Читать книгу Alec's Royal Assignment - Amelia Autin - Страница 11

Chapter 2

Alec woke well before dawn. Crossing several time zones in his flight from Washington, DC, to Zakhar meant that his sleep-wake pattern wasn’t geared for local time. It would only take him a couple of days—three at the most—to adjust. But until then...he just had to suffer.

Despite the early hour, his body told him in no uncertain terms it had enough sleep. So he slipped from his decently comfortable bed, tugged on the appropriate clothes, tucked his spare SIG SAUER in the ankle holster he quickly strapped on and headed out for some much-needed exercise. Tiring his body out would help it adjust faster. Then all he had to do was force himself to stay awake until nightfall, and he was halfway there.

Alec was assuming the apartment lease held by the outgoing RSO—an apartment conveniently only five minutes away from the embassy—but until he officially took over the reins the day after tomorrow, the other guy was still in residence. The embassy had arranged for him to bunk temporarily at this little bed-and-breakfast near the center of Drago. The widow who ran it had given Alec his set of keys last night, and he quickly grabbed them off the nightstand before treading noiselessly down the stairs and out the front door.

This part of the city was mostly shrouded in darkness so early in the morning, with only an occasional street lamp to guide the way. There was light from the airport on the outskirts of town and the palace on the hill, but most of Drago was dark, its inhabitants quietly sleeping.

Alec wasn’t overly concerned. Violent crime in Drago—in all of Zakhar, for that matter—was rare. The average tourist didn’t have to worry about getting mugged.

He’d also studied a detailed map of Drago on the flight over, and had committed it to memory. It was one of the little knacks he had. His sister, Keira, called him the human Global Positioning System because, after studying a map, he could find his way just about anywhere and never got turned around or lost. Helpful for someone who travels the world, he reminded himself with a glimmer of a smile.

Now he turned left and headed toward the river, jogging at a steady pace. The air was cool, almost cold, and for a minute Alec regretted he hadn’t dressed warmer. But then he dismissed the thought. His body would warm up quickly once he really got going.

Little threads of mist floated near the ground, and the closer he got to the river the stronger and more eerie the mist became. He finally reached the embankment and turned left again. There was a wide walkway here that followed the river’s meandering course for miles. What had obviously once been hard-packed dirt from centuries of use had been paved with porous asphalt to accommodate all-weather users. He held by his father’s maxim with regard to running—go as far out as you possibly can, until your body calls it quits... Then turn around and head back. He figured this walkway would help him accomplish just that.

Alec had been jogging for roughly ten minutes when he heard the soft slap of running shoes on asphalt coming up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. He slowed, then turned around and jogged in place for a few seconds until a figure materialized out of the mist and darkness, closing the gap between them quickly.

He smiled when he recognized the tall, slender woman on the footpath. “Lieutenant Mateja,” he acknowledged.

She’d obviously been running for some time. Perspiration darkened the underarms of her gray sweatshirt, but her breathing wasn’t even ragged when she briefly returned his smile and answered, “Good morning, Special Agent Jones.”

Alec swung into step beside her. “The name’s Alec.”

She considered this for a moment and then nodded her assent to his implied offer. “Alec,” she agreed. “I am Angelina to my friends.” She hesitated for a moment, then added abruptly, “It is a good omen, your name. A good omen for the job you do. Defender of the People. That is what Alec means.”

“How do you know that?”

“The meaning of names is a hobby of mine. Since I was a little girl, you understand. Names have always fascinated me. I remember when...” She hesitated.

“When...?” he prompted.

“When the king was a boy—he was the crown prince then, of course—his names caught my imagination. Andre Alexei. Manly Defender. That is what his names mean. A good omen for Zakhar, I thought, for a man who would be king someday, yes?”

“If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“He has borne that out,” Angelina insisted earnestly. “He is a man with strong convictions. He would lay down his life for what he believes. His example inspired me. His sister, too. If not for them, I would not be where I am today.”

The conversation had gotten a little too intense a little too quickly for Alec, so he teased gently, “And what does Angelina mean? Angel-face?”

She flashed a startled glance in his direction, as if gauging the intent behind his compliment. Eventually an uncertain smile played over her lips, but something about her expression made Alec think she didn’t often get personal compliments. Or maybe she didn’t allow herself to accept personal compliments very often. And isn’t that curious? he thought. A beautiful woman like her?

“So tell me,” he coaxed as they ran companionably side by side. “If it doesn’t mean Angel-face, what does Angelina mean?”

