LITMIR.BIZ

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the effect. It was the same voice that had soothed distraught heads of state confronted with the kidnappings of loved ones. The same voice that had promised—and delivered—results in highly delicate government situations that the public had never even suspected.

      Corbett Lazlo was a brilliant, enigmatic man very few people actually recognized. Those who did know him saw a tall, trim man with ice-blue eyes that conflicted with an almost boyish grin that even fewer were ever privy to. Some said he was an ex-CIA operative. Others claimed he was a bored genius with a love for challenges. Still others said he was the illegitimate son of a former French president and had cut his teeth on both foreign policy and espionage. No one knew for sure.

      The only proven fact was that approximately twelve years ago, he had formed the Lazlo Group, an international team of highly skilled agents who specialized in, among other things, investigating the deaths of political figures.

      The Lazlo Group was one of the best kept secrets of the free world. They were usually called in as a last resort, or when affairs were of such a delicate, discreet nature that no one else could be trusted to handle them.

      Corbett Lazlo had no affiliation with any particular nation. He was a citizen of the world. His people did whatever was necessary to get the job done. There were never any questions asked by the party or parties who hired them. It was better that way.

      The call Russell had placed to him had been rerouted several times so that Russell had no idea exactly where Corbett Lazlo was located. It was the way Corbett preferred it. Russell didn’t care. Lazlo’s location didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding out the series of events that led up to Reginald’s last day and death.

      “I suspect everyone right now,” Russell said, answering Lazlo’s question. “Except for King Weston. And the princess,” he added.

      He heard what he took to be just the slightest chuckle on the other end.

      “Never be too hasty in your judgment,” Lazlo advised. “The princess stood to gain something from the prince’s death.”

      Russell frowned. There had been a treaty riding on the union. As far as he knew, there was nothing on the balance sheet if the prince died before they were married. “What?”

      There was a pregnant pause on the other end, as if the man expected more of him. “Her freedom. Theirs wasn’t exactly going to be a fairy-tale marriage. The prince went on whoring to the very end.” He delivered the information as if he had been a witness to Reginald’s behavior. Russell knew that the man kept himself informed on many fronts. “Not quite the behavior for a man who was about to be married to the woman of his dreams.”

      Russell could feel himself growing protective again. It had never occurred to him that Amelia might not need a champion, that she would want to fight her own battles at all times. He wouldn’t hear her maligned, even theoretically. “She had nothing to do with it.”

      There was just a hint of indulgence in Lazlo’s voice as he abandoned his point. “Nonetheless, we leave no stone unturned. My people don’t come cheaply, Carrington, but they pride themselves on delivering. Everything,” he emphasized. “The good and the bad.”

      “Money isn’t a problem.” He knew he spoke for the king when he made the affirmation. The monarch would have no peace until the matter of his son’s death was resolved. And perhaps, sadly, not even then.

      “Good. I’ll be sending one of my top operatives to the palace. Her name is Lucia Cordez.” Lazlo’s voice was quick, staccato, leaving no room for argument as he took command of the situation. “You will invite her to the wedding. She will blend in.”

      About to protest that there would be no wedding, Russell was suddenly struck by a thought. “How will I know her?”

      “Trust me, you’ll know her. She has the disadvantage of being stunning.” A disadvantage, because he preferred his operatives to blend in rather than stand out. But he couldn’t hold Lucia’s beauty against her, not when she was so skilled at what she did. “Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s good under pressure and she is a computer expert.”

      That out of the way, Russell questioned the scenario that Lazlo was painting. “The wedding is canceled.”

      “Check your scorecard. There’s been a substitution play. The wedding hasn’t been canceled, just recast. Playing the part of the prince will be Russell, Duke of Carrington. Don’t you pay attention to your traditions, Carrington?” When he received no response, there was a note of satisfaction in the older man’s voice as he continued. “You’re paying me to be informed. You’re also paying me to find the truth.” Again Lazlo paused, this time so that his words could sink in one at a time. “One could say that you had a great deal to gain from the prince’s death.”

      Russell laughed to himself. Lazlo had no idea how absurd that idea was, he thought. “Feel free to investigate me.”

      “Thank you.” His tone indicated that they would have done just that with or without permission. “We’ll be in touch, Carrington.”

      With that, the conversation was terminated.

      Russell replaced the receiver and stood for a moment, staring at the telephone, not seeing it. Not seeing anything at all in the study.

      He was getting married. In less than a day if everything was held to the same schedule as before.

      He had no idea how he felt about that. Other than numb.

      Amelia adjusted her headpiece. The veil wasn’t falling the right way. She felt tears gathering in her eyes and knew that they had nothing to do with the veil.

      Tension brought the tears.

      Things were happening much too fast for her. She’d never been one to enjoy life in the slow lane, but this was far more than she had bargained for. Far more than she could assimilate.

      Her head felt as if it were spinning.

      Less than two weeks ago, she had been in her gardens, fervently wishing that time would somehow find a way to stand still, at least for a little while. Dreading the wedding that loomed before her on the horizon like some creature that had been resurrected in a mad scientist’s laboratory.

      And now, despite all the changes, despite the royal tragedy of finding the prince dead in his bed, the wedding was still going to be on schedule. Only the groom had been changed.

      She was marrying Russell.

      Just the way, in a moment filled with passion and desire, she’d wanted to. Just the way she’d wished. Russell, who had introduced her to the world of lovemaking. Russell, who had grown into a man who was, at the core, kind and gentle and caring.

      Russell, who now looked at her with distant eyes.

      She knew it was because, in an unguarded moment, she’d allowed herself to tell him the truth. Tell him that, for less than a fragment of a second, she’d had doubts about him.

      Dear lord, she had doubts about herself, as well. Doubts about everything right now.

      But men didn’t understand the emotional distress that women sometimes found themselves laboring under. Men didn’t understand how women thought with their hearts as well as their heads.

      Logic was the only thing that made sense to a man like Russell. And when confronted with what he thought to be the logic of her suspicions, he’d shut down. Shut her out. Grown distant.

      In the last day and a half, when she’d tried to reach him, tried to get him alone just to talk to him, he had brushed her off by saying that he was too busy. He seemed to go out of his way to make himself unavailable to her.

      If she didn’t know any better, she would have said that he was trying to avoid her.

      She adjusted the headpiece for the dozenth time. She stared at her reflection, not seeing the elaborate beadwork that had taken seamstresses weeks to complete. Maybe, she thought, she did know better.

      Maybe

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