The War King

by Jeana E. Mann

  The scent of his cologne intensified and stirred the contents of my stomach. I will not throw up. I will not throw up. I mentally repeated the words and tried to breathe through my mouth. Roman had told me about a past dalliance with Lavender, but vacations and cars suggested something much deeper than a fling. I resisted the claw squeezing my heart and lifted my chin. How should I answer his question? If I said no, I’d look like a fool. If I acknowledged the affair, then I might be implicating myself. A scorned wife had plenty of reasons to cause harm toward her husband’s mistress. I decided to hedge my bets and stick to short answers. “I trust him.”

  He shook his head, pityingly. “You don’t seem stupid, but I can’t understand why you’d let him support a mistress right beneath your nose.” His gaze narrowed. “Unless you married him for his money and were relieved to get him off your back?”

  My temper itched beneath my skin, begging to be unleashed on this douchebag. Instead, I pressed the button to crack the car window and took a gulp of city air. “Is this why you wanted to talk? So you could question my motives for marrying Roman? If it is, then you’re wasting my time and yours.”

  “I’m trying to figure out who might have killed Ms. Cunningham. Was it the eccentric billionaire wanting to get rid of a pain-in-the-ass mistress? Or his jealous wife?”

  “I thought it was a suicide,” I said, relaxing as the nausea subsided and my head cleared.

  “So did local law enforcement until her ties with the Russian mafia were unearthed. That’s where I come in. You see, Ms. Cunningham’s real name was Olga Walenska. She and your husband go way, way back. Back to his childhood.”

  Betrayal knifed my chest. I covered my surprise with a pleasant smile. Roman had never mentioned his connection to her beyond their working relationship. Why hadn’t he told me? “I’m afraid I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.” All the while, my blood simmered with the urge to punch him for giving me another reason to question my marriage. “Why don’t you ask my husband?”

  “I’d love to, but he seems to have left the Four Seasons. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “If you can’t find him, then you must not be very good at your job.” My breakfast churned in my stomach. A strong sense of fight-or-flight lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. I swallowed hard. Perhaps I’d underestimated Agent Frankel’s abilities to get beneath my skin.

  He studied my face. “You’re white as a sheet. Are you feeling well?”

  “I’m fine.” Nothing could have been farther from the truth. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from defending Roman and myself. Frankel was trying to bait me, and I wouldn’t give in to his bullying.

  Taking my silence as agreement, he continued, his words gathering speed and volume. “I know you’re living separately. Are you having problems? Did he tell you about Lavender? Is that why you split up? Everyone will understand if you’re angry with him—or with Lavender. Did you argue? Talk to me, Mrs. Menshikov. Maybe I can help. Tell us what you know, and I can offer you immunity.”

  “From what?” My panic escalated.

  Frankel said nothing, his stare burning through me. Lance glanced between us.

  I lowered the driver partition. “Stop the car, please. Agent Frankel is getting out.” And then I vomited on his shoes.

  We left Agent Frankel standing on the curb at Central Park West and Eighty-First Street. Through my misery, I caught a glance at his opened mouth and lowered brows as the car resumed traveling. If I hadn’t been completely miserable, I would’ve laughed.

  “Are you okay?” Lance withdrew a packet of disposable wipes from the console and handed them to me. “Do you need a doctor?”

  “No.” I wiped my hands and mouth. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. I should have something to eat. I’ll be better in a minute.” In fact, the tide of nausea ebbed with each passing second.

  He chuckled. “I’d pay good money to see you puke on that guy again.”

  “Well, if I don’t get some food in my stomach, your shoes might be next.” While he disposed of the mess on the floor, I dug through the small cabinet next to the mini-fridge for crackers. I nibbled around the edges, gingerly, waiting for any signs of gastric rebellion. “Thank you.”

  “You handled him well.” Lance handed me a bottle of water and settled back into his seat. “I’m impressed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. He’s just trying to goad you into giving up information. If they had any evidence at all, they would’ve hauled both of you in already.”

