Command Performance (25 page)

Hooking her hands under his arms, she dragged him inside. After a quick fumble through her top desk drawer, she found the key. The room was hardly as long as he was, sprawled on the floor. She stepped over him, shut the door and locked him in.

She shook her head to clear the buzzing that filled it and gave herself a moment, leaning back against the wall and catching her breath. The wounded man a few steps away groaned, and she was beside him instantly.

“Help’s coming,” she murmured. “You’re going to be all right.”

“Jermaine …”

“Yes, yes, I know. It’s taken care of. You mustn’t try to talk.” Pressure, she thought. She had to stop the bleeding. She dragged a hand through her hair and tried to think. Towels. “Try not to move,” she told him. “I’m going to get something to stop the bleeding.”

“Was waiting—was hiding.”

“He’s locked up,” she assured him. “Don’t talk anymore. I won’t be gone long.”

She rose, intending to run to the nearest bathroom for towels, when she heard a noise behind her. She spun around, but the hall was empty. Moistening her dry lips, she stared at her office door. Was he conscious again already? It hit her then, coldly, that she hadn’t taken the gun. It was locked in with him. If he woke up and found it …

Then she heard voices out front and ran toward them.

The stage was dark. She hit the main switch, flooding the stage with light. Her chest heaved with a sob at the sound of Alexander’s voice. As he climbed the steps to the stage she was racing across it. His apology for being later than he’d promised never materialized. He had her by the arms, holding firmly.

“What is it?”

“The man, Deboque’s agent—he’s locked in my office. He shot a man, one of your guards, I think. I’ve already called an ambulance and the police.”

“Did he hurt you?” Even as he took the first quick look, his hands moved to her shoulder. “There’s blood.”

“Not mine, the guard’s. Alex, he needs attention. And in my office—”

“It’s all right.” His arm circled her as he turned to his own bodyguards. “See to it. I’ll stay here with her.”

“He has a gun,” she began.

“So do they. Sit.” He lowered her to the sofa she had insisted be faded. “Tell me.” He took his gaze from hers only long enough to watch his guards go backstage.

“Everyone went home—I thought everyone went home. Of course I know there’s been a guard on me. I heard a bang, then footsteps. There was the body in the hall. I went back to the phone, then I heard someone again. Alex, it was the man you fenced with, that Jermaine.”

“Jermaine was shot?”

“No, no!” Dragging her hands through her hair, she tried to be clear. “He was the one. He had a gun. I knocked him out, then—”

“You knocked out Jermaine?”

“I’m trying to tell you,” she snapped. “He must have shot the other man, and he was coming back.”

“Eve.” He shook her gently. “Jermaine is the head of my personal security. I assigned him to you to protect you.”

“But he …” She trailed off, struggling to clear her mind. “Then who … ?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Russ stepped out of the shadows at stage left. In his hand was a revolver, lengthened by a slim silencer.

“Oh, my God.” Before the words were out, Alexander was up, placing Eve behind him.

“I have to thank you for sending your guards away, even so briefly, Your Highness. I promise to be quick. I am, after all, a professional.”

“No.” Eve stepped from behind Alexander to grip his arm. “You can’t.”

“You, I regret.” There was a touch of sincerity in his tone as he smiled at Eve. “You know the business, Eve. I want you to know you’re the best producer I’ve ever worked for.”

“You won’t get away with it.” Alex spoke quietly, knowing his guards would be back in a matter of seconds.

“I’ve been given the opportunity to learn this theater very well. I can disappear in ten seconds. It should be all I need. If I don’t make it …” He shrugged. All of them heard the high, distant sound of sirens. “Well, that’s business.” He leveled the gun at Alexander’s heart. “Nothing personal.”

They were standing on the set. The red urn with its bunch of bright paper flowers stood out like a joke. The heat of the spotlights warmed them as though the play had already begun. But the gun was real.

She screamed. It was torn out of her. Without a second thought, with no regrets, she stepped in front of Alexander and took the bullet.

* * *

She couldn’t die. Alexander sat with his head in his hands as the phrase repeated over and over in his head like a litany. He knew how to pray, but those were the only words that would come to him.

