King's Ransom (13 page)

He'd even voluntarily served an additional year when his unit had been called upon to go to Afghanistan on behalf of the United Nations, she remembered. She hadn't known it at the time, but she'd read about it when he ascended the throne—the tabloids had been full of stories about him and his exploits, and she hadn't been able to resist reading everything written about him.

The old king had also ruthlessly tried to separate Andre from Mara—and failed. Juliana had watched as Andre had quietly, but insistently, done his best to fill the void in Mara's life, and if she hadn't already loved him she would have loved him for that alone—for his tender, loving attitude toward his younger sister, for the protective shield he threw around her. The same way he'd treated Juliana, until...

And Mara had adored Andre. Wasn't that why Juliana had broken off her friendship with Mara, rather than disillusion her friend about her beloved brother? Because she couldn't bear the hero worship in Mara's voice when she talked about Andre? Because she'd wanted to scream the truth about him the last time they'd spoken on the phone...but couldn't hurt Mara that way? Couldn't destroy the only loving influence in Mara's life? Better to let her friend think Juliana no longer cared. Better to let Mara think Juliana didn't need her friendship anymore. Anything except tell Mara what Andre had done when he'd repudiated any relationship with Juliana.

Her thoughts in turmoil, Juliana entered the outer office, where three male secretaries guarded entrance to the inner sanctum with smiling but unshakable resolution. “I am sorry, Miss Richardson,” the appointments secretary told her. “His Royal Majesty is extremely busy this morning. I could make an appointment for you at...” He looked at the computer screen, checking the calendar there. “Three o'clock tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled, anticipating her acquiescence, his next question merely a formality. “Would that do?”

Juliana stood her ground. “His Majesty asked me last night if I would film an appeal for the Red Cross relating to the landslide. The sooner, the better, I thought. Could you ask him about it? He didn't give me any details when we spoke.”

“Of course, Miss Richardson. Excuse me a moment.” The secretary slid from his chair, knocked on the door to the inner office and waited for a response before opening the door, entering and closing it behind him. He was back in less than a minute. “Please come this way, Miss Richardson,” the appointments secretary said. And while he'd always been respectful, there was a different intonation now, a deference that hadn't been there before.

Andre was on the phone when she entered, but he smiled his faint smile as soon as he saw her and indicated a chair in front of his desk. Juliana seated herself and looked around the room as she waited. She couldn't remember ever having been in the inner office before, but she imagined it had been completely redone when Andre ascended the throne, because it didn't look like the kind of office the old king would have had.

The furniture here now suited Andre somehow. Not modern, not casual, but not stiffly formal, either. Comfortable. She imagined he spent a lot of time here. Zakhar wasn't a large country—
probably equivalent in size to the state of Vermont,
she thought abstractedly, although even more mountainous. But running a country wouldn't be a sinecure, not if you threw yourself into the job heart and soul, the way Andre did.

When she turned her head all the way to the right she saw Andre's bodyguard—not the one who'd accompanied the king in the chapel last night, a different one—sitting motionless in a chair in the corner. After she thought about it for a moment, she realized he looked like the same bodyguard who'd been on duty the night of the reception. She remembered him because after Andre had spoken to him he'd faded back into the crowd, but his eyes had never left the man he was guarding. And now that she thought of it, he was also the one who'd been on duty outside the little library the evening she and Andre had confronted one another.

She gave the bodyguard a friendly smile of recognition, but he didn't smile back. He merely acknowledged her smile with an inclination of his head and a slight softening of his expression, and with Andre still on the phone her thoughts went on a tangent.

Bodyguards. She'd gotten used to the necessity in the United States. There were crazies out there, and no one recognizably famous was safe. It had been refreshing not to need a bodyguard here in Zakhar, but then again, she was just an actress. She wasn't in Andre's shoes. Even though Zakhar was fiercely loyal to the monarchy, there was always a chance someone might try to assassinate him. There had been two attempts on his life since he ascended the throne—that had been front-page news; it had been impossible to avoid...even if she hadn't read everything she could about Andre over the years. But judging from the careful way this man watched over his king, Andre was in good hands.

Only one bodyguard, though?
she thought, suddenly worried for Andre's safety, remembering the team of Secret Service agents who surrounded the US president whenever he went anywhere.
Shouldn't Andre have at least two people guarding him? Or more?
Maybe he did...when he was outside the palace.
No, that can't be right,
she reminded herself. There had been only one bodyguard in evidence at the cemetery.

