Command Performance

by Nora Roberts

  time and time again. Mentally she made a list of every small flaw or break in pacing. She thought of half a dozen changes that would improve it.

  But there was laughter. Pride in her troupe, in herself, settled firmly as she heard it. The dialogue was sharp, often acerbic and very American, but the theme of a bumpy romance was international.

  When it was over, she counted the curtain calls.

  “A dozen.” She turned, laughing to Alexander. “A dozen of them. It was good. It was really, really good. I want to change the blocking just a bit in the second scene, but—”

  “You won’t think about blocking tonight.” He took her hand and led her out of the box. Three guards stood at attention. She tried not to notice them, to think only of the play.

  “I don’t know if I can stand to wait until the reviews come in. Alex, couldn’t we go backstage for just a minute so that I can—”

  “Not this time.” With the guards flanking them, he led her down the side steps. There were reporters, and cameras flashed, but security held the media in check. Before Eve had blinked the lights out of her eyes, they were back in the limo.

  “It went too quickly.” She leaned back, trying to absorb it all. “I wanted it to last and last, yet I was so nervous. It seemed like everyone was looking at us.”

  “It made you uncomfortable.”

  “Only a little.” That was already past. “I’m going to convince Franco to let me watch from the wings tomorrow.”

  “You’re not tired?”

  “No. Honestly.” She smiled as she drew in a deep breath. “I feel incredible. I suppose Cinderella felt the same five minutes before midnight.”

  “You have an hour yet. I’d like you to spend it with me.”

  “Down to the last minute,” she promised.

  The palace was quiet when they returned. He led her upstairs, but instead of taking her to her rooms, he turned to his own.

  There was a table set for two, with candles flickering in crystal holders. This time the music was violins, as sensuous as it was romantic.

  “Now I really do feel like Cinderella.”

  “I had planned to do this before, on the night—the night I was to meet you at the theater.”

  She’d walked over to touch the petals of the flowers spread in a low bowl on the table. “You had?” Surprise and nerves mixed together as she turned. Did a man set such a scene to break off an affair? She didn’t think so, not even if the man was a prince. “Why?”

  “It seems I’ve given you too little romance, since you are so stunned by it. It’s something I intend to make up for.” He came to her, gathered her close and kissed her as he had longed to for days. “I thought I might have lost you.” His voice roughened with emotion as he took both her hands and buried his face in them. “I’ve made so many mistakes with you, but that one—”

  “Alex, don’t. If you wouldn’t let me blame myself for bringing Russ here, how can you blame yourself for what he did?”

  “And what you did.” He moved his hands from hers, to her face. “As long as I live I’ll remember that instant you stepped in front of me. I’ll relive it, but each time I do, I’ll have pushed you aside in time.”

  There was such suffering in his voice, such bitterness, that the truth came out without a thought to pride. “If he had killed you, do you think I would have wanted to live? You’re all that matters. I’ve loved you since long before I understood what love meant.”

  His breath came out like a prayer. No more mistakes, he promised himself. He would do this right. She had not only given him life, but a reason to live it.

  “Would you sit?” he asked her.

  “Please, don’t thank me again. I just can’t bear it.”

  “Eve, sit down.” Impatience shimmered in his voice. Because she was more comfortable with that, she obliged.

  “All right, I’m sitting. But I’m not being fed over here.”

  “You’ll have all the dinner you want after I get through this.” Nerves were eating at him. He waited a moment until he had them under some kind of control. When he knelt at her feet, Eve’s eyes widened.

  “I said I wouldn’t kneel for you. This one time it seems appropriate.” When he drew a box out of his pocket, her hand closed into a fist.

  “Alex, you’ve already given me a gift tonight.” Her voice, usually so rich and smooth, shook.

  “This isn’t a gift. It’s a request, the biggest one I could ask of you. I’ve wanted to ask you before, but it seemed too much to expect.”

  Her heart was thudding, but she kept her fingers curled together. “You don’t know what to expect unless you ask.”

  He laughed and, taking her hand, spread her fingers open. “You always show me something new. Eve, I’m going to ask you for more than I could ever give. I can only tell you that if you agree, I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.”

  He placed the box in her hand and waited.

  First she had to draw a breath, a long one. She was not an aristocrat; she was not of royal blood. Equal terms. She remembered her own demand and realized she had the chance to make it all real.

  She opened it and saw a ring with the same design of sapphires and diamonds as the necklace she was wearing. Not a gift, she thought, but a request.

