The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) (12 page)

Crossing one leg over the other, she adjusted her jacket and hoped her attire was appropriate for the mood the advisers wanted to convey for the 'personal' interview. Comforting herself with the idea that Hanna would have said something if her clothes were wrong, she glanced at the staff as they walked over to attach mini microphones to the lapel of her coat.

She reminded herself that heavy emphasis had been stressed on a serene but strong presence with maybe a little touch of humor on her part. Now if she could just remember her own name, things would be fine.

Chey slipped a look at the camera men, at the others with notes and more clipboards. Everyone was busy. Hanna and a thin balding man conversed near a set of high chairs out of the way of the crew.

“All right. I thought we could start with your background. Where you grew up, where you went to school, that kind of thing,” Charlene said, looking up from her notes.

Chey glanced back. “All right. That sounds fine.”

“We'll cover some of your favorite things, such as your photography. Then we'll lead into how you met his Majesty and your courtship.” Charlene smiled. Her lips, as red as her suit, framed a set of startling white teeth.

“I think that will work.” Chey inclined her head.

“Of course, after we're done, special effects will be added, along with music. The whole thing.” Charlene made a gesture with one hand as if encompassing a whole.

Chey remembered the video she'd watched of Sander's
other
wedding. How the media had portrayed Valentina as a glowing paragon of perfection. Her stomach knotted with discontent. She didn't want everything to be so contrived that it made her out to be someone that she wasn't.

Wishing Sander would surprise her by showing up, she answered a few more mundane questions and glanced at the door in time to see Mister Urmas enter. As ever, the liaison between the King and the advisers wore a blemish free suit in pewter with a crisp, white shirt and blood red tie. He came straight to Chey's chair, giving her clothing a critical once over. When he didn't suggest a wardrobe change, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“This should take about twenty minutes, no more. Remember everything from your lessons, yes? Take care not to appear too emotional, or too animated, and please don't use any kind of curse word. We'll have to edit it out if you do,” Urmas said. He picked at a piece of lint or something on her shoulder, then directed the lighting crew to adjust this or that piece, and fired off another round of commands for the cameraman.

“Excuse me, Mister Urmas?” Chey asked, discreetly rubbing her sweaty palms on the arms of the velvet chair.

“Yes, Miss Sinclair?” He arched a dark brow when he turned to face her.

“Will Sander be here in time for the taping?”

“He's in meetings right now and is unable to attend,” Urmas said. “Would you like me to deliver a message?”

“No thank you. I'll see him after.” Chey focused on Charlene after that, pretending that she didn't feel like she was walking down a street buck naked with so many lights pointed at her along with the stare of the camera. How ironic that she should be so uncomfortable on the other side of the lens.

Urmas pivoted away, making a few notes on his way to the door.

The interviewer smiled. “Are you about ready, then? Feel prepared, upbeat?”

“I'm ready.” Chey wasn't ready at all. She wasn't as prepared as she thought she should be, and then she wondered if she would
ever
feel prepared. Living her life out of the spotlight, she wasn't used to all the decorum, rules and regulations of royalty. It bothered her that she might be upbraided for waving wrong, speaking wrong, or behaving out of the realm of what the advisers considered proper. They hadn't said much about it before the engagement. Now that she was to be Queen, there was a plethora of things to remember.

Breathe in, breathe out. She could do this. Tenacious in the face of adversity, Chey bit the proverbial bullet and prepared to do her best.

Ten minutes later, as the room grew quiet and the other non-essential lights dimmed, the producer counted down with a gesture of his fingers.
Three, two, one.

Go.

All Chey could think at that moment was the old adage
don't let them see you sweat.

Too late.

The interview went exactly as Charlene said it would in the beginning. They covered certain aspects of Chey's background, touched on the passing of her parents, and highlighted an anecdote or two about her photography. Careful not to show too much emotion, or laugh too harshly, she kept any gestures subtle and remembered to sit straight instead of slumped or slouched.

Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

Then, out of the blue, Charlene hit her with a bomb.

“What do you say to the rumors that you support the idea of splitting Latvala into regions?”

