King and Kingdom (18 page)

“I never tell all my secrets,” he said with a low laugh. “It was too good an opportunity to pass up, what with the masks and costumes.”

The music seamlessly changed over to a slower beat, a couple's dance that invited more swaying than waltzing. Sander switched holds on her body and led her into a languid rock of hips.

“Why now? Why three and a half weeks later?” she asked after adjusting to the new pace. The spiked neon punch relaxed her, made her paranoia a little less stark. It wasn't the same kind of buzz she'd had in Monte Carlo, which enforced her theory that she'd been drugged.

“Because it took me that long to make legitimate plans to come to America without raising red flags. At first, I didn't know what to think when I didn't find you in the cafe. I thought you might have changed your mind. But I kept your note, and after several rows with father, I began to plot my departure.”

“Legitimate plans?” she inquired, careful to keep her voice to a whisper.

“I had a meeting with some prominent people in Sacramento yesterday. I have another at lunch tomorrow. Those keeping an eye on my whereabouts believe I'm still there. The plane has not left the private terminal we use, which will enforce the idea I haven't gone anywhere.” He stroked his fingers low along her spine.

“Then how did you get here? Certainly not driving.”

“No. We chartered a different private plane to go back and forth under another name. I told you. I have those loyal to me that will keep my cover. There are a few back in Sacramento ready to waylay anyone if need be until I return.”

Chey realized just how many precautions Sander was taking. It made her believe the situation was as precarious as she imagined it to be.

“So you'll fly back tonight, have your meeting, then come to Seattle tomorrow evening again?” she asked.

“Yes. I can stay two days, if you'll put me up. Then I'll need to fly to California for my last three engagements. Unfortunately, I won't make it back to Seattle again after that before departing for Latvala. The meetings are too close together, with an evening event that will likely last far into the night, making it impossible for me to go between states without being late. That will wrap my week in America.”

“I can put you up for two days. That's not a problem.” It appealed to Chey to have Sander to herself, regardless of the danger she might be putting herself in. If she was going to agree to any of this, then she was going to go all the way, no holds barred.

“Excellent. I promise I'll make it worth your time.”

“You better.”

Chapter Twelve

Chey paced her apartment, straightening this, straightening that. Nothing needed it, she'd already done the same thing ten times before. The bathrooms were spotless, as was the kitchen. Standing behind the loveseat, she examined her modest domain and wondered what Sander would think. Nothing here sported gilded frames, or ornate carvings, or cost more than a year's salary. Much of it came from flea markets, at that.

Parting from him last night at the Halloween party had been bittersweet. He left before it was over with promises to return. Wynn, feeling no pain from the spiked drinks, had chattered on and on during the ride home, never suspecting a thing. She'd tried to pin Chey down for another evening out tonight, which Chey declined with complaints of an oncoming headache.

Wynn had been too blitzed to question or hassle.

The storm that threatened the previous day was still present, lashing the trees around the complex and pouring rain in buckets. Thunder boomed through the sky and lightning caused bright flashes of light beyond the windows. For once, the violent weather made Chey feel safer holed up in her home. She decided that anyone spying on her would have a much harder time getting a good look at any visitors, might be deterred altogether of lurking on the street with binoculars.

“That's really reaching, Chey,” she muttered to herself. But was it? After death threats and attempted murder?

She decided not.

A series of hard knocks jerked Chey out of her reverie. Crossing to the door, she took a deep breath, then turned back the bolt and opened it. Sander stood there looking nothing like himself. A baseball cap sat low on his brow with the hood of a sweatshirt tugged up over that. Jeans worn white at the knee and crease of his hips had seen better days, as had the lace up boots soaked from the rain. He held the straps to a duffel bag that was slung over his shoulder.

“Hi,” he said with a wry grin.

“...I almost didn't recognize you. Come in.” Chey stepped back, pulling the door wide. He dwarfed her stepping across the threshold. Closing the door once more, she threw the bolt and turned in time to see him drop the duffel on the small square of tile at the entryway and shove the hood down before removing the baseball hat.

“I figured it wouldn't hurt to have a little extra coverage, seeing as my father has had people attempting to verify my whereabouts lately,” he said. Sander tossed the cap down onto the duffel bag.

“Oh no. He's not suspicious, is he?” Chey wondered if she should jam the back of a chair up under the knob of the door.

“I don't think so. My men covered my tracks well.” He strolled deeper into the apartment, taking a good look around.

Chey smoothed her hands over the sage green shirt she wore with a pair of cotton yoga pants in gray. They weren't going out; she didn't see any need to doll up when he was likely to remove what she had on eventually anyway. She was under no illusions about the activities their night would entail.

At the moment, all she could do was fret that he would find something lacking about her personal space. He paused in front of several pictures on her mantel that she'd taken of her parents. One was a formal portrait of all three of them before their death. Although her apartment was small, it was still on the larger side of most in town. Being on the top floor, her ceiling arched high and the square foot was nothing to sneeze at.

Despite all that, Sander overflowed the room. Even in street clothes, he exuded a powerful presence that made her apartment feel tiny and cramped. Compared to the castle—well. There was no comparison. Even to the suite of rooms she'd stayed at in the family seat, this apartment was miniscule.

Still. Sander made it seem like a two-by-four tree house.

“That's good. About your men, I mean. Are they waiting in the parking lot?” Chey asked after a loud crack of thunder.

