Читать книгу Capturing the Crown Bundle - Nina Bruhns, Caridad Piñeiro - Страница 24

“Are you sure she’s—?” Chase Savage broke off, stifling a curse.

A horn honked. Traffic inched slowly forward. He pressed the cell phone against his ear with one hand, keeping the other on the steering wheel while he negotiated the heavy downtown Silverton traffic.

“Yes, of course.” His caller chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Though he hated to do so, especially to his boss, as head of the royal publicity department Chase felt he must point out the obvious. “She’s avoiding the reporters.”

The all-important press. Couldn’t live with them, couldn’t live without them.

His Grace, Russell Southgate, III, Duke of Carrington, and Chase’s employer, made a rude sound. “For now. She’s holding out. You know how the game is played. You’ve dealt with her kind before.”

Chase sighed. At the ripe age of twenty-nine, he really had seen it all. There seemed to be an endless supply of royal groupies and hangers-on, all wanting something for nothing. Some craved sex, most sought money or a slight slice of fame. Royal fame. Which he knew could often be a royal pain in the ass.

“Are you certain Reginald didn’t—” Chase began.

“His Highness might be difficult, but he’s still next in line for the throne. And this is not just any groupie. Even if she is from the wrong side of the blanket, she’s still daughter to Prince Kerwin of Naessa. You know that.”

“She doesn’t move in the usual circles. I’ve never met her.”

“I know.” Carrington sighed again. “Maybe that’s what intrigued Reginald. Who knows? Though Reginald is denying everything this time, his mistake could have an enormous impact. Not just Silvershire is affected. The woman says she’s pregnant, for God’s sake. If this is not handled properly, the situation could become a political disaster.” The Duke muttered a particularly un-royal curse, making Chase grin. Unlike most of the royals he spent his time protecting, when Carrington let down his guard, he could be a regular guy. Almost.

“Get to her before she talks to the press. The damage she could do…” Chase could hear the other man shudder, even over the phone line.

“So you want me to ‘handle’ her?” As a huge, blue SUV cut him off, Chase lay on his horn. “How?”

“With style and class, as usual. Offer her money to take her child and disappear. You can do it, the way only you know how. I have confidence you’ll do splendidly, as usual.”

The rare compliment, coming from Carrington, told Chase more than anything how important this was. In the six years since Chase had moved up the ranks from royal bodyguard to publicist, Carrington had been a good employer and a fair boss. He’d been instrumental in Chase’s career, taking an interest in the younger man and helping him navigate the sometime intricate maze that comprised royal life.

Effortlessly and tirelessly making the royals look good had earned Chase a promotion to head of public relations. The Wizard of PR, his staff called him. He sort of liked the name.

“I’m on my way to the Hotel Royale now.” Chase consulted his watch, a Rolex, which had been an expensive holiday gift Prince Reginald had given half the palace staff. “I should be there in, oh, thirty minutes or less.”

Traffic slowed to a stop, forcing Chase to hit his brakes, hard. Rush hour sucked. Most times he managed to avoid the snarl of cars by working late at the palace. Not today. Today he had to hightail it over to the plush hotel in downtown Silverton and intercept this woman before she checked out. Best to confront her in her room, to make the offer in private. Timing was everything in his business.

“You’ll handle this.” It wasn’t a question. Carrington rarely asked. He expected or demanded. And what he wanted, he got.

“Yes, I’ll handle it. Never fear.” Chase closed his cell phone and turned up the volume on the radio. He’d downloaded and burned a new CD of classic American rock last night. Aerosmith blasted over the speakers, making him grin. Stuck in traffic was as good a time as any to enjoy his favorite tunes.

He saw no need to plot a strategy—groupies were groupies. Once he started talking money to this woman, he anticipated a quick resolution.

Reaching the hotel, he eschewed the valet parking and drove into the parking garage himself. With the ever-vigilant press always on the lookout for a story, he didn’t want to risk being seen.

The Hotel Royale had a back entrance and he used it now. Carrington had given him the woman’s room number, so he took the service elevator to the sixth floor. He encountered no one, not even hotel staff. Shifts were changing, and he anticipated another ten or fifteen minutes of privacy.

