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The sun was high in the sky in Denver, Colorado. It had snowed the night before, covering the earth with a powdering of snow that made the world seem fresh and new, but now the snow had turned to slush, making walking chancy at best. Caterina Mateja was carefully picking her way to the bus stop to catch a bus that would take her to the second of her three housecleaning jobs that day.
But Caterina—who was known to her employers as Cate Jones because she’d wanted a common American name that wouldn’t be remembered—wasn’t really thinking about where she was putting her feet. She was adding up in her mind everything she would be paid today and what she had to budget for out of those wages.
Cate always insisted on being paid in cash, accepting with a fatalistic shrug the fact that she wasn’t accumulating any credits in the American social security system. She didn’t have a social security number anyway—she wasn’t in this country legally, having long overstayed her temporary work visa. Which, she thought now with a cynical smile, had been fraudulently obtained to begin with. She hadn’t known that at the time. Her supposed agent for the modeling contract she’d signed had arranged everything. Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about, he’d told her. I will take care of it.
But she couldn’t fret about that. Couldn’t change it, either. She was here in the States, with nowhere else to go. She couldn’t go back to Zakhar—she had no passport. She’d frantically searched for it before running, but eventually she’d been forced to flee without it. And she had nothing to prove her identity, even if she’d ever considered applying to the Zakharian embassy—which she hadn’t. Not just because she feared for her life should Aleksandrov Vishenko ever find out where she was, but because she could never return home. Could never face her family, her friends, after what she’d survived. Not even her cousin Angelina would welcome her back if she knew the truth.
She had to earn money to keep a roof over her head, food in her stomach and clothes on her back—warmer clothes, now that winter was here. She needed a new winter jacket. Well, new to her. She shopped at thrift stores for her clothes, and her next winter jacket would be no exception. If she was careful with her money, she might even be able to afford a pair of boots that weren’t too worn. A pair that would last the winter, and wouldn’t leak as her current boots did.
Maybe I should have picked somewhere warmer, Cate thought now. One of the southwestern states. But she’d been worried that in states adjacent to the Mexican border, she’d face stiff competition with other illegal immigrants for jobs that paid under the table. And she’d been homesick. She hadn’t realized it until she’d stepped down from the interstate bus that had brought her to Denver, but the mountains outside Denver reminded her poignantly of Zakhar. There were times she almost felt at home here.
Caterina hadn’t gone by her real name in so long, she didn’t answer to it anymore. So she didn’t even turn around when a harsh voice called out her name from across the street, didn’t respond as if the name had anything to do with her. But it did register in her consciousness. And she knew she had mere seconds to escape death.
She continued on her way toward the bus stop with forced nonchalance, but then darted down a side alley so quickly the gunman who’d been following her was taken off guard. She slipped and fell to her knees as bullets hit the building above her head, and a ricochet sent a shower of concrete dust over the space she’d so recently occupied. Desperate, she scrambled to her feet and turned the corner, her heart pounding in her chest.
Another hail of bullets echoed through the street and rattled off the side of the building. But Caterina was no longer there. And when the gunman reached the alleyway, she was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 14
Angelina waited for Alec outside the conference room. Princess Mara’s husband, Trace McKinnon, leaned leisurely against the wall, his hands in his pockets, also waiting. But his eyes were constantly on the move. And when Major Branko approached her, he straightened. It was a little thing, but telling. So was the way he removed his hands from his pockets oh so casually. She smiled to herself. Once a bodyguard, always a bodyguard, she thought. It is in the blood. Even when there is no need, a bodyguard cannot help being alert. Like a bloodhound on the scent.
“Lieutenant Mateja?” Major Branko’s voice was low, pitched to carry no farther than the two of them, but as Angelina came to attention, she was aware Trace McKinnon could hear every word.
“Yes, Major?”
“Were you or were you not given a direct order by Major Kostya to keep certain information to yourself?”
