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‘Your smile,’ Britt had told Jazz in her usual down-to-earth way, insisting Jazz must show her face on this occasion. ‘You don’t have to take the traditions of Kareshi to the nth degree when you’re staying with us in the frozen north.’
‘But if I were photographed—’
‘The people of Kareshi could only be proud of their princess. Seeing you with your brother, surrounded by a family who loves you both so much, how could they not be proud of you, Jazz?’
Britt was always hard to argue with, and on that occasion impossible, though Jazz had had to wrestle with her inner demons before she could agree to showing her face in public. Her parents had abused their privilege and neglected their people, leaving Sharif and Jazz in the care of a succession of nannies while their mother had flaunted her beauty on a world stage. Sharif and Jazz had grown up sensitive to the rumblings of discontent in their country, so that when the time came for Sharif to inherit the throne he had moved as quickly as he could to turn the super-tanker round and establish a fair rule so he could make their country safe. Sharif was good and strong and kind and wise, but their troubled childhood in a land of absentee rulers and rampant corruption had left Jazz determined not to cause any more upset, so, however free her spirit, in appearance she was always careful not to offend.
‘You should get out of Kareshi more,’ Britt had insisted when they had discussed what Jazz would wear for the party. ‘It would be good for your people, and good for you.’
Jazz agreed, but Kareshi was steeped in millennia of tradition. Sharif had already given her a job at his racing stables, which had opened the floodgates for every woman in Kareshi to work, should they choose to do so, and Jazz wasn’t about to risk their freedom by pushing the traditionalists too far. And it was much easier hiding behind a veil than facing up to a night like this. Staring into the mirror, she wished her heart would stop pounding. Her brother had already left with Britt, so Britt could enjoy a private reunion with her sisters and their long-lost brother, Tyr, at the Skavanga Mining company offices.
Tyr.
Jazz’s throat dried. She had always been excited to see the big Viking.
But things were different now, Jazz told herself firmly. She was an adult with responsibilities, not a child who had plagued the life out of her brother’s closest friend. She had to guard her feelings.
But Tyr was someone she could always depend on.
Or he had been, until he’d disappeared.
How she’d worried about him—wondered about him—prayed for him to be safe.
And now he was back.
What would he think of her? She was so changed, so solemn and so silent. She wouldn’t be playing any tricks on him today.
And she wouldn’t be going to the party if she didn’t calm down.
Taking a few steadying breaths, she closed her eyes and tried her hardest not to think about Tyr Skavanga. After a few moments, she gave up.
* * *
Tyr paused at the entrance to the hotel ballroom and smiled. ‘This is beautiful, Britt.’
‘No welcome banners,’ Eva complained, staring around.
‘No. It’s all very Britt,’ Leila commented approvingly, echoing his own thoughts. ‘It’s a really classy setting.’
‘For a warrior’s return,’ Eva said proudly, putting her hand on his arm.
‘For a homecoming,’ he argued gently.
There was no doubt Britt had gone to a lot of trouble. The flowers in the tall vases flanking the easel to one side of the grand double doors were classic and white. The photograph of him Britt had chosen to prop up on the easel showed him laughing and relaxed before he’d entered the theatre of war, where his life had changed completely.
‘You look about twenty years older in real life,’ Eva informed him helpfully to a chorus of disapproval from their sisters.
‘Watch it, shrimp,’ he warned playfully, feeling his spirits lift to the point where he thought he might actually enjoy the evening. ‘Roman’s out of earshot, so you could be heading for a soaking in the chocolate fountain.’
Eva gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Death by chocolate suits me.’
‘Come on, you two, stop squabbling,’ Britt insisted, pulling the big-sister card on both of them.
He walked ahead of his sisters into the lavishly decorated ballroom with its Gothic curlicues and massive, glittering chandeliers, and the first thing he saw when he entered the room was Jazz.
CHAPTER TWO
