The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) (19 page)

Whatever else happened, she wouldn't regret the humanity and compassion that had called her back to help.

. . .

The good feeling only lasted as long as it took Chey to close the door to the King's suite and lean her back against the wood, relieved to shut the world out for a while. A flicker of light off the walls pulled her attention to the flatscreen attached to the wall, where a silent movie played. A silent movie starring her. She watched herself reply to questions posed by Charlene, who presented a poised, pristine image on camera.

Sitting in front of the flatscreen in a thickly padded chair was Sander, one arm draped off to the side, the other holding a tumbler of amber liquid. He watched the images as if he wasn't really seeing them, as if they were a backdrop to some other movie going on in his mind.

Dread made a complicated knot of her stomach and shortened her breath in her throat. This wasn't the way she wanted it to happen.

Stepping away from the door, cursing herself a thousand times over for not
making
the time to tell Sander about the tape, fretting over whether the 'interview' had made it to public television, Chey deleted the distance between her and the chair he sat in. He spoke just before she reached him.

“The only thing I can't figure out is why you didn't tell me,” he said.

Chey circled the chair and stood between him and the flashing imagery. She didn't need anyone to tell her that her worst fears were realized: whoever had set her up turned the tape loose on the council, at the very least, and the entire country of Latvala at worst.

“I tried to several times. Or meant to. Something came up every time. You were too pensive last night before the tour, then there was the accident.” Chey watched his face, waiting for him to meet her eyes. It took him a handful of minutes before he directed his unfocused gaze on her own.

“You need to tell me when you've possibly been compromised so I'm not broadsided by it. I knew that you didn't believe the things you were supposedly saying in answer to the questions, but trying to convince the council of this has proven much harder. Some of them tend to believe what they see right out of the gate and changing their mind is difficult.” He stared at her while he took a drink from the glass.

“Did it go live? I mean on television?” Sick at heart that someone would use her like this, she waited on pins and needles for the answer.

“Not yet. We got lucky.”

“How did the council get it?”

“Someone on the inside at the station. They caught wind after the team used the studio to edit the film and confiscated the tape.” He took another drink, then sat forward, glass dangling between his thighs. His eyes never left her.

“So they were going to run it. If not right now, then sometime.” Chey didn't need confirmation. Of course that had been the intent. She just couldn't believe what a close call it was.

“It appears so. I'm having Charlene brought back here tomorrow morning for questioning. You should be there.” Sander finished off the drink and set the tumbler on the table beside the chair.

“I will be. Yesterday, at the lodge on the mountain, I confronted Paavo.” Chey decided to tell him about it now, before Paavo could tell Sander first. That was all she needed after this.

“About?” Sander slouched back in the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles.

“I thought he was the one who ordered the interview.
Someone
had to, right? That couldn't have happened all by itself. He denied it outright. Said he had nothing to do with it.”

Sander arched both brows. “Why would you think he manipulated the interview? Because he wants to split the country into regions? I'm not following.”

“I thought he might have wanted to use it for blackmail purposes. I'm an easier target—you or Mattias or Gunnar probably would have seen it coming. I didn't see it coming at all. It would paint me in a bad light, especially later, after we get married.” And she became Queen.

Thoughtful, Sander remained silent for several minutes.

Chey fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, concerned Sander might be truly upset with her. They'd had falling outs in their time together; this felt different. She preferred him angry and gesturing because at least she could read his mood better than this cautious neutrality.

“It doesn't seem like something he would do. Then again, if you had asked me two months ago if one of my brothers wanted to cut Latvala up into sections, I would have laughed the notion away. I'll speak to him about it after I see what Charlene has to say.”

“Fair enough. I'm sure he'll deny it—and maybe he really is innocent. Maybe there's another reason. I saw him speaking with Bashir in the hallway on my way here from Wynn's suite. That was probably nothing, too.” Chey crouched to the side of his outstretched legs and rested a hand on his thigh. When he met her eyes, she didn't detect any anger per se. Just the same sense of contemplation that she'd witnessed several other times. She wouldn't feel better until he touched her. Reassured her out loud.

“Did you hear anything they were saying?” Sander asked. He stretched a hand to smooth the pad of his thumb across the rise of her cheek.

“No. I was too far away when I saw them. Paavo didn't seem all that happy to see me, but that could just have been because I interrupted their conversation.” She tilted her face into his hand. “You're not angry, are you?”

“I'm not mad at you. I
was
frustrated at being caught unaware, though. You and I have to be on the same page as often as we can. I don't care if the sky is falling next time—interrupt. Tell me in a no nonsense voice that you need me. Grab my hand and lead me away. Urmas and the rest can wait. I'd rather face the council's displeasure at a slight delay than be taken by surprise. Okay?” He caught her under chin, gentle and soft, caressing the skin from there down her throat.

“All right. Next time, I will.” Now that she had his go ahead, nothing short of armageddon would keep her from telling him what she needed to tell him, including his brooding moods. “Even if you seen pensive and unapproachable.”

His fingers slipped off her collarbone and swerved back to his mouth. Propping them there, elbow digging into the arm of the chair, he studied her over his knuckles. “Good. While we're at it, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Chey considered Natalia. That had been so intensely personal, Chey wasn't sure she
should
say anything. Some things were meant to be kept between two people. “No, that's it.”

“All right.” He reached for the remote with his other hand and switched the tape off.

A thought occurred to Chey. “You don't think Charlene and her people had time to make a copy, do you?”

“I don't think so. My inside man got on it pretty quick. He said there wasn't time for them to make copies as far as he was concerned.”

Chey exhaled with relief. “Thank goodness.”

“If he finds anything, he'll let me know.” Sander paused, then said, “You ready for bed?”

“More than you know. Wynn talked my ear off.” A wry smile curved her lips.

