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The king opened by thanking both Americans for being there. “I asked for this private meeting with you, Mr. Secretary,” he said, his steely gaze fixing on the secretary of state before moving to Alec, “and with your embassy’s new regional security officer, to tell you I had more than just a personal reason behind my request for a new RSO at the embassy in Zakhar. I wanted to speak to you both in person—privately—to explain.”
The king’s lips tightened. “We have heard rumors of corruption and fraud at the US embassy here in Drago related to trafficking in women.” His flint-eyed expression left no doubt how he felt about this. “Prostitution, Mr. Secretary. Forced prostitution. The queen is incensed, and rightfully so—any decent person would feel the same. And the word is this corruption at your embassy is occurring at high levels. Possibly even the highest levels.”
The secretary of state looked shocked. “I can assure you, Your Majesty, that—”
The king cut him off. “I do not want assurances from you, sir. I believe you are sincerely shocked by this allegation. Nevertheless, if the rumors are to be believed, Zakharians are involved...as both predator and prey. And there are whispers the Bratva may have a hand in this, as well.”
Cold anger was coming off the king in waves. “I want this crime syndicate stopped now. Not a year from now, or two years from now, after an investigation finds proof that holds up in a US courtroom.” He glanced at Alec again. “The Drago police force is already on the case, but that investigation can only go so far. By bringing in a new RSO, whatever is going on at the US embassy will be stopped. Now. I am sure of it.”
He drew a deep breath and forcibly relaxed. Then he smiled faintly at Alec. “If I could trust you with my sister’s safety, Special Agent Jones—and I did—I believe I can trust you in this.”
The allegations disturbed Alec, but he wasn’t shocked. This wouldn’t be the first time someone in a position of trust within a US embassy was accused of visa fraud, although he wouldn’t have thought the embassy here in Zakhar was a likely target for people desperate enough to pay under the table to obtain a US visa to escape the conditions under which they lived.
But trafficking in women was different. Luring Zakharian girls and women to the United States for prostitution—and there was a premium paid for pretty blondes, of which Zakhar seemed to have more than its fair share—was a completely different prospect, and Alec could see all too easily how it could be true. Especially if the Russian Mafia—the Bratva, or Brotherhood, as it was euphemistically called—was involved.
If the king was right, that meant he was walking into a hornet’s nest when he took over as RSO tomorrow, because he’d have to start an investigation without any idea how far the corruption went. Without any idea who could be trusted...and who couldn’t.
That’s just dandy, Alec thought but didn’t say. He’d long ago learned the control diplomatic protocol demanded of his tongue. Thanks ever so much, Your Majesty, for handing me an assignment right in the middle of a secret war zone.
“Who knows of this?” he asked the king.
“Who knows that I know? Only my closest, most trusted advisers. The queen, of course, and my cousin,” he said, indicating the man who sat so impassively next to him. “Two of my bodyguards, who were with me when I was first informed. And the three policemen who immediately brought this to Colonel Marianescu’s attention, as they should have—this is a threat to Zakharian national security. And now you.
“To the best of my knowledge, no one at the embassy has any idea. That is why I allowed the world to think I was merely acceding to my sister’s insistence I do something to help you, Special Agent Jones, after the unfortunate incident in the Middle East. If I had requested the US replace the current RSO for any other reason, suspicions would have been raised. Suspicions I had no intention of raising.” The king smiled that faint smile again, a smile Alec was starting to understand. “Everything dovetailed nicely.”
Alec nodded, following the logic, and his admiration for the king rose a notch. He’d heard a lot about him from Princess Mara—some of which was secret from most of the world—and of course he’d studied up on Zakhar, its politics and its king when he’d received his assignment here. But he hadn’t expected such astute political awareness, such adroit handling of a situation that might have stymied a lesser man.
He thought about ways and means, his mind racing. Then he turned to the secretary of state. “Since we have no idea how far the corruption goes, I don’t dare trust anyone currently at the embassy—not even the ambassador. Not yet. So I think the best approach is to ask the agency to lend a hand in the investigation.”