“Messenger of God.” She looked uncomfortable, as if she thought he might think she was trying to lay claim to something she didn’t deserve. “But my parents did not pick my name for that reason. They named me Angelina Zuzana because those were my grandmothers’ names. Zuzana means lily.”

“Angelina Zuzana. Beautiful names for a beautiful woman.”

She didn’t respond at first, and Alec could tell she was also uncomfortable being called beautiful. But then she said, “Thank you.” Exactly like a woman who’d been raised to be polite...even if she didn’t believe you.

A momentary silence hung between them until Alec asked casually, “If you’re so into names, what does Liam mean? Liam’s my younger broth—”

“Your brother, yes, I know. You are close?”

“Yeah. But I don’t see him very often. We’re usually on opposite sides of the world. Guarding Princess Mara together was a gift. I’m grateful for it but don’t expect it to happen again. So do you know what his name means?”

“Strong-willed Warrior.” Angelina laughed softly, clearly more at ease when the conversation didn’t revolve around her. “Your parents, they named you well for the profession you chose, both of you.” She considered this for a moment. “Or perhaps you chose the profession because of your names?”

Alec couldn’t have cared less about good omens or bad where names were concerned, or why he and Liam had picked their line of work, but he did care about keeping Angelina talking to him in this friendly way. So after a moment he asked, “What about Keira? That’s my baby sister’s name.”

Angelina darted a glance toward him, her eyes flickering over his hair. “Does she resemble you?”

He smiled ruefully. “You mean, does she have red hair, like me? Yeah. Sort of red-gold. Short and curly. Very pretty. Not really like my hair, thank goodness.” He ruffled his short crop of auburn hair.

“Then your parents must not have known,” she replied, breaking into a real smile without breaking stride. “I am not positive—it has been years since I studied the meaning of names—but I think Keira means Black-Haired.”

Alec burst out laughing. “I guess they missed the boat on that one.”

“Missed the boat?” Her forehead crinkled in question.

“That just means they made a mistake, that’s all.”

“Oh. Thank you for explaining.”

“Other than her brown eyes, Keira doesn’t really look like me or like Liam. She looks more like our older brothers...but don’t tell them I said so.”

“Why is that?” she asked swiftly.

“Well...” Alec considered the question. “Neither Shane nor Niall have red hair,” he said, unable to hide that his own red hair was a sore spot with him, “and they have all the looks in the family—and Keira, of course. Shane and Niall look nothing alike, but Keira is like the best of both of them. In a feminine version, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I came along two years after Niall, and Liam followed not quite a year later. Everyone thinks we’re twins ʼcause we look so much like each other.” His lips quirked ruefully. “Right down to our hair. Our mannerisms, and the way we talk, too. And of course, we both went into the US Marine Corps and the DSS. So I guess it’s natural people think we’re twins.” He paused for a moment. “Then two years after Liam, my mom had Keira.” He chuckled. “My dad always kidded that my mom broke his perfect record—four boys and then one girl.”

Angelina smiled perfunctorily at his little joke, but Alec could see she wasn’t really amused. Kind of like Keira, he thought suddenly. Keira had never cared for the way their dad thought less of her because she was female. Wasn’t that why Keira had always fought with brothers who were physically bigger and stronger than she was, to be respected as an equal? Wasn’t that why she’d followed all four of her brothers into the Marine Corps? And wasn’t that why she’d nearly died a few years back, because she was trying to prove to the agency she worked for that she was as good or better at her job than any man?

Alec suddenly realized they’d been jogging for a couple of miles, and Angelina had kept pace with him the entire way. She wasn’t winded at all. Her feet kept time with his in a steady cadence, like the beat of a heart. His heart. The thought disturbed him in a way he’d never been disturbed before, but he didn’t know why.

“What about you?” he asked after a minute’s reflection, trying to bring his thoughts under control by making small talk. “Brothers? Sisters?”

She shook her head. “I had a brother who died when he was a baby. Then there was me. After that, my mother could have no more children. But I have a younger cousin—had a younger cousin—who was like a little sister to me. I have not seen her in many years.” She folded her lips together as if she had intended to say more but wouldn’t.

Alec knew better than to ask her for an explanation. Not yet, anyway. Not with that closed, forbidding expression on her face. So he cast around in his mind for a new topic of conversation and settled on, “I know there’s not much crime here, but aren’t you—I don’t know—a little worried about being out alone this early? I mean, you were obviously on your own in the dark and the mist for some time before we met up. Most women I know wouldn’t risk it. Not in the States, anyway.”