Every heartbeat hammered against Chey's ribs and her ears filled with a rush of blood. The seconds slowed down to an eerie crawl, each one lasting an excruciating amount of time. Pinpricks of heat swarmed across her nape, around to the front of her throat, coloring her skin and spreading up over her cheeks. She licked her lips.

What the hell was she supposed to do? The camera was rolling. In periphery, she picked out the glowing little red light atop the equipment that was trained right on her. Natural instinct demanded she rise up in her own defense and read Charlene—all of them—the riot act for trapping her. Lulling her with passive questions so her guard was down. Who condoned this, anyway? Had the advisers known? Urmas? Obviously, it had been pre-planned.

Paavo.
He was the one with the most to gain should she stumble and falter. Create a sense of confusion, make her look as if she doubted Sander's decision. It wouldn't take much to chop the interview up in a way that made her replies look like something they weren't.

Charlene stared at her, toothpaste ad smile in place. Stared like there wasn't anything at all wrong with the question, or that she hadn't just nailed Chey to the proverbial cross.

In as calm a voice as Chey could command, she said, “Since I support his Majesty's decision, there
are
no rumors.”

Charlene's brows arched. “According to our sources, Miss Sinclair--”

“Your
sources
are wrong. I know what I said and what I didn't. My support of his Majesty's decision has never wavered. Now then, are we going to get back to the interview I showed up for, or are we through?” It took every ounce of Chey's self control not to light into Charlene and the crew for their duplicity. With determination she didn't realize she had, she retained a neutral expression as she stood up from the chair. She had never intended to give Charlene the choice of whether they were through or not. Dislodging the microphone, she tossed it into the seat and headed for the exit.

“Miss Sinclair!” Charlene's voice tilted up an octave.

Chey ignored her. In periphery, she saw the camera swivel to follow her progress out the doors and into the hallway. A mild commotion erupted in her wake. Chey heard voices barking back and forth.

Hanna, hot on her heels, said, “Oh my heavens, Miss Sinclair. That went dreadfully wrong.”

Chey paused not far from the doors, looking for guilty faces or anyone acting out of the ordinary among the pedestrian traffic in the corridor. Staff members and those with close connections to the royals walked to and fro on whatever business they had for the day. A few individuals met her gaze and inclined a distracted nod of greeting. Chey didn't see anyone who looked suspicious or like they were waiting for the outcome of the interview.

“Yes, it took an unexpected turn, didn't it,” Chey said. It wasn't a question. One glance at her assistant was enough to convince Chey that Hanna had nothing to do with the interview. Hanna looked as distressed as Chey had ever seen her, hugging the organizer tight against her chest.

“That last question was
not
on the list they gave me,” Hanna said. She pulled the organizer away from her chest and flipped it open.

Chey laid a gentle hand on the organizer, stilling Hanna's anxious fingers. She met her eyes. “I know it wasn't. Don't worry, Hanna. I think you would have said something if you'd known about this in advance.”

“Oh yes. Yes, I would have.” Hanna tucked the organizer against her side this time.

“Do me a favor, would you? Stay down here and observe the crew. See where they go and what they do. I'd like to know if Charlene reports to anyone in the castle,” Chey said, lowering her voice so only Hanna would hear.

“Certainly, Miss Sinclair,” Hanna said. “I'll let you know what I find.”

“Thanks.” Moving at a quick clip, Chey followed the hall to the stairs and ascended while Hanna went the other direction. On the private floor dedicated to the family, Chey made quick work of the distance to the bedchamber she shared with Sander and went in after unlocking the door.

Grabbing her cell phone off the nightstand, she sought the contact menu and made her way onto the balcony, seeking the brisk wind that always buffeted the high terrace. Right away her careful hairdo went askew and the flaps of her jacket fluttered like bird's wings. Finding the speed dial for Sander, she almost pressed it before motion out of the corner of her eye over the thick stone banister drew her gaze. She peered down, momentarily suffering vertigo from the angle and height.

Not far away, near the base of the castle against the wall, Chey saw two of Bashir's security members talking with none other than Natalia. She knew they were Bashir's men because of the skin color. Even from that height, the swarthy hue was recognizable. That and their mustaches and goatees, a feature every man in the entourage wore.

