The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4)

by Bourdon, Danielle

  One of those looks Chey could never quite decipher. She remained silent for now to see what was on the men's minds.

  “No. That was all a bunch of cock-and-bull about readying his aircraft and a flight schedule. He could have made it work if he'd wanted to. He was aware they were coming and stalled because he knew I wouldn't pursue his departure with them present,” Sander said.

  “If he knows Natalia isn't going to marry him, then why stay?” Gunnar asked.

  “Probably to give his advisers and negotiators more time to try and wear us down about terms. What his people asked for in Natalia's stead was so outrageous, no King from any country would have agreed. He knew that, too. Just one more strong arm tactic of many,” Sander replied. “I was willing to negotiate some of the resource terms. Not any more. He won't get anything from me.”

  “I wouldn't be surprised if Paavo contacted Bashir and encouraged him to hold a few days. He didn't even act interested in riding with us, which suggests to me that he thought to ride with them all along.” Mattias looked away out the window as the dark landscape sped by. Waves crashed on the shore not far from the road they drove, adding a distant roar to back the conversation.

  “Which begs the question. Why would Paavo even be interested?” Sander asked.

  Mattias put Sander back in his sights. “Gaining sympathy, feeling around for allies, discussing their thoughts on his plan to break our country into regions?”

  With a dark look, Sander said, “If he values the things he holds dear, he better not even consider it.”

  . . .

  The tour of Pallan island included five different stops. A new set of elegant limousines paraded the guests past the docks, through the small village nestled at the base of the mountain, and along a road that hugged the shore with unmatched beauty. They went halfway up the mountain itself to a ski lodge where the guests partook of three thousand dollar snifters of cognac—except Bashir and his companions, who chose warm cinnamon cider—in a large reception lounge with a roaring fire and pine beams on the ceiling as thick as a man's thigh.

  Even Chey had not seen some of these sights.

  Moonlight gleamed white-blue off snow that blanketed the landscape, painting a surreal picture beyond the windows. The cold evening outside was a stark contrast to the blazing warmth inside, the scent of wood and apple spice and platters of appetizers permeating the air. Chey picked at the food, distracted by the jockeying of men as the conversations strayed from polite, politically correct topics toward ones that had the potential to ignite and catch fire.

  Sander kept her at his side most of the time, occasionally moving away to one group or another while she entertained the wife of a Russian billionaire who wanted to discuss all the latest Parisian fashions. Woefully inept at high fashion of any kind, Chey lost the woman's interest and not long after, the guest wandered away for something else to drink. Krislin, unaware of the woman's intent, became the Russian's next target. Chey knew Krislin, who'd grown up in these circles, would keep the lady engaged.

  Chey glanced after Sander, finding him standing with his back to her in Bashir's circle of friends. An obviously intense debate was underway—Chey could guess what that was about—and she decided to take her glass of water to one of the chairs near the fireplace. On her way, she saw Paavo part off from Mattias and Gunnar near the buffet tables and exit through a door into a hall that probably led to restrooms and elevators or stairs to the rooms above.

  Acting on impulse, she set the glass on a table and followed. He looked most like Mattias with the same black hair, build and facial features. All except his eyes, which were a striking green whereas Mattias's were the color of coffee.

  He didn't see her until he already had his phone to his ear. Pausing, dark brows arched high, he spoke low to whoever was on the other end. “I'll have to call you back. Do you usually follow men into private areas, Miss Sinclair?” he said after tucking his phone into his pocket.

  Chey closed the distance with unhurried steps. “Do you usually set your future sister-in-laws up on rogue interviews that were planned to go south?”

  Paavo's expression changed to one of open surprise. “Pardon me?”

  “It had to be you. There wasn't anyone else who could have set that up, no one with the right motivation.” Chey halted some feet from him. Dressed in a sharp outfit of jeans, expensive looking silk shirt in burgundy and a blazer unbuttoned along the front, Paavo exuded confidence and power, though not nearly in the realm of Mattias or Sander. He reminded Chey of a watered down version of both men, trying hard to be more than he was. Perhaps it was because she didn't know him as well as the other two.

