Читать книгу Her Last Protector - Jeanie London, Jeanie London - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

MIRIE HAD ONLY wanted a moment, had asked for right now. By definition that meant their interlude in the cave wouldn’t last forever, yet when Drei tugged on the harness she wore and asked, “Ready?” she wanted to shake her head with an emphatic no.

A strange sense of panic took hold now that they were dressed again. She wasn’t ready to leave, wasn’t ready to face the aftermath of her choices.

And she wasn’t ready to end her time with Drei.

Not when she had felt more alive during these fantasy hours together than she had in a very long time.

“Yes,” she said. No!

He only nodded, so terribly distant.

She couldn’t read his mood. The handsome face that had been hungry with arousal and so alive with pleasure had solidified into an expression that should have been familiar.

In some ways it was. She recognized the features, but had never understood that the impassive facade was a mask. She had glimpsed the real him today.

The intimacy they shared made him a familiar stranger. The difference was striking enough to unsettle her. As she had dressed, she felt uncertain, as if somehow putting on clothes together had been more monumental than taking them off. Her nerves were playing games with her, making her thin-skinned after too many conflicting emotions, too many memories in a short span of time. The memories alone had always unsettled her.

But all was well now. Or should have been.

General Bogdanovich had made contact. The attackers had long since escaped, and when the storm eased up enough for travel, her close-protection unit had arrived to retrieve her. They were above on the ridge. They’d sent down dry clothing and gear so she could safely make the ascent.

Mirie should be relieved the threat was over, and grateful to be alive. But when she looked at Drei, securing his own harness with the hands that had just held her, pleasured her, she felt a pang of...something, and her breath hitched in her throat at the physical intensity of the sensation.

He glanced up. The hard lines of his face softened, and she could see past the mask. His eyes caressed her as if he might never see her again. She glimpsed longing, and regret.

For one instant, Mirie thought he would reach out and touch her. An acknowledgment of what had passed between them, the caring, the comfort, the contentment. But he didn’t. He said unnecessarily, “They’re waiting above.”

He didn’t bother extinguishing the fire. There wasn’t much life left in the flames anymore, just enough to light their way as they left this place of shelter and unexpected escape.

Nerves were definitely making her thin-skinned and moody. Emotion swelled in her chest as they stepped out onto the ledge.

The path was lit with emergency lanterns to mark their way, a path that ascended straight up from the ledge. From this vantage point, Mirie marveled that they had made the descent successfully at all. Surely she would never have made it had fear and a storm not driven them to desperation.

Drei braced her close as he secured her to the rappel lines, his expression shadowed by the artificial light, his motions perfunctory. Could he so easily forget the way they had found comfort together? It shouldn’t matter, but it did. She wasn’t sure what she had expected after breaching the boundaries of their relationship so completely. Maybe that was the problem. She had acted impulsively, and he had been forced to react to her. There had been no thought. She had felt, and hadn’t been willing to let that feeling go.

She considered this while clinging to the rappel line one-handed. The line lifted her off the ground, and she used her feet to maneuver the branches, twisting them out of her way to avoid the snow dislodged with each step.

The climb was steep even with assistance from above, but Mirie felt no weariness, only awareness of Drei a few feet behind her. He steadied her with an occasional hand on her bottom. He helped her shove aside branches to spare her the trouble when he could. He would have caught her had she fallen.

He protected her. That much was the same.

Then the climb was over. There were men handling the equipment on the ledge, their bodies harnessed around tree trunks to provide the leverage to work the lines. She could see them well before the general reached for her hands to drag her up the remaining distance.

And Mirie left behind her emotions in that snowy gorge, put her own mask back on. “Thank you, General. Gentlemen,” she said, as she gained her footing.

There were quiet greetings, but Mirie was left to the company of the general as the unit of armed men worked to bring up Drei safely.

General Bogdanovich was minister of security with the NRPG under his command. He draped a blanket around her shoulders, and Mirie quietly endured his inspection as she stared into the face dominated by a bushy mustache that overcompensated for a head of thinning brown hair.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he said.

She felt the same way about him. “What of the villagers? You said there were injuries. How serious?”

“Scrapes and falls in the rush to get to the village mostly. No casualties—yet. The priest is in critical condition. The poliţie transported him to the hospital.”

But he wasn’t dead yet. Mirie’s eyes fluttered shut, and she inclined her head. The nearest hospital was forty minutes away in the best of weather, and the storm had not yet spent itself.

God, please, please, please... “Will we be able to contain the fallout?”

“We can brief tomorrow, Your Royal Highness,” he said curtly. “The only thing that matters now is that you’re safe.”

Which told Mirie everything she needed to know.

She had brought this situation upon everyone.

She felt responsible for the consequences, for the potential consequences and for undermining the efforts of people who had worked so hard on behalf of the Ninselan people.

