by Amelia Autin
“Well, actually,” she admitted, “I’m already in bed.” On top of the covers, but technically she was in bed.
A groan sounded in her ear. “Why did you say that? Now I will never sleep, imagining you as you were last night in my bed. So perfect.”
“Not exactly perf—”
“Perfect,” he insisted. “There are no words in English beautiful enough to describe you, so I can only say...” He whispered to her in Zakharan. Soft, seductive words that rolled off his tongue and made her blush, even though she had absolutely no idea what he was saying—apparently her Zakharan lessons hadn’t encompassed these words. But she blushed because just the tenor of his voice, the pitch, the melodious words sounded...sexy. Enticing. “Someday I will translate for you, mariskya,” he concluded. “And then you will know just how perfect you are.”
* * *
Something is not right, Sergeant Vasska told himself as he packed his binoculars away and headed back into town under the cover of darkness. The air force base outside of Timon looked curiously...he struggled for the right word...vacant. Yes, that was it. The base looked somehow vacant compared to yesterday, although the troop carriers were still lined up in plain sight. Soldiers had come and gone all day, which made sense, since they were supplementing the border guards five miles away in addition to everything else they normally did. And planes had taken off and landed in the training exercises the pilots here conducted most days. But he couldn’t shake the feeling something wasn’t quite as it should be.
A feeling wasn’t something he would put into his report, though. He’d made that mistake once...and had been reamed for it. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Facts and figures. He’d been ordered to observe the comings and goings at the base, and that’s what would go into his report. Period.
Anything else was irrelevant.
* * *
Marek tried to turn off his brain and go to sleep, but he couldn’t, even though he was exhausted and the hands of the clock on his nightstand stood at a quarter to midnight. He consoled himself with the reminder that he was off tomorrow, and though he rarely slept in even on his days off, perhaps this one time he would. Too much work and too little sleep this past week was putting a strain on even his iron constitution.
At first he knew exactly why he couldn’t sleep—Tahra. Because his memories of last night had been brought vividly to life by his phone conversation with her. Because his imagination was working overtime, fantasizing about everything he planned to do with her...once they were married.
But eventually he forced himself to think of something else. Because as incredible as his fantasies were, he’d already determined this morning he wouldn’t avail himself of the easy solution he could carry out in less than five minutes. To his everlasting regret, he hadn’t waited for Tahra the way she’d waited for him. Shadowy memories of the women he’d made love to before Tahra—had sex with, his mind stubbornly substituted—would haunt him. Not just Zorina. Tahra knew about Zorina, but she didn’t know about the others. Nothing serious. But still. And he hadn’t seen it until Tahra had accused him of having a double standard where women were concerned.
No, he hadn’t waited for Tahra before; he damned well was going to wait for her now...even if it killed him.
So he turned his thoughts away from Tahra on to his other pressing concern—the Zakharian Liberation Front...and the Privy Council.
Who? he asked himself. Who on the Privy Council is the traitor behind this terrorist organization? Who is ambitious enough...and ruthless enough...to kill all these civilians just as a decoy?
He narrowed the candidates down to three. Then down to one. And he was shocked how easy it was—once you looked at it that way. Once you got past the barricades your mind automatically put up because you didn’t want to think someone you knew could do this.
He sat up abruptly and picked up the phone. His first instinct—to call Major Stesha—was put on hold because he didn’t know his home phone number. Probably unlisted, too, he theorized. But there was one number he knew by heart—had known it since the king had assigned him to head up the queen’s security detail years ago—and he dialed it now.
“Colonel Marianescu.” Almost midnight, but the colonel’s voice was as crisp and alert as if he never slept.
“Captain Zale, sir. Sorry to call so late, but—”
“What is it, Captain?”
I think I know who the traitor on the Privy Council is.”
Chapter 17
“I have no proof,” Marek told King Andre, Colonel Marianescu and Major Stesha in the king’s private office in the palace, to which he’d been summoned for this early-morning meeting. “Nothing that would hold up in court.”
“Then what have you got?” The king leaned back in his chair, his right hand toying with a letter opener in the shape of an antique sword.
“It was merely a matter of asking myself who could do this, Sire. And who benefits. Then it was easy.”
Colonel Marianescu smiled coldly. “Lay it out for him, Captain, the way you laid it out for me over the phone.”
“All along it bothered me,” Marek explained. “The precision involved in the attacks. The almost military discipline. A secret organization no one had heard of...until they struck without warning. And once we figured out the refugees were a decoy—”
“Yes, yes,” Major Stesha said testily. “This is nothing new. Get to the point.”
Marek glanced at the major on the other side of Colonel Marianescu. “Yes, sir.” Then he faced the king again. “Should you die, Sire, the crown prince will ascend the throne. And if the regents you named in the act of succession are also killed—the queen and you, sir,” he said, his gaze flicking toward Colonel Marianescu, “there would be chaos. At least until a new regent is named. With no one related to the crown prince by blood through the male line available, who would the country turn to?”
Marek read in the king’s eyes that he saw it now. “Are you saying...?”
“Yes, Sire. Who but your chief councillor on the Privy Council?”