“The agency?” The secretary of state looked doubtful, even though the agency had been created in secret after 9/11 to do what neither the FBI nor the CIA had been able to do before that tragedy, and had quickly established itself within the secret confines of the US government.
“It wouldn’t be the first time the State Department and the Bureau of Diplomatic Security asked for their help,” Alec reminded him. “The DSS borrowed Trace McKinnon from them when Princess Mara started teaching in Colorado, remember?”
“Wouldn’t the agency’s presence raise the alarm? Isn’t that exactly what you’re trying to avoid?”
Alec shook his head. “Not if we ask the agency for McKinnon. I’ve worked with him before, and frankly, he’s the best of the best. He’s already in Zakhar, with a perfectly legitimate reason for being here totally unrelated to any kind of investigation.” He nodded to himself, seeing the plan take shape in his mind. “We’re friends. He’s related to the king by marriage. It would lend credence to the rumor the king pulled strings to get me here for personal reasons. Suspicions would be lulled, not raised.”
He looked at the king, almost excited at the prospect of working with McKinnon again, even on something as troubling as this. “I think that’s it, Your Majesty. The perfect solution. The agency’s the best at this kind of covert investigation. And they’re authorized by Congress to act both within and outside US borders, so we wouldn’t be overstepping any legal boundaries. That’ll be critical when it comes time to prosecute these guys. I know that’s secondary as far as you’re concerned, but—”
“But it is of prime importance to your government,” the king answered. “That I understand.” He glanced over at the secretary of state. “I have no objections to this plan, Mr. Secretary. Do you?”
* * *
“Security in the cathedral must be tight,” Captain Zale told the queen’s security detail in the conference room on the third floor of the palace, where they had assembled. “I cannot stress this enough. Tight yet covert. The king’s security detail will be there, of course, alongside us and the men newly assigned to guard the crown prince. But the eyes of Zakhar will be upon the christening—which is being broadcast on television for the first time—not to mention much of the rest of the world. The king wishes nothing to disrupt the ceremony or detract from the religious solemnity of the occasion.”
He cleared his throat. “If possible, of course. To that end, silencers for all security participants was considered but rejected for a variety of reasons, including the difficulty of covert carry with a silencer, and the fact that it changes the balance of a gun—not something senior leadership wanted to risk. Questions?”
Angelina had questions, but she wasn’t going to ask them yet. No matter how much she and the two other women on the team tried to fit in, the men still resented it if the women spoke first in group meetings like this. She’d learned to pick her battles. She glanced left and right, and wasn’t disappointed.
“What precautions are being taken?” one man asked.
Another man threw out, “Who is responsible for advance security on the cathedral?”
“Will the guests have to pass through a metal detector as they enter the cathedral?” a third man queried. “And if so, who will be monitoring it?”
Captain Zale dealt with these questions and several others, explaining so everyone knew exactly who was responsible for what, and who would be stationed where.
There was a short silence. Then, “With so many security details there to guard the royal family, the potential exists for fractionalization instead of us operating as a cohesive whole,” Angelina said quietly. “What is being done to prevent this?”
Captain Zale cast her a quick nod of approval. “Good question, Mateja.” He faced the entire room. “There will be a dry run in the cathedral on Saturday,” he said. “A dress rehearsal, as it were. Everyone who is not on duty that day is expected to be in attendance. This will help lay down clear lines of communication between all three security details.”
His eyes narrowed. “Remember, this is not a pissing contest,” he said crudely. “The king’s men will be there, and naturally they think they are superior. That they are in command. We are the queen’s men, lesser beings in their eyes. This is not true, and I have it on the best authority—the king himself. We have been handpicked by him to guard the queen against any and every threat. So do not let the attitude of the king’s men distract you. Let them think they are superior. We know the truth. And we—not they—will ensure a successful outcome. Any further questions?” Silence held sway. “You are dismissed.”
