When Grace Fordham had traveled to Muwaiti to personally congratulate the new president and to discuss a long-overdue alliance between their two countries, Lia had known it was too soon for her to face Armand again. Fordham had granted her request to forgo the trip, demonstrating the kind of compassion and sensitivity one could only expect from another woman. It was for that same reason that Fordham, upon her return, hadn’t told Lia that Armand was rumored to be engaged to Nathalie Seligny, the daughter of former President Francois Seligny. Nathalie, who had returned to Muwaiti after the election, had reportedly accompanied Armand to various social and political functions. When Lia found out—courtesy of a newspaper article titled Muwaitian President Courts Potential First Lady—she’d been devastated.
That was what had finally pushed her over the edge. She took a leave of absence from work and retreated to the comforting warmth and familiarity of her childhood home in Arlington, Virginia.
One Saturday morning in early March, she and her parents were seated in the living room, watching television and debating whether to spend the day working in the garden or catching a matinee and having an early dinner. They had just voted on the latter when the news anchor suddenly announced, “And now, as promised, we bring you our exclusive interview with Muwaiti’s newly elected president, Armand Magliore.”
Lia froze.
Her mother shot a warning look at her father, who cleared his throat and reached for the remote control on the coffee table.
“No!” Lia cried. “Don’t turn it off.”
“But, baby—”
“I want to watch it.”
Stephen Charles sat back against the sofa, shrugging at his wife as if to say, What else could I do?
Lia’s pulse thudded as Armand’s darkly handsome image filled the television screen. He was dressed in a simple yet tasteful charcoal suit that reminded her of the one he’d worn to the UN hearing. She remembered teasing him as she had reknotted his tie, then looking into his eyes and seeing the love and desperate yearning she felt mirrored in his gaze. She’d run from him that morning, afraid to face her innermost desires, afraid to wish for something that could never be.
And now, as she greedily drank in the sight of him, she wondered for the umpteenth time whether she’d made the right decision by letting him walk out of her life.
The sound of his deep, magnetic voice filled the living room, washing over her, into her. He was describing his vision for Muwaiti, a true democracy where every citizen, regardless of economic status, could achieve their greatest potential and provide for their families with the full support of their government. The gushing reporter proceeded to rattle off a list of his accomplishments, all the more impressive given the short time he’d been in office.
Unlike his predecessor, Armand had established a cabinet filled with smart, progressive men and women who valued integrity as much as he did and who weren’t afraid to disagree with him. He had brokered important treaties with neighboring governments and was working cooperatively with the international community to lift trade sanctions on the exportation of Muwaitian goods and resources. In an effort to revitalize tourism, he had launched a global ad campaign in which he and fellow Muwaitians appeared in a number of television spots surrounded by the lush, tropical beauty of their island. Working with his advisors, Armand had already developed an economic-stimulus package that would resuscitate the economy, drastically reduce unemployment and poverty and increase wages for all workers, including the farmers and merchants who were the backbone of the country’s labor force. He successfully overhauled the military, instituting a new-and-improved organizational structure and cleaning house from top to bottom. Those who had gone into hiding after Biassou’s death were captured, tried and convicted of their crimes—and no one celebrated this more than the farmers and merchants who had been regularly terrorized by the lawless soldiers.
The news interview was interspersed with footage of Armand as he took the reporter on walking tours of burned-down schools, businesses and neighborhoods—casualties of Biassou’s reign of terror and violence. Armand outlined his plans to rebuild the damaged properties and develop new, affordable housing communities once the economy was stabilized. Lia’s heart ached at images of him swinging small children into the air, hugging old grandmothers, digging ditches alongside day laborers, laughing and conversing with his reunited freedom fighters. He was their native son, and seeing him on the streets and in the villages, moving freely among his people, made Lia realize like never before that he could never belong anywhere but Muwaiti.