Marek cleared his throat. “The Zakharian Liberation Front is small because he only needs small to achieve his goals. Flying under the radar? Done. Forcing you to declare martial law and diverting troops with his terrorist attacks? Done. Or at least he thinks it has been done. Assassinating the three people he needs dead in order to seize power? Easily accomplished even with a small paramilitary force, so long as it does not have to fight a large contingent of the Zakharian National Forces. Being named regent? Who else would the country insist upon in the ensuing crisis? And remember, nineteen years must pass before the new king turns twenty-one and can reign without a regent.”
The king’s stillness was unnerving, but Marek continued. “Once Colonel Lermontov consolidated power, once he was firmly in control...he would merely need to eliminate the young king...who would have no one to protect him. No father. No mother. No second cousin who is head of internal security,” he said, referring to Colonel Marianescu, “who is as devoted to him as his own father.”
Marek’s gaze was drawn to the king’s right hand, which now gripped the antique sword letter opener so tightly the fist was bloodless. And his face was a death mask, his eyes focused on something only he could see. “Not in this lifetime,” the king vowed softly. Then he turned that deadly face on Major Stesha. “Arrest Colonel Lermontov. Immediately.”
“Yes, Sire.”
But Marek spoke up almost before Major Stesha’s prompt reply. “On what charge, Sire? With what proof? I have none. My belief that it can be no one else is nothing more than that—my belief.”
“I will get the proof—from Colonel Lermontov’s own lips.” This from Major Stesha.
Marek shook his head, but he didn’t look at the major; his gaze was locked on the king’s. “‘Torture is not tolerated in Zakh
ar.’ Those are your own words, Sire, and you cannot countenance it. Not even for this.”
Seconds passed that seemed like hours, and Marek prayed, Please God. Not my king. He has the legal authority, but do not let him do this.
Then the deadly light in the king’s eyes slowly receded. His face was still implacable, his eyes still hard and cold. But the white-hot rage that would sweep everything before it, including honor and justice, was tamped down. Barely.
“Then what do you suggest, Marek?”
The use of his first name reminded Marek of the moment years ago when—shamed to his very soul—he’d confessed his failure to the king. And the king had insisted, “No, Marek. No blame attaches to you. If blame there is, it belongs to me and me alone...”
The king had given him back his honor. Priceless. Now it was Marek’s turn to give Zakhar’s monarch something equally priceless to him—his wife and child. “I will never fail him again,” he remembered telling Tahra. And he never would.
“We set a trap, Sire. Risky, because no matter how carefully we plan, something could go wrong. But nothing will happen to the crown prince, and not just because Colonel Lermontov needs to keep him alive. Nothing will happen to your son...or your wife. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
* * *
Adrenaline pumping, Marek passed Princess Mara’s suite—Tahra’s suite for now—but he didn’t stop. Instead, he took the stairs two at a time down to the main floor, envisioning her in his mind’s eye. Sleeping peacefully. Her long, dark hair splayed across her pillow in glorious disarray, the way she’d looked when—
He chopped that thought off. Now is not the time, he reminded himself sternly. He stopped off at his office and snagged the folder Major Stesha had given him, then headed for his car in the back parking lot.
He needed sleep, but he wouldn’t get it. Not until he’d gone through the file one more time. Somewhere in the file was a clue to the bait that would be too tempting for Colonel Lermontov to resist. Something that would trigger an assassination attempt sooner rather than later. And since they were prepared for it now, the sooner the better.
* * *
Tahra was awake and dressed long before Ani brought her breakfast tray Monday morning. She’d made her bed, too, despite the fact that it took her twice as long as usual because of the cast on her wrist. She just couldn’t get used to being waited on hand and foot.
She also couldn’t get used to being a lady of leisure. She missed her job—what she remembered of it. She didn’t have an important title...but she was important. Alec had told her as much at dinner on Friday. “The temp filling in for you is pretty good...but she’s not you.” Then he’d joked, “So if I slip you a bonus under the table, would you pretend you’ve recovered your memory so I can remove the hold on your security clearance and you can come back to work?”
Everyone had laughed, especially Tahra, because Alec was the straightest, most honest man she knew. He would never accept a bribe or offer one. And he would never compromise security at the embassy by letting her pretend to no longer be a security risk. But Alec’s joke had made her feel needed. And proud to be his administrative assistant.
She was standing on the balcony outside her bedroom, her right hand propped on the stone railing, her left tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, smiling a little as she remembered the dinner conversation Friday evening. Then it hit her. The smile faded and a chill of recognition whispered up her spine. “How did I know?”
How did she know it was a joke? How did she know the kind of man Alec was? The explosion had wiped out most of her memories of him, along with everything else. She remembered Alec as her new boss...eighteen months ago. “But I did know,” she murmured to herself. “I don’t remember...but I know.”
She darted inside and grabbed her cell phone from her purse, fumbling in her contacts until she found the name she knew had to be there, and pressed the button.
“Alec Jones.”
She squeezed the phone and blurted out, “Alec, it’s Tahra. Sorry to call you on your private line, but I didn’t want to go through the embassy switchboard.”
