King and Kingdom (22 page)

Wynn groaned and wrapped her arm tight around Chey. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

Chey had nothing to say. Couldn't speak. This was nothing but torture. Her mind, busy for hours coming up with every excuse in the book for Sander, turned to anger at the end. No note, no call, no other forewarning than a cryptic note in the middle of the night that could in no way prepare her for this.

What the hell was she supposed to think?

Sander Ahtissari was getting
married.

It meant the absolute end to everything she thought of having with Sander. No more nights in his arms, no more strolls through the flea market. There would be no immersion into each other's lives.

As Sander accepted Valentina's hand onto his arm, his expression remained stoic, unreadable. He was unbelievably handsome, which was no doubt why Valentina looked so smitten and so smug.

She'd caught him, just as she'd wanted.

In front of hundreds of guests—and an untold number of thousands watching from their homes in Latvala, Sander Ahtissari took a wife. He said his vows, placed a ring on her finger. When the Priest announced he could kiss the bride, he lifted Valentina's veil and covered her mouth with his.

The church exploded into applause.

Chey had never been so miserable in her life. Tucked into Wynn's arms, she closed the laptop lid and cried. For the better part of an hour, as twilight broke over Seattle and dusk claimed Latvala, Chey Sinclair sobbed her heartbreak onto her best friend's shoulder.

The love of her life was now married to another.

Chapter Sixteen

Thanksgiving Day dawned cold and white. Overnight, four inches of snow had fallen, blanketing the landscape and the trees.

Chey bundled into jeans, a heavy sweater, and a coat of white over that. She wrapped a cashmere scarf of blue around her throat and pulled a beanie over her hair. She didn't bother with make up.

Four days had passed since the wedding. Four horrible days that she'd spent in misery in her bed, wallowing in self pity. Wynn had been there after work for much of it, forcing her to eat, and just being by her side when she couldn't.

Today was high time to stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with the business of living. She'd declined Wynn's offer to come to her parent's house for dinner, begging the need for time alone.

Chey had plans to spend this Thanksgiving elsewhere.

She drove through the streets toward a wooded section set back away from homes and highways, a secluded patch of twenty acres overlooking part of the city. The only time she stopped was for flowers at a convenience store still open for the holiday.

Pulling in past the wrought iron gates, Chey followed the drive to one of four designated parking spots. Pulling in, she cut the engine, gathered her flowers, and exited the car.

She took a deep breath, then started walking. It had been several weeks since her last visit.

Threading her way along a narrow stone path, she kept her gaze down, breath pluming white past her lips with every exhale.

Finally, she came to a stop off the path in front of a large headstone.

“Hi Mom, hi Dad.” Her voice wobbled. She set her purse down on a little curving bench and walked the flowers up to a small holder built into the stone just for that reason. Returning to the bench, she sat down and huddled into her coat.

“Of all the places I thought we'd meet for Thanksgiving, this wasn't one of them,” she murmured with a laugh, although nothing at all was funny. It was just a way to fight off a sob. She sniffed, took a moment to get control, then continued.

“I've done something incredibly stupid. I fell in love with a Prince. Now, I know what you're thinking. A 'real' Prince? Well, yes. A real one. One who just happened to marry another girl about four or five days ago. I thought he and I had a shot, and I let myself fall. If you had both been here, maybe you would have cautioned me against it. Told me what an impossible dream it was. Then again, maybe, if you'd met him, you would have advised me to do whatever it took to keep him.” Chey swallowed down more tears.

This was much harder than she thought it would be.

“Anyway. It didn't quite work out like I hoped. But I'm still alive—I know, that's a whole different story and it involves a King—and that's what matters. Right? I'm still here, having Thanksgiving with my parents in a graveyard. I forgot to bring food, but that's here nor there. I'm not hungry. Maybe later I'll fix Ramen.”

Fishing a tissue out of her coat pocket, she blew her nose, wadded it up, and walked it to a trash can set out for guests to use. Probably for things just like this. Back at the bench, she sat down and gazed out at the cemetery.

“I'm not really sure what I should do next. Part of me thinks I should pull roots and move. Try to start over somewhere else. But I don't want to move that far away from you. It's silly, I know. I shouldn't have a problem. I can talk to you anywhere, not just here. Still. I'm not even sure where I would go, and I don't have enough savings to make it happen.” Chey didn't consider for a second using the money Sander left her.

She stared at the headstone, at the engraved names, the dates of birth and death. Her heart ached. Just then, she wanted nothing more than the warmth of her father's bear hugs and the sweetness of her mother's gentle coos.

“I think snot is starting to freeze to my upper lip though, so I guess I should go.” Chey stood up off the bench, shivering inside her coat. The iron sky promised more snow before the day was over. She picked up her purse, walked to the headstone, and pressed a kiss against the ice cold marble. “I love you. I miss you. You'll see me again around Christmas, I'm sure.”

Then she turned back toward the path, following it past a few trees, eyes cast down. She didn't want to think about her first Christmas alone. Thanksgiving without them was bad enough. Sniffing again, wishing her stomach would settle, Chey pulled her keys out and glanced up to her car.

A gleaming black SUV parked behind it snagged her attention. The man leaning against the side, leonine and long, caused her to stumble on the stone path. Chey caught her balance at the last second, still staring.

Sander, wrapped in a heavy wool coat of navy, with jeans and boots, watched her with the same stoic expression he'd worn on television when he'd married Princess Valentina.