On her behalf.

And when Drei surfaced over the ledge, his gaze sought and found hers immediately, and she felt his glance along with the memory of him wrapped around her. Inside her.

Her longtime protector quickly took charge of her again. He forced her to drink, then eat a few bites of a protein bar while the soldiers dismantled the gear. After speaking privately with General Bogdanovich, Drei instructed her on their destination and settled her behind him on the snowmobile for the trek back to civilization.

But it wasn’t until their convoy had departed, as Mirie sat with her arms tight around Drei’s waist and cheek pressed to his back, wishing they could curl up and doze off together as they had earlier, that Mirie realized her right now might not be so simple after all. Not when the man she had looked past forever was no longer invisible.

* * *

“WELCOME BACK, Your Royal Highness.”

Mirie accepted the coffee cup from her private assistant. “Relieved to be back.”

That much was true.

She set the folder on the desk. The business she had missed since leaving for Alba Luncă could wait a little longer. She took a fortifying sip of the coffee and glanced at Drei. He stood inside the doorway, his usual post while inside her office. His black uniform helped a giant of a man blend into the woodwork no matter where they were.

He wasn’t blending this morning, which had everything to do with the fact that she knew what he looked like beneath the blazer, turtleneck and pants. Mirie took another hot swallow. The past twenty-four hours had taken a toll. Most especially on her senses.

“Why are you still hanging on to that newspaper?” she asked her assistant.

Helena Avadoni exhaled a sigh that said more than words ever could. A petite powerhouse of energy and organizational skill, she oversaw every detail of life from names of visiting dignitaries during events to spare panty hose if Mirie happened to snag her nylons on a chair leg.

“Are you ready?” Helena asked.

Mirie held out her hand and, bracing herself, scanned the bold headline that read:

Luca of Whitefish.

The headline was an obvious play on her own media nickname. “And so it begins.”

The story summed up the claim of a man named Luca Vadim, who had arrived in Ninsele from a town in the northwestern United States, asserting he was the product of an affair between a Ninselan envoy and the late king.

The article claimed Luca Vadim had heard reports of Mirie’s assassination and worried that if the throne was suddenly vacant, Ninsele might be plunged into another civil war. He’d come forward as a public service.

“A public service,” Mirie said aloud. “Really?”

Silence was her only reply. Both Helena and Drei knew the drill. This wasn’t the first time an imposter had come out of nowhere to claim a blood tie to the throne.

Mirie herself had set the precedent to inspire these copycats. After years in hiding, she’d resurfaced with enough political support to oust the dictator. But she’d been backed by royal supporters, and her first item of business had been proving her identity through DNA testing.

Drei opened the office door, and both the general and Georghe entered. Mirie left her desk to greet them.

“You haven’t slept.” She recognized the signs.

“Like anyone sleeps around here.” Georghe kissed her cheek.

Forcing a smile, she felt the weight of her choices even though Georghe was too kind to point out the obvious.

The chancellor of the Crown Cabinet was one of the most caring people Mirie had ever known. His inconspicuous competency was the reason he had survived the dictatorship when most civilian staffers had been executed or exiled.

The dictator had recognized Georghe’s function within the government and had believed he could control the mild-mannered man. Georghe had played the part, working behind the scenes to ease the peoples’ plight in so many ways and ultimately providing Mirie with the necessary support to overthrow the dictator once she had reached the age of majority.

“Come, come.” Georghe motioned to the chairs. “We have a lot to discuss and some decisions to make.”

Business as usual. “Pour yourselves some coffee, gentlemen.”

After visiting the sideboard, Georghe and the general sat in front of the desk.

“I’m not surprised by Vadim’s attempt to capitalize on the attack,” Mirie said. “But what’s this about an assassination? Who reported I was assassinated? I thought we didn’t announce that I would be attending the funeral as a safety precaution.”

“That was the problem,” Georghe explained. “Since we didn’t issue a press release, no legitimate media were invited. You can thank the paparazzi for the false reports. They camp at our gates, so they followed when you left the compound.”

“Not only were those idiots broadcasting the locations of our units, but they jeopardized everyone’s safety,” the general complained. “There were reporters and video cameras cornering villagers as they tried to get through the gate. I had to sacrifice a unit to get the situation under control.”

Wonderful. The consequences of leaving Briere just kept breeding, like mold. Mirie set the cup aside. It would take more than coffee to make her feel better this morning. “Losing that unit impeded your efforts, General?”

“We might have been able to bring in a few more of your attackers alive if I hadn’t needed to divide my forces.” He scowled blackly. “The paparazzi were a distraction, and we let them know that loud and clear.”

Georghe gave a disgusted snort. “So I’ve heard, thank you. My office was flooded with complaints about your infractions against free speech and the public’s right to know before you even picked up Her Royal Highness. Did you really have to instruct your men to destroy the van’s satellite equipment? We were faxed a bill for its replacement.”