* * *
Angelina skimmed down the wide, marble stairs of the grand staircase, her feet barely touching the carpeted treads. When she was a little girl her father had complained that Angelina never walked anywhere, that she was always in a hurry to get where she was going, and it was still true. Very little had changed about Angelina since her childhood.
Today was actually an off-duty day for her— although like everyone else on the queen’s security detail she’d been called in for the mandatory meeting just now—and she had plans. There was still time...if she didn’t dawdle.
She had one thing she felt compelled to do first—related to both her job and her growing friendship with Queen Juliana. A friendship that had quietly begun during the queen’s recent pregnancy, when the queen had confided in Angelina her fears and worries about her pregnancy in a friendly, disarming way that invited Angelina’s confidences in return. A way that made her love Queen Juliana as a true friend and not just her queen—not surprising, really, since the queen was only a year older than Angelina, and hadn’t been born to her lofty position.
Their friendship was something Angelina didn’t broadcast, though. She didn’t want anyone saying her next promotion was due to anything other than pure merit. But until she personally checked things out at the cathedral and assured herself that Queen Juliana and her baby would be safe, Angelina wouldn’t feel free to enjoy her day off.
She’d just turned down a side corridor that would take her to the vast parking lot behind the palace where her little Fiat—one of her few prized possessions—was parked, when someone called to her. “Lieutenant Mateja! Angelina, wait up!”
She turned, saw Alec Jones and was immediately torn. She hadn’t expected to see him again today and wasn’t prepared to deal with him—especially after this morning.
But courtesy had been instilled in Angelina since before she could walk, and she couldn’t just slip away as if she hadn’t heard him calling her name. As if she hadn’t seen him coming after her. “Special Agent Jones,” she acknowledged when he drew near.
“Alec,” he reminded her. “Remember?”
Angelina tried but failed miserably to control the slight flush that tinged her cheeks. Not at the reminder that she’d already agreed to call him Alec, but of the kiss they’d shared. The kiss she’d pretended she hadn’t wanted. The kiss that had knocked her world off-kilter.
Alec had been right this morning—damn him, she thought now. She’d wondered what it would be like to kiss him. And in that moment she’d wanted him to kiss her. She just hadn’t been prepared for it—hadn’t been prepared for the way her body had responded to being in his arms, either. Not at all.
But she wasn’t going to admit it to him. “Alec,” she agreed coolly. “Yes, I remember. What are you doing here?”
“Meeting,” was all he said. “Business. You?”
“Meeting.” She was as terse as he was.
“So where are you headed now?”
She considered his question for a moment and realized there was no reason not to tell him. “I am heading to Saint Anne’s Cathedral.”
He nodded with evident admiration, and Angelina realized he understood why she was going there, even without her saying another word. “Smart,” he said. “Very smart. Mind if I tag along?”
She raised her eyebrows in a question, and he added, “I’ve been invited to attend the christening.” He gave a little huff of rueful laughter. “McKinnon told me the princess wrangled an invitation for me. It would be rude to decline, especially since I’m here at the—” He stopped abruptly, and Angelina wondered what he’d been going to say. “Anyway,” he continued smoothly, as if this was what he’d intended to say from the start, “since I’ll be there, it would make me feel better to know the lay of the land. Advance knowledge never hurts, does it?”
“No, it does not,” she acceded. She hesitated, of two minds about letting Alec go with her. Then she remembered he was a highly trained professional who’d been in the bodyguard business longer than she had, and he might have insights she would find helpful. Just as he’d taught her a very important lesson this morning, there were other things she could learn from him. All at once her treacherous thoughts skittered down a path she refused to take—he could teach you many things, yes!—and though her body thrilled to that idea, she quickly brought both her body and her thoughts under control.
“How did you come to the palace?” she asked him.
“Taxi.” He smiled at her. “One of those cute little Zakharian taxis that seem to be everywhere. I could have called for an embassy limo—the official dignity of the embassy’s RSO must be maintained, I’m told—but it seemed kind of stuffy. Or I could have walked. The taxi was a reasonable compromise.”
