Privy Council.”
When the colonel smiled, which he didn’t do often, he looked remarkably like the king. “So you see that, too, Captain. Quite astute of you. Fear not—no matter what is decided here, the Privy Council will know nothing of what was discussed and the conclusions reached. The king—yes, of course. But not the Privy Council.”
“Yes, sir.” Marek sat down, surprised to find his legs were glad they no longer had to support him, and breathed deeply to let some of the tension out—tension he hadn’t even been aware of until this moment.
He glanced at Angelina, who mouthed, Good job! The same thing he’d told her earlier, after her speech before these high-ranking officers.
Discussion went on around the table, fast and furious. But Marek was glad to hear no one was refuting his assumptions. And no one was refuting his suggestions. He spoke only once in the next twenty-five minutes, and only when he was specifically addressed. Angelina didn’t speak at all. But then, both of them had already said all they needed to say.
Finally the discussion came to an end. “Thank you, gentlemen,” Colonel Marianescu said. While technically General Miroslav outranked him, as head of internal security answering directly to the king, Colonel Marianescu chaired the national security meeting. “A show of hands, please. All in favor of Captain Zale’s suggestion?” Every hand was raised, including General Miroslav’s and Colonel Marianescu’s. “I think we have our path forward, gentlemen. Thank you, Captain Mateja-Jones and Captain Zale. You are dismissed.”
Marek glanced at his watch as he and Angelina walked out of the national security meeting. “It is already after four,” he informed her. “Are you going to check in with Major Kostya? Or head home?”
“Home. But I will stop by to tell the queen I am back and will see her tomorrow.”
Marek laughed softly. “That is why we make such a great team. We think alike. I was planning to drop in on the crown prince for just a moment. But no more than that. I must go home and change, then swing back here and pick up Tahra and make it to your house by six.”
“Do not worry if you are a few minutes late,” Angelina told him as they both mounted the Grand Staircase to the second floor, where their respective destinations were. They parted at the door to the queen’s suite, where Angelina
knocked and gained admittance. “See you shortly.”
As he’d told Angelina, Marek’s visit to the crown prince’s suite—next door to his mother’s—was brief. His duty done, Marek headed out. He almost stopped at Tahra’s suite, but after another check of his watch he decided against it. He barely had enough time as it was, and if he stopped to see her—as he was strongly tempted to do—they would be late. Very late. He couldn’t risk it.
* * *
Tahra had been dressed and waiting for Marek since five o’clock. He’d told her dinner with Alec and Angelina was at six, but he hadn’t said how long it would take to get there, or when he’d pick her up, or anything. And she didn’t know if he’d even made it back from the eastern border. Major Branko had said he would, but since Marek hadn’t even bothered to inform her he was leaving Drago, she hadn’t expected he’d call to let her know he was back. And sure enough, he hadn’t.
But Tahra had been raised to believe a commitment was a commitment. And though part of her wanted to be anywhere but here when—if—Marek showed up, another part of her had dressed so she was ready and waiting for him.
She’d tried to sit as she waited, but too many emotions were roiling through her, and she nervously paced instead. She loved this room usually, but neither the paintings nor the priceless objets d’art scattered about could hold her interest for long. The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked away the minutes until Tahra was as wound up as the clock was, and she greeted the rapping on the door with a gasp of relief.
Her first thought when she opened the door was how exhausted Marek looked. As if he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep for days. As if no one—least of all him—cared enough for him to insist he wasn’t made of iron. And she wanted to throw her arms around him, pull him into the room, then put him to bed and let him sleep the clock around. Her second thought was that she was angry with him. She went with the second thought.
“Thank you for letting me know when you’d arrive,” she said, her tone dripping ice. “Shall we go? I don’t want to be late.” She ducked away from his kiss and slid out the door, pulling it shut behind her.
A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, then disappeared, replaced by a bland mask that revealed nothing of what he was thinking. And yet...she knew her coldness hurt him. She knew it and felt a kindred ache...because fool that she was, she’d fallen in love with him. Again.
Her heart clutched at the thought, and she almost stopped then and there to tell him, but she managed to hold on and not blurt it out. Because she was still angry at the way he seemed to take her for granted, despite loving her.
They didn’t speak at all on the way to the Joneses’ house—a drive that reminded Tahra poignantly of her ride with Major Branko to the hospital on Wednesday. She racked her brain to think of something to say, something that wouldn’t be accusing because she had no intention of having it out with Marek...not in the limousine. Even though there was a glass partition for privacy, she’d been raised a lady. She would say nothing to him about how upset she was...how hurt she was...until after they’d left Alec and Angelina’s. She would be polite to him throughout the evening...even if it killed her.
* * *
Tahra was furious with him—it didn’t take any special training to see that. Icily polite in a way that reminded him of his grandmother, the one who’d once been a royal princess. His grandmother who could flay a man alive with a few well-chosen words without raising her voice.
He knew one reason why Tahra was upset—he’d forgotten to tell her when he would pick her up, a social solecism he didn’t usually make. His excuse was that he’d been sent to Timon to conduct interrogations with Angelina on absolutely no notice and had only just returned. In fact, dinner with the Joneses tonight had completely slipped his mind until he and Angelina were flying home this morning. But it didn’t seem as if this alone would be enough to affect her this strongly.