He glanced across the apartment and unzipped the hoodie. For the first time, he looked her over head to foot. “They're alternating shifts. Some are staying at a nearby hotel and they switch out every so many hours.”

“Good. I mean it's not good that they have to sit out there in the cold, but it's good you're covered.” She smoothed her hands down her hips in the wake of his gaze. “Do you want something to drink? Eat?”

“They have heaters,” he said offhand, though he wasn't dismissive or cruel. Just honest. “No thanks, I ate on the flight. This suits you,” he said with a gesture around the living room.

“You think so? I like it.” Chey had seen apartments while searching for this one that offered much less in the way of amenities and charm. Just then, it seemed like a sardine can. She watched Sander's expression, trying to get a bead on what he was thinking. Just because compliments passed his lips didn't mean he meant them.

And wasn't that cynical? Chey quashed her internal skeptic and concentrated on Sander.

“It's very close to what I imagined.” He shucked the hoodie, exposing a shoulder holster with a gun tucked neatly into a sheath. This he removed and set on a cushion of her couch. That left him in a plain tee shirt of heather gray and jeans. As the night before, his jaw was clean shaven, the top of his hair pulled back into a familiar little tail.

Chey watched him approach, feeling smaller by the second.

“You look like a deer in the headlights,” he said, coming to a stop before her.

“I can't believe you're actually here, I guess,” she admitted. Her skin prickled under the thin shirt. Dropping her gaze, she skimmed a look at how his shoulders stretched the material of the tee, and how lean he was comparably in the hips.

In short, he was staggeringly handsome. Virile.

“All yours for two whole days. What
will
you do with me.” His accent dipped into a lower range, the syllables edged with a rasp.

Chey laughed and pretended to think, rolling her gaze upward toward the ceiling. “Well, let's see. There's a light in the kitchen that needs replacing, and the fireplace could use cleaning--” Chey's tease got cut off when he stooped and lifted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Listen, you, I didn't come all this way to
clean
things or replace lights. Not fifteen minutes in your door and already I'm forced to go caveman on you.” He exaggerated a sigh and walked straight into her bedroom like he had a right to.

“I never dreamed you wouldn't be thorough in all your tasks,” she chided, laughing.

“My tongue is thorough. I'll give you a demonstration you'll never forget,” he promised, and bumped her door closed with the heel of his boot.

. . .

November 2

Let's just forget that it's been six months or so since I've written here. Okay? Diaries are forever, or some claptrap like that. It's dark, too dark to see what time it is because the lights went out some time between sexcapade one and sexcapade two. I'm pretty sure it's not long before dawn, though with this storm still blowing, I don't think anyone will notice when it arrives.

Why have I decided to write? His name is Sander. I've been remiss penning anything about him because I've been too busy living. Right now, he's lying in my bed with the covers tangled around his hips. I can just see the swell of his ass. For a Prince, he's built quite nicely. But back to the more important thing: he's a Prince. Heir to the throne. No, I haven't lost my mind and no, I'm not drunk. I wish I could say that it's all been very fairytale like, but I can't.

I'm writing here because my nerves are shot and I need some place to vent. I can't tell Wynn that he's here, or that Sander and I have made up. I can't tell her that Sander wants to find a way to be together even though the King and Queen would prefer that I'm dead.

Thirty years from now, I'll look back at this entry and snort at what will seem like wild exaggeration. Death. Except I'm not exaggerating, and it's not funny. I just spent the most blissful five or six hours of my life in a man's arms, and all I can think about in the aftermath is whether there are people spying on my apartment and planning some sort of 'accident'. The King promised me he would do that if I didn't leave his son alone.

Sander came looking for me this time, although I seriously doubt the King and Queen care about those kind of semantics. I'm wrecking their plans, have put a kink in their designs to have Sander marry some well appointed Princess who will no doubt spit out heirs from her vagina like bullets.

I'm being unnecessarily crass, and I don't care. This is what stress does to me. I'm not even sure this entry makes sense, or that I've covered all the things that need covering. If I was a smoker, I'd be through three cartons in two hours, easy. I'm not even sure what the point of this entry is—oh wait. Venting. That's right. This is relieving my stress.

This is my carton of cigarettes, my bottle of whiskey, my Xanax. I can barely read my own chicken scratch, and it's not the fault of the darkness.

I'm sure I should have ended things with Sander when I realized how serious certain people are about keeping me out of his life.

But you know me, diary. I've never done anything the easy way, and the second someone tells me I shouldn't, I'll do it anyway. I have to learn all my hard lessons through bitter experience.

Not everything with Sander is bitter, though, and while I'm not sure I'll live to see my twenty-fifth birthday, I don't regret all the sighs and moans and growls we make between us. I don't regret his skin under my nails or his fingerprints on my hips.

If you don't hear from me again, it's because I'm buried somewhere six feet under.

Yours,

Chey

Closing the journal, Chey set it aside on the nightstand. The pen went on top. She considered ripping out her latest sarcastic entry, then decided against it. There was truth to what she'd written, and expelling some of her angst was much needed catharsis.

Curled into a chair at the side of the bed, she leaned back and sought Sander's silhouette among the covers. He was out cold, both arms up under his pillow, one knee pulled up toward his chest. It put strain on the sheet that just barely covered his backside. Doing nothing more than sleeping, he was still a presence not to be denied. This was the kind of man painters shaped into Gods on cathedral ceilings, with their bronzed skin and ripped muscles. Here was divine inspiration, the stuff of dreams and girlish wishes.