LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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