“Not a problem,” he assured her. “But how did you know I’d be here so early?”
“I just knew.”
His voice sharpened. “You remember?”
“No.” She shook her head as if he could see her. “It’s not a memory...not exactly. More like... I can’t really explain it, but...I just knew you get in early so you can leave early. Because of baby Drew.”
“Your memory’s coming back. This proves it.”
“Maybe. I have to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Remember at dinner on Friday, when you made that joke about bribing me to pretend to remember?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew it was a joke, Alec. I knew. Because I knew you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was just standing outside on the balcony a few minutes ago, feeling a little blue because it’s Monday and I should be at work, but I’m not. Then I remembered how you said you missed me at work, and that made me feel good.”
“And?”
“And I remembered your joke on Friday. Which I knew on Friday was a joke because you’re the most honest man I know.”
A tiny silence was followed by “Which you couldn’t possibly have known...if you didn’t somehow deep down remember working for me the past eighteen months.” Alec was quick to grasp the point she was trying to make.
“Exactly. It’s not like remembering the Denver Broncos outfit I gave Angelina at her baby shower. That was a specific memory. But this...this is different. Because knowledge like this is made up of hundreds of little moments. Maybe even thousands.”
“Yeah. Like knowing your mother loves you without remembering each time she tucked you into bed, each bedtime story she read to you, each song she sang to put you to sleep.”
“Yes.” Tahra’s throat closed at the simile, because she did have a few memories of her mother doing that...but precious few.
“That settles it. Your memory is returning. What did Marek say when you told him?”
“I...I haven’t told him. I called you first because I...I just wanted you to confirm I wasn’t wrong about...”
“Me being honest?” He laughed abruptly. “Well, I told Angelina Drew was beautiful when he was born, even though he was the sorriest mess I’d ever seen before they cleaned him up in the delivery room. But other than that, yeah. I try to walk the straight and narrow.”
“I knew it,” she whispered.
“And now you need to let Marek know about this development, PDQ. It’s a good sign, and he could use some good news.”
“I will. I’ll call him as soon as we’re done.” She let her breath out in a happy sigh. “Thanks, Alec. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“I’ve got a pretty fair idea.” Tahra was just about to disconnect when he added drily, “Oh, and by the way, I’d just as soon you not mention what I said to Angelina.”
“You mean about Drew being a sorry mess?” she teased.
“Yeah.” It was little more than a growl, and Tahra laughed.
“Don’t worry. My lips are sealed. Just remember what a confidential administrative assistant I am...when review time rolls around.” Which meant they were both laughing when they disconnected.
Then another thought occurred to her. If her subconscious knowledge of Alec and the kind of man he was had returned, was it possible her subconscious was also influencing her response to Marek? Was that why she’d fallen in love with him again so quickly...because it wasn’t really quickly? Because deep down she knew the man he was, even if she didn’t remember specifics?
Tahra was just about to call Marek when she heard a knock on her door. Breakfast, she thought,
and it was. Ani moved around and set the breakfast tray in the sitting room when she saw Tahra was already dressed and—since the bed was made—was unlikely to want breakfast there.
“You should not have done that, miss,” Ani scolded her. “Not with your wrist in a cast.” But she didn’t dwell on it because she was practically beside herself that Tahra had three letters next to her plate, two of which bore the king’s royal crest.
“From the king,” she explained reverently, as if Tahra couldn’t figure it out for herself.
When the little maid stood there expectantly, practically holding her breath, Tahra opened the first square vellum envelope, which had her name typed neatly in the center. She read the enclosed card twice. “It’s an invitation,” she said blankly. “To a reception in my honor this Saturday.”
“I knew that, miss. The master of the household announced it to the entire staff yesterday. Every Zakharian of note has been invited. It will be a huge gala event.”
Tahra made a little face. “I’m not all that good with crowds,” she confessed to explain her lack of enthusiasm, not wanting to go into detail about her painful shyness with strangers.
“Never you mind,” Ani assured her. “The king and queen will be with you. And Captain Zale, of course.” Her face grew rapt. “You will be the center of attention. What will you wear?”
Tahra laughed a little, because Ani’s question had topped her list of things to worry about, too. She cast her mind over the clothes in her closet—which she’d gone through the last time she was at her apartment—and she knew she had nothing that would do credit to an event like this. “I’ll have to go shopping, but I...” She made another face. “I don’t even remember where I used to shop.”
“The queen could advise you,” Ani said with a wise air that belied the fact she wasn’t even twenty. “Did you not say she was very kind to you?”
“Yes, but I don’t think my budget would run to the kind of clothes she wears.”
Ani’s eyes twinkled. “You would be surprised, miss. The queen is quite frugal in some surprising ways, and her clothes are one of them. I know because I am friends with her personal maid, Daphne. Yes, the queen’s wardrobe is extensive, because she is so very much in demand, you see, but many of her dresses are reasonably priced.” Ani gave a decided nod. “You ask the queen.” Then she inquired delicately, “And the other card, miss? Inscribed in the king’s own handwriting?”