Then it hit him. He hadn’t told Tahra he was leaving. He hadn’t called her, texted her or given her any reason to know she was constantly in the back of his mind, no matter how focused he was on the task at hand.
Not the way to convince a woman of your steadfast devotion.
He cudgeled his brain to think of something to say to her, some way of apologizing that wouldn’t come across as caddish or self-serving, but nothing came to mind. It wasn’t until they were standing on the Joneses’ doorstep ringing the bell that he said, “Angelina just returned home today, when I did. I asked her if we should postpone dinner tonight, but she refused. Then we both went immediately into a national security meeting that did not end until after four, so she has barely had time to see her husband and her baby. I intend to leave early this evening. I hope you do not mind.”
She turned startled eyes on him. “Angelina was with you at the eastern border?”
The front door swung open. “Hey there,” Alec said. “You’re right on time. Come on in.” He pushed the door wider and stepped back, saying, “You look a thousand times better than the last time I saw you, Tahra. Of course, you were just barely out of a coma, so I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.” He grinned. “Women can be touchy about their appearance...even in the hospital.”
Tahra tilted her head to one side, obviously puzzled. “You came to see me in the hospital?”
“Three times. Okay, so the first time you were in surgery, and it hardly counts. The second time you were still in a coma. And the third time you were sleeping. I spent a half hour talking with your sister—soon to be my sister-in-law—waiting for you to wake up, but you never did.”
Alec was leading them into the living room as he spoke. “Have a seat. Angelina will be here in a minute.” Just as he said this, the tall blonde woman Tahra recognized from her attendance on the queen in the chapel the other night came into the room carrying a baby dressed in a Denver Broncos orange-and-blue football jersey and baby jeans. And Tahra was drawn forward as if the baby was a magnet and she was a little pile of metal shavings.
“Oh, what’s his name? May I hold him? Please?”
The woman relinquished the baby into Tahra’s arms with a little smile. “Of course. You do not remember, I know, but I am Angelina. Our son’s full name is Andrew Drago Jones, but we call him Drew.”
Tahra was already cooing over little Drew in a way that made Marek’s heart ache with sudden yearning to see her with their baby, but she looked up abruptly at Angelina’s last sentence. “That’s an unusual middle name,” she said. “I know Drago is the capital of Zakhar, but—”
Alec broke in. “Don’t blame me. Angelina picked both names. Andrew after the king—although I insisted on the American Andrew instead of Andre. And Drago because that’s where he was...” He cleared his throat self-consciously.
Angelina’s lips twitched into a tiny smile. “Alec’s mother gave all her children middle names of the cities where they were conceived. I wanted to honor her in some way when Drew was born, so I continued the tradition.”
Tahra turned her gaze on Alec and raised her eyebrows. “Oh?” she asked delicately.
“It’s on my birth certificate and my passport,” Alec growled, “but I’m not volunteering anything.”
Tahra gurgled with laughter, then returned her attention to the baby, tickling him until he laughed with her. “Your daddy’s funny, isn’t he?” she cooed. “And you’re a sweetheart. You are. Yes, you are.” Her voice was soft, warm and oh-so-sweet to the man who loved her, very different from her icy tone earlier.
She glanced up, her blue eyes bright. “Oh, Angelina, he’s wearing the little outfit I gave you at his baby shower. It’s so darling on him.” Marek froze, and so did everyone else in the room, something that was obviously not lost on Tahra. “What?” she asked, the smile fading from her face. “What did I say?”
Marek struggled for words, but Angelina forestalled him. “You remembered,”
she said softly, and there was a note of gladness in her voice.
Tahra caught her breath and looked down at the laughing baby in her arms, and the outfit that had triggered a memory. “Oh, God. You’re right. I remember. I remember ordering it off the internet and thinking Alec would get a kick out of it. And I remember you opening the box and laughing.” Her eyes sought Marek’s, and they were suddenly swimming in tears. “I remembered something.” And in her face he saw joy far beyond what the simple memory would evoke. He also saw a dawning belief that if she remembered this, then the rest of her memories might be restored. Including her memories of him. Of them.
* * *
It wasn’t quite nine when Marek called for the limousine to pick them up, politely declining Alec and Angelina’s urgings to stay. “Another time,” he said, shaking his head. But his eyes were on Tahra as he spoke, and she knew it wasn’t just that he wanted to give Angelina more private time with Alec and Drew. He wanted private time with her, too.
Her earlier anger with Marek was gone, wiped out by the excitement of knowing maybe—just maybe—those eighteen months weren’t permanently lost. But that didn’t mean they didn’t need to talk. They did. She was still wearing his engagement ring, for one thing, and before they went any further, she needed to hear the explanation he’d begged her to allow him to give in those notes she’d found.
So once they were seated in the privacy of the limousine, she said quietly, “Before we return to the palace, can we go somewhere to talk? Somewhere where we won’t be interrupted or overheard, or...”
“Can we not talk in your suite at the palace?”
“I’d rather not.”
“What do you wish to talk about that requires such privacy?”
She drew a deep breath. “I know, Marek.” She held up her left hand, wiggling her fingers a little so he could see the ring in the darkness. “I know this is...make-believe.”