He knew there were others in the waiting room, but they might have been ghosts. Phantoms of his own imagination. His father stood by the window. Bennett sat on the small lounge with Chris’s hand in his. Gabriella sat beside Alexander, letting her support come through without words. Reeve was there, then gone, then back again, as he dealt with the police.

If he’d had only a second more, one second, he could have pushed her aside, thrown her aside. Anything to
keep the bullet from going into her. She’d jerked against him. As long as he lived, he’d never forget the way her body had jerked in shock and pain before it had gone limp.

And her blood had been on his hands. Literally and figuratively.

“Take some tea, Alex.” Gabriella urged the cup on him, but he shook his head. She watched as he lit yet another cigarette. “Don’t do this to yourself,” she murmured. “Eve is going to need you to be strong, not riddled with guilt.”

“I should have protected her. I should have kept her safe.” He closed his eyes but could still see that horrifying moment she had swung herself in front of him. Throwing her arms around his body as a shield. “It was me he wanted.”

“You or any of us.” She put a hand on his knee. “If there’s guilt we share it equally. Alex, through the worst days of my life, you were there for me and I wouldn’t let you help. Let me help now.”

His hand covered hers. It was all he could give.

Reeve came back into the waiting room. He looked at his wife, touched her briefly on the shoulder, then went to Armand, by the window. Armand only nodded, then went back to his silent vigil. He, too, knew how to pray.

Unable to sit any longer, Chris rose and walked to the corridor, then back again. There were tears she hadn’t been able to stem drying on her cheeks. She felt Gabriella’s arm go around her, and leaned against it.

“We can’t lose her.”

“No.” Gabriella kept her hold tight. “We won’t lose her.” Gently she drew Chris back toward a chair. “Do you remember when we were in school together, the stories you would tell me about Eve? I had wondered what it was like to have a sister.”

“Yes, I remember.” Chris took a deep breath and tried to make the effort. “You thought having one would be delightful.”

“It seemed I was always surrounded by men and boys.” Gabriella smiled and, with Chris’s hand in hers, looked around at her family. “You showed me a picture of Eve. She was twelve, thirteen, I think, and beautiful,
even as a child. I loved the idea of having someone like that to share things with.”

“And I told you how I’d found her in my room with all my makeup lined up on the vanity, experimenting with my best eye shadow. Her eyes looked like garage doors.” Chris ran her fingertips under her eyes to dry them. “She thought she looked gorgeous.”

Chris sniffed and took the tissue Gabriella handed her. “She hated being sent away to school.” Her breath was shaky as she let it out and drew more in. “Dad thought it best, and he was right, really, but she hated it so. We all thought Eve was a lovely girl, a sweet girl, but not too bright. Lord, did she prove us wrong. She just refused to waste her time doing things that held no interest, so she wasted it with magazines or the latest CDs, instead.”

“She used to write you those funny letters. You’d read them to me sometimes.”

“The ones where she described the girls in the dorm or her history teacher. We should have seen then that she had a knack for the theater. Oh, God, Brie, how much longer?”

“Just a little while,” she murmured. “We used to think that she and Bennett … They seemed to suit so well.” She looked over at Alexander as he stared down at his own hands. “Isn’t it odd that the people we care for should have come together?”

“She loves him so much.” Chris, too, looked at Alexander, and her heart rose into her throat. “I wanted her to come back to Houston with me. She couldn’t leave him. It was almost as if she knew the time would come when she would protect him.” Her voice broke, and she shook her head before going on. “She said it didn’t matter how he felt, she only wanted whatever time with him she could have.”

Brie sighed. “Alexander closes himself in, so often even from himself. But I don’t think there can be any doubt now about his feelings. He blames himself. Not circumstances, not Deboque or fate, but himself totally.”

“Eve wouldn’t.”

“No, she wouldn’t.”

Understanding, Chris rubbed her hands over her eyes and rose. It wasn’t easy to cross the room to him. There was resentment. She couldn’t avoid it. There was blame and an anger wedged in her heart that had found
no room for escape. The step she took was for Eve. When she sat beside him, he didn’t reach out to her, but looked over with eyes that were shadowed and red from the scrubbing of his own hands.

