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She’d sunk down on the edge of the bed, folded her hands and tried, once again, to think of a way out.
But there was none.
Her father had been clever, painting a picture of her as a spoiled brat with a hot temper and a propensity for trouble, annoyed at the prospect of having a bodyguard to ensure her safety en route to Sardovia.
“My Ekaterina is a such a free spirit,” Gregor Rostov had said. “Given the opportunity, she will surely catch the interest of the media.” He’d looked at her, smiled, and Katie had wondered how it was possible that only she could see the coldness in that smile. “I do not want you to run the risk of being harmed, darling. Mr. Castelianos will see to your care.”
The lie hadn’t even been necessary. Had her father believed that she would run? That only proved how little he understood her. He had trapped her, and she was well and truly caught.
She could hear the television playing in the next room, though the sound was very faint. Basketball. Football. Some sports thing. Castelianos was watching it; she wondered what he’d be doing if he weren’t stuck with her. He was a nice-looking guy; he wore a wedding ring. He’d probably be home with his wife. Maybe with his kids. Instead, he was here, just doing his job, and she’d been going out of her way to treat him like dirt.
Katie had sighed, risen to her feet, combed her hands through her hair. Then she’d opened the bedroom door and stepped inside the sitting room.
“Mr. Castelianos?”
He’d stood up.
“No, don’t get up. It isn’t necessary.” She’d paused. Cleared her throat. “I, ah, I know I’ve given you a hard time.”
His expression was impassive. She’d forced a smile and cleared her throat again.
“I understand that you’re just doing your job.”
“Did you want something, Ms. Rostov?”
His words had been polite. Still, she’d felt her temper start to rise.
“No. Not really. I’m simply trying to tell you that—that I don’t hold you responsible for any of this.” She’d waited. And waited. When he didn’t say anything, she’d run the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. “I know that my father has told you things about me—”
“Ms. Rostov. What your father may or may not have told me is immaterial. You are my responsibility. I take my responsibilities seriously.” His eyes had narrowed. “And if you think a spoonful of sweet-talk will change that, you’re wrong. Until tomorrow, you are stuck with me.”
She’d wanted to storm across the room and punch him.
She hadn’t.
She’d called him a name that had surprised both of them, returned to her room and slammed the door hard enough to make it shudder.
And then she’d realized exactly what he’d said.
She’d pulled the door open, marched to where he sat, put her hands on her hips and said, “What does that mean? Until tomorrow?”
“It means that tomorrow I’ll turn you over to someone who’ll get you to your engagement ceremony without any problems.”
Her engagement ceremony. Her betrothal ceremony.
Her future, as mapped by her father.
How her world had changed, and in such a short time.
Her mother had fallen ill. A cold, she’d insisted. An infection, the doctor had said a week later, and when it persisted, grew worse, a second doctor had been called in and then a third, and what had been a cold had been diagnosed as a swift-moving cancer.
Her mother was dying.
Her father had grieved for five minutes and then used her impending death to his advantage.
Sardovia was quickly moving into the twenty-first century, but there was still a faction that saw life there as a power game. Her father was one of its most significant players. Within days, he had arranged to marry Katie to a Sardovian of wealth. Of power.
He had arranged her marriage to the heir to the Sardovian throne.