Andre made one last forceful statement into the phone, and Juliana understood enough Zakharan to know he didn't agree with whoever was on the other end before he hung up the phone with a decided bang. She raised her eyebrows in a question, and Andre made a derisive sound. “That was my chief councillor. The Privy Council is dragging its feet...again.” She saw the struggle for patience on his face. “As usual, Niko is... But that is not why you are here, Juliana,” he said with another faint smile. “Thank you for coming so quickly to help with the disaster relief. But are you not needed on the set today?”

She shook her head. “I'm free until Friday. They've rearranged the schedule so Dirk can leave earlier.”

He frowned. “Why is that? The producer never mentioned it to me.”

“It just came up yesterday evening,” she explained. “And you were otherwise occupied.”

“But why?” Juliana's gaze slid in the direction of Andre's bodyguard, though she didn't say anything. But Andre got the message. “Lukas,” he told his bodyguard, “would you leave us, please? I will let you know when we are done.”

“Yes, Sire.”

The man got up, casting a searching look over Juliana, as if he thought she might be concealing a weapon somewhere.
Although where he thinks it's hidden is a mystery to me,
she thought, suddenly amused despite the seriousness of the situation. She was wearing a lightweight summer dress similar to the one she'd worn the other night in the little library, but this one was in a deep shade of rose, a vibrant color that set off her ebony hair and made her skin look translucent. It had a fitted bodice and swirling skirt, but a skirt that clung to her figure, leaving no room for anything bulky hidden beneath it. Add to that bare legs and sandals, and she didn't think she looked like a threat. On the other hand, she didn't fault Lukas for his devotion to duty. Terrorists didn't always
look
like terrorists, and women could be assassins, too.

When they were alone finally, Andre steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips before asking, “Why?” And Juliana knew the time had come to tell him the truth.

 

Chapter 13

“D
irk's wife, Sabrina, has cancer,” Juliana said on a rush. “But there's a complication. She's also pregnant.” She gave Andre an appealing look. “You can't tell anyone, not even Dirk, that you know. Bree has told people about the pregnancy, but she doesn't know Dirk told me about the cancer. He told me in confidence. I'm trusting you because—”

“So that is it,” he said softly, interrupting her, and Juliana knew he'd made the connection between this information and all the seemingly intimate exchanges he'd witnessed between Dirk and her. “Why could you not tell me this before?” There was a strained note in his voice—not harsh, not accusing, more like...hurt. Hurt she hadn't trusted him enough to confide in him. And surprising to her, hurt and regretful he hadn't trusted her, either.

He got up and walked over to one of the bookcases that lined the room, running his fingers blindly over the bindings. “I owe you an apology, little one,” he said with his back still turned to her, his voice very deep. “And DeWinter, too.”

“Yes, but you can't apologize to him. Not now. You can't tell him you know.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, that's why they're changing the schedule all around. Dirk wants to take Bree back to the States for treatment. Bree wants him to finish filming
King's Ransom
first. Dirk thinks he can be done in less than two weeks, and it's possible. But that means putting all my scenes without him off into the future.”

“So you will be staying in Zakhar longer than originally planned?” Andre still hadn't turned around, but now he did. And there was an expression on his face that told Juliana this was good news to him.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “And because the shooting schedule's been rearranged on
King's Ransom
, that means I'm free the next few days to film that appeal for the Red Cross you mentioned. And free to help in any other way I can.” She looked him full in the face. “What can I do? How can I help?”

* * *

Juliana stood in the midst of the devastation, hearing Andre's voice from the night before,
“Ninety-seven dead, thirty-two of them children.”
Looking at the houses knocked off their footings, some buildings seemingly exploded from the inside out and some just literally wiped off the face of the earth, it was hard to believe
anyone
had survived when the mountain had rumbled down on Taryna.

Electricity was still out, and the natural gas was still turned off, Andre had told her just before their helicopter had taken off. But large portable generators had been brought in to provide power for the cleanup crews, along with tents, cots and portable restrooms for their use. And there were a couple of Red Cross food trucks dispensing hot coffee and meals for the workers around the clock. Andre had mobilized a small army on short notice.

Juliana glanced down at the script she'd been given, in both English and Zakharan, but she'd already memorized her few lines that would be spoken on camera. The rest would be a voice-over, while the disaster footage the camera crew was shooting now was shown. For that she didn't need to memorize; she just needed to rehearse so it wouldn't sound as if she was reading from a script when she spoke her appeal for donations.

