Читать книгу King's Ransom - Amelia Autin - Страница 11

Chapter 1

King Andre Alexei IV of Zakhar, heir to a long line of imperious kings, absolute monarch in a world where absolute monarchs were extremely few, was royally pissed. He fixed his steely gaze on the master of the household and said in a soft voice that didn’t fool anyone who heard it, “I thought I made myself perfectly clear with regard to the arrangements.”

“Yes, Sire, you did,” the man acknowledged stiffly. “But—”

“But what?”

“But the state apartments have always been reserved for immediate family or for visiting royalty.” There was just a hint of outrage in his voice. “Since your mother’s death, Your Majesty, no one has occupied the Queen’s Suite except the Queen of England when she was here for your coronation three years ago. I had the maids prepare the suite formerly occupied by Princess Mara for Miss Richardson instead. It will be familiar to her, and I am sure she will be very happy th—”

“If the Queen’s Suite is not ready to be occupied when Miss Richardson arrives, I will know the reason why.” Andre’s voice was even softer, and the elderly man in front of him quaked at the veiled threat in face and voice. The king was a gentleman as a general rule—kind, courteous and a wonderful employer to work for. Reasonable, too. But there was no doubt who ruled Zakhar—or this household. When he gave a direct order he expected it to be obeyed. Instantly. Not even forty years of faithful service would count when he looked and sounded this way.

Suddenly the king smiled. “Vladimir, old friend,” he coaxed. “You have known me all my life. I learned court protocol at your knee. And many times you shielded Mara from my father’s wrath—do you think I could forget that?” His smile faded. “But this is important to me. You cannot know how important. I realize it is a breach of state protocol, but do not fail me in this, old friend. Miss Richardson will be portraying Queen Eleonora in the film. I wish her to be treated as such, and not just in this way. In every way. She will be housed in the Queen’s Suite.”

Andre turned sharply and strode away before he betrayed himself any further. He’d worked tirelessly for this day for almost three years, ever since he ascended the throne. Now he would risk his future on one roll of the dice. But he wanted everything perfect beforehand. Everything that could be done to set the stage would be done. Then...if he lost...if he failed...he would have no one to blame except himself.

He’d been up since dawn, unable to sleep, knowing that in mere hours she would be here. Knowing that somewhere in the skies over the Atlantic Ocean, then over Europe, his men were closely guarding—albeit without her knowledge—the one woman for whom this entire endeavor had been undertaken. The woman for whom he’d paid the modern-day equivalent of a king’s ransom to ensure she would finally return to Zakhar.

Juliana.

Even her name had the power to move him in ways he’d fought for years. Her memory burned white hot in his mind and his body. How many times had he cursed himself that he couldn’t change his constant nature? How many times had he wished he was not a Marianescu? And how many times had he argued in his mind with the first Andre Alexei, only to hear the inevitable answer he did not want to hear, the same answer his namesake had implacably given to the church, to his Privy Council, to his subjects—it is her...or no one.

Forever and a day.

Most of the cast and crew of King’s Ransom were already here and had been for several weeks: shooting exterior shots, scoping out the palace—especially the older wings—planning camera angles, testing lighting schemes and doing all the thousand and one things that went into making a blockbuster feature film. But the leads, the actor and actress who would portray the first King Andre Alexei and his beloved Queen Eleonora—Dirk DeWinter and Juliana Richardson—were arriving later this morning. And the grand, formal reception for the entire cast and crew was set for tonight in the Great Hall.

Restless energy pulsed through his body, and Andre strode into the impressive Great Hall, with its massive mahogany pillars, three-story arched ceiling festooned with a grandiose display of gold inlay, and thick red-and-gold rug so immense it covered nearly the entire expanse of the floor.

Maids, footmen and equerries were hard at work preparing the room for the guests who would be there tonight. Banks of flowers and potted trees were being installed around the room, not just from the royal gardens but from professional nurseries in Drago and beyond, bringing the sweet freshness of the outdoors inside. The dust covers swathing the chandeliers had been removed, and in the morning light each prism sparkled and glittered, casting rainbow hues around the room. Tonight they would be even more dazzling.

Satisfied at the progress, Andre passed through the Great Hall to the Grand Staircase that led into it. He ignored the gilded, ornate railing and took the wide marble stairs to the second floor of the palace two at a time, his feet making no sound on the crimson carpet runner. Damon, Andre’s personal bodyguard on duty today, followed him, scrambling to keep up.

His father had chosen his bodyguards when he was the Crown Prince. But once he ascended the throne he’d recruited his cousin Zax to head up the security force protecting him and had handpicked his bodyguards himself, men from his own unit in the Zakharian National Forces, men he’d trained with. Men he could trust with his life, who were also discreet.