  “True.” I rested my forehead against the cool window. Had Roman’s problems been a result of Lavender’s murder? Was he somehow mixed up with the Russian mafia? A new, more horrifying thought took shape. What if he was the Russian mafia?

  “Forgive me for overstepping, but if you know anything about Mr. Menshikov, you might want to consider Frankel’s offer.”

  “Yes, I do mind.” The option of betraying Roman had never occurred to me. Even if I knew his secrets, I’d never divulge them. “If I want your opinions, I’ll ask for them.” I’d never spoken harshly to an employee, but I refused to feel guilty. Like it or not, I was married to Roman. He deserved my loyalty for the sake of our wedding vows and our unborn child. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you can’t say things like that.”

  “Of course. I apologize.” He leaned back in the seat, his gaze assessing.

  After a swallow of water, I dug in my purse for my phone. It wasn’t there. I mentally scrolled back through the morning, trying to think of the last time I’d had it.

  “Is something wrong?” Lance’s brow furrowed.

  “My phone. I could have sworn it was in my purse.” I squirmed on the seat, trying to see if it had fallen into one of the cracks.

  “Here it is. You must have dropped it when you got in the car.” He slipped a hand between the door and the seat, withdrew my phone, and handed it to me.

  When we returned to the penthouse, I went straight upstairs and took a long, soothing bath. The water eased away the tension in my muscles. Nothing, however, could take away the anxiety in my heart.

  Chapter 7

  Roman

  Twenty years earlier…

  “Roman, come.” From the front steps of our house, my father called to me.

  I tossed the football back to Nicky then wiped my palms on the thighs of my jeans. Bright sunlight impeded my view. I lifted a forearm to shield my eyes. While I’d been absorbed in a game of pass with my younger brother, a black sedan had parked in the driveway. The driver exited the car and joined my father.

  “Do you remember me, Roman?” A Russian accent gave his words sinister intent.

  “Yes. You’re Ivan.” This man had hovered on the periphery of the major events in my life: family reunions, school functions, and birthdays. I’d never questioned his appearance, because he’d always been there.

  “Good.” Ivan nodded. His black suit and slicked-back hair seemed more fitting for an undertaker than a family friend.

  I glanced over at my father, uncertain.

  “Is okay,” he said in his broken English. “You speak with him.”

  Most of my father’s acquaintances visited under cover of darkness, speaking Russian in hushed tones and drinking vodka by the gallon. This man seemed more refined, a curious mixture of elegance and brutality in his sharp features.

  “You’ve grown since the last time I saw you,” he said. We shook hands. I squared my shoulders, almost able to look him in the eyes. At fifteen, I was already six feet tall and building muscle. Something sparked in his gaze. “You look very much like your father.”

  “You must need glasses,” I said, making him snort. My father’s sandy-brown hair and gray eyes contrasted sharply with my black hair and blue eyes. Before now, I’d never questioned our physical differences. My gaze fell on Nicky, who shared our father’s features and coloring, standing in the middle of the yard, football clutched beneath his arm. “I take after my mother.”

  �
��Come inside, Roman,” my father said. “We must talk. Nicky, you also.”

  The four of us gathered around the kitchen table. Marie, our housekeeper, poured coffee for the men. She smiled at me, patted my shoulder, and placed a bottle of Coke on the table. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted in premonition. Soft drinks were reserved for weddings, funerals…and bad news.

  “Can I have a Coke too?” Nicky asked, rocking back on the heels of his chair beside me.

  “No. Will rot your teeth.” Father gave him a pointed glance of reproach. “Stop rocking chair.”

  Nicky frowned and lowered the chair to the floor.

  “It’s time, Roman,” Ivan said. “Time for you to know the truth about who you are and our plans for you.”

  I wasn’t sure where he was going with this line of conversation, but I didn’t like it. I had my own plans, and none of them included Ivan or his “truth.” In a few years, I’d go to college, get a degree in business management, and find a job in New York City. By working after school, I’d managed to save up quite a bit of money. If my grades continued to hold out, I might have a shot at a scholarship.