Moving silently on the plush carpeting, he found her room and shook his head. Her door was ajar, the deadbolt turned out to keep the heavy door from closing. Since maids often did this when cleaning the rooms, he wondered if he’d arrived too late.

Pulling the door open, he saw he was not. With her back to him, a slender woman with shoulder-length, cinnamon-colored hair was loading clothes into an open suitcase she’d placed on the bed.

“Not much of a princess,” he drawled. “Where’s your entourage? Sydney Conner, I presume?”

Her head snapped up. When she met his gaze, he felt an involuntary tightening low in his gut. Damn. She was heart-stoppingly gorgeous. He’d expected that. They all were.

But this woman was no flashy blonde, Prince Reginald’s usual type. Her wealth of thick, silky hair framed a delicate, oval face. With her generous mouth, high cheekbones, and dark blue eyes, she had a serene, quiet sort of beauty, not at all what Chase would have expected from one of Prince Reginald’s lovers.

Instant desire—fierce, intense, savage—made him draw a harsh, ragged breath.

Staring at him with wide eyes, she reached for the phone. Calling hotel security, no doubt.

“Wait.” He held up his ID. “I’m with the palace.”

Her full lips thinned. “Let me see.”

He tossed it, surprised when she caught the laminated badge with one elegant, perfectly manicured hand. After she ascertained he really was whom he’d said he was, she replaced the phone in the cradle and narrowed her amazing eyes.

“I locked my door. How did you get in here?”

He gave her a slow smile, his PR smile. “Actually, your door was open. Rather careless, don’t you think?”

That caught her off guard. Glancing at the door, she blinked, then frowned. “What can I do for you, Mr….” She studied the badge again, her lush lips curving in a rueful smile. “Savage? I’m on my way out, so this will have to be quick.”

Again when she looked at him, he felt that punch to the gut. This time, a flare of anger lanced through his lust.

She was good, he admitted grudgingly. Her every movement was elegant, sensual. Her appearance, from the cut of her expensive, designer clothing to the pampered, creamy glow of her skin, spoke of wealth and breeding. Not your usual palace hanger-on at all.

But then, she was a princess.

“Where are you going?”

“That’s none of your business,” she told him, matching his cool tone. “Since I have little to do with the royal family of Silvershire these days, I don’t understand why you’re here. What do you want?”

He flashed her a hard look, belatedly remembering at the last moment to soften it with another smile. “As you saw from my ID, I’m with the royal publicity department. His Grace, the Duke of Carrington, sent me.”

She stared, her emotions flashing across her mobile face, hope, disbelief and a tentative joy chief among them. She read the badge one last time before handing it back to him.

“Reginald spoke to the duke?” she asked. “He told him about our baby?”

Hearing the raw emotion in her voice, Chase felt a flash of pity. The look she gave him told him she’d seen and hated both that and the fact she’d let her guard down enough to show her feelings to a total stranger.

Chase narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t informed how Lord Carrington learned of your claim.”

“But Reginald—” She bit her lip.

“Reginald what?”

One hand instinctively went to her belly. Protective. He noted this and filed it away for future reference. “What do you and/or Lord Carrington want with me?”

She was sleek and beautiful and sexy as hell. Chase could think of a thousand ways to answer that question, though he’d say none of them. He had a job to do.

He lifted his briefcase. “I’ve been authorized to offer you—”

The window exploded in a shower of glass.

“Get down!” He leapt at her.

Too stunned to react when he pushed her down, Sydney fell heavily, the man on top of her. Panicked, terrified the fall had hurt her unborn child, she fought to get up.

“Stay down,” he snarled. “That was a gunshot.”

“A gunshot? Why would someone shoot at me?”

When he looked at her, she saw a different man. Gone was the affable, smiling stranger. This man wore a grim face, a hard face, the kind of face she’d seen on her mother’s bodyguards, hired mercenaries for the most part. Dangerous men who played by their own set of rules.

“Who are you, really?” She whispered, still cradling her abdomen. “You might be in public relations now, but I’m thinking you might have another job title, as well.”

