The Bodyguard's Bride-to-Be Page 12

  Why would she react this way? It made no sense. None.

  Then she remembered that moment in his office when she’d known without a doubt he’d done something to break her heart. She didn’t know what. And she didn’t know why. She just knew she’d wept bitter tears over him. And if she wasn’t careful, he just might break her heart again.

  Chapter 11

  Tahra finally snatched at the envelope, despite her sense of foreboding, and ripped it open, then drew out the crisp notepaper and forced herself to read what was written there.

  Dear Tahra, the note said. We have been invited to dinner with the Joneses on Friday evening. They keep early hours because of their baby. I did mention Alec and Angelina have a new baby, did I not? So Angelina asked me if 6:00 p.m. would be good for us. If you agree, I will let Angelina know. Sincerely, Marek.

  Completely innocuous. Nothing to be afraid of. Then she turned the note over and saw something written on the other side.

  I regret to inform you I could find no trace of the Ibrahim children’s parents at any of the hospitals. Recovery of the bodies from the apartment building is still ongoing, but it could be days or weeks before all are identified and we know for sure. In the meantime, please take comfort in knowing the children are being cared for. Sincerely, M.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. She suddenly had no more appetite, although she’d been hungry before she’d read Marek’s note.

  “What is it, miss?”

  “Some children I met in the chapel early this morning,” she managed to answer. She didn’t think she had to explain to Ani—everyone who worked in the palace must know the use to which the chapel had been put after the bombing and fire at the apartment building. “Marek—Captain Zale—checked the hospitals. There’s no sign of the children’s parents.”

  The maid crossed herself and whispered something in Zakharan that Tahra was able to translate in her mind: God have them in his keeping.

  Yes, she thought as waves of sadness swept through her. God have them all in his keeping—Rafiq, Aaliyah, Tamir and Safirah. And their parents.

  She stared at the note, suddenly realizing she hadn’t even had to ask. Marek had found out for her. He’d anticipated her question and had quietly made it his job to find the answer. Another in a growing list of reasons to love him.

  Which was why she couldn’t understand—could barely accept—that he’d broken her heart somehow. But just as she knew he loved her, she knew the other was true, too.

  * * *

  Keeping a wrist cast clean and dry wasn’t easy...not if you preferred showers to baths, as Tahra did. But her suite had an amazing marble tub big enough for two, which made up for the necessity. She let Ani draw her a bath but dispensed with further assistance. “I think I can manage from here,” she said firmly.

  “Should I wait in the other room, miss? Just in case?”

  Ummm, no, definitely not! Tahra thought, uncomfortable with being waited on hand and foot. Okay, so doing some things for herself with her right hand in a cast took two or three times longer than they normally did. Eating with her left hand, for instance, was a challenge. Dressing, especially anything with buttons or zippers, was also more difficult than she would have thought. But she wasn’t an invalid, and she wasn’t about to act like one. She didn’t want to hurt Ani’s feelings, however, so all she said was “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to wait.”

  Ani was already making the bed, something Tahra would have done herself if she’d had two good hands. “Let me at least lay out your clothes, miss. What will you wear today?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  Ani fluffed the pillows and tucked them inside their decorative covers. Satisfied with the pristine condition of the bed, she turned to Tahra, a hurt expression on her face. “That is my job, miss. A job I take great pride in. If you are not satisfied with my work, the master of the household will reassign me and find some—”

  “Oh, no!” Tahra rushed to reassure her. “You do a splendid job. It’s just that I’m not used to...” She waved a helpless hand around the bedroom.

  “Ahhh,” the maid said. “I understand, miss. You are American, like Queen Juliana. Daphne—the queen’s personal maid—explained it to me. The queen herself had difficulty accepting her new status at first, but eventually she came around. This is Zakhar,” she said proudly. “Our ways suit us, and you will adapt in time. Especially after you marry Captain Zale. You will be Zakharian then.” She switched gears. “Now, what would you like to wear today?”

  “Oh...anything. You pick for me.”

  “That is good,” Ani said with a determined nod and a self-satisfied smile. “A woman’s maid knows best. You will see.” She bustled toward the closet and emerged with slacks and a long-sleeved cotton sweater in an appealing shade of blue. The sweater happened to be one of Tahra’s favorites because it almost exactly matched the color of her eyes. “Captain Zale will love you in this color, miss.”

  Tahra shook her head. “He’s very busy. I probably won’t even see him today.”

  Ani’s smile morphed into a knowing one. “You will see him. No matter how busy he is, you will see him. This I know.” Then her voice turned brisk. “Your bathwater is cooling, miss.”

  * * *

  Satisfied with the results of his snap inspection, Marek left the crown prince’s suite, exhaustion tugging at him. No sleep last night before he’d been called out, and no sleep since had him drawing upon all his energy reserves to finish out the day. Some men might have gone home to sleep after this morning’s meeting, feeling justified in doing so—but those men were not Marek Zale.

