King and Kingdom (7 page)

Chey cursed under her breath. She was in way over her head and had no idea how to respond to such a claim. Why was this man even talking to her? Chey was just a guest, not a Princess or a Liaison or an Ambassador better suited to discussions like these.

He's using your naivety to see if there is weight to the wedding rumors.

“I really wouldn't know anything about that,” Chey said, and at least it wasn't a lie.

“No, I suppose you would not,” the man said with a thin smile and a glance that suggested he thought her purpose a much more tactile one with the Prince.

Before Chey could think of a suitable reply, he turned on a heel and strolled away, causal as you please.

Had she just given him the wrong ammunition? Would it really damage Weithan Isle politically, that small exchange? Chey couldn't be sure. It was ridiculous to think someone of such obvious importance would put too much stock in what she had to say. Yet perhaps this was part of Valentina's insistence this evening that their engagement come to light. Maybe there
were
heavy political implications lurking at the fringe.

It serves Valentina right for jumping the gun,
Chey thought. The woman should have never just assumed Sander would agree without talking to him first.

Once again, Chey felt out of her element. Way out of her league. Tipping the champagne up, she finished off what remained.

“This must be your first time at a function like this,” a masculine voice said at her side.

Chey glanced from Sander and Valentina to her newest companion. The Chey of three months ago would have melted on the spot at the handsome lines of his face and linebacker type build. Dark haired, with a rakish dimple in his tanned cheek, he was the epitome of charismatic charm and devilish allure.

The Chey of today, smitten with a certain Prince, barely noticed the man's ample attributes.

“My second, actually,” she replied, and wished she had another glass of champagne to help her relax.

As if he'd anticipated her need, the dark haired man presented her with a sparkling flute, exchanging it with the old.

“Thanks,” Chey said, bringing the flute up for a quick sip. It was chilled, bubbly and smooth on the tongue.

“Of course.” The man passed off the empty flute and slid his hands into the pockets of his coat. “So, your second event. What do you think, then?”

The way he kicked his chin toward the dance floor could have been construed to mean Sander and Valentina.

Either that, Chey thought, or she was reading too much into things.

“It's very interesting,” she finally said, again reminding herself to be cautious. He could be another like the last, pumping her for information.

“Indeed. What do you find most interesting about it? The location or the collection of the world's elite?”

Chey let her gaze skim back to Sander and Valentina. The Princess was stroking her fingers through the end's of Sander's hair at the nape as if she had a right to. It was a small sign of affection, but one that put Chey on edge. Resisting the urge to deliver a blunt retort to the man at her side, she took another sip from the champagne and offered up something less inflammatory.

“The mystery of who everyone is,” Chey said. “I don't really recognize anyone, yet it's obvious there are some very big players here.”

“An understatement,” he said with a raspy laugh. “I could point them all out, but that's boring. I'd rather dance, if you would do me the honor.”

“Absolutely, thank you.” Chey drained another swallow of the champagne and let the man take the flute from her fingers. Why not dance? It would put her closer to Sander and Valentina so that she might overhear whatever conversation had put that disgruntled look on Sander's face.

The devilish man swung Chey out onto the floor with a chivalrous flourish and settled into a gliding waltz. Skilled and efficient, Chey found she didn't have to concentrate hard on the steps to keep up with him. She caught Sander's eyes when they spun close to him and Valentina; he glared at Chey's dancing partner with something like irritation.

Chey attempted to convey that Sander had nothing to be irritated about, but found it difficult to shape the right expression. She bubbled an unexpected laugh as her partner led her into another turn.

“Having a good time?” the man asked.

Chey realized she didn't even know his name. His face swam above her when she sought his gaze. “Yes. Dancing was a good idea.”

“It was. You dance well.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed once, then asked, “What's your name?”

“Damon.”

“Just Damon? No Prince or anything in front of it?” Chey wished she could stifle the urge to laugh. Everything was suddenly funny.

He chuckled. “No, sorry. Just Damon. And you're Miss Sinclair. The gossips made that clear even before I got my hands on my first drink.”

“Yes. You can call me Chey though.” The room felt so light, so bubbly—like the champagne. The drink must really be going to her head.

“Chey, then. Careful there,” he said, when she missed a step and stumbled.

“Sorry. I guess it was that second drink.” A small laugh tittered free.

“Did you eat? Sometimes if you drink without dinner, it goes to your head faster.”

Chey couldn't remember if they'd eaten or not. “I...don't know.”

“No worries, Miss Sinclair. You're in good hands with me. I'll make sure you don't trip or bump into anyone else,” Damon said, tilting his head closer to her own.

Faces swirled at the edge of the dance floor, blurring into each other. For one startling moment, a sharp pair of ice blue eyes stood out among the other dancers. Sander. Chey realized it was Sander only after he'd turned out of sight. Well, now he knew what it felt like to watch her dance with someone else. What was good for the goose was good for the gander, right?

“Thank you, Mister Damon.” Chey, lightheaded, stifled another laugh against his shoulder. She felt his chest shake with humor under her cheek.

“You're welcome.” He guided her through another set of steps as the music's tempo increased.

Chey found it harder and harder to keep up now, as if her feet didn't want to listen to the commands of her brain. It was only mildly disconcerting. Mostly, she just didn't care.

“It's really hot in here,” she said a few minutes later, after catching another particularly bold stare from Sander. He wore an intense, unhappy look that Chey barely caught between one twirl and the next.