He looked away, climbing off her, still keeping low to the ground.

Another shot rang out, taking out what was left of the window.

He cursed. “That window—what’s it face?”

Confused, she shook her head. “I’m not sure. I’m on the sixth floor. No view. All that’s out there is the roof of one of the lower buildings.” Then she realized what that meant. If she were to climb out her window, she’d be able to step without much discomfort onto the other roof.

The shooter was that close! She had to protect her baby.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” He grabbed her hand, yanking her to her feet. “Stay low and follow me.”

He started for the door.

She grabbed her purse. “I need my passport.”

“Come on.” Once they reached the hall, he turned left.

“The elevator’s that way.” She pointed right.

“We’re taking the stairs. Hurry.”

They hustled all the way down. Their footsteps clattered on the metal edges, echoing in the narrow stairway.

“Let’s go, through here.” Tone low and urgent, he shepherded her out a door marked as an emergency exit, instantly setting off the hotel alarm. “Good, a distraction,” he shouted over the clanging bell and whirring siren.

Outside, momentarily disoriented, Sydney stumbled, squinting into the bright sunlight. He gave her arm another tug, urging her on, past the line of parked cars on the curb.

“My cello.” She suddenly remembered her beloved instrument. “I can’t leave it. Go back and get it, please?”

“No. I’ll buy you another.”

“You don’t understand. It’s a Stradivarius, one of only sixty left in the world.” She attempted in vain to pull herself free, knowing she personally couldn’t go back after it. She had to protect her baby at all costs, even if that meant she lost Lady Swister, her cello. “Please,” she repeated. “It will only take a moment.”

Grim-faced, he stared, sending a chill of foreboding up her spine. “You want me to risk my life for an instrument?”

“A three-million-dollar instrument. Please.” She gestured again. “We’ve obviously lost the shooter.”

“For now.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “How the hell did you get a three-million-dollar cello?”

“Reginald gave it to me. I—”

They both heard the sharp report of another shot. Seemingly at the same time, the side window of the car behind them shattered.

“Go. Now!” Not hesitating, he yanked her after him.

They took off at a run, across the deserted street and into a narrow alley.

“But my cello…!”

“Forget the cello. This way.”

“My rental car’s closer.” She pointed at the cute red Gaston Mini, parked near the corner. “Right there.” Fishing the remote out of her purse, she punched the unlock button.

A second later, the car exploded.

The force of the blast knocked them both to the ground.

An instant and then Chase yanked her to her feet. Dazed, she could only stare at the roaring inferno that, seconds before, had been her car.

“Are you all right?”

She blinked, looked down at her torn slacks and bloody knees. “I…I think so.”

Sirens drowned out even the still-clanging hotel alarm. Any minute now, police, ambulance and fire trucks should careen around the corner.

“Good.” He tugged at her arm. “Come on then. Run!”

Another gunshot, uncomfortably close, took out another windshield.

“Come on.”

They took off running. Several glances over her shoulder and she still couldn’t see the gunman, or anyone in pursuit.

Still, she had to protect her baby.

“Don’t look back. Just run!” He led her left, then right and left again into a concrete parking garage. Their footsteps echoed as they ran toward a low-slung, black Mercedes.

By the time he bundled her into the car, she was out of breath and panting. Another quick look assured her they hadn’t been followed. “So far so good.”

“They found your room and anticipated the door we’d exit,” he muttered. “It’s only a matter of time until they find us. We’re not waiting around until they do.”

Starting the engine without sparing her a second glance, he shoved the gearshift into reverse, backing so fast his tires squealed. Then he gunned the car forward. The powerful motor roared as they shot into the street. They careened around the corner, barreling toward the main thoroughfare.

Suddenly, she felt every cut, every bruise. Worse than that, her lower back hurt. Alarm flared through her. Had she injured her baby? Sydney cradled her abdomen, trying to regain her breath, her mind whirling.

“What?” Now he looked at her, his hazel eyes missing nothing. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Yes. I—I don’t know.” She bit her lip, both hands covering her still-flat abdomen. “I’m pregnant. I’m worried about my baby.”