  “It was my mother’s. When I told my father I intended to ask you to marry me, he asked that I give you this. It’s more than a ring, Eve. I think you know some of the duties, the expectations that go with it, not just to me, but to the country that would have to be yours, as well. Please, don’t say anything yet.”

  There were nerves in his voice, something she’d never heard before. It made her want to reach out and soothe him, but she stayed still.

  “There are so many things I would have to ask you to leave behind. Houston would be only a place to visit. Your troupe—there is the theater here and the opportunity to build a new troupe in Cordina, but the rest would be over. There is your writing—perhaps in some ways that would make up for what you would have to leave behind. Your freedom would be limited in a way you can’t imagine. Responsibilities, some of them vital, others incredibly boring. What you do, what you say, will be common knowledge almost before it’s done. And as long as Deboque remains alive, there is a very real danger. We’ve begun something, but it will be a long, long time before Deboque is no longer a threat. These are things you have to know, to consider.”

  She looked at him, then at the ring still in its bed of velvet. “It seems you’re trying to convince me to refuse.”

  “I only want you to know what I’m asking of you.”

  “You’re a fair and practical man, Alexander.” As she took a deep breath, something beyond his shoulder caught her attention and imagination. She didn’t smile, not yet. “Let’s consider this then in a fair and practical manner.” Reaching over, she drew the scales closer. “Let’s see, we have the duties and responsibilities of state.” There were some glass balls in a jar. She took a handful and placed two on one of the scales. “Then there’s the lack of privacy.” She added another ball.

  “Eve, this is no game.”

  “Please, I’m trying to think this through. There’s the fact that I would no longer live in my own country.” Three balls were added. “And the fact that I would very possibly be bored to tears by some of those functions I know Brie has to attend. There’s the press, the paperwork—I believe you left that out—and the traditions I’d have to learn.” Plus the new ones she’d do her best to begin. “Then there’s Deboque.”

  She looked back at Alexander. “I won’t add any pretty colored balls for Deboque. Whether I agree or refuse, he remains who he is. Now, Alex, I have to ask you one question. Why do you want me to take this ring and the responsibilities that go with it? Why are you asking me to marry you?”

  “Because I love you.”

  Now she did smile. The rest of the weights went in the empty scale and brought it down. “That seems to more than even things out, doesn’t it?” />
  He looked at them in a kind of wonder. “I had to say nothing else?”

  “That’s all you’ve ever had to say.” Throwing her arms around him, she brought him to her for a kiss, a bargain sealed, a life begun. She laughed and pressed her lips to his throat. “Fairy tales,” she said, half to herself. “I’d stopped believing in them.”

  “And I.” His lips found hers again. “But no more. Tonight you’ve given me even that.”

  “Oh, listen.” The clock in the hall outside began to chime. “Put the ring on, Alex, before it strikes twelve.”

  He slipped it on, then kissed the delicate skin just above the jewels. “Tomorrow we’ll tell the world, but tonight this is only for us.” He rose then and drew her to her feet. “I haven’t fed you, and it’s after midnight.”

  “I could eat in bed, Alex.” She rested her cheek against his chest, holding on to the magic. “Franco didn’t say I had to get into bed alone.”

  He laughed as he swept her up. “Cordina is in for many surprises.”

  “So are you,” she murmured.

  If you liked Command Performance, look for the other novels in the Cordina’s Royal Family series: Affaire Royale, The Playboy Prince, and Cordina’s Crown Jewel, available as eBooks from InterMix.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the newest novel by Nora Roberts

  The Witness

  Available April 2012 in hardcover from G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  June 2000

  Elizabeth Fitch’s short-lived teenage rebellion began with L’Oreal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

  For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.

  Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as Chief of Surgery at Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

  Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother; a surgeon, like her mother.

  Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopin’s Piano Concerto—both One and Two—by rote.

  She’d never been on a date or kissed a boy. She’d never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.

  She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother’s meticulous and detailed agenda.

  That was about to change.

  She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week’s medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal scheduled with the selected outfit, shoes, bag and accessories.

  Designer suits and Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cut, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.

  After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she’d begun—maybe—to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky heeled boots in Cambridge.

  She’d paid in cash, so the purchase wouldn’t show up on her credit card bill in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.

  She’d felt like a different person wearing them, so different that she’d walked straight into a McDonald’s and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.

  The pleasure had been so huge she’d had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.

  The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they’d always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.

  But she could feel them, actually feel them sprouting in her belly now.

  “Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn’t follow that mine have to change with them.”

  Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon’s hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always—no color there either.

  “Elizabeth.” Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. “It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You’ll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.”