  He started down the Grand Staircase, intending to do some work in his office on the first floor, but changed his mind and headed for Princess Mara’s suite instead, which was where the master of the household had placed Tahra. She probably does not know the honor being accorded her, he thought with a private smile. The suite was usually kept vacant except for the few times a year Princess Mara and her family were able to visit from Colorado. Even the master of the household would not have dared to assign that suite to Tahra...if the king’s orders hadn’t made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing but the best for the woman who’d been injured saving so many children.

  He rapped on the oak door, which was almost immediately opened by Tahra’s diminutive maid. The young woman smiled what could only be called an “I knew it!” smile and let him in. “Miss Edwards is...unavailable at the moment,” she explained as she led Marek into the sitting room. “Please have a seat. I will let her know you are here.”

  He stayed standing. He was afraid if he sat down on the sofa he’d fall asleep, so he leaned against the marble side of the large, meticulously maintained fireplace that hadn’t needed a fire to heat the room for many years. But it was beautiful and complemented the decor in the suite.

  A sound made him look up, and there was Tahra framed in the doorway, so lovely in a royal blue sweater with her dark hair curling on her shoulders, she took his breath away. That is nothing new—Tahra always takes your breath away, he thought as he moved toward her. He barely noticed the maid gently pushing Tahra into the room and then closing the double doors behind her, giving them privacy. “You are awake” was all he could think of to say. “When your maid said you were unavailable, I thought you might still be—”

  Warm color tinged her cheeks. “I was taking a bath.” She held her right arm up, displaying the cast on her wrist. “It’s not easy when you have to wrap a plastic bag around most of your arm so you don’t get the darn thing wet. Makes me wish I were left-handed, too, because everything takes longer—even pulling on a sweater or zipping up.”

  “If we were married, I could help you with those things,” he said in a low, teasing voice as he dipped his head for a quick kiss. “You are even lovelier than I remembered,” he murmured when his l
ips left hers.

  She laughed a little self-consciously and protested, “You just saw me this morning.”

  “Yes.” He let his eyes speak for him for a few seconds, and the color in her cheeks deepened. “But the reality of you is always a shock to my senses.”

  * * *

  How did Marek manage to say such things—to pay her such flowery compliments—and not come across as anything other than the über-alpha male he was? Tahra had no idea. She knew most American men wouldn’t be caught dead saying something like that. Not to mention most American men these days wouldn’t think marriage was a necessary precursor to physical intimacy. And in theory she agreed with her countrymen. Marriage wasn’t the be-all and end-all for a woman these days. Her own sister hadn’t “saved herself for marriage,” and there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. But there wasn’t anything wrong with marriage, either, or a man who respected you enough to wait until you were truly ready for that next step in a relationship heading for marriage. A man who didn’t push for sex from the very first date.

  She liked that about Marek. A lot. And the woman she’d been for the past eighteen months must have liked that about him, too. Because if they’d never been lovers, it had to be his doing. The desire for more that pulsed through her body whenever he kissed her? She must have felt it before. Which meant he’d set the boundaries in their physical relationship. Which meant...

  Tahra sighed softly and leaned into Marek, loving how warm and tingly she felt when his arms tightened around her and he pulled her close for another mind-blowing kiss...before letting her go.

  Only when she was free to gaze up into his face did she realize there were tiny lines of exhaustion around his eyes. “You’ve been up all night.” Concern for him lent an accusing edge to her tone. “Oh, Marek, why? Why didn’t you go home to bed?”

  His lips twitched. “I could not. There was a national security meeting earlier this morning, a meeting I could not miss, not with the country under martial law—and besides, I am on duty.”

  “And duty is everything to you,” she said softly, understanding. “But you’re entitled to time off for lunch, aren’t you? Wait right here.” She rushed out of the sitting room and into her bedroom, relieved to see Ani hadn’t yet removed her lunch tray. The food was cold by now, but still edible. She grabbed the plate with her left hand, the fork with her right, and hurried back into the sitting room.

  “Sit down,” she ordered, channeling her older sister. And when Marek had done so, she handed him the largely untouched plate. “I...I wasn’t hungry earlier,” she explained. She sat next to him on the sofa, enjoying the sight of him wolfing down the food. When he was done, she took the plate and fork from him and placed them on an end table. Then she tugged on his sleeve.

  “What are you—” he began, but Tahra cut him off.

  “Half an hour,” she insisted, pulling his head onto her lap. He resisted at first, but she was adamant. “Sleep for half an hour. I promise I won’t let it be longer than that.”

  He was asleep almost as soon as his head rested on her thighs, and Tahra’s heart turned over. Falling in love with Marek was the easy part—she was far beyond halfway there after only a week of knowing him, despite the overprotectiveness and patronizing attitude toward women that were relics of his Zakharian upbringing. Every moment spent in his company only drew her deeper under his spell.

  The question was, what wasn’t he telling her? Why was she so sure he’d broken her heart before? And could she go forward with a relationship with him if she never remembered? If he never told her the truth?

  She couldn’t answer those questions. All she knew was that in this moment he was hers to protect. And if anyone tried to wake him in the next thirty minutes? They’d have to deal with her first.