The interview was nearly over when the reporter broached the subject Lia had been dreading. “Is there any truth to the rumors that your marriage to Nathalie Seligny is imminent?” Armand chuckled softly, and Lia found herself holding her breath, her stomach clenching as she awaited his response.
“Come on,” the smiling reporter cajoled. “You have to know that everyone is dying to find out whether the world’s most eligible bachelor will soon be off the market. Come on, Mr. President, you can give us a little hint. If you want, you can even convey a special message to her while millions of viewers are watching.”
Lia could feel her parents’ concerned gazes on her. Her father had leaned forward, preparing to grab the remote control and switch the channel if Armand so much as uttered an affectionate word to Nathalie Seligny.
Just when Lia thought she couldn’t take the suspense anymore, Armand lifted his eyes to the camera and said with quiet sincerity, “My fighting spirit, my hopes and dreams, will always belong to my beloved countrymen. But my heart has been stolen by the extraordinary woman who saved my life more often than I probably deserved. I never truly thanked her, so if by some miracle she’s watching this program, I want her to know how much I appreciate everything she did for me. I wouldn’t be here without her.”
Lia was half crying and half laughing as she jumped up from the sofa, her heart bursting with sheer joy and relief. “I have to go,” she whispered fiercely. “I have to go to him!”
Her parents traded meaningful glances.
“We know, baby,” Helene Charles said with a soft, intuitive smile, moisture shimmering in her own eyes as she gazed at her daughter. “We know.”
It was just after one o’clock the following afternoon when Lia arrived in the capital city of Port le Duc. The international airport was small but modern, bustling with tourists toting luggage and cameras. The ad campaign apparently had worked.
As Lia walked through the busy terminal, listening to the musical cadence of accents wafting around her, she felt an incredible sense of homecoming.
This was where she belonged.
She’d known it the very first time she visited Muwaiti. She knew it now.
She stepped out into the sunny, humid afternoon and quickly surveyed the row of taxicabs and airport shuttles lining the curb. She went with the first driver who approached her, his teeth flashing white against his shiny dark skin as he beamed a welcoming smile at her.
“You look familiar, mademoiselle,” he said, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. “Where you headed to?”
When Lia told him her destination, his face split into a wide grin. “I think President Magliore will be very happy to see you.”
Not as happy as I’ll be to see him, Lia thought with mounting anticipation.
As the taxi cruised through the narrow streets of the bustling port city, she took in the colorful sights and sounds as if it were her first visit to the island. She saw whitewashed buildings flanked by swaying palm trees, sidewalk vendors hawking their wares to tourists, and locals gathered in front of shops and restaurants. She saw exotic masks and costumes, wooden figurines and beaded necklaces on display in storefront windows, and she could hear the pulsing rhythm of steel drums interspersed with the sounds of traffic. The city was gearing up for the Carnival of Port le Duc, the national parade that drew thousands of revelers annually. In a week the island would be engulfed by lively music, elaborate floats and nonstop festivities
. Already Lia could feel a difference in the air, in the way people moved, an electric energy and vitality that had been missing during her trip to Muwaiti last year. She knew the changed atmosphere had as much to do with the country’s new leader as the upcoming Carnival celebration.
They left the main thoroughfare and headed down a two-lane highway that hugged steep cliffs overlooking a breathtaking expanse of turquoise ocean. Before long the presidential palace rolled into view, a large estate set against a stunning backdrop of mountains. Nestled by tall palms and painstakingly trimmed bushes that exploded in vibrant profusions of bougainvillea, and featuring steep French windows and columned porticos, the white mansion did not seem austere and uninviting nor excessively lavish. It exuded an air of gracious hospitality that lulled visitors into forgetting that the head of state resided here.
And suddenly Lia realized why. “This isn’t the palace that Alexandre Biassou built,” she said aloud.
The cabdriver smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Oui. You are correct. This is the original presidential palace, home to every leader we had before the tyrant. President Magliore did not want to reside in Biassou’s fortress. He considered tearing it down, but then he decided to turn it into an orphanage. Now many of the children don’t even want to leave.” He laughed.