“You don’t look pregnant.” One hand on the steering wheel, he issued this observation in a bland, bored tone, as if he dealt every day with shootouts and chases. For all she knew, maybe he did.

“I’m barely eight weeks.” Stiffening, she refused to look at him again, glancing out the window as she finally took notice of her surroundings. They were heading away from downtown, toward the Silvershire International Airport. “Look, Mr. Savage…”

“Call me Chase.”

She ignored him. “Mr. Savage. Where are we going?”

Instead of answering, he gave her another hard look. “Any idea who was shooting at you? And why?”

“No. I think it’s more likely we got caught in the middle of someone else’s troubles.”

“Troubles?”

She waved her hand. “You know. Gang war or something. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Princess—”

“My name is Sydney.”

“Sydney, then. They shot at you. No one else. You. Your car exploded. Of course this was aimed at you.”

Lifting her chin, she considered his words. He was right. “Why? Why would anyone want to harm me?”

Keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, he took the exit that led to the airport. “You claim to be carrying the crown prince’s child. You know there’s a political firestorm going on now with those democracy advocates. That’d put you right in the middle of it.”

“True. But Reginald and I aren’t married. My baby is no threat to anyone.”

“Yet,” he said.

“Ever.” Closing her mouth before she said too much more, Sydney caught sight of the Welcome to Silvershire International Airport sign. “Where are you taking me? Why the airport?”

For the first time since appearing in her doorway, he looked surprised. As though she should have known. “The royal jet is waiting.”

“The royal jet?” A tentative spark of hope filled her. “Has he asked you to bring me to him?”

“Who?”

Impatient, she shifted in her seat. “Reginald, of course. My baby’s father. Are you taking me to see him?”

There was no pity in the hard glance he shot her now.

“No,” he said. Nothing more.

But then, what else could he say? Reginald had made it plain he didn’t want her or the unplanned baby she carried. She’d even learned he’d gotten engaged to a beautiful princess from Gastonia. He’d moved quickly, proving his words of love had been nothing but lies.

The knowledge shouldn’t hurt so much, but it did. Mostly, she thought with a wry smile, because she’d unintentionally done the one thing she’d always sworn not to. She’d inadvertently mimicked her mother’s life.

When she looked up she realized Chase watched her and most likely had misinterpreted her smile. No matter, she was going home to Naessa soon. Then what he or anyone else in the country of Silvershire thought wouldn’t matter a whit. Not at all.

She’d managed to do as her mother had done, but unlike her mother, she wouldn’t ever call her baby a mistake. From now on, Sydney had a child to think of. From now on, her baby would always come first.

A quick glance at the handsome man beside her told her nothing. Chase Savage had protected her, but what were his real intentions?

They pulled up to an iron gate marked Private. Chase pushed a button on his console and the barricade swung open. Driving slowly through the rows of hangars, he punched in a number on his cell phone, a razor-thin model which looked like something out of a James Bond movie. He spoke a few terse words—not enough for her to glean the gist of the conversation, and snapped the metal phone closed.

“All settled,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve gotten us emergency clearance.” They turned right, into the airport’s private section. Sydney had flown out of here before, as most of her friends’ families were wealthy. Here, in various hangars, the rich kept their personal jets. No doubt the royal family had several.

“Emergency clearance for what?” she asked, as they pulled up in front of a nondescript, gray metal hangar. “If Reginald—” she swallowed tightly as she spoke the name “—didn’t send for me, then why’d you bring me here at all?”

He frowned. “I had to take you somewhere safe.”

“Not really.” Studying him, she wished she could read his closed expression. “I’m not your responsibility. As a matter of fact, why are you—head of Silvershire’s public relations department—here to begin with?”

For the first time since he’d appeared in her hotel room, cool, confident Chase Savage appeared at a loss for words.

She pressed her advantage. “You started to say something earlier, before the shooting started. You said you’d been authorized to do something. What was it?”

“Not now.” He shook his head. “We’ll discuss that later, once we’re in the air.”

“In the air to…?”

“I’m taking you home, to Naessa. You’ll be safer there than here.”