  “Very long time ago. You come to us as baby,” my father said to me. “Ivan bring you from old country. I take you into my house. Raise you as son. Protect you.” While he spoke, Ivan opened his briefcase and drew out a sealed envelope. My father continued to speak slowly. “You are not my blood. You are prince.”

  “Yeah, in his own mind.” Nicky snickered.

  I punched him in the arm. He punched me back.

  My father slammed a hand on the table, silencing us. Although he wasn’t a big man, he ruled our house with quiet authority, and I respected him.

  “These are your true parents.” Ivan spread a series of glossy black-and-white photos across the table in front of me. I stared at the portrait of a beautiful raven-haired woman standing next to a young man. An elaborate sapphire-and-diamond necklace circled her neck. In her arms, she held a tiny baby. Medals and ribbons dotted the man’s military uniform. Both people wore heavy gold crowns on their heads. “Your father was King of Kitzeh. Your mother, a niece to the King of Androvia. Together, they ruled our country—your country.”

  “I don’t understand.” I pushed back from the table. The legs of the chair scraped over the linoleum. “You’re lying.”

  “He speaks the truth, Roman.” My father—or the man impersonating my father—placed a hand over mine, halting my escape.

  Ivan nudged the photographs closer to me. Unable to look away, I stared at picture after picture of the narrow cobbled streets of a medieval town and the turreted castle staring down from a nearby mountaintop. “This is your home, Roman. Your parents were assassinated by a fascist regime. I tried to warn your father about the upcoming attack. He wouldn’t listen, but your mother did. She knew the Menshikov bloodline must survive. I placed a different child in your crib and brought you here. Two days later, they were executed and never seen again.” He tapped the pictures. “You are the rightful heir to the throne of Kitzeh. You are royalty.”

  Even though my brain rejected his words, my heart accepted them as truth. I’d always known I was different. While my friends worried about girls and football scores, I studied the stock market and world politics. I had big dreams and bigger expectations.

  “What about me?” Nicky asked, his face shining with hope. “Am I a prince?”

  Our father’s laughter boomed across the room. “You are pain in my ass,” he said, ruffling his hair. “But you are my son. You are not Kitzeh royalty.”

  Nicky shrank back in his chair, eyes clouding with disappointment. Ivan sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup.

  I picked up each of the photographs and studied them. Although I had no recollection of the city, the buildings and landscape seemed familiar, like a long-forgotten dream. “How old was I?” I asked, my voice breaking in the middle.

  “Six months,” Ivan replied. “Too small to remember.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “The government of Kitzeh executed every known member of the Menshikov line. They’ve grown complacent and won’t fear a lone, unsupported teenaged boy,” Ivan said, a dry smile on his face. “But they are wrong. You have many loyal subjects and, someday, you will reclaim your rightful place on the throne.”

  “And what if I don’t want to?” I asked with all the rebellion of my fifteen years.

  “It’s your destiny,” Ivan said. “The people of Kitzeh have been waiting for someone to save them, and that someone is you.”

  Chapter 8

  Rourke

  Present day…

  Later that evening, I joined Everly and her parents at their Fifth Avenue townhouse for dinner. The McElroys greeted me with warm hugs and smiles, in the foyer beneath the coffered ceilings and enormous chandeliers. Their stately mansion, with its dark wood paneling and classic furnishings, felt like home. Mrs. McElroy looped an arm through mine, leading me toward the dining room. The heavy diamond bracelet on her wrist rubbed against my bare forearm. The barest hint of perfume hovered around her. I swallowed down a nostalgic lump in my throat. Being here reminded me of all their many kindnesses throughout my life.

  Mr. McElroy pulled out a chair for me in the dining room. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Rourke.”

