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She took the hand but couldn’t help asking, “Sir?” Not really understanding. She knew the colonel and the king were close, almost like brothers, but...
“If anything had happened to the crown prince,” he explained, “there are those who would firmly believe I had a hand in it somehow.” His expression was even more austere than normal. “The way many still believe I had a hand in my brother’s schemes eighteen months ago. Or at least knowledge of them.”
Angelina didn’t know what to say. Like the king, she didn’t believe it. No one who’d ever served under Colonel Marianescu—including all those on the security details—believed it, either, but she knew many Zakharians still harbored the question in their minds.
She didn’t have to say anything, though, because the colonel added, “I owe you a debt of gratitude, Lieutenant. Know that you can call upon me anytime, anywhere, should you ever need anything. This is not coming from the head of internal security. This is coming from me, personally.”
* * *
But that wasn’t the end of her incredible day. No sooner had she returned to duty in the queen’s suite, when diminutive Queen Juliana threw herself at Angelina, her long dark hair curling around a face flushed with gratitude, her violet eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Thank you, Angelina,” she uttered in a fervent voice as she hugged her fiercely. “I can never thank you enough. Oh, I knew if anyone tried to hurt Raoul or me, you would prevent it. And I was right.” Then she burst into tears.
Angelina quickly seated the queen in an armchair in the sitting room, and knelt on one knee in front of her. “I’m sorry,” the queen said, using the heels of her hands to wipe the tears from her eyes like a little girl. “I wasn’t going to cry. Honestly, I wasn’t. But I can’t seem to help it. If anything had happened to Raoul...” A fresh upwelling of tears overwhelmed the queen’s efforts to hold them back.
A touch of humor speared through Angelina as she acknowledged the queen was one of those few women who looked beautiful even when they were crying, her tear-stained eyes like damp pansies, the delicate color in her cheeks unaffected. Unlike me, she thought with an inner smile, remembering her red, swollen eyes and puffy face last night.
But Alec did not care how I looked. The thought hit her like an avalanche, and hard on the heels of that thought came another one. All he cared about was convincing me I did the right thing yesterday. All he cared about was making me accept the truth. Not just about killing Sasha, but about the two of us—Alec and me. About how we feel. Not only how we feel physically, but all the things we share...like what motivates us.
She wasn’t going to be able to walk away from him. Not after he’d abolished every sexual inhibition she’d ever had—wiped them right off the map. Not after he’d taught her it was perfectly acceptable to be demanding in bed. Not after he’d taught her just how demanding she could be with the right man. A man who could fulfill every sexual fantasy she’d ever had and then some.
But it wasn’t just the sex. If that were all, she could take her fill and walk away. No, what she couldn’t walk away from was the way she felt when she was with him. The way he made her feel even when she wasn’t with him. As if she were more when he was in her life. As if she could accomplish anything...when he was in her life.
She was strong, but so was he. Bigger, more muscular, yes. But also strong inside, where it counted most. She was determined, but so was he. And that appealed to her. She couldn’t respect a man who wasn’t at least as strong and determined as she was.
She’d killed a man, but so had he. No one who hadn’t lived through that experience could really understand. But Alec could. He did. And he hadn’t let her fall into despair over it. “You did what you had to do,” he’d told her, and he’d been right. Why hadn’t she seen that on her own?
* * *
Alec had never seen his job as a nine-to-five that he could put away at the end of the day. He never “closed up shop,” never stopped working if he was on something that needed to be finished.
Except today. Come hell or high water, he would be at Angelina’s apartment at five-thirty. Waiting for her. Because he couldn’t not be there. Because he knew—even if she didn’t—that yesterday’s events weren’t over. Whoever had arranged the assassination attempt was still out there. Still a danger. Not just to the royal family, but to Angelina, too. He shuddered when he thought about how close she’d come to dying. Not just in the sacristy, but when she’d confronted the cameraman and dragged him away. A second here, a second there, and things could have had a very different outcome.