Captains Damon Kostya and Lukas Branko were two of those men detached from the military to serve in the contingent guarding him. Damon was on duty today and Lukas would be on duty tonight during the reception. They were nearly fanatical in their devotion to him, to keeping him alive, sworn to protect him at all costs. As were all the men on his bodyguard detail. And they’d done a damned fine job so far through two assassination attempts in the past three years.

Normally Andre was considerate of his bodyguards, careful to make no sudden, unexpected moves that would take whomever was on duty by surprise. It wasn’t his habit to make things more difficult for the men guarding him. But not today. He burst through the door to his suite of rooms, then turned abruptly. “Wait outside, Damon.”

“But, Sire...” Damon obviously didn’t like the idea of leaving his king unprotected, even in these relatively safe confines, but he acquiesced under the imperious expression on the face Andre turned on him. “Yes, Sire.” Even though Damon had agreed, the king knew he would station himself right outside the door, within earshot. And he would fume and fret the entire time Andre was out of his sight.

Andre’s elderly English valet was in the dressing room, humming to himself as he hung up on a stand the white gold-braided dress uniform the king would wear at the reception tonight. Brushing away a fleck of lint. Testing each button for a loose thread. Inspecting the belt, gold-handled sword and scabbard, ensuring the leather was polished to a high gloss and that there wasn’t a spot of tarnish or a finger smudge on the steel. Checking everything twice so the king would be no less than perfect when he left his valet’s hands. Normally Andre was amused at the way Sinclair fussed over his clothes, although he never let the other man fuss over him. But today wasn’t a normal day, and Andre craved solitude.

“Later, Sinclair,” he told his valet. “Come back later.”

Alone finally, Andre glanced once at the large, intricately woven tapestry on one wall of the bedroom before he tore his thoughts away from it. Then he paced, reviewing every detail in his mind. As if by focusing on the minutiae he could push thoughts of Juliana to the background. As if he could quiet the eager pounding of his heart as it anticipated her arrival. Useless.

“Propinquity is not love,” Andre’s father had reminded him repeatedly through the years, as he paraded one potential bride after another in front of his son’s disinterested gaze. Refusing to believe what he didn’t want to believe, despite knowing—as all Zakhar knew—that Marianescus mated for life. That they loved once...then never again. Refusing to believe his son’s heart had been irrevocably given at such an early age.

Not propinquity, Andre told himself now. His father had been as wrong about that as he’d been wrong about everything regarding his children—especially his only son. Andre’s love for Juliana had never had its roots in their close proximity, in their frequent encounters when they were younger. Eleven years without her would eventually have eradicated his love if that had been the case, but it had not. She was the other half of his soul—something he’d long since accepted, but that his father had always denied. And since Andre had despised his father for his treatment of Mara, father and son had rarely spoken except in confrontation. He’d never confided in his father that his love for Juliana burned like an eternal flame and always would—forever and a day.

He impatiently pushed open the French doors and strode out onto his private balcony. The balcony was another thing Andre’s bodyguards didn’t like. But the risk was slight. The royal palace stood on a hill above Drago, surrounded by a high castle wall patrolled by armed guards. No buildings were in gunshot range outside the wall, and there was very little that would give any would-be assassin cover as he lay in wait. Nevertheless, to a man Andre’s bodyguards begged him to have a care how often he exposed himself on the balcony without them to protect him.

Andre wasn’t thinking about that. He had something much more important on his mind right now, and he needed the escape the balcony brought him.

Usually the sight of Drago in the early-morning light, nestled in its green valley and ringed by towering mountains, calmed him. But not today. Now he clenched his fists against the stone railing, his eyes scanning the empty skies for the plane he knew would not arrive for some time. “Come to me, Juliana,” he whispered, the words he had dreamed for years but had never dared to utter aloud. Until today. “Come to me.”

* * *

The man picked up the newspaper, unfolded it and shook it out...then cursed. The headline blared what he’d known for weeks, so it wasn’t the headline or the accompanying story that made him angry. It was the reminder that something he’d long ago thought he’d taken care of for good was coming back to haunt him, and the radiant pictures beneath the headline only added fuel to the fire of anger that surged within him.

“Damn you,” he whispered to the photos.

He knew the ostensible reason why Juliana Richardson was returning to Zakhar after all these years. But he couldn’t trust that secrets long buried wouldn’t somehow resurface while she was here. Couldn’t trust that the truth wouldn’t somehow be revealed, destroying him and everything he’d plotted and planned for the past three years.

If he believed in God—which he didn’t—he would almost have said God held the king in the palm of his hand, foiling the two covert attempts he’d made to remove the king from his path to greatness. But although he didn’t believe in God, he did believe in the devil. And his two previous failures had recently prompted him to cut a deal with the devil himself—Aleksandrov Vishenko. The head of a particularly vicious branch of the Bratva—the Russian Mafia.