“I have my car here,” she said. “If you do not mind being driven by a woman.”
Alec grinned as if at a secret joke, and Angelina mentally chastised herself for the verbal slipup. She knew American men were not like Zakharian men. Most of them anyway. American men were used to American women doing—and doing well—just about everything a man could do. But all Alec said was, “You wouldn’t ask me that if you knew Princess Mara used to drive herself to and from the university where she worked. That meant I was always in the passenger seat.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later they were in the vaulted main chapel of Saint Anne’s Cathedral in Drago. After identifying herself and Alec to the custodian, they were allowed to wander at will.
Saint Anne’s Cathedral was laid out like a giant cross, with a side chapel on each side of the main area, or nave, as it was called, facing the apse and the altar, effectively doubling the seating capacity. Angelina was mentally calculating sight lines—envisioning where the royal parents would stand near the baptismal font, where the two sets of godparents would stand, and where the archbishop and the other members of the ecclesiastical team would stand—when Alec spoke.
“What’s up there?” he asked, pointing to the distant loft in the rear.
She glanced up, following the direction of his arm. “Choir loft,” she answered absently, and pulled a notebook from her pocket to jot down a couple of questions she wanted to ask Captain Zale.
“How do you get up there?”
“Staircase. Access from the foyer.”
“Will there be a choir present at the christening?”
“Of course. This is an incredibly important event for Zakhar,” she informed him a little stiffly. “It is not just the baptism of a child, you understand. It is a celebration of the future of our country. Something like your Fourth of July, Thanksgiving and New Year’s celebrations all rolled into one. A two-hundred-voice choir will be singing the ‘Te Deum.’ Just as they did at the king’s coronation. Just as they did at his wedding to the queen.”
Alec nodded his understanding, but all he said was, “Then it’s not likely an assassin would try to hide up there.”
“There will be men posted there nevertheless,” she assured him. “We are taking no chances.”
Alec had wandered past the altar while she spoke, and now he asked, “What’s behind these pipes?” indicating the organ pipes, some of which stretched from floor to ceiling, in a series of wooden cases. There were spaces between the pipes, some only an inch or two, some more.
“Nothing. Just space to allow the notes to resonate throughout the cathedral. No one could stand behind those pipes...not when the organ is playing,” Angelina explained. “And the organ will be playing during much of the service. The sound waves...you have to understand the sound waves would cause such pain no one would risk it. It could rupture the eardrums. You would be writhing on the floor.”
“Hmm.” He slipped behind the pipes. Between the pipes and the wall was a large recess with access from both sides.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, following him, curious.
“What’s to prevent an assassin from wearing high-tech noise-canceling headphones?”
Angelina opened her mouth to answer but closed it again, with her words unsaid, realizing he was right. She glanced at the notebook in her hand and quickly wrote Alec’s question down—another thing to mention to Captain Zale—noting at the same time how much light the spaces between the pipes allowed into the shadowed recess. Enough light to write. Which meant plenty enough space to shoot between.
You were right to bring Alec with you, she told herself. Perhaps someone else has thought of this, but perhaps not. She turned and faced the apse, peering through one of the gaps, trying to think like an assassin. Despite the relatively narrow spaces between the pipes, up close she could clearly see everything in front of the altar. A man could stand behind the organ pipes and take aim between them. It would not be difficult.
“It’s not that hard a shot to make,” Alec said softly as he came to stand next to Angelina.
“You are correct,” she told him. “Where they will be during the ceremony—the entire royal family—I could make that shot. In the pews. At the baptismal font. At the altar. I could make it easily.”
Her eyes met his. And just that quickly Angelina’s thoughts turned from the deadly serious business at hand, to remembering what it had felt like when this man had kissed her. Held her. Caressed her. The iron hardness of his body when he’d pulled her down and trapped her beneath him early this morning. The taste of him on her lips.
So long. It had been so long since she’d let herself even think of men as men. So long since she’d let herself remember she was a woman with a woman’s heart, a woman’s needs. So long since she’d let herself relax her guard enough to even consider the possibility of a sexual relationship with a man.