Sander rumbled a quiet laugh. “You can tell me about her reaction tomorrow, hm?”

“Yes. Right now, the pillows are calling my name.” Standing up, she reached both hands down to 'help' him out of the chair. He engulfed hers in his and came up quicker than she expected. The next thing Chey knew he had her scooped in his arms, striding for the bed.

That, more than anything, let Chey know everything would be just fine.

Charlene, attired in a fitted skirt suit of lemon yellow, stared at Chey and Sander across an oval table in conference room two. Hair styled as if she was going live on television any second, make up perfect and dramatic, Charlene appeared ready for whatever they threw at her.

Sitting next to Sander, Chey observed the reporter with what she hoped was a distinct lack of emotion. Many council members, advisers and other people of importance stood or sat nearby, attention switching from Charlene to the King.

Careful to remain aloof, Chey listened as Sander got the meeting under way. Although the advisers had urged Sander to let the lawyers do the questioning, he'd insisted on initiating the session himself. Later, he'd promised, they could have their day in the sun.

“Why don't you tell us about the interview. One had been scheduled to go up on the website with Miss Sinclair, but I think yours was inserted in its place,” Sander said.

“The interview was about as straight forward as they come,” Charlene said. “I asked her questions, she answered.”

“And when the interview deviated at the end? When you cornered Miss Sinclair with a question we all know shouldn't have been asked?” Sander stared at Charlene, features set into an indifferent mask.

“Your Majesty—there
is
no such thing in journalism as a question that shouldn't be asked. My producers wanted something real, and real is what we gave them,” Charlene replied, matter of fact.

“So you condoned the entrapment,” Sander said, using her matter of fact tone.

Charlene faltered. “Entrapment? I hardly think--”

“It was exactly that. Was that your idea, or your producer's?”

“I had a list--”

“From who?” Sander pressed.

“My producer.” Charlene rolled her shoulders under the lay of her jacket, as if she was suddenly uncomfortable.

“Write his name down on the paper there near your hand.” He gestured to the notepad with a tick of his chin.

Charlene hesitated. Sliding the notepad closer, she picked the pen up and wrote a name down.

“In your eyes, and your producer's, this was just another interview. Except that it's not what we set up here, not what we agreed to and planned on, so I want to know how you got in,” Sander said.

“Simple. My producer called and we were granted the request.” Charlene pushed the notepad away.

“Someone must have referenced the other interview to gain entry,” Sander said.

“I don't know what my producer's people said when they called.” Charlene glanced from Sander to a few of the men around the room. Some were also taking notes.

Sander fell to silence. He stared across the room, not at Charlene, rubbing the smooth angle of his chin. Minutes crept by. With each passing one, the tension in the room increased.

Chey caught herself just before she could adjust her clothing. Prickles of heat dotted the skin of her arms under the sleeves of her sweater and between her shoulder blades. Sander had a way of putting someone on the spot without saying a thing. If she wasn't so annoyed, she might have felt sorry for Charlene.

“Your Majesty?” Charlene finally said, attempting to prompt an answer.

Sander said nothing. Not for another eight minutes, into which a council member or two coughed into their fist and someone else shuffled paper.

“I don't believe you knew nothing about it,” Sander said. Quiet. Too quiet. He met Charlene's eyes across the table.

“How can you know that? I had my list--”

“A list you looked at well before your interview. No reporter goes into a session like this blind. You saw the question, maybe there were even a few more hard ones after it, too, and continued anyway. Or, you knew before you ever left your station which means you went along with the plan from the beginning.”

Charlene pinched her lips tight. “Yes. I knew there were a few hard questions. Nothing Miss Sinclair
shouldn't
have answered, however. The people have a right to know what she thinks about something as serious as the division of our country.”

“The fact remains—this wasn't the interview my advisers agreed to and planned for. You and your producer used that knowledge to get in, then surprised Miss Sinclair with questions that would have caught anyone off guard. What I want to know, Charlene, is whether someone
else
was behind this. Behind even your producer.” He held up a finger in a holding motion. “Be careful what you say in the next few minutes. I'll invoke my right to overrule any court you see fit to take this to and have you jailed if I find out later you're lying.”

Chey resisted the urge to glance sideways at Sander. She knew by his voice, by his action, that he was dead serious. That Charlene knew it too was evident by the flex of a muscle in her jaw.

“To my knowledge, it was just the producer and a few other people at the station. They thought the public had a right to know her true feelings—and whether there was more to the story than what the media was being told,” Charlene said. “I agreed to ask the questions, but it
wasn't
my idea in the first place to put Miss Sinclair on the spot. It was my job, but not my idea.”

“A fait accompli, one you could have prevented. I'm disappointed,” Sander said to Charlene. “But it won't land you in jail as long as the other answers match yours. Thank you for coming in.”

Dismissed, Charlene stood up from the chair, opened her mouth like she might say more, then marched out of the room accompanied by two guards.

Sander leaned over to whisper in Chey's ear. “I'll find you after I talk to Paavo, all right?”

Chey nodded once, then stood up when he did. This wasn't the time to ask him questions regarding the interview. She thought she knew what would happen from here anyway. Sander would question the producer and anyone else involved, administer some sort of punishment, and perhaps even get Charlene fired from her job.

Parting ways, she excused herself from the gentlemen present and exited into the hall. She breathed a long sigh of relief.

It didn't seem that Paavo—and a larger plot—was involved after all.

. . .

He blew by guards, legislators, council men and staff members with long strides full of determination. Sander left them all behind, shoulders square under the steel gray suit jacket. He loosened his tie as he took the stairs in pairs, loping up the last few with leonine ease. Whipping the tie from around his neck, he stuffed it into a pocket and released the first four buttons on the white shirt that felt like it was cutting his air off.