“Home?” Exactly where she wanted to go. Except…“I need my cello.” The Strad could never be replaced.

“I’ll send someone after your instrument,” he promised. “The police should be there by now. They won’t let anyone mess with it.”

“I need to see a doctor and make sure everything is all right with the baby.”

“You can do that once you get home. It’s only a forty-five-minute flight to Naessa.”

Something still bothered her, though she wasn’t sure what. He’d addressed her every concern smoothly. Too smoothly. Maybe that was the problem.

She glanced around them. “This doesn’t look like the royal hangar. Where’s the Silvershire crest?”

Expression implacable, he shrugged. “The king won’t allow that because of the danger from terrorists. The royal crest could act as a huge bull’s-eye for undesirables.”

He had a point, though she hated the word he’d used. Undesirables. In Naessa, as the king’s unacknowledged daughter, she’d been called that and a lot worse. Bastard had been her mother’s particular favorite. For a while Frances had adopted it almost as a nickname, referring to Sydney as her bastard spawn, reminding her at an early age how she’d ruined her mother’s life.

Sydney vowed her child—son or daughter, whichever—would only enrich hers.

Chase got out of the car and crossed around the front to Sydney’s side, opening her door and holding out his hand. She slipped her hand into his larger one, noting the calluses on his long, elegant fingers, and allowed him to help her from the low-slung car.

Staring up at his rugged face, Sydney wondered about his ancestry. Though he wore a well-cut, conservative suit, his shaggy hair and hawklike features made him appear dangerous. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn he had a trace of pirate in him.

As if he’d read her thoughts, he smiled, stunning her. He really was, she noted abstractly, struggling to find her breath, quite beautiful. In a hard, rugged, utterly masculine way.

She reminded herself that beautiful men were bad news. Reginald had provided her with living proof of that.

Once Chase had closed the door behind her with a quiet thunk, she had another round of misgivings and tugged her hand free. While private jet was always more comfortable than commercial, she barely knew this man.

“We don’t have time for this.” He consulted his Rolex, shooting her a look of pure male exasperation.

The watch looked familiar. Ah, yes. Reginald had gifted all his staff with similar watches for Christmas.

“Shall we go?”

Finally she nodded.

Up the steps into the waiting jet they went. A short, blond man greeted them. Evidently, he was one of the pilots. He pulled the door closed before disappearing into the cockpit.

Sydney had time to note the jet’s plush interior before one side of the hangar opened like a giant, automatic garage door.

Chase barely glanced at her. “Buckle your seat belt.”

His cell phone chirped. Immediately, he answered, turning away from her to try and conduct his business with a measure of privacy.

The plane began to taxi forward.

Chase closed his phone and then powered off. When he looked at her, the dangerous mercenary had returned, full-force.

“What is it?” she asked. Something, some wild suspicion, an absurdly ridiculous hope, made her ask. “Was that call from Reginald?”

His hazel gaze touched on her coolly. “Is that why you came to Silvershire? To see the prince?”

“Of course. I wanted him to look me in the face and tell me…”

“Tell you what?”

“Never mind.” No way was she admitting to this man, this stranger, the depth of her shame. Reginald had pretended to love her. And now, when she carried his child, a baby they’d made together, he pretended he didn’t know her. She sighed. “Forget I asked that. It was foolish of me.”

Chase watched her a heartbeat longer, then he dipped his head, his hazel eyes shuttered.

Another thought occurred to her. “Is this plan to remove me from your country carried out at Reginald’s direction?”

“No.” He gave her a long, hard look. “This is entirely spur-of-the-moment. Not planned. After what happened back at the hotel, I had no choice. It’s not safe for you in Silvershire. Especially now.”

That caught her attention. “Especially now?”

“That phone call…Things have changed,” Chase said softly, as though his words could hurt her.

“Why? What’s happened?” She searched his hard, rugged face. “What are you not telling me?”

He took her hand and leaned forward, compassion turning his hazel eyes dark. “That phone call I just got? It was the Duke of Carrington, my boss. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Prince Reginald, the father of your unborn child, is dead.”