  “I'm afraid you've pegged the wrong person for your...misfortune. What interview, exactly?” He cocked his head, as if curious. As if he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “I don't think so. And you know exactly what interview I mean,” she said, struggling to contain her irritation.

  “Miss Sinclair, I've been at my holding for several days—you knew this, yes? What makes you think I had anything to do with this mysterious interview? Or are you looking to lay blame for a poor job, one that might taint your angelic image on television?”

  “That's precisely what I think it's going to be used for. Or blackmail, one of the two. I'm not new to the games you and your family play, Paavo. You want to divide the country into regions, why not have tapes at hand should you press forward with your agenda?” she said.

  He laughed, flashing a straight line of teeth. “You give yourself too much credit, little Miss. Yes, you'll become Queen, but I hardly think a tape—unless it's you in a compromising position with some other man—will cause a blip on the Latvala radar. Any stutters or stammers or something of that nature will be overlooked and promptly forgotten.” He waved a dismissive hand.

  Chey wondered if she'd pegged this all wrong. Could Paavo really have nothing to do with it? He did seem clueless over the content of the tape and too offhand about her impact on the population in general. Self doubt set in for the first time.

  “Tell you what. I'll ask around, all right? See what I can find out. If I manage to get my hands on this tape, where ever it is, I'll slip it into an envelope and have it delivered for your eyes only. All right?” He stepped closer, set a hand on the round of her shoulder, staring into her eyes.

  Unsure what to make of his offer, still suspicious and thrown off guard, Chey frowned.

  Paavo's attention darted toward the double doors. His hand fell away and he straightened, chin lifting an inch in the air.

  Chey followed his gaze to see what had caused his shift in demeanor. Sander stood half in and half out of the hall, face an unreadable mask. Fixated on Paavo, he stared until Paavo cleared his throat and retreated, making his way back into the main lounge of the lodge.

  This really wasn't the time or the place Chey wanted to tell Sander about the interview. Not with the guests in the next room. She preferred a calmer, less volatile environment for that kind of news.

  “It's almost time to head back to the docks,” he said, holding the door.

  “Thanks. I'll explain what that was about when we get back to the castle.” Chey approached, relieved when he dipped his hand to the small of her spine to guide her toward the others. If he had questions about what she and Paavo had been discussing, he didn't ask.

  After the brothers and guests loaded into their limousines, the exodus from the mountain began.

  Chapter Twelve

  The silence between Sander, Mattias and Gunnar only lasted as long as it took the limo to turn onto the winding road leading away from the ski lodge. With the headlights illuminating the dark asphalt, making snow on the sides glisten wetly, Mattias said, “I couldn't tell if Paavo tried to push his agenda with them or not.”

  “Bashir and his acquaintances talked a lot about the contract, but not the regions,” Gunnar added. “Even when I tried to take a circuitous route into the subject, they kept reverting to the resources and unkept p
romises. They're like broken records.”

  “Natalia only came up six times,” Sander said with a wealth of dry sarcasm. “Not in front of his friends, though. Only when he cornered me alone. He still believes one of us is going to change our minds. I think he feels safe pressing me with others around because he knows I won't make a scene.”

  “I'm convinced he's fixed on the idea that it will give him an edge over several of his brothers, some of whom have challenged him for their father's title,” Mattias said.

  Tucked into the crook of Sander's arm, Chey listened to the discussion, preferring to absorb the details without asking questions.

  “Yes. He is a determined man about that. I also got the idea from his acquaintances that he's not been talking up the dividends from the resources so much as what power he believes it gives him in Latvala. Like it's a foot in the door,” Sander added.

  “If he got Natalia to become his third wife, maybe he thinks he can expand on the contract,” Mattias said. “More resources, land in critical areas, that kind of thing.”

  “How long are you going to let him keep on about it until you kick him out of the country?” Gunnar asked.