But now that Juliana Richardson was returning to Zakhar, it was no longer just the king he had to worry about. Unless he could find some way to keep Juliana away from Andre, or keep Andre away from Juliana, Juliana—sweet, beautiful Juliana—would have to die. There was really no other option.

* * *

Juliana put away the script she’d been studying and buckled her seat belt at the flight attendant’s announcement. She glanced at Maddie Treister, her administrative assistant, sleeping peacefully in the first-class seat next to her, but since her seat belt was already fastened Juliana didn’t feel the need to waken her yet. Her gaze slid across the aisle and she saw Dirk DeWinter buckling up. He’d already let his hair grow out into the shaggy length worn by men in the sixteenth century, and he’d dyed it several shades lighter than his usual brown pelt to match the paintings of the man he’d be playing in King’s Ransom.

He wasn’t wearing the green-tinted contact lenses yet, but she knew he would. He was a stickler for authenticity, just as she was, and he would have worn them even if they hadn’t been required because it would help make him “feel the part.” Like him, she would wear colored contact lenses, in her case to change her eye color from violet to pale blue, but at least she hadn’t had to dye her hair—the two paintings of Queen Eleonora that had survived through the years showed her with long raven tresses similar to Juliana’s own.

She smiled at Dirk and got his brilliant smile in return, the heart-stopping smile that had won him millions of female fans the world over. But Dirk was a man’s man, too, despite his movie star looks. His appeal was universal. Men wanted to be like him on the silver screen—brave, strong, heroic and utterly irresistible to women. Women just wanted him. But at thirty-four, five years Juliana’s senior, he was quietly, steadfastly faithful to his wife of twelve years, Sabrina, the lovely blonde who sat in the window seat next to him, gazing down with interested eyes at her first glimpse of Zakhar.

Dirk was one of Juliana’s few male friends in Hollywood. He was also one among the tiny handful of men who’d never tried to seduce her. Probably the only man who really saw the vulnerable woman behind the glamorous facade. Dirk and Sabrina were the only people besides Marty who knew Juliana was dreading the return to Zakhar. But even they didn’t know why. There were secrets in Zakhar she wanted to keep, even from her best friends.

“Did you sleep at all?” Dirk asked her, his knowing gaze sweeping over the faint shadows beneath her eyes.

“Not much.” She’d finally dozed off shortly after dawn, but then she’d woken with a start, her heart pounding, hearing words she’d heard in her head many times over the years. Come to me, Juliana. Come to me. Loving words. Lying words.

“Didn’t think so. And that’s not you. You can usually sleep anywhere. Remember when we were on location in Death Valley two years ago? No one else could sleep in that searing oven...except you.”

Dirk knows me too well, she told herself. Which wasn’t surprising. She’d starred opposite him three times before in the past ten years, the last being the action-adventure flick set in Death Valley, San Francisco and Hong Kong—another hit for both of them. Such a resounding commercial success the studio was begging for a sequel, although so far Dirk had refused. “No way,” he’d told Juliana in private. “There’s nothing new that can be revealed about those characters.” And on his sage advice Juliana had refused, too.

Dirk had never steered her wrong. He’d been responsible for her big break in Hollywood right from the beginning, convincing the producers of her first movie to take a chance on an unknown. He’d already been a major star then—the marquee name that could sell a movie all on his own, so the producers had acceded to his wishes. Dirk had seen Juliana’s screen test, had seen something in her that he knew would click with him on-screen, and after they’d talked in person he’d picked her over already established stars to play the heartbreakingly fragile Tessa opposite his Terry O’Dare in the movie adaptation of the runaway bestseller Jetsam.

Dirk’s instincts hadn’t played him false. They had sizzled on the screen for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was Juliana’s petite stature next to his robust frame, which emphasized her fragile femininity and his uncompromising masculinity.

Now they were being paired up again for King’s Ransom, and she knew why the producer had wanted both of them. Their on-screen chemistry ranked right up there with Tracy and Hepburn, Bogart and Bacall. Only more intense. And since movies had become more explicit since the heyday of those couples, even more sizzling.

Juliana had been excited by the script for King’s Ransom when the part of Eleonora had been offered to her, and eager to work with Dirk again. Costume dramas in this day and age were always a risk for a movie studio. But the King’s Ransom script contained thrilling battle scenes, not to mention incredibly romantic love scenes, and—as far as Juliana could tell—was almost religiously accurate in all the major details.

Great script, great director, a supporting cast she respected and Dirk DeWinter to star opposite her. Not to mention a studio willing to give the film the financial backing it needed. What more could an actress ask for? She had been excited about the role of Eleonora, as excited as Dirk still was about playing the first king of Zakhar...until she’d learned the movie was being shot on location. In Zakhar. In Drago. In and around the royal palace. Where—inevitably—she would encounter Andre again.