She looked over to where Andre was standing with a team of structural engineers, hydrologists and geochemists he'd carefully assembled to assess the damage and ongoing situation. They were all dressed in sturdy clothing and hiking boots, including Andre. Every resident of the small village had been accounted for, but there were still questions. When—if ever—would the survivors be able to return to retrieve their personal possessions? Which houses were safe to enter, if not to occupy? Would the records in the town hall be recoverable, the official lists of births, marriages and deaths that went back hundreds of years? And could Taryna be rebuilt where it was? Or was it just too dangerous? What had caused the landslide in the first place? And was there any way to tell if the mountain was done, as Andre had so succinctly worded it?

Two more victims had died that morning—an elderly woman and her infant granddaughter, who'd both been barely clinging to life when they'd been found in the wreckage of their home—raising the death toll to ninety-nine, fully a third of them small children. Juliana had been standing next to Andre, preparing to board the helicopter, when he'd received that unwelcome news. He'd folded his lips even more sternly, but that was the only reaction he'd allowed himself. And yet...she knew it was another blow to him, the same way it was to her. It
mattered
.

Now as she watched him walking about the ruins of Taryna with the assessment team she realized he wouldn't spare himself in this. He wouldn't ask anyone to take a risk he wasn't willing to take, wouldn't stand back while others did the work. He was a “Come on, men!” leader, not a “Go on, men!” king. She remembered the way he'd looked last night, remembered his hands particularly. Bruised. Filthy. Nails broken off. As if she'd been there beside him yesterday in the wreckage, she knew he'd been in the thick of the search for survivors, using his hands to dig out those who were trapped when using machinery would have been just too dangerous.

And then, when everyone who could be rescued had been rescued, he'd gone directly to the chapel in the palace. Bone weary, but not ready to give up until everything that could be done had been done. He would push himself until he collapsed, because that was the kind of man he was. The man she'd fallen in love with years ago...and still loved. Not cold. Not callous. Not uncaring. She'd been wrong about that. What else had she been wrong about?

* * *

Juliana and the film crew were long finished taping. The crew had packed up their equipment in the helicopter they'd arrived in and had headed back more than an hour ago. They'd willingly offered her a ride—she recognized the frank, male appreciation in their eyes, but she knew it wouldn't go beyond that, and that wasn't why she'd turned the offer down. She just wanted to wait for Andre, no matter how long it took. She'd come here with him and wanted to return with him.
Dance with the man who brought you,
she heard her father say in her head. And despite the tragedy that had occurred here yesterday—or maybe because of it—she couldn't help but smile a little at the quaint normalcy of her father's advice.

It wasn't a modern concept. But then, her father was nearly old enough to be her grandfather, so his mores were those of two generations earlier. He'd married late—he'd been almost forty-six when she was born, and since her mother had died when Juliana was four, she was his only child and the darling of his heart. He'd retired when she was twenty, barely a year after she went to Hollywood—Zakhar had been his last ambassadorial posting.

He'd been a good father, though. A good role model. Not perfect, but he'd done his best, and she loved him dearly.
I should call him,
she reminded herself, making a mental note. They were in constant contact via email, but that wasn't really the same he'd told her more than once. And no texting for him—he preferred hearing her voice—he was old-fashioned that way, too.

Some of the things he'd taught her growing up were definitely outdated, like the fact that the first and last dance of the evening belonged by right to the man whose date you were—hence the advice,
dance with the man who brought you
. Like the fact that good girls don't.

Her smile faded.
Good girls don't.
But she hadn't been a girl when she'd sought Andre out. She'd been a woman. A woman in love. She hadn't thought she was doing anything wrong by showing Andre how much she loved him. And he hadn't seemed to think anything bad of her because of it...not that night, and not the next morning. It was only later—when he'd sent her the money—that she'd writhed in humiliation at how easy she'd been. How cheaply he seemed to hold the gift she'd given him. How cheaply he seemed to value her.

And yet...that didn't seem to be the way he thought of her now.
“You gave yourself to me once,”
he'd told her the other night. As if she'd been a precious gift, one he treasured in his memory and wanted to keep forever.

Once again she realized that too many things didn't make sense. Too many contradictions between what she knew had happened then and what she was hearing now. Dirk telling her Andre believed she'd deserted him, but he was determined to win her back anyway. She'd been adamant Andre had lied to Dirk, but...what if he hadn't been lying?
“Tell me, Juliana,”
Andre had said that night in the little library even before he'd talked with Dirk.
“If not DeWinter, then who? Someone hurt you. Someone broke your heart... Tell me who it was.”