Angelina didn’t say anything. She slowed slightly, and before Alec knew it, she had grabbed his arm, braced herself, and he found himself flat on his back on the grassy verge beside the path, with Angelina kneeling on his chest, one forearm against his throat.

Despite having the wind knocked out of him, the minute he caught his breath he began laughing. He couldn’t help it. “Okay,” he said, admiration leaching into his voice. “You’ve made your point.”

She scrambled up and held out her hand to assist Alec in rising, and he took it. But instead of letting Angelina help him up as she expected, he tugged sharply, pulling her down on top of him again. He rolled over swiftly, taking her with him, until she was wedged tightly between his body and the ground. She squirmed, but he had her pinned neatly by his weight and the firm hold he had on her arms. “Never assume a man’s no longer a threat,” he warned her softly. “Unless he’s dead.”

She stopped struggling then. He gazed down into her face, watching the play of emotions that flickered over it, and was surprised. Chagrin—what he’d expected to see—wasn’t followed by anger at how he’d turned the tables on her. Instead, it was quickly replaced by acceptance of a hard lesson learned. Alec had a feeling Angelina never forgot anything she learned, especially anything she learned the hard way.

Part of him wanted to stay like this, feeling her strong body beneath his the way he’d imagined the day before, but he was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of the situation. He jumped to his feet, pulling her up with him.

They dusted themselves off silently. Then, still without saying a word, they resumed their jogging. But something had changed between them. Alec couldn’t put his finger on it, and he wasn’t sure what it meant.

“You are good,” she said finally, surprising him once again. Her tone was admiring, the compliment sincere, not grudging as he would have expected.

“So are you.”

She shook her head. “With some men, yes. But not with you. You are like Captain Zale. I took you by surprise, that is all. I cannot expect to do that again.”

The sun was rising over the mountains now, dispelling the river mist and painting the eastern sky with a rosy glow that reflected off both of them. Angelina was silent for a moment and then said softly, diffidently, “I do not believe your older brothers have all the looks in the family.” Totally out of the blue. As if the subject had never been changed. Her serious blue-gray eyes met Alec’s, and he could see what that admission meant to a woman like her.

He stopped so suddenly she didn’t realize he was going to—he didn’t realize he was going to—and she kept running for a few steps. Then she halted, turned and faced him. “What is wrong?” she asked. “Why have you stopped?”

Why did you say that? He wanted to ask, but didn’t. For the first time since he’d been a callow teenager, he felt unsure of himself. Unsure of the woman he was with. Angelina was so different from all the women he’d known—except maybe his sister—that he didn’t know what to make of her.

The blood was suddenly pulsing through his body. His fingers tingled, his breath ran ragged. Not from running. His body had never felt this way after running. This was an awareness. A sudden, urgent need to eliminate the distance between them. To make her tell him what she meant by that seemingly innocuous statement and the enigmatic expression in her eyes. To touch her. Ravage her. Leave his mark on her.

She didn’t move when he did. Another woman would have quailed at the male intensity in his face. Another woman would have retreated. But Angelina wasn’t like any other woman. She wouldn’t back down. Ever. And something in Alec responded to that knowledge. Fiercely.

She was in his arms before he knew it. They were both damp, sweaty, both fighting for control of themselves, and each other. Her body was firm and hard against his, as he’d known it would be. But it was soft, too, a softness so totally unexpected it disarmed him.

Their lips met, but not in a kiss. No, definitely nothing as tame as a kiss. This was war between them, their mouths fused as if they were both firing shots over the bow in a take-no-prisoners stance. Hunger roared through his body, and an aching need to give her back just a tiny fraction of what she was giving him.

Then it was over. Angelina tore herself out of his embrace, and Alec watched as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, as if she was removing the taste of him from her lips. As if she could wipe out the memory the same way.

“Why did you do that?” she asked him finally.

“Because you wanted me to.” It sounded arrogant put that way, so he added, “Because I wanted to.”

“That is not true.”

“Which? That I wanted to kiss you?” One corner of his mouth twitched upward into an engaging grin. “I wanted to. Oh, yeah, I definitely wanted to, since the first moment I saw you.”

She shook her head. “Not that. You said I wanted you to kiss me. And that is not true.”

His grin faded and he held her gaze with his steady one. “Yes, you did,” he told her, accepting the truth even if she refused to acknowledge it. “You wanted to know what it would be like. We both did. And now we know.” And nothing will ever be the same again.