  Even the thought made Elizabeth’s stomach hurt. “I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.”

  “And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn’t had this coming week off, I couldn’t fill in for Dr. Dusecki at the conference.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “That would have been selfish and shortsighted.” Susan brushed at the jacket she’d hung, stepped back to check her list. “You’re certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure.”

  “If I’m mature enough to understand that, why aren’t I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it.”

  Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. “A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly needs a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. There’s no one to fix your meals or tend to the house.”

  “I can fix my own meals and tend to the house.”

  “Elizabeth.” The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. “It’s settled.”

  “And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?”

  “Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, I’ve e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term.”

  As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.

  “You don’t listen to anything I say.”

  In the mirror, Susan’s gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since she’d come into the bedroom. “Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly.”

  “Listening’s different than hearing.”

  “That may be true, Elizabeth, but we’ve already had this discussion.”

  “It’s not a discussion, it’s a decree.”

  Susan’s mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were a cool, calm blue. “I’m sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe is best for you.”

  “What’s best for me, in your opinion, is for me to do, be, say, think, act, want, become exactly what you decided for me before you inseminated yourself with precisely selected sperm.”

  She heard the rise of her own voice but couldn’t control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes but couldn’t stop them. “I’m tired of being your experiment. I’m tired of having every minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed
to meet your expectations. I want to make my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books I want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours.”

  Susan’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. “Well. Your attitude isn’t surprising given your age, but you’ve picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative.”

  “Sorry. It wasn’t on the schedule.”

  “Sarcasm’s also typical, but it’s unbecoming.” Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. “We’ll talk about all this when I get back. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe.”

  “I don’t need therapy! I need a mother who listens, who gives a shit about how I feel.”

  “That kind of language only shows a lack of maturity and intellect.”

  Enraged, Elizabeth threw up her hands, spun in circles. If she couldn’t be calm and rational like her mother, she’d be wild. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  “And repetition hardly enhances. You have the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator or freezer, labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the university at eight on Monday morning. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS next fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My car will be here any minute.”

  Oh, those seeds were sprouting, cracking that fallow ground and pushing painfully through. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth looked straight into her mother’s eyes and said, “No.”

  She spun around, stomped away, and slammed the door of her bedroom. She threw herself down on the bed, stared at the ceiling with tear-blurred eyes. And waited.

  Any second, any second, she told herself. Her mother would come in, demand an apology, demand obedience. And she wouldn’t give either.

  They’d have a fight, an actual fight, with threats of punishment and consequences. Maybe they’d yell at each other. Maybe if they yelled, her mother would finally hear her.

  And maybe, if they yelled, she could say all the things that had crept up inside her this past year. Things she thought now had been inside her forever.

  She didn’t want to be a doctor. She didn’t want to spend every waking hour on a schedule or have to hide a stupid pair of jeans because they didn’t fit her mother’s dress code.

  She wanted to have friends, not approved socialization appointments. She wanted to listen to the music girls her age listened to. She wanted to know what they whispered about and laughed about and talked about while she was shut out.

  She didn’t want to be a genius or a prodigy.

  She wanted to be normal. She just wanted to be like everyone else.

  She swiped at the tears, curled up, stared at the door.

  Any second, she thought again. Any second now. Her mother had to be angry. She had to come in and assert authority. Had to.

  “Please,” Elizabeth murmured as seconds ticked into minutes. “Don’t make me give in again. Please, please, don’t make me give up.”

  Love me enough. Just this once.

  But as the minutes dragged on, Elizabeth pushed herself off the bed. Patience, she knew, was her mother’s greatest weapon. That, and the unyielding sense of being right crushed all foes. And certainly her daughter was no match for it.

  Defeated, she walked out of her room, toward her mother’s.

  The garment bag, the briefcase, the small, wheeled pullman were gone. Even as she walked downstairs, she knew her mother had gone, too.

  “She left me. She just left.”

  Alone, she looked around the pretty, tidy living room. Everything perfect—the fabrics, the colors, the art, the arrangement. The antiques passed down through generations of Fitches—all quiet elegance.

  Empty.

  Nothing had changed, she realized. And nothing would.

  “So I will.”

  She didn’t allow herself to think, to question or second-guess. Instead, she marched back up, snagged scissors from her study area.

  In her bathroom she studied her face in the mirror—coloring she’d gotten through paternity—auburn hair, thick like her mother’s but without the soft, pretty wave. Her mother’s high, sharp cheekbones, her biological father’s—whoever he was—deep-set green eyes. Pale skin, wide mouth.