  “I already did that once. Now his friends are here and they've made it plain that they expect Bashir to remain until the wedding.” Sander exhaled and tapped his fingers on the back of the seat behind Chey's shoulders. “If I make him go, he'll tell his companions and it'll probably cause an issue. They'll want to know why Bashir has to leave when he so clearly wants to stay.”

  “So you have no choice, now?” Gunnar frowned.

  “I always have choices little brother. Is it worth the headache of forcing Bashir out, or is it something to be tolerated until the wedding is over? Probably the latter. Less chance of someone leaking the situation to the media, which I'd like to avoid this close to the ceremony,” Sander said. “We've already got our hands full after Paavo's stunt.”

  The subject of things being leaked to the media caused Chey to twitch a little. It hit too close to home with the interview. She saw Sander glance down at her from the corner of her eye and pretended to have a slight chill, even though she had her coat on. These minor subterfuges didn't sit well with her, but she didn't want to bring up Charlene and her suspicions before she had a chance to tell Sander when they were totally alone.

  “Speaking of the wedding,” Gunnar said, hand resting on Krislin's knee. “How many strippers do you want for the bachelor party?”

  Chey snapped her gaze to the youngest of the Ahtissari brothers, shocked at the idea of Sander anywhere near strippers. “Bachelor party?”

  Gunnar leveled his attention on her, mouth trembling at one side like he was holding back a laugh. “Sure. You know what they are, right?”

  Sander didn't try to hold back at all. He guffawed and earned a poke to his ribs for his effort.

  “Of course I know what they are.” Chey gave the grinning Krislin a long suffering look before putting Gunnar in her sights again. She narrowed her eyes. “You're joking, aren't you?”

  Gunnar arched his brows. “Why would I be joking about that? He's got a lot of living to do between now and your wedding day. What do they call it? Sowing his wild oats?”

  Mattias cleared his throat of a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

  “Are you saying he shouldn't have what every other red blooded male has before his wedding? It's not an uncommon thing,” Gunnar said.

  Chey arched a look up at Sander. He smiled so wide it put dimples at both sides of his mouth.

  “You wouldn't go to that, would you?” she asked.

  “Why not? I'm sure Wynn is giving you a bachelorette party,” he countered.

  Chey hadn't thought about that. In fact, how had these two details slipped past the planning and organizing at all? If anyone threw Chey a bachelorette party, Wynn was the woman to do it.

  “Are you going to go if Wynn arranges it?” Gunnar asked, a quiet chuckle threading through the end of his question.

  Sander huffed a breath, as if he too was on the verge of laughing again.

  “I hadn't really--” Chey's thoughtful reply ended in a gasp when the back of the limousine fishtailed, swinging left-right-left after hitting a stray patch of ice.

  The next thing she knew, the world was spinning. Flashes of mountainside whipped by, replaced by nothing but the yawning maw of space beyond the edge of the asphalt. Out of control, the limousine completed three full rotations while the driver fought to steer free. She screamed at the same time Krislin did when the back tires slid off the pavement, tilting the car at a wild angle.

  Clamped against Sander by the band of his arms, he barked orders or commands or something else in his native tongue, legs braced against the floor and a seat. Chey glimpsed Mattias bracing as well, while Gunnar wrapped his wife and held on.

  The moon blipped by, a pale streak gone with the next blink.

  A bone jarring impact halted the slide of the vehicle down a sloping ravine. All Chey could think in that moment was thank God it hadn't been a straight drop off. They might have tumbled and flipped, rather than spun and slid.

  “Everyone wait. Don't move,” the driver said after rolling down the dividing window.

  A guard in the front seat carefully twisted a look into the back. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Are you all right?” Sander rasped, still holding Chey in a vise grip.

  “I'm okay. Krislin? Mattias—Gunnar?” Chey knew Sander wasn't injured. Besides his coherent status and the tight wrap of his arms, she felt his heartbeat racing madly under her cheek.

  “We're fine,” Mattias said after a cursory check along the seat.

  “We have a problem. No one get out of the car yet,” the guard said.

