King and Kingdom (17 page)

She knew she shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't let him obliterate everything in her world except Sander. But it was as natural to be in his arms as it was to breathe, and she'd missed him more than she could ever explain.

Breaking the kiss, he braced one hand on the wall behind her head and stared down into her eyes. “I shouldn't be here, not after you stood me up at the cafe, but--”

Pulse racing, Chey lifted trembling fingers to her lips. Then they fled to his, cutting his words off. “I
was
there. Waiting for you. Wynn and I were in a booth,” she whispered, suddenly frantic to tell him what happened.

He frowned. “You weren't when I got there.”

“I know. Sander—you might not believe this, but your father had men take me from the cafe, unconscious, and put me in the dungeon. In one of those older cells with the stone slabs.” Chey saw his eyes narrow in the gloom, heard the harsher rasp of his breathing.

“Go on,” was all he said then.

“He came down there. The King. He told me that Viia was never behind Elise's attack.” Chey swallowed. Oh God. Sander wasn't going to believe her. “Your mother was. She framed Viia because Viia was convenient.”

Sander grated words out in his native tongue.

Chey decided they must be curse words, as terse and clipped as they were.

“See, your sister came to the hotel Wynn and I were staying at before all this. She handed me tickets for Wynn and I to leave Latvala. Told us that if we didn't get on that flight, she'd have us labeled as terrorists and arrested. She said I was banned from your country, never allowed back.” Chey paused a moment to catch her breath.

Sander looked furious.

“What else?” he asked, voice tight with anger.

“I decided to hell with her, and went to Vogeva with Wynn anyway. To give you that note. Right after, when we were waiting for you in the cafe, is when your father nabbed us. He threatened my life, told me that he'd arrange a horrible accident for
you
to find, because he thought you needed to relearn a lesson--”

“
He said that?”
Sander said, breaking into her explanation. His fury grew until his cheeks were ruddy, even in the gloom.

“Yes. I wouldn't lie about something like that. He kept me there for two days—not in that cell exactly, he moved me to a better room down there—while he decided whether I would live or die. Sander, if I didn't know better? I'd bet they were behind what happened in Monte Carlo, too. With that guy. He drugged my drink, I know it. I felt strange, not myself, and I shouldn't have ever let him lure me outside for any reason when I was so out of it like that.” The confessions poured forth, and it felt wonderful to clear her conscious, above all else. Carrying around the weight of those things had been difficult for her to bear.

Sander closed his eyes. He seemed to be fighting for control of his temper. Not at her, but at the way they'd both been played. “I don't understand why you left, then.”

“Left where?”

“Latvala. Why did you demand to be taken home?”

Chey frowned. “What? When? In Monte Carlo?”

“Yes. I expected you to come home with me, but the guards told me you demanded to go back to the states. Why?”

Chey palmed her cheek. “I never demanded to go home. They told me
you
ordered me escorted back to Seattle. That you gave your apologies that it could never work out. That we were over. They brought me all the way back here, right to my apartment even.”

Sander ripped out another few words that must have been more curses in his language. Then, “You're right. Monte Carlo was a set up. I bet the whole 'security breach' was fabricated for the event, so they could put their little plan into place.”

“Sander, they're dead serious about us. About you not being with me. I meant what I said in the note—I love you. I do. More than I can even say. But I was scared out of my mind that your father was going to have me murdered on the way to the airport, and I can't live like that.” It hurt Chey more than she cared to admit to say these things. To deny her heart, their heat and passion.

Death, however, was a permanent consequence that she wasn't ready to face.

He stared down at her, expression pensive. “This also explains why they have moved forward too aggressively with the wedding between Valentina and me. Several articles proclaiming I've 'chosen my wife' or my bride or whatever it says were not sanctioned by me. In fact, they never even ran it past me before printing.”

“I can't say I'm surprised to hear it.” And she wasn't.

“Give me a little time to look into things,” he said. “I'm going to weigh some considerations carefully over the week that I'm here in the United States, try to come up with an alternate plan. During that time, I'd like to see you. Maybe take you out, though expect to keep a low profile. I think it's best if you don't tell anyone, Wynn included, that I'm here.”

It astonished Chey that Sander still wanted to find a way to make it work, even after he heard what he'd just heard. Even though, like her, he knew in the long run that the King would have his say. This close to him, she was tempted to make a pact as they had before. To agree to buck the system, to find a path around. Aksel's warnings sounded in her head, driving spikes of real fear into her stubborn streak.

“Isn't it just going to hurt us more, Sander? God knows I want to be with you more than anything—but at what cost? My life? Is it really worth risking that if your father finds out? I won't tell anyone you're here.” Chey gnawed on her lip. They were costumed and enclosed in a shady niche, and she was still fretful the King's spies were out there somewhere, ready to report back that she was once more engaging Sander.

“Don't be so quick to think I don't have ways to protect you,” he said, voice low. “He might have his loyal employees, but I also have mine. They are loyal to me and me only, and I trust them all with my life. They will do as I say, not my father, because they know that one day soon, the throne will be mine. You need to give me a little more time. See me this week. I'll make sure we do it in a clandestine manner that won't put your life in jeopardy. Besides. You're not on Latvala land. You didn't seek me out, I sought
you
out, which pretty well negates all his current threats.”

Chey leaned into the trail his fingers made along her cheek. When he cupped her jaw, she rested a hand on the middle of his chest. She wanted to put her faith and trust in him.
Did
have faith and trust in him. The question still remained; was it worth risking her life? Could it work out in the end, even if he found a way to strong arm the King and Queen into accepting her as his? Chey envisioned a life of hell in the castle. Constant sniping and undercutting and outright hostility. She wouldn't ever feel safe under their roof.