But she was thinking of it now. Because he was making her think of it. Because he’d kissed her this morning as if it was a perfectly normal and natural thing—which it was—but not for her.
She shuddered and caught her breath as a wave of longing swept through her, longing for something she knew she could never have. She started to turn away, but he stopped her, his hand warm and firm on her arm. And that intensified the ache.
His lips captured hers—or was it the other way around? Angelina didn’t know who had moved first, but just like this morning, they were both aroused, both fighting for control, both trembling in the grip of a need that possessed them to the exclusion of all other thought.
“Angel,” he whispered between incendiary kisses that set off sparks throughout her body. Holding her so tightly she knew she couldn’t escape. Even if she’d wanted to escape...which she didn’t. “Oh God, Angel.”
No one had ever called her Angel. Not her parents, not her cousin, not her friends. No one. She didn’t know why, but somehow, when Alec called her Angel, it made her feel special. Cherished. Unique. A name for him alone.
He pressed her against the organ pipes, then grasped one of her thighs and pulled it up, up, until he was holding her bent knee, stroking it through the slacks she wore. But she might as well not have been wearing anything for all the protection they afforded her. Because, with her knee raised and clasping his hip, the crux of her thighs was open to him. Vulnerable. And he pressed his erection against her mound until she moaned. Moaned, and melted.
She couldn’t think. She tried, but thought was impossible. Her entire world had condensed into this moment in time, into desire that left her shaking and desperate. The only thing that let Angelina hold on to her sanity was the knowledge that Alec was as desperate as she was. That he was shaking, too. That she wasn’t the only one vulnerable.
A sound impinged on her consciousness, the sound of footsteps echoing in the cathedral, then of someone calling her name in Zakharan. “Lieutenant Mateja?”
Angelina tore herself away from Alec, just as she had this morning. But this time she didn’t try to pretend she hadn’t wanted him as much as he’d wanted her. This time she didn’t wipe the taste of him away.
“We cannot do this,” she whispered to Alec. “I cannot do this.” Putting on a calm face, she quickly moved out from behind the organ pipes. “I am here,” she told the custodian in Zakharan, thankful she didn’t wear lipstick that would now be smudged. She hoped the wizened little man wouldn’t think to look behind the pipes, wouldn’t ask where Alec was, or he’d wonder what the hell they were doing in that recessed space and put two and two together.
“You said you only needed a half hour,” the custodian reminded her. “It has been almost twice that. It is nearly noon, and I must lock up so I can go to lunch. Are you finished here?”
“Five more minutes,” she promised him. “I will be quick. I only have one more thing to check.”
As soon as the custodian walked away, Alec came out from behind the pipes. She sensed his stare, but refused to meet his eyes, ashamed of what had taken place between them. Any kind of romantic entanglement was incompatible with the life she’d chosen. Every man she’d dated—and there hadn’t been all that many since she’d joined the queen’s security detail—automatically expected that once their relationship grew serious, Angelina would quit her dangerous job.
And that was not going to happen...until Angelina herself determined she could no longer do her job to her own satisfaction. As long as she stayed in peak physical condition, as long as her reaction time meant no one was better than she was at protecting the queen, her choice was clear.
She couldn’t be soft and yielding, not for any man. She couldn’t be anything other than what she was—tough and uncompromising. She couldn’t even pretend...as other women she knew pretended. And that meant the life most Zakharian women took for granted was out of the realm of possibility for her.
Even if she didn’t get involved romantically, even if this was only sex—only sex? she asked herself, remembering how things had exploded between Alec and her—she wasn’t willing to risk her reputation. Things were difficult enough for a woman in the Zakharian National Forces. When sex reared its ugly head, men tended to look at women differently. As if they didn’t already.
This was twice now she had surrendered to her body’s insistent demands. Twice she had let Alec inside her defenses. Twice she had let herself forget who and what she was. And that was two times too many.
Chapter 4