Lia smiled, warming with pleasure at Armand’s generosity. A moment later her smile disappeared as they drove past an unmanned security booth and continued up a long cobblestone driveway. They passed acres of manicured green lawn and a stone fountain at the center of the property before coming to a stop at the bottom of a wide, steep staircase.
Lia climbed out of the taxi before the driver could get out and open her door. Her stomach was knotted in a vicious tangle of nerves. She didn’t know what she was going to say or do when she saw Armand. She’d just have to let her heart do the talking.
As the driver removed her suitcase from the trunk, a man she presumed to be the butler emerged from the house and quickly descended the steps. “The president is not expecting any guests today,” he said imperiously. “What is the nature of your visit to the palace, mademoiselle?”
Before Lia could respond, the cabdriver laughed and said, “Look at her, mon. Do you not recognize her?”
The butler squinted at Lia for several moments. As recognition slowly dawned, his eyes widened in surprise. He bowed deferentially and began apologizing. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I did not know you were coming to Muwaiti. This is such an honor. No one told me to expect—”
“Lia?”
Lia lifted her gaze to the house—and froze. There, standing in the open doorway and staring at her in stunned disbelief, was Armand. Raw emotion swept through her body with such force it brought tears to her eyes and rooted her to the spot.
He stepped from the doorway and started down the steps, his eyes never leaving hers. He looked so good, and decidedly un- presidential, in a black Bob Marley T-shirt and dark jeans that rode low on his hips. President or not, he would always be a renegade. And that was one of the many things she loved about him.
He came to a stop before her, his expression incredulous as he gazed down at her. “What are you doing here?” he whispered hoarsely.
“I…” She had dreamed about him nearly every night for the last six months, and now that he stood less than a foot away from her, words failed her.
Armand just kept staring at her, as if he thought blinking or looking away would cause her to disappear.
They barely noticed as the butler discreetly paid the driver, tipping him generously. It was only when Lia heard the taxi door opening that she broke eye contact with Armand long enough to smile and wave at the friendly cabbie. “Merci beaucoup,” she told him.
He tipped his head, grinning broadly. “Enjoy your stay, mademoiselle. May it be a long one!”
A silent look passed between Lia and Armand. He gently took her hand, then leaned down and retrieved her suitcase, ignoring the butler’s protest. Together they ascended the stairs, their gazes locked on each other.
A small crowd of servants and aides awaited them inside the sweeping elegance of the entrance hall. They were staring at Lia with identical expressions of awed curiosity. Suddenly she felt shy, self-conscious.
Armand handed her suitcase to the butler, then announced, “Everyone, I would like you to meet Miss Lia Charles, from America.” His eyes met hers. “She will be staying with us for a very, very long time.”
Lia’s heart soared.
A loud round of applause filled the room, and as the household staff members bowed and welcomed her with radiant smiles, Lia blinked back tears.
No sooner had the crowd dispersed than she threw her arms around Armand, crushing her mouth to his, kissing him with a blind, hungry desperation she had suppressed for too long. He clutched her tightly to him, his lips ravaging hers, his hands rushing up and down her back.
“I was a fool to let you walk out of my life,” she said in a choked whisper against his mouth. “I’ve been so miserable without you these past six months—so dead inside. I’m so sorry for hurting you!”
He shook his head, brushing tender kisses across her face. “I shouldn’t have pressured you like that. I should have given you more time to decide what you wanted.”
“But I already knew what I wanted,” Lia said tearfully. “I wanted you, but I was too stubborn and afraid to admit it, and I almost lost you.”
Grasping her head in his hands, Armand pressed a hard kiss to her mouth and said huskily, “You could never lose me. I love you. I never stopped.”
“I know,” she said with a wobbly smile. “I saw the interview on television. What you said at the end—I’ve never been so relieved in my life!”