And when she'd accused
him
of being the one who broke her heart, he'd said,
“Do not lie to me, Juliana. Your heart was not broken when you chose to go to Hollywood instead of returning to Zakhar that summer.”
She'd been shocked at how he was twisting things around. But...what if he wasn't? What if he truly believed it? Was it possible?

Nothing made sense anymore. Least of all the money he'd sent her. The money...and the motive behind it. She could forgive him almost anything else now that he seemed to love her again. But the money was the one thing she was finding nearly impossible to forgive because it was the one thing she couldn't explain away.

* * *

It was nearly dark by the time Andre returned to the village with the assessment team, and the temperature had dropped with the setting sun. Even though it was summer, the average temperature in the mountains here near Taryna was twenty to twenty-five degrees cooler than it was in Drago, and Andre and the rest of the team had dressed accordingly.

His brain was fully occupied with the answers the engineers, hydrologists and geochemists had come up with for all the questions he'd originally posed to them, as well as the additional questions that had been raised as a result of what they'd uncovered. Exhaustion tugged at him, but he refused to give in to it. The rest of the team was dragging after the miles they'd hiked today, miles in the thinner mountain air that made it more difficult to replenish the oxygen their muscles burned.

But Andre knew no one would complain as long as he never showed even a hint of weakness, so he was careful not to show it. Still, he was glad to see the church tower of Taryna in the distance. He'd pushed himself to the limit yesterday, and today had been the same. He'd be glad to get back to the palace, glad for the simple luxury of being alone so he wouldn't have to hide his weakness from the world.

They passed through the village, and Andre stopped to talk with the man spearheading the cleanup operation—a colonel in the Zakharian National Forces and a whiz at organization. “Go on ahead,” he told the other members of the team. “Do not wait for me. We will meet tomorrow at the palace at—” he looked at his wristwatch and amended his initial time “—9:00 a.m. I would like a written report from each of you detailing your observations and recommendations.” He smiled at them. “Thank you. You are all invaluable to this team. I will see you tomorrow.”

Dismissed, the rest of the assessment team headed to where the helicopters had been waiting since their arrival this morning. Andre's personal bodyguard stayed behind with the king, of course, and Andre mentally counted up the number of team members and the number of available seats in each helicopter, satisfying himself that everyone would have a seat in the three helicopters that had brought the team here, even though a couple of the structural engineers had arrived earlier this morning with the cleanup crew. He wouldn't hold anyone up by staying to get a progress report on the cleanup.

He spent twenty minutes with the colonel, committing relevant information to memory, and agreeing with the colonel's request for more manpower. “You will have it,” he told the colonel in no uncertain terms.
Even if I have to disregard the Privy Council's wishes,
he thought with a sudden spurt of internal anger.
Again.

When he was done Andre and his bodyguard headed to the royal helicopter. He suddenly thought of Juliana as they passed the spot where she'd stood in front of the cameras, a children's playground, where the playground equipment—swings, jungle gym and seesaws—were all half buried in dirt and rocks. He smiled to himself, remembering how she'd unerringly picked that spot as the most poignant, and the most likely to appeal to parents the world over even without her saying a single word. He'd watched the filming for a few moments before the assessment team had headed up the mountain. Somewhere in the piles of wreckage that had once been houses, Juliana had uncovered a battered and filthy baby doll, and she'd cradled it in her arms as the cameras rolled.

He'd already put in motion the soon-to-be-broadcasted Red Cross appeal, both on television within Zakhar and via the internet worldwide. Juliana's face, her emotive voice, her appeal in both English and Zakharan, would soften the heart of anyone, and donations would pour in as soon as the edited film was available. He made a mental note to check on that first thing in the morning, before his meeting with the assessment team. The sooner the Red Cross appeals began, the better for the Taryna villagers, no matter how the Privy Council dragged its feet on the relief effort.

His smile faded when they reached the royal helicopter and he saw Juliana huddled inside, curled up in one of the seats, fast asleep. The military pilot, who'd waited with the chopper the entire day, and one of Juliana's bodyguards—a man she wasn't aware was her bodyguard—had both placed their jackets over her, Andre noted. But even though she was a little bit of a thing the jackets wouldn't stretch to cover her entire body. She was wearing slacks and a long-sleeved shirt, but she wasn't dressed for the mountains, not after the sun went down and the temperature plummeted. He cursed under his breath.
Why didn't Juliana return to Drago with the film crew earlier?
he asked himself.
Why did she stay here?