  * * *

  Sergeant Thimo Vasska lowered his binoculars and said quietly to his two companions, “That is the third troop carrier in the past hour. That makes eleven since the announcement early this morning.” He didn’t have to be more specific—his companions knew he was referring to the declaration that the country was now under martial law. Zakharian National Forces troops were being dispatched to all the borders to beef up security. All the borders, not just the eastern one, although Sergeant Vasska theorized more were being sent there because that was where the refugees were first entering Zakhar.

  But the increased security had nothing to do with stemming the tide; the soldiers were there to provide extra security for the refugees, not against them. So Sergeant Vasska didn’t understand why the captain and the major who’d accompanied him on this expedition into the mountains were looking on this as a good thing. Not that they came right out and admitted as much. But the sergeant could read more than they realized he was seeing in the tiny smiles they shared when they thought his face was turned elsewhere.

  The sound of a truck laboring up a hill in the distance made the sergeant raise his binoculars again. “Here comes another one,” he announced. “That makes twelve all told.”

  “Twelve here,” said the major. “At least half that many on the other three borders, which makes at least thirty.”

  “Fifty men to a carrier,” intoned the captain, “times thirty carriers means at least fifteen hundred men here, not there.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Sergeant Vasska saw the major and the captain share another secret smile. Fifteen hundred new soldiers on the borders, he thought to himself. What the hell is worth smiling at about that?

  * * *

  Three people stood at attention in front of Colonel Marianescu’s desk. “At ease, gentlemen,” he said, even though one of the soldiers was a woman. “Please be seated.”

  Marek sat, glancing to his right at Major Damon Kostya, before looking left and catching Angelina’s eyes. She just shook her head slightly, indicating she had no more idea than he did what this was all about.

  Colonel Marianescu got right to the point. “Three men were arrested early this morning in the city of Timon, near the eastern border. They were attempting to set explosive devices in an apartment building there, similar to what was done here. That they were caught at all was a fluke. Two officers at the air force base outside Timon who live in that apartment building had been out...ahhh...celebrating their recent promotions—”

  Celebrating at a bar, Marek translated.

  “—and returned home very late. They noticed the fire doors had been propped open on the ground floor, and upon investigation managed to apprehend the two men in the stairwells, just as they were returning.”

  Not too drunk, then, Marek thought approvingly. He partook of spirits on occasion, but never to excess. He never forgot that a man who imbibed too much was not in control of himself or the situation around him. Drunkenness was an action unbecoming to an officer in the Zakharian National Forces.

  “Neither suspect would say a word when the officers made a citizen’s arrest,” Colonel Marianescu continued, “but then a third man emerged from the basement and was also apprehended. The officers held all three men until the police could be summoned. We suspect a fourth man was involved—a driver who must have fled when he heard the police sirens. The similarity to the bombings here and elsewhere across the country was too obvious to miss, and the Timon police notified the secret intelligence service—Major Stesha’s men—who took the three suspects into custody. They are being held under tight security at the air force base outside the city.

  “Normal interrogation tactics have been useless. None of the men have spoken a word. Major Stesha is wishing to utilize...ahhh...extraordinary interrogation tactics.”

  Marek had no difficulty grasping that Colonel Marianescu was referring to torture, a form of interrogation he both deplored and held little faith in. A man would say anything to stop the torture, so information gleaned from that source was rarely reliable. Nor was it evidence that could be used at tri
al.

  The colonel focused his attention on Angelina. “I immediately thought of you, Captain Mateja-Jones. Your success interrogating the cameraman involved in the conspiracy to assassinate the crown prince stands as a classic example of what might work in this case. All we need is one man to talk, to tell us what he knows of the Zakharian Liberation Front. Are you willing to give it a shot, Captain?”

  Angelina didn’t hesitate, Marek noted with approval. “Of course, sir.” Then she glanced Marek’s way and added, “But Captain Zale was also instrumental in that previous interrogation, sir. He helped me assess the best way to approach the cameraman. If you send me, send him, too. That will improve our chances for success.”

  Colonel Marianescu nodded. “Good idea. I was going to ask Captain Zale and Major Kostya to cover for you with regard to the queen’s security detail in your absence.” He turned his gaze on the major. “Now I must ask you to cover for both Captain Mateja-Jones and Captain Zale. Be honest. Is this too much to ask of one man?”

  Major Kostya shook his head. “Not if the queen is willing to cooperate.”

  “Which she will,” Angelina assured them all. “The queen will make any personal sacrifice necessary to ensure the safety of all Zakharians...especially children.”

  “Then we have a plan, gentlemen.” Colonel Marianescu stood, and everyone else did, too. “I have a military jet standing by, Captain Mateja-Jones, Captain Zale. I need not tell you time is of the essence here, just as I need not tell you this is top secret.” His voice softened, but his face hardened. “If you are correct, Captain Zale, the Zakharian Liberation Front is a threat to the royal family. A threat that cannot be tolerated. Not for an instant.”

  Chapter 12

  Tahra was taken to St. Anne’s Hospital on Wednesday morning for a follow-up examination by her surgeon. She’d hoped Marek would be free to accompany her, but she was sadly disappointed to find someone else waiting beside the limousine to which she was guided.