Married, that's right Chey. He's someone else's husband now.

Pressing her lips tight, fighting off a bout of irrational anger, Chey turned back to her car and jammed the wrong key into the lock. Struggling with it, she pretended not to notice that Sander had pushed off from the SUV in her direction.

“Chey,” he said, voice warm and resonant.

She got her door unlocked after finding the correct key. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“That's fine. But you need to hear me out.” He caught her hands with one of his before she could open the door, effectively blocking her from getting inside.

Chey snapped a hot look sideways and up. She refused to acknowledge the heat spiraling through her veins at his nearness, or how his scent, musky and masculine, did strange things to her pulse.

“Actually,
Dare,
I don't have to do anything. Now release me.”

“No.”

“...no? Are you kidding me?” Chey jerked her hands away from his and stuffed her keys into her pocket. All she needed was to drop them and lose them in her distraction.

“I'm not. I have a hotel here. Come back to my suite with me so we can sort this out. There is a lot I need to tell you.” He crowded her space, looming and staring down.

Chey pushed against his chest, just once, to put a bit of distance between them. He was being obnoxious using his size to his advantage like that.

“Shouldn't you be warming your new
wife's
bed, instead?” she spat, failing to curb a spike of white-hot jealousy at the very thought of him bedding that smug little Princess.

He narrowed his eyes. “This isn't the place to have that discussion.”

“But your suite is. How convenient. I don't think so. Now get out of my way.” She shouldered into his chest and fought to get her car door open. Sander was crazy if he thought she would tromp off back to his hotel with him.

He used his body to blockade her door. “Chey, I don't have a lot of time. You need to trust me and come along. Right now.”

Chey yanked her hand back away from his body and glared up into his eyes. “And
you
need to realize that I'm done with this. With you. If there was ever a chance at anything, you ruined it when you walked down the aisle with another woman.”

“I sent you a note, warning you something was going on,” he said, voice just this side of a snarl.

“Oh yes, the note!” She flailed a hand. “The infamous note, where you couldn't have just said, by the way, Chey, I'm getting
married
in a few days!” Her exasperation knew no bounds.

“No, I couldn't,” he said, moving his face closer to her own by inches. “There are very good reasons I was so vague.”

“What, that Valentina might have read them over your shoulder from bed?” She snorted.

Sander growled and suddenly bent forward, tucking his shoulder into her middle. He was gentle but firm when he slung her up and stalked back toward the SUV.

“Sander! Stop right this second! You can't just kidnap me from a cemetery!” Aghast, she pounded a fist against his hip.

“Just be quiet. You're coming, and you're going to hear me out, and that's the end of it.” He stood aside while a guard opened the back door. Sander dumped her onto the seat, then chased her inside and sat next to her. After the guard closed the door, he got into the front passenger seat and the driver pulled away from the curb.

“This is ridiculous. You won't change my mind about anything, Sander. You're married. While you might not think that's a binding act,
I
do, and I won't be swayed into any more 'dates' or whatnot.” She whispered sideways, loathe to have this conversation in front of the guards. In front of anyone.

Sander said nothing. He crossed his arms over his chest and sprawled in the seat.

Seething, Chey looked out the windows and did her best to ignore him for the duration.

. . .

They spent the entire ride in silence. Which suited Chey fine. The hotel the SUV pulled into was a five star, of course, and Sander growled a warning at her before they disembarked at the VIP entrance.

Don't make a scene, don't make any trouble, or else.

Or else what, she'd wanted to shout. What would he do, throw her over his shoulder again? Carry her caveman style through the marble floored lobby to his private hallway and elevator?

In an effort to keep the situation under some kind of control, she said nothing as they entered the hotel and headed straight for the elevator bank. Sander's guards flanked them the whole way. Acutely aware of his presence on the way to an upper floor, Chey remained silent, arms crossed over her chest, purse dangling from her wrist.

Spit out into a long hallway with red carpet, the walls adorned with classy paintings and niches with faux marble statuettes, Sander led her all the way to the doors at the end. A guard produced a key before they got there and opened one for them. Sander gestured that Chey precede him.

Entering, she found what she expected to find inside: lush furnishings, tapestry chairs, gilt framed mirrors. Windows overlooked a balcony which in turn overlooked Seattle and the water. Chey plunked her purse into a chair and recrossed her arms.

To her surprise, Allar and Hendrik, the first two security members she'd ever met when they came to her apartment door, strolled out of a bedroom with phones to their ears. Both hung up at the same time.

“Hello, Miss Sinclair,” Allar said with a smile. He looked dapper as ever, with his short dark hair styled just so and his suit without wrinkles. Hendrick looked savage with the scar cutting through his cheek.

“Hello,” Chey said, unsure their presence here was a good thing. Weren't they in legion with the King? She glanced at Sander.

The men traded a bit of conversation in their own language before all the members quit the room, closing the door behind them.

“Won't they turn me into the King?” Chey asked Sander, blunt and unrepentant about it.

“No,” Sander said, pausing at a side bar to pour himself a drink. The fireplace had a fire going, the wood hissing and cracking. “Want something?”

Chey could have used a drink all right. “I don't feel especially relieved at your answer. And no, thank you.”

“Their loyalty is to me. It has been for years. But they still go out on missions for the family, which is how they ended up at your door to begin with.” Sander lifted the tumbler and pulled a long drink from its confines. He leaned a hip against the little bar and regarded her with an almost truculent expression. As if he was the one put out here, not her.