Juliana shut down that train of thought ruthlessly. You will not remember, she ordered herself forcefully, but she knew it was in vain. The memories already haunted her. They’d haunted her for eleven years. It was long past time for her to put those memories to rest where they belonged—in the graveyard of might-have-beens.

She wouldn’t allow herself to care. Not anymore. If you don’t care, why did you bring that dress with you to wear to the reception tonight? she asked herself derisively. What are you trying to prove? And to whom? It was a daring gown, designed to be worn with absolutely nothing beneath it. Designed to be worn by a woman who knew herself irresistible. Well, that’s true, isn’t it? she asked herself even more cynically. Millions of men lusted after her on the silver screen, the way women lusted after Dirk.

Millions of men...but not one in real life. Not one man who saw the plain girl she’d once been inside the beautiful woman she was now. Not one man who saw her need to be loved for who she was—her inner character—not the way she looked. Not one man who could ignite the fires of passion in a body that was ice-cold. Frigid. Doomed.

That’s another thing to blame Andre for, she realized. He killed that part of me. He ruined me for other men. How he would laugh to know that!

* * *

The man presented his card of invitation to get into the reception—hiding behind a facile smile his resentment that he had to prove his right to be in attendance at this royal function. Then was forced to walk through the portable metal detector set up at the entrance to the Great Hall with all the other guests—again inducing resentment he refused to display to the king’s men on duty there, even though their deferential attitude should have mollified him. No one would know from his expression that inside he was fuming. My blood is as royal as the king’s—I should be exempt, just as he is. I should not have to submit to this insult.

The metal detector had been installed in the palace years ago by the current king’s father. When the king had ascended the throne three years earlier he’d wanted it removed, but his objections had been overridden at the insistence of the Privy Council and the king’s own bodyguards—the metal detector had stayed in place. Not that a metal detector could detect any and all weapons, but it had definitely thinned the potential dangers the king’s bodyguards had to be on the lookout for during public occasions like this.

He glanced around the vast room, already filling up even though it was early in the evening. He saw one of the stars of the movie—Dirk DeWinter—standing head and shoulders above the circle of adoring female fans surrounding him. But Juliana Richardson—the other star—was nowhere in sight. He didn’t place much reliance on his being able to distract Juliana’s attention from Andre—she’d never had eyes for anyone except Andre when he’d known her eleven years ago. But he would try. If he wasn’t successful...there was always the alternative.

Knowing Juliana—and it was unlikely she’d changed that much in the past eleven years despite her international fame—there would be opportunities to silence her forever should it become necessary...and make it appear an accident.

* * *

Juliana hadn’t intended to make a dramatic entrance at the reception. But she hadn’t been able to resist the oversize marble tub in the lavishly appointed bathroom in her suite, and she’d indulged herself for almost an hour. She’d washed her hair and let it air dry, thankful she’d never had to do much with it—just brush it out and let her natural wave do its thing.

Then she’d lain down on the large, incredibly comfortable bed, intending to just rest her eyes before the reception. But the lack of sleep on the plane had done her in. Not just on the plane, she’d sleepily acknowledged as she dozed off. She hadn’t slept well ever since she’d known she would be returning to Zakhar.

She’d slept dreamlessly for the first time in weeks, her body too exhausted to do anything else. She never heard the rapping on her door, never roused until Maddie crept into the suite and then into her bedroom and shook her arm with a hushed, “Juliana! You’re late! Everyone’s asking about you!”

Juliana leaped into action and sent Maddie down to make her apologies. The household maid the palace had assigned to her had long since unpacked everything and put her things away. The dresses in the closet had already been steamed and pressed, ready for her to wear. Now she pulled out the full-length violet silk sheath that nearly matched the color of her eyes. Could she carry it off? Could she wear it the way it was intended to be worn, with no bra, no panties—not even a thong—and no pantyhose? Nothing except silk fabric clinging to her bare skin like a lover’s caress, a daring side slit to mid-thigh. She’d bought the gown when she’d known she was coming back here. When she’d known she would see him again. It was a dress designed to make him remember...and regret.

And he will regret, she promised herself as cold anger shook her. Naked, she slithered into the tight sheath and zipped it up, then stepped into the matching violet-tinted pumps. With shaking hands she added the diamond-and-tanzanite choker and earrings her father had presented her with after she won her first Best Actress award, because, he’d said with fond pride, they matched her eyes.

She quickly brushed her hair, swiped on a touch of lip gloss and added a dab of violet eye shadow to make her eyes even more mysterious. She didn’t use eyeliner or mascara—her lashes were naturally long, dark and double-lashed. Then she spritzed herself with her favorite perfume, which she rarely wore. Not at $695 an ounce. But tonight she was pulling out all the stops. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make him regret.