King and Kingdom (19 page)

And what a wreck he might make of her life.

Chey knew what the trouble was. She knew why she wanted to backpedal from her earlier
throw caution to the wind
mentality. Down deep, she was afraid that she would fail him when it counted. When he needed her to be crafty around diplomats and silver tongued with politicians, she feared her inexperience would cost them both. The last thing she wanted was to make a fool out of him—or herself.

These were not invalid concerns. She'd mingled twice with the upper echelon, witnessed how it worked. Only on the surface, sure, but her imagination could fill in the rest. Was she up to the task? Would her wit and worldly knowledge fail her at a critical time?

“Your mouth looks pensive,” Sander rumbled. His voice sounded heavy, drugged.

Chey glanced toward his face. She couldn't see anything from the shadow his shoulder cast down. “That's because I
am
pensive.”

“Second thoughts?”

“Not exactly.”

“That's not the answer I wanted to hear.” He rolled over. The sheet slithered indecently low on his naked stomach. There was just enough natural illumination to see the cut of his abdominal muscles and the bone of his hip.

“I don't know. I keep thinking about later. Like at events in Monte Carlo. I'm not experienced enough dealing with foreign leaders and their ilk,” she said.

“Then it's a good thing you don't have to be. We have our own Ambassadors and Diplomats for that.”

“I saw how people treated Valentina. You told me yourself that she's a force to be reckoned with in circles like those.”

“You weren't born into Royalty, Chey. They understand you won't be versed in the same things.”

“And they'll take advantage, right?”

“They'll try. Some of them. Learn how to double-speak—that is, answer without telling them anything they want to hear—and you'll be fine. As long as you're cordial and polite, there isn't a thing they can do if you won't give up state secrets. You're smart enough to hold your own.”

“You have a lot of confidence in me that I don't even have.”

He rumbled a laugh, smoothing his palm absently over his chest and stomach. “Look, I know it's intimidating. But if I'm not worried, then you shouldn't be, either. I won't throw you to the wolves, you know. I'll break you in slowly until you feel more secure.” He turned his head on the pillows to look toward the window, then at the nightstand.

“Power is still out,” she said when he searched for the time. “You make it sound so easy. The mingling part.”

“It's never easy. Not even for me, and I grew up with it. But you'll adapt.”

“What if I don't?”

“You'll need to, to a certain degree. Not necessarily with foreign dignitaries, but with the people of Latvala. They'll expect to see you, hear from you.”

“Oh, well that's not a big deal.” Chey was thinking in simple terms. She was thinking, in fact, of the catastrophe at the wharf. Mingling then had been natural and right.

“Good. Now tell me if you'd like to go somewhere today. If so, it's better to leave while it's dark.”

“You won't be interested in doing what I'd like to do.” Chey gladly set aside her concerns about other things in favor of concentrating on the now.

He said, “Try me.”

Chapter Thirteen

Milford's
was a pancake house located between the library and the police station. The building took up three lots, had a tin roof and food to die for. The interior, filled with booths and tables in navy micro-suede and a beige tiled floor, sprawled around a gigantic stone fireplace positioned directly in the middle of the room. Flames cracked and hissed behind the grate. A large kitchen took up the back half, leaving more than enough room for three to four hundred guests on its busiest days.

Chey sat across from Sander in a corner booth, far away from three other customers lined up at the long counter. The remains of their breakfast—strawberry waffles for her, and everything on the menu for him—sat between them. He sipped coffee in the aftermath, while she had her hands wrapped around a small glass of orange juice.

“You have an impressive appetite,” she informed him, as if he didn't know.

“I was hungry. We probably burned another thousand calories in the shower this morning.”

Laughing, she blushed. They'd nearly missed the window of opportunity to leave the apartment. “That's not my fault.”

“It's directly your fault. There I was, trying to take a shower, when I was accosted--”

Chey balled up her napkin and tossed it at him, laughing again. The wad bounced harmlessly of his shoulder. “You, sir, have got a faulty memory. Because it was
you
who accosted
me
after I politely informed you I would take my shower first.”

Outside, the rain, which had battered the landscape during their entire meal, came to a stop.

“I didn't hear you complaining,” he said with rakish good humor. Taking another sip of his coffee, he set the mug down and slouched in the booth. He'd chosen to wear toned down clothing again: a flannel open down the front with a white shirt beneath, jeans, boots and the baseball hat that he kept low over his eyes.

“So you admit that I'm right.” Chey wore jeans as well, with a long sleeved shirt in canary yellow with a heather gray hoodie over that. The dark layers of her hair had been scraped back into a ponytail.

“I admit nothing.” He dipped into an accent like a vampire might use, then glanced around the restaurant. “So tell me why you chose this place out of all the rest. I'm guessing you have personal memories attached.”

Chey's lips ticked with the start of a smile. Then she glanced at the interior of
Milford's
before finding Sander's eyes again. “You're astute. My parents and I used to come here every Saturday morning. Without fail. We loved it especially in the winter because of the fireplace.”

He nodded, meeting and holding her gaze. “It's comfortable. Which makes me wonder what's next on our agenda.”

“You'll just have to wait and see. At least the rain stopped.” Chey finished off her orange juice and set the glass aside.

“So, something outdoors, then?” He reached over to pick up the check that the waitress dropped off on her last visit. Taking money out of his pocket, he dropped more than enough to cover the tab and a healthy tip as well.