“They’re lucky I didn’t take them into custody. I would have if I’d had the manpower. That won’t happen again. Since they can’t be trusted to use discretion during a crisis, they won’t be allowed near Her Royal Highness. I want to assign a unit to keep them away from our gates.”

Mirie wasn’t sure she understood the point of redirecting their limited manpower. “I don’t leave except to go to church.”

“Exactly. That’s your Sunday routine, and these vultures need repetition to get the point. We’ll create a perimeter around the church to keep the paparazzi at a distance. Georghe can write up one of his diplomatic letters informing these media outlets they’ve lost their privileges.”

Georghe exhaled a low whistle. “I like it. We’ll hold the paparazzi accountable, protect the public and let the legitimate press know we’re taking action so the paparazzi won’t stumble on breaking news again. A show of good faith.”

Helena scribbled some notes while the general raised his coffee cup in a mock salute.

“Now can we get to business?” Georghe asked. “I want to hear what we’ve learned about these attackers.”

The general glanced at Drei. “We believe the transport copter continued through the mountains out of Hungarian airspace. They may have grounded the aircraft. We don’t know. The Hungarians’ radar didn’t yield anything, but they did offer to review surveillance tapes from their military base and a private airstrip in the region.”

“Do you think they’ll find anything?” Mirie asked.

“The attackers would have to be idiots to go anywhere close to civilization. Drei thinks they headed to Ukraine, using the mountains as cover for their escape.”

For the same reasons he had used them to escape with her. Spotty satellite coverage. Terrain that limited radio frequency. Was it any wonder Ninsele couldn’t get a lock on her own borders?

The military had been dismantled and replaced with paid thugs during the authoritarian regime, so the general had been rebuilding their armed forces ever since Mirie’s return. Unfortunately, rebuilding cost money the treasury didn’t have at the moment.

“Do you think the attack was a protest of the upcoming talks?” Mirie had to ask.

“If so, no one has claimed responsibility,” Georghe said. “Not yet, anyway.”

“We do have several corpses, so we haven’t hit a dead end,” the general went on. “The medical examiner is working to identify them now. Hopefully they’ll provide some leads.”

Georghe glanced at Mirie, his expression neutral. He would never say, “I told you so,” but he wasn’t happy. He glanced at Drei, and then said, “I’m sure you’ll come up with something soon. Her Royal Highness is home safely, which is what matters most.”

Mirie sighed. “Let’s discuss damage control for my newest half sibling, shall we?”

Georghe briefed her on Vadim, an American attorney who claimed to have been born out of wedlock during the first years of her parents’ marriage.

“A first child,” she said. “We haven’t had one of those before. And an American. That’s new, too.”

No one replied. Dealing with these claims was always awkward. Her father couldn’t defend himself against the charges and no one wanted to offend Mirie by impugning his moral conduct.

She kept the lead. “Do we know when Vadim was born?”

Georghe shuffled through some paperwork. “I’ve got his entry papers. June 29, 1980.”

Mirie mentally calculated. “My mother would have been pregnant with Alexi.”

No response.

“Do we know yet if my father even visited America during―” more calculations “―October of ’79 or thereabouts?”

Georghe didn’t bother looking back at his papers. “His Majesty visited Washington, D.C., for several weeks the year the honorary consulate opened. The time frame works.”

“And the alleged mother. She was in our employ?”

“That checks, too. An envoy named Ileana Vadim. A Ninselan citizen. She put in her notice in late 1981, and I couldn’t find any documentation that she ever returned to Ninsele. I’ve got my staff trying to track her down now.”

She nodded. “So Luca Vadim has done his homework.”

Silence. Mirie didn’t really need a reply. Everyone around the table was likely thinking the same thing.

Jus sanguinis. Salic law.

She may be in charge right now. She may eventually give birth to a son who could grow up to be king, but she would never be queen. Primogeniture decreed that only males could rule.

She couldn’t change that law even if she had been so inclined. Until she could negotiate consensus on the government structure, such a move would be seen as self-serving and could potentially deepen the rift between the opposing factions that had only tentatively been bridged since the civil war.

“Vadim is an attorney,” she said. “His most likely move will be to take his claim to court and sue for the right to the throne as the only living male heir.”

“He’d have to establish paternity,” Georghe said.

“He won’t,” Mirie said firmly. “Not through legal means, anyway. But if he continues to use the media, he will cast doubt on my right to negotiate with the European Commission. Enough doubt, and he may give the representatives one more reason to delay the talks.”

The very last thing they needed was to make the process of hosting representatives from the European Commission more complex. Like the Western Balkans that endured years of civil war, Ninsele had to be stabilized before it could formally become an acceding country with the commission’s support.