Still, when he touched her, looked at her like he was doing now, she wanted to throw caution to the wind and just
live.
Be with him. Enjoy him. Their draw to each other was undeniable.

Rising up on the toes of her ballerina shoes, she kissed him. It was the kind of kiss a woman gives when she expects more than just a meeting of mouths. Demanding, aggressive, urgent.

He rose to the occasion, threading his hands through her hair, pins flying every which way. He didn't just kiss her back, he
took
her mouth with fiery need, coaxing gasps and groans out of her before a full minute was up. There in that shadowy alcove, where anyone might walk by and discover them, he had her with a ferocity that knocked the breath from her lungs. All male, driving hips, clothing coming undone under the rough tug of his hands. He imprinted himself all over her, biting her throat, leaving bruises on her skin.

Pinned to the wall by the time it was over, sweat dotting her brow, Chey buried her face in his neck and fought to get her wind back. Her lips felt raw and swollen, her body shuddering randomly from aftershocks.

Into her ear, he whispered, “I don't care what anyone else says. You're
mine.”

. . .

Sander left the important parts of her costume undamaged, and for that Chey was thankful. Ten minutes after he left the hidden spot, she followed. Mask in place, she fixed what she could of her hair, but knew anyone paying close attention would realize the once neat style now looked sex-tousled.

Music vibrated through the speakers, dancers packed the dance floor, and more guests crammed the sides near the food and drink tables. She navigated the throng, smoothing a hand along her hip over the tulle layers of the ballerina skirt.

The strong hand that landed low on her spine was immediately familiar as Sander's. Chey slanted a coy look up and aside; he was put back together much neater than she, hair slicked into place, cape lapping at his boot heels.

Without asking, he guided her into another waltz. He held her closer, touched her body more intimately, gazed down at her from behind his mask. She only saw the burn of lust in his eyes when the light hit just right. Daring to brush her pelvis against him during a turn, she smiled when he groaned.

At the end of the dance, he whispered near her ear. “Dance with others if they ask. Mingle. I'll find you for another dance in a while.”

“All right.” Chey parted from him and went to find a drink for her parched throat. Wynn caught up to her then, a sparkle in her eyes when she lifted the goggles for a moment.

“Girl, who is that guy you're dancing with? He seems like a great partner,” Wynn said. She'd been engrossed with several partners of her own.

“I don't know, but he's skilled and enjoyable to waltz with,” Chey said. She was careful not to appear too happy or altered mood-wise from when they'd arrived.

Wynn reached up to touch a wayward, tousled lock of Chey's hair. It was just that, a touch, almost as if Wynn was asking a silent question.

Chey quirked a wry smile and lifted a hand to smooth back the mussed strands. “That's what I got for trying to slide the mask up without lifting it away from my head first.”

Wynn laughed. “It's easy to forget. Are you having a little bit of a good time, at least?”

“As much as I can, Wynn. I'm not sorry I came.” Chey poured herself another glass of the green spiked punch.

“Good. Now then. That Devil over there has been giving me the eye again,” Wynn said, turning Chey by the shoulders to view a man in a Devil costume. Horns spiked up out of his red mask and a spaded tail curled behind his legs. Otherwise, the Devil wore a suit that strikingly resembled Armani.

“You go dance. Or whatever he wants. I'll see you on the floor,” Chey said, turning back with an exaggerated brow wag for Wynn.

Wynn eased her goggles down over her eyes. “You bet you will.”

Chey watched Wynn sashay herself toward the Devil, who playfully twitched his tail in anticipation. It really was great to see Wynn enjoying herself. However, Chey's attention hopped to the other guests, searching for a particular costumed man.

Before she could find him, someone asked her to dance. Chey drained her drink and allowed no less than three different costumed men to whirl her onto the floor. One after the other, all in varying stages of inebriation. The whole time she kept watch for Sander, hoping he would interrupt and step in.

He did. Two dance partners later, when Chey was about to get perturbed at the delay, she suddenly found the mummy in her arms replaced with the gold masked, caped man once more.

Chey cautioned herself not to smile or otherwise give herself away. Sander pulled her indecently close and guided her through the steps with effortless ease. His cape lapped at her ankles, his scent tickling her nose. He was all consuming, all engrossing.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he said at one point. “And we'll find ourselves back in the alcove.”

Chey's breath hitched in her throat. She wouldn't have minded round two with him between her legs. What a wanton thought.

“You must like the idea. I don't hear you complaining,” he pressed with a deviant tone.

“Of course I'm not complaining. I can barely get my mind off the things you did to me in there,” she confessed, earning a laugh from Sander. The rasp and warmth shivered over her skin.

“Good. I can't either. By the way, expect me tomorrow night, late.”

“Where?”

“Your place.”

“You know where I live?” She stared up at the holes in his mask, wishing she could see his eyes easier.

“I make it my business to know many things,” he replied. “Yes, I know where you live.”

Chey wondered what he thought. It was modest compared to what he was used to. She told herself it didn't matter. He knew she didn't come from Royalty herself, or an affluent background. Sander got what he saw with her, which was perhaps why he kept coming back.

“I look forward to it. Are we staying in?” she asked, twirling away from his body before he pulled her back.

“For tomorrow night, yes. Unless there is somewhere you'd like to go.”

“Not especially. This was a little more than I wanted to do for Halloween, but I'm glad I came. How did you know I would be here, anyway?” Chey asked. There was no doubt now that Sander had known she was attending.