* * *

Aleksandrov Vishenko sat in his luxurious pied-à-terre in the heart of Manhattan, sipping at his snifter of Courvoisier L’Essence, pondering ways and means. He’d been contacted—through secure channels—by Prince Nikolai Marianescu, the king of Zakhar’s cousin. The cousin who’d failed so miserably eighteen months ago to dethrone the king and take his place, and who now resided in a prison cell.

The king’s cousin had named most of his coconspirators in the plot to kill the king—including two of Vishenko’s henchmen—but he had not dared to name Vishenko himself. Now he was trying to use his previous silence—and the threat of disclosure—to force Vishenko to do his bidding. The prince wanted revenge on Zakhar’s royal couple by assassinating their precious son who was not yet a month old—the heir all of Zakhar had prayed for.

Crown Prince Raoul was vulnerable, the prince insisted. There was a perfect window of opportunity coming up for him to die a very public, very gruesome death his parents would never recover from. The perfect revenge.

Vishenko smiled to himself, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and reluctantly came to the same conclusion as the unfortunate prince who thought he still had leverage from within his prison cell. It was a false assumption, but Vishenko was not going to say so. Not yet.

He had his own reasons for wanting the child dead, and they had nothing to do with vengeance. Only expedience. A means to a desired end.

He didn’t want Zakhar’s king dead—not anymore—despite the ongoing risk of his illegal activities being exposed. Despite the fact that the Russian Brotherhood, the Bratva—a branch of which Vishenko headed in the US as well as Zakhar—cared nothing for the monarchy. Any monarchy. Or any government, for that matter.

The king was good for Zakhar, and therefore good for Vishenko—that was all he cared about. Stable governments meant stable economies, which were greatly beneficial to his various legitimate enterprises all over the world, including Zakhar. All his legitimate Zakharian enterprises had prospered these past few years under the king’s rule. And he was nothing if not a pragmatist.

He just wanted the king...distracted for a time. Wanted the king’s attention focused elsewhere, just long enough for Vishenko’s men to wind down the operation that threatened to expose his identity.

The arrival of the American embassy’s new regional security officer, Alec Jones—who the current RSO insisted was incorruptible—had prompted the Americans to suggest shutting things down immediately.

He couldn’t do it. There were women in the pipeline, and the operation was just too profitable to bring it to a screeching halt. Especially when it had just been expanded six months ago. If the new RSO was truly not susceptible to bribery—and Vishenko was by no means convinced of that, since he believed every man had his price—then perhaps Alec Jones could be...nullified...in another fashion. The Americans would balk, of course. Corruption was one thing in their minds. Murder was something completely different.

So perhaps it would be better to do as the Americans wanted and shut things down...for now. A few more weeks—that’s all his men needed to wrap things up and put the operation in Zakhar on the shelf. It could be dusted off later and reinstated if circumstances changed. If not...well, there were other European countries, after all. It would just be a matter of bribing the right officials.

Aleksandrov Vishenko had operated in the shadow world for years with few people the wiser, reaping the rewards that came to a man who had no scruples. No morals. It would not have been a bad thing if Prince Nikolai had dethroned the king of Zakhar and taken his place, for then Vishenko would have had the new king in his pocket.

Not to be, he thought with a fatalistic shrug. Prince Nikolai was in jail and would remain there. Which meant Vishenko was safe...for now. But that could change.

So the little crown prince had to die. Unfortunate but necessary. And when he did, Prince Nikolai would die, as well. Wrapping up that loose end, making it appear a suicide, would be tricky. But no more impossible than other deaths Vishenko had successfully arranged over the years, including deaths inside prisons. No more impossible than killing the crown prince.

There is one more loose end I must eliminate, he reminded himself coldly, clinically. This one would be harder to accomplish than killing the two princes—man and child—because he at least knew where they were. It was different with Caterina. She had run six years ago, vanishing into thin air, and had never been found despite the bounty he’d placed on her head. He’d agonized at first—unnecessarily, as it turned out—that Caterina would take the evidence she’d compiled against him to the feds, and he’d lived in fear for nearly two years, waiting for the ax to fall. Waiting to be arrested. Tried. Convicted. He’d finally relaxed...but not completely. His men had continued searching for her, to no avail.

Caterina had been a grievous error in judgment—two grievous errors, he admitted. Letting her into his life...and letting her live to tell. I will not be secure until all three are dead, he thought as he savored another sip of brandy. Prince Nikolai. Crown Prince Raoul. And Caterina Mateja.