  On the road above, Chey saw the other cars come to a stop. Headlights speared the darkness, slanting askew in alternate directions. Doors opened and men came to the edge, visible by any light coloring on their clothes.

  “What problem?” Sander asked.

  Chey felt the car slide another two feet. Gripping Sander tighter, she waited to hear what the 'problem' was.

  “The front right tire is off the edge over here. It's more than a little precarious,” the guard said.

  “Get the women out first. Chey, you and Krislin come to this side,” Sander said after hearing the news.

  Chey knew what the problem was without anyone explaining it to her. If they rocked the car too much, it might keep right on sliding over the other edge and into a deeper ravine.

  With care, Chey eased around Sander after he slowly opened the door. The ground looked strange in the darkness, the snow cut through by the passage of tires on the way down.

  “Don't look back,” Sander whispered against her cheek.

  Chey put one foot on the slick ground and met his eyes at close range. She worried that the car would keep sliding and start to flip before the rest could get out. “I won't. You all hurry.”

  “Don't worry about us. We're fine. Concentrate on your foot placement.” He guided her out of the limousine, bearing most of her weight with the strength of his hands.

  The car shifted, surprising a yelp from Chey. She glanced at the limousine with fear threatening to choke her air off.

  “Don't look back,” Sander insisted.

  Clutching a stray bush with her fingers, bent at the waist with her boots digging into the snow and wet earth, Chey peered up the slope to the road. The distance seemed insurmountable. But then, the distance had seemed that way during the boating accident at the docks. She concentrated on the task ahead, trusting Sander and Mattias and Gunnar to come right on Krislin's heels.

  “Miss Sinclair! Come this way.” Bashir stood at the edge of the asphalt while four security members slipped and slid down the slope toward the limousine.

  Chey knew they were after Sander. At all costs, they would try and save his life, even at the expense of their own. Focusing on Bashir and his companions, who all cajoled and gestured, Chey started to climb.
She heard Krislin get free of the vehicle behind her but didn't look back.

  She'd promised.

  A sharp shudder of metal almost made her forget and look anyway. Shooting a prayer to the heavens, she kept going. She wasn't so far along in her pregnancy that climbing was difficult. It was slick, though, and that's what presented the biggest challenge.

  “We have a rope here, Miss Sinclair. Another thirty feet and you have it.” Bashir, along with every single other guest, elite or royal or not, jostled for better position with anything they could get their hands on to extend down the slope. Rope, a head cloth, someone's jacket.

  It warmed Chey's heart to see troubles and differences tossed aside in a moment of crisis.

  “Mattias! Mattias! Gunnar, are you all right?” Paavo shouted from the roadside. Two security members physically prevented him from sliding down to help.

  “I'm right behind you, Chey,” Krislin said, panting with effort.

  “Keep coming, we're almost there,” Chey said. Her hands, numb from the cold, had trouble keeping a grip on the shrubbery.

  A short cry at her flank made Chey go flat to the ground and glance over her shoulder. She'd promised not to look back—but Krislin was slipping.

  “Grab my hand! Krislin!” Chey gouged her boots into the ground and reached back with one hand.

  In periphery, turned as she was, she saw the limousine slide another foot. She didn't see the men out in the open and reassured herself with the knowledge that some of the taller bushes might be hiding them from view.

  Krislin clasped her hand. Chey pulled until Krislin had her footing.

  “I'm okay. Thanks, Chey,” Krislin said, out of breath from her struggle.

  “Not that much farther,” Chey repeated, thinking it might galvanize them both. A string of shouts behind them in the native language just as she faced forward made Chey grind her teeth. Promises, promises. Reaching back to help Krislin was one thing—looking now was another.

  With a renewed burst of energy, Chey climbed. Out of breath by the time she came within reach of Bashir's rope, she extended her arm and grabbed hold. He pulled her closer, reaching down with a hand. Chey made contact, holding tight to his wrist. He guided her gently up with surprising strength until one of his companions could wrap an arm around her waist. The other latched onto Krislin and eased her up onto the asphalt.