“It's all the people on the floor. We can step out onto the balcony, get some fresh air, and come back in if you'd like,” Damon said, already guiding her that way.

Chey thought fresh air sounded fantastic. She followed his lead, allowing him to escort her past a pair of open double doors to the broad balcony overlooking the bay. Salty ocean air gusted against her skin and threatened to make a mess of her carefully coiffed hair.

Damon led her to a shadowy niche in the wall surrounded by climbing ivy and little pink flowers.

“This should help,” Chey said, gulping down oxygen as if it were wine. She couldn't get her bearings, couldn't focus on anything longer than a minute or two. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, warning bells were clanging, though over what, she couldn't be sure.

“Yes, it should,” Damon said, crowding her into the niche.

He obliterated the moonlight, the bay—everything. Chey couldn't see past his shoulders for the way he loomed closer. She brought her hands up to his chest with the intent to ward him off, to put some breathing distance between them. What was he doing?

What was
she
doing? She didn't want to be out here with him. The warning bells clanged louder. Chey wished she could concentrate on what they meant, on what she needed to do. Something was wrong. Her tongue felt numb, like her brain.

Damon claimed her mouth, hands on her hips, body pressing hers into the ivy.

Chey mewled protest, pushed harder at his chest. The slight weight was ineffectual against his strength. She wasn't even sure he noticed.

This was all wrong.

Damon, wrenched back by someone gripping his shoulder, reeled away from Chey. She saw fists fly and Damon sprawl backward on the balcony.

“Some women really are title chasers,” Damon said with a smug, bloody smile. “I don't think she cared
which
Royal she had, as long as she had one. Right, darling?”

Sander, with fury on his face and in his eyes, growled what sounded like a threat in his mother tongue. Then he said, “I know better.”

“Do you? Because she was all but begging me to have her. Something about what did it matter now that the mighty Heir to the throne was engaged to the alluring Princess Valentina. Got to hand it to her,” Damon said with a rude gesture at Chey. “She didn't waste any time.”

“What? No.” Chey sought to deny the horrible things Damon was saying. She looked from the sprawled man on the ground to Sander, who glared down into her face. There was a gleam of uncertainty in his eyes, as if he didn't want to believe what he was hearing. Catching her pressed into a shady nook with a handsome stranger couldn't have encouraged his trust in her. Chey staggered away from the niche, panic trying to sear a path through the haze.

“Sander...” Chey's protests got cut off by a sudden influx of security. The balcony, empty of all but three bodies a moment ago, became flooded with men in black suits.

“Prince Dare, there's been a security breach.”

“This way, this way,” another said as the quartet surrounded Sander.

“Get her out of here,” Sander barked as his men smothered themselves around him. “Take her home.”

“We're on it, Sir.”

Dizzy and disoriented, Chey found herself in the escort of Sander's security. She caught a glimpse of Damon in the flurry of bodies, something knowing and sly in his gaze. He looked pleased with the incident and gave no resistance as his own team hustled him off the balcony down a side set of stairs.

Everything after that happened so fast she couldn't keep track. One moment she was being guided into a sedan, the next she was back in the parking lot at
The Trident
. There was no time to organize her scattered thoughts, no chance to recover from the shock of Sander catching her with another man. Guards collected her things with speed and efficiency while she sat in the idling car. They loaded suitcases into the trunk within minutes. People moved around her in a blur, much like the faces around the dance floor had. The sedan pulled out of the lot and onto the street, Sander no where in sight.

Chey's weak protests and questions went unanswered. The security members weren't talking when it came to Sander's whereabouts or safety. Fear and panic clamored for dominance, though neither could pierce the strange daze Chey currently saw the world through.

Before long she was on the private jet and helped into a seat. Her body felt like a limp noodle, unable to hold itself upright. She consoled herself with the thought that she would straighten everything out with Sander as soon as they landed in Latvala. Between now and then, she would sleep off the effects of the champagne and allow Sander's temper to cool.

The abyss rose up to claim her before the jet ever left the tarmac.

Chapter Five

“Miss Sinclair, we're here,” a guard said with a gentle shake of her shoulder.

Chey stirred, but didn't open her eyes right away.

“Miss Sinclair?”

“Mm?”

“We're here. Open your eyes.” The security member gave her shoulder another gentle shake.

Chey slit her lashes open, wondering why her ears needed to pop. The luxurious interior of the jet reminded her she was on a plane, but she couldn't figure out for the life of her
why.

“We can disembark as soon as you're ready,” he said.

Yawning, Chey sat up in her chair. The plane...
oh.
She glanced across toward the other seats and the sofas for Sander. He wasn't anywhere to be seen. Perhaps he'd crashed in the bedroom in the back.

Suffering a wild headache, she got up and stretched with a groan of pain.

“Where's Sander?” she asked, stepping free of the seats. She was still in the gown she'd worn to the party at the hotel. Distantly, alarms sounded in her head, vying with the headache that seemed far too sharp and acute to be born from champagne.

Little by little, snippets of the evening came back to her. She fought off a bout of panic that wanted to lodge itself in her stomach.

“He's away, Miss Sinclair,” the guard said. “All your luggage is here. Do you feel up to leaving the plane?”

“Yes, yes, I think so. Is Sander at the castle?” she asked, wobbling her way toward the now open door. Faint strains of twilight sought to pierce an overcast, still dark sky.

“I'm not sure, Miss Sinclair. Perhaps.” The guard provided her a helping hand down the stairs to the tarmac. Another man came behind with her luggage.