“You must hate me.” He said it in a voice that was both quiet and dull. “It is small comfort to know that you can’t hate me as much as I hate myself.”

She wanted to take his hand for Eve’s sake, but couldn’t. “That doesn’t do Eve any good. She needs us to pull together now.”

“I could have found a way to make her leave, to make her go.”

“Do you think so?” It made her smile just a little. “I can’t imagine that. Since she got out of school Eve hasn’t allowed anyone to make her do anything.”

“I didn’t protect her.” He covered his face with his hands again, fighting the pressing need to break down. “She matters more than anything in my life and I didn’t protect her.”

Chris found her hand groping for his, for Eve, yes, but also for herself and for Alexander. “She stepped in front of you.” The pain shot into his eyes again. As her own rose to meet it, their fingers linked. “If you have to blame yourself, Alex, blame yourself for being the man she loves. We have to believe she’s going to be all right. I need you to believe that with me, or I don’t think I can handle any more.”

They sat and waited. Coffee was brought and grew cold. Ashtrays overflowed. The scent of hospital—antiseptic, detergent and nerves—grew familiar. They no longer noticed the guards posted in the corridors.

When Dr. Franco entered the room, they all got to their feet. His surgical cap was soaked with sweat, as was the front of his pale green scrubs. He came forward and, with the compassion natural to him, took Chris’s hand.

“The surgeon is still with her. They’ll be bringing her to recovery very soon. You have a strong sister, Miss Hamilton. She doesn’t choose to give in.”

“She’s all right?” Chris’s hand gripped the doctor’s like a vise.

“She came through the surgery better than anyone could have expected. As I explained, Dr. Thorette is the best in his field. The operation was tricky because the bullet was lodged very near her spine.”

“She’s not …” Alexander felt his father’s hand on his arm and made himself say it. “She won’t be paralyzed?”

“It’s too early for guarantees, Your Highness. But Dr. Thorette feels there is no permanent damage. I agree with him.”

“Your judgment has always been excellent,” Armand told him. His voice was rough from cigarettes and relief. “I don’t have to tell you that Eve will continue to get the very best care available.”

“No, Your Highness, you don’t. Alexander.” He used the first name, taking the privilege of an old family friend, one he had taken rarely in over thirty years. “She is young, healthy, strong. I give you my word that I can see no reason she won’t recover fully. Still, there is only so much we can do. The rest is up to her.”

“When can we see her?”

“I’ll check recovery and let you know. It’s unlikely she’ll wake until morning. No, there is no need to argue,” he continued, holding up his hand. “I don’t intend to tell you that you can’t sit with her. I believe it will only help her recovery if you’re there when she awakes. I’ll go to her now.”

* * *

There was a low light on as he kept his vigil. Franco had had a tray of food sent up, but Alexander had only toyed with it and pushed it aside.

She lay so still.

He’d been told she would, that the sedation had been heavy, but he watched her for a movement, for a flicker.

She lay so quietly.

An IV fed into her wrist; the white bandage holding the needle in place stood out in the dark. A line of machines kept up a steady click and beep as they monitored her. From time to time he stared at the fluorescent green lights. But almost always he stared at her.

Sometimes he spoke, holding her hand in his as he talked of walking together on the beach, of taking her to the family retreat in Zurich or sitting in the gardens. Other times he would simply sit, watching her face, waiting.

He thought how much she would dislike the dull hospital gown they had put her in. And he thought of the lace and silk she had worn the last time they had made love. Only one night ago. He pressed her hand against his cheek as his breathing grew jerky and painful. The touch helped soothe.

“Don’t let go,” he murmured. “Stay with me, Eve. I need you, and the chance to show you how much. Don’t let go.”

He sat through the hours of the night fully awake. Just as the slats in the window shade let in the first slivers of light, she stirred.

“Eve.” He gripped her hand in both of his. The safety bar on the side of the bed was down so that he could lean toward her. “Eve, you’re all right. I’m here with you. Please, open your eyes. Can you hear me? Open your eyes, Eve.”

She heard him, though his voice sounded hollow and distant. Something was wrong. She felt as though she had been floating, and the dreams … Her eyelids fluttered, came up. She saw only gray, then blinking, began to make out form.