“Thanks,” Chey said, when he paid. “And I told you. You'll just have to wait and see. You're impatient.”

He snorted. “You're welcome. Let's go then. As patient as you think I am, I'm still curious as hell.”

They departed the booth and left the restaurant after a round of goodbyes with the waitresses. The lone guard who had loitered inside drinking coffee at the counter followed them out a few minutes later.

The SUV made good time across the city, ferrying the group of five toward a destination that Chey guided them to. It felt good to be doing something on a whim, to show Sander the little habits that made up her life. He fit into the schedule without trouble, never complaining that the activities were too mundane or boring.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a parking lot with rows and rows of slots for vendors surrounding a warehouse in the middle. The slots outside were vacant thanks to the rain, which kept the surprise going a little longer. After parking in the guest section, Chey disembarked with Sander and two guards. They seemed like any quartet of friends on an outing, drawing little to no attention as they crossed toward the large smoked glass doors closed against the weather.

Sander quirked a brow at her when he opened one and gestured her to go in before him. Entering, Chey turned to walk backwards so she could see his reaction.

Spread out over thousands of square feet was the flea market she so dearly loved to visit. The vendors had pulled their wares inside due to the weather, but the haggling between them and the customers continued. This flea market happened to cater to those with a love for antiques and collectibles rather than newer, cheap merchandize that one could find at any dollar store. Trunks with leather straps and iron hinges sat next to Victorian lamps and tapestry chairs that looked as if they had come straight from a French parlor. Dividing screens, end tables, paintings, ottomans, rocking chairs—the variety was staggering.

Sander took it all in with a vague grin on his mouth.

“And this,” she said, turning to walk beside him again, still watching his face. “Is where we spent Saturday afternoons after breakfast. Usually the goods are spread out through half the parking lot as well.”

“I can't say I'm surprised,” he said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “This is exactly the kind of place I'd expect to find you.”

“Why do you say that?” Chey ran her fingers across the top of a fifteenth century dresser with baroque accents. “My apartment isn't stuffed with things like this.” She had one or two precious pieces, but not a hoard.

“If you had a house with places to put them, it would be,” he said, taking a guess.

Chey laughed and nudged him with her elbow. “You know me too well.”

“You'd be surprised.” Sander bent his head down to put that comment at the shell of her ear.

She shivered and glanced aside. “What, how well you know me already? I'm still figuring you out.”

“Yes.” He straightened. “You're not supposed to know me that well already.”

“Why can you know me, but I can't know you?”

“I didn't say you can't know me. I said you're not supposed to know me
that
well already. You might become bored of the man without the mystery and intrigue attached, which means I would have to show you my dark side.” His voice lowered at the last, like there were deep, dark secrets that might scare her off if she found out about them. It was so contrived that Chey laughed and bumped her shoulder into his.

“You're so full of it. I was kind of hoping to find a little half table to go against the wall in the dining room. In that empty corner,” she said, giving him insight to why she was here. Beside the desire to immerse him into her routine for the short time he would be in Seattle.

Sander surprised her then. As they walked, he began to point out specific pieces that were more important than others from a historical angle. He also knew his way around antiques, correctly naming styles and designs and from which parts of the world they hailed. They spent two hours wandering up and down the rows, heads bent together while they discussed the appeal of an armoire over there, and a chest of drawers over here.

When Chey came upon a little half table with carvings in the surface and clawed feet, she fell instantly in love with it. After a thorough examination to make sure it was intact, Sander paid the vendor and arranged to have it delivered to Chey's apartment later that day.

Her delight knew no bounds. Just watching him deal so expertly with the vendor heated her blood, as well as the easy way he handled the payment and delivery details.

“I know you want that bureau back there, too,” Sander stage whispered, after the current transaction was done.

Chey laughed and glanced across the market toward a dresser she'd lovingly caressed with her fingers on the way by. “Yes, but that thing is twelve-hundred dollars.”

“And your point is?” he said, offering her his elbow as they moved on.

Chey slipped her fingers into the crook of his arm and rested her cheek against his biceps. She could almost believe that he wasn't a Prince, and that they would go back to her apartment and live a life like everyone else. Without worry of plots and intrigue, without having to look over their shoulder. He was just Sander, and she was just Chey, a couple out on the town for the day. Later they would make love on the floor in front of the fireplace after a dinner of steak and wine, with nothing more pressing on their agenda than to spend hours in one another's arms.

Her daydream shattered when one of the guards stepped up, phone to his ear, and murmured to Sander.

“Sir, it's the King. There's been an accident.”

. . .

Just that fast, Chey's world tilted on its ear. She snapped a look from the guard to Sander, wondering if she was standing next to the new King of Latvala. Although Chey knew he was destined for the role, that he had been groomed his whole life to ascend the throne, she'd thought it would be years yet before it actually happened.

Sander's gaze sharpened. His mouth thinned. Something else shifted in his demeanor, shoulders bracing to take the weight of a responsibility that few men would ever have to bear.

“And?” he asked in a curt, no nonsense voice. Asking, outright, if he had just become King.

Under her clothes, Chey's skin broke out in goosebumps. She glanced from Sander to the guard, breath in her throat.

“They're recalling everyone immediately. We must return to Latvala.” The guard shook his head, indicating that Sander wasn't King.
Yet.