  “You mustn’t be a stranger,” Mrs. McElroy interjected. “We’ve missed you.” She nodded to the waitstaff for the meal to begin. Someday, when I was less preoccupied with my crazy life, I planned to ask her for tips on the seamless way she ran her household. Her hand found mine across the table. “I was so sorry we couldn’t make it to your Aunt May’s funeral. She was a wonderful woman, and your mother loved her so much. I want you to know you’re always welcome here. You’re like family to us.”

  I smiled, grateful for her generosity. “I feel the same way.”

  “I think a toast is in order. It’s been too long since we’ve had you at our table.” Mr. McElroy’s blue gaze homed in on my face, causing me to flush with warmth. He lifted his wine glass. “To Rourke.”

  “Thank you.” I lifted the wine glass to my lips, took a sip, then remembered my newfound motherhood. Surreptitiously, I pretended to take a longer drink and let the wine trickle back into the glass. Goodness, what was wrong with me? Only one day into my pregnancy, and I was already slipping up. Everly’s eyebrows lifted, and she cleared her throat to hide a chuckle. I shrugged.

  “We have so much to catch up on. I want to hear all about your wedding. How did you meet Roman Menshikov?” Mrs. McElroy’s eyes lit up. In size and coloring, she resembled Everly. Her graying red hair had been swept into a low chignon, and the pale blue of her suit highlighted her eyes. “Such a handsome man and so mysterious. He’s always been one of the largest contributors to my foundation for homeless children.”

  “Well…” Choosing my words carefully, I gave her a sanitized version of the truth but omitted any mention of the Masquerade de Marquis and the chain of Devil’s Playground sex clubs. She and her husband listened, nodding occasionally. They’d always been attentive, and both had a way of making a person feel important. It was one of the reasons they’d come so far in the world of politics. Before Mr. McElroy became Vice President, Mrs. McElroy had been a state senator. They were a shining example of a good marriage between two powerful people. Maybe it was possible to create a similar relationship with Roman. If he ever got out of this mess he’d created.

  Following the meal, we retired to one of the sitting rooms. On the way there, Mr. McElroy drew me into his study. My mouth went dry as he closed the door behind us. I chased back the fear and gave him a tremulous smile. The tiny lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, and his thick hair had gone from salt-and-pepper to silver, but he looked like the same man I’d learned to love and respect as a kid. I was safe here.

  “I won’t mince words with you, Rourke. I wanted to speak with you last night but never had the chance to get you in private. I’m worried about you. Your
husband’s in deep shit.” The ominous tone of his words made my mouth grow dry. He withdrew a cigar from an elaborate antique humidor. The room filled with the scent of tobacco. “Do you mind? I know I should quit, but Judy has pretty much put a stop to all my bad habits, and a man needs some kind of vice.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I drew in a tentative breath, hoping the smell didn’t resurrect my morning sickness, but the aroma reminded me of when my father used to sit around the fireplace with Mr. McElroy and swap stories about their college days.

  “Anyway—” He paused long enough to clip the end of the cigar and lit it. “Roman backed out on a business deal with some of my associates. They’re very displeased.”

  “He doesn’t discuss the particulars of his business with me.” My gut warned me to play innocent, while my head wanted to defend my husband. I shifted uncomfortably, unnerved by the undercurrent of tension in the room. For some reason, I felt like a juvenile delinquent in the principal’s office. My palms began to sweat.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Rourke. I’m afraid for your safety.” He gave my shoulder a fatherly pat. I flinched at his touch. “I really think you need to consider annulment or divorce. There’s no shame in putting an end to an unsavory situation. You just got in over your head with this man. Hell, we all make mistakes. Look at Everly. She married that Australian chap and went through hell because of it. Lucky for you, I can help you get out of this mess.” He moved to the liquor cabinet and poured bourbon into a short glass. “Would you like some?”

  “None for me, thanks.” I shook my head, fighting off panic. If I wanted out of my marriage, here was my opportunity. The thought made my insides quake. I placed a hand on my belly, remembering the tiny life growing there—the one Roman and I had created. Our child deserved a chance at two loving parents.

  “Do you have a prenup?” Mr. McElroy’s shrewd gaze caught mine, gleaming with interest.