He stared at her in wonder. “I’ve loved you for eight years. Did you think I would get over you in six months?”
“I don’t know.” She lowered her gaze uncertainly. “When I heard about you and Nathalie Seligny—”
“Look at me.” Armand coaxed her chin upward, his eyes tunneling into hers. “Nathalie and I are just friends. That is all we will ever be. You’re the only woman for me, Lia. You’ve ruined me for all others.”
A huge, silly grin spread across her face. “You really have a way with words, Armand Magliore. Or should I call you Mr. President? Or Your Excellency? Or would you prefer Your Royal Highness?”
He laughed and she smiled, her voice gentling. “I’m so proud of you, Armand. You did it. You became president of Muwaiti. I was so ecstatic when I heard!”
“You inspired me,” he said quietly. “That night at the bunker, when you were speaking with such passion, such conviction, about the problems plaguing Muwaiti. It really struck a chord in me, made me realize like never before what needed to be done.”
Pleasure shimmered through her at his words. “Thank you for saying that. But I can’t take all the credit. As I recall, it was your brother, Henri, who urged you to run for president long before I did.”
Armand grinned sheepishly. “Which is another reason why I made him my chief of staff. Maybe, just maybe, I should start taking his advice more often.”
“Maybe.” Lia grinned. “Felicite is going to make a wonderful ambassador. She has the perfect personality for it, and I know she’ll represent Muwaiti well wherever she goes. That is, if her overprotective big brother lets her go anywhere.”
Armand chuckled. “She’s a resident ambassador, which means she will reside here at home. But there will be plenty of opportunities for her to travel abroad. I want to repair our diplomatic relations in the international community. Felicite will help me do that.”
Lia smiled, laying her hand against his cheek. “You’re going to do so many wonderful things for this country—even more than you already have.”
Armand caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing an openmouthed kiss to the center of her palm that made her belly quiver. Holding her gaze, he said, “There’s still much work to be done. I’ve surrounded myself with the best peopl
e, but I’m still missing the most important piece. I need you by my side, Lia. I need you to help me lead my countrymen—our countrymen—into the glorious future I promised them. Will you do that?”
Her heart bursting with elation, Lia threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so hungrily there could be no doubt in his mind what her answer was. But just in case it was still unclear, she smiled into his eyes and said, “If you’re asking me to be your first lady, the answer is yes.”
Whooping with delight, Armand lifted her into his arms and swung her around. Lia laughed, wondering if it was possible to be so thoroughly, deliriously happy.
Setting her down gently, his eyes glittering with excitement, Armand began making plans. “You’re going to sit right beside me on the float during next week’s Carnival kickoff parade. I’m going to introduce you to the people of Muwaiti as their soon-to-be first lady.”
His excitement was contagious. Lia smiled at him, even as tears of joy blurred her vision. “How soon are we talking about?”
“Very soon. I can’t wait much longer. And I already know the place, this beautiful old cathedral that overlooks the ocean. It holds almost a thousand, which still won’t be enough for the number of people who’ll want to attend our wedding. If you’d like, we can go look at it tomorrow.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“We can tell my family tonight over dinner. They’re going to be thrilled. They know, better than anyone, how badly I’ve missed you.” He grinned. “At one point they even considered flying to America to convince you to change your mind about me.”
Lia smiled warmly. “You have a wonderful family. I look forward to getting to know them better.”
“They’re going to love you, Lia.”
“I hope so.” She hesitated, biting her bottom lip. “Uh, about the whole mind-reading gift…”
He chuckled softly. “Don’t worry, ma petite. It will be our little secret.”
Lia grinned ruefully. “It’s just that I wouldn’t want them to feel weird around me. I realize it’s hard enough getting to know new in-laws without having to worry about them being able to read your mind. Especially if you’re thinking something like, ‘What the hell does he see in her?’”
Secret Agent Seduction Page 23