What were they doing with Natalia? Had the woman changed her mind and decided to visit Bashir on the sly? No. That wasn't it. The longer Chey watched, the more sure she became that something was amiss. Any conversation they had whipped away with the wind, though it was doubtful she would have heard anyway from up here.

Inside the suite, Chey changed into jeans, a long sleeved sweater and hiking style ankle boots. She didn't waste a moment dawdling, hurrying out into the hallway when she was through. Rather than go back to the juncture of corridors, where the guards were, she went the other way to the back set of stairs.

Only one guard stood near the door, hands clasped professionally before him. Chey entertained enlisting his aid, then thought better of it. What if she caught Natalia in a compromising position? The guard would be a witness to the whole thing.

“Do you need an escort, Miss Sinclair?” the guard asked when she drew close.

“No thank you. I'm just taking a shortcut downstairs.” She stepped through after he opened the door for her, and hit the stairs at a jog. There were several ways to reach the somewhat isolated stretch of wall where Natalia stood with the men. Chey chose the obvious, shortest route, cutting through several lower levels, down another two flights of stairs and exited into the sunlight from a door leading off the kitchens. The knowledge that several chefs and two guards saw her depart didn't slow her rushed pace.

She had to jog fifty yards, take a right turn, then another just to reach the side she needed. The castle, enormous and complex in structure, was no easy building to maneuver around on the outside.

Ahead, she caught sight of Natalia and the two men. Chey chose this angle to approach from so that Natalia would see her coming before the guards did. She hoped the woman had a better poker face than she had sweetness and sincerity, or they might be in trouble. Usually decked out in fashionable clothing, Natalia currently wore a black jogging suit with twin white stripes down the side.

Eleven feet from the trio, one of the guards twisted his shoulders and peered around at Chey. His posture, defensive and tense, indicated he expected trouble.

“Natalia, there you are. I've been looking everywhere,” Chey said, coming abreast of the group as if it was her right to intrude on their conversation.

A hush fell over the three. Chey met Natalia's eyes and understood by the evasive, darting way the woman glanced at her that something
was
wrong.

“Miss Sinclair, if you'll pardon us--”

“Actually, no, I'm sorry. I've been summoned to fetch Natalia by his Majesty, and that's an order I can't ignore,” Chey said, interrupting the guard. She smiled in a way that said she wouldn't take no for an answer, one hand cupping the bend of Natalia's elbow.

The men glanced between women, wary. Suspicious.

Natalia caved to the pressure of Chey's insistence, pacing with her the opposite direction.

Because Chey thought it might seem strange if she glanced back, she continued to look ahead and listen for signs the men might follow.

They did.

She heard the crack of winter dry grass and other debris under the thick soles of their shoes. Weighing the option of running once they got around the first corner, distracted with thoughts of escape, Natalia caught her by surprise when she yanked her into the wall. Or what Chey thought was the wall. Bracing her hands for impact, she realized belatedly that there was a hidden passageway camouflaged into the stone, made invisible from either direction by the structure and the slope of the wall itself.

“Hurry. First left,” Natalia said, breaking into a run.

Disoriented by the change from full sunlight to a dim corridor, Chey felt along the wall with a hand and took the left Natalia indicated.

Behind her, she heard the men erupt into their native tongue, making it impossible to know if they were pursuing or simply cursing their loss of prey.

Beyond the left turn, darkness.

“Natalia, I can't see,” Chey said, feeling for the wall once more.

“Follow with your palm. It's smooth.” Natalia, grasping Chey's other hand, rushed them straight ahead.

Fearing a fall, Chey moved slower than Natalia, dragging on the tether of their hands.

“Trust me,” Natalia whispered.

Chey didn't trust her. She didn't trust someone with a petulant temper who had tried, more than once, to rid Chey from Latvala and Sander's life. Just now, however, she had no choice. The scuff of leather on stone informed Chey that the men had found the same hidden entrance and were in pursuit. Picking up speed, fretting about running into a rock or other debris that would send her face first into the floor, possibly harming the baby, she squinted at the darkness, attempting to make out any kind of shape or archway.