Buch lesen: «Royal Protocol»

Dana Marton is the author of more than a dozen fastpaced, action-adventure romantic suspense novels and a winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence. She loves writing books of international intrigue, filled with dangerous plots that try her tough-as-nails heroes and the special women they fall in love with. Her books have been published in seven languages in eleven countries around the world. When not writing or reading, she loves to browse antique shops and enjoys working in her sizeable flower garden, where she searches for “bad” bugs with the skills of a superspy and vanquishes them with the agility of a commando soldier. Every day in her garden is a thriller. To find more information on her books, please visit www.danamarton.com. She would love to hear from her readers and can be reached via e-mail at the following address: DanaMarton@DanaMarton.com.

To Denise Zaza and Allison Lyons. Thank you again!

Chapter One

Benedek Kerkay, youngest prince of Valtria, stared at the evenly printed lines on the paper, but all he could see was the face of the most beautiful woman in the universe, the one who’d been holding him enthralled for years. A woman he could never have.

“Protesters are gathering at Liberation Square, Your Highness.” His secretary stood in the door of his temporary office at the Royal Opera House, shifting from one scrawny leg to the other.

Benedek cleared his head and processed the man’s words, forgetting the speech he should have been re-hearsing for the reopening of the three-hundred-year-old opera house, his most significant project yet as an architect. His muscles drew tight. “No. Absolutely not.”

Morin looked gravely ahead. A peculiar-looking little man, he was loyal to the bone at a time when loyalty was scarce. For this, he was much appreciated at the palace. He’d been with the House of Kerkay since Benedek could remember, even forsaking family for service, although rumors about him and the head housekeeper of the palace’s east wing circulated from time to time. He was such a private man that even Benedek didn’t know the truth of those rumors. Nor was he in the mood to speculate on them at the moment.

“There can’t be a protest tonight.” He came out of his seat and strode to the exquisitely restored six-foot-tall window, turning his back to Morin, wishing he could see across the five-acre Millennial Park to Liberation Square.

His fists tightened, crushing the sheets he held. Nothing would be allowed to upset the peace tonight. He’d been working toward this night for the last five years, restoring the Baroque-style building with painstaking care. Close to a thousand nobles, Valtrian celebrities and foreign dignitaries were invited to the opening night and were even now taking their seats. Rayne Williams, opera diva, “the voice of the night,” was giving her first performance outside of the U.S. in a decade.

“Call in Royal Security, call in the army, call in the National Guard, call in the synchronized parachuters for all I care, but do not—” he relaxed his clenched jaw muscles “—let anyone spoil tonight.”

“Yes, Your Highness. Only that it’s—” His secretary hesitated.

Benedek crushed the papers tighter, knowing from the look on the man’s face that he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. “Only what?”

“A show of force at the present moment—against peaceful protesters.”

Benedek walked to his desk then back to the window, pacing the antique reproduction carpet. Disbanding the protesters by force could look like an attempt to silence the voice of the people. Not a year after the siege of Maltmore Castle where the enemies of the monarchy had attempted to kill the entire royal family and take over the country, where dozens of people died in a night of bloodshed…The royal guard marching on the people might not be the smartest thing politically. The country needed reconciliation and joint steps toward unity.

He hated politics. He’d become an architect partially for that reason. Buildings were simple. Buildings were stable. Buildings didn’t stab you in the back.

“Who’s handling it?”

“The police, Your Highness. Your brother Miklos is keeping a close eye on it as well.”

Miklos was an Army major. He had an interest in security and also played a role in it. “Call the chief of palace security and tell him I need to talk to him. Here.” Benedek was escorting Rayne to a reception at the palace after her performance. Palace Hill was just a few blocks away, not that far from Liberation Square. He needed to discuss these new developments with the chief. Maybe they needed to alter their plans. “I want the protest carefully watched and every change reported.” He drew a slow breath, nodded beyond his office door. “Are they ready?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He tossed his crumpled speech on his desk, on top of a stack of blueprints and photos of the various stages of the building’s restoration. This building meant everything to him. His oldest brother, Arpad, had ribbed him about wanting to show the country that he was more than the youngest prince at the palace. Maybe there was some truth in that, but the project was more. It was his validation as an architect.

He straightened his tuxedo jacket. “How do I look?”

Morin seemed surprised by the question.

And Benedek was instantly annoyed that he’d asked. On any other day, he would have been too busy drawing blueprints in his mind to pay much attention to his appearance.

“Splendid, Your Highness,” Morin said at last, after an awkward silence.

Benedek nodded his thanks, knowing the compliment meant little. As a prince he was used to hearing what everyone thought he wanted to hear.

Except when it came to bloody protesters.

He passed by his secretary, strode down the hallway that looked majestic even in the staff areas where the audience would never wander. He waved his new bodyguard away. “Wait for me at the royal box,” he told the man, turning down the hall. He missed his old guard who had recently retired. He hadn’t had a chance to develop the same kind of rapport with this one yet. And he didn’t need anyone hovering at his back when he finally met Rayne Williams.

The rich carpet softened his steps on the antique floorboards. The building was like a grande dame of old with gracious curves and resplendent gilding, tantalizing textures and colors. He didn’t stop until he reached the door at the very end. The sign on the door simply said Rayne. He adjusted his tie one last time then knocked.

“Come in.”

He pushed the door wide with a smile, then stopped midmotion to stare. An unprincely thing to do. He needed to stop reacting to her like a moon-eyed teenager.

He’d seen her perform in New York several times, but Rayne Williams was a thousand times more beautiful up close. Silver eyes shone out of a face that was perfectly symmetrical; her skin was translucent and glowing, her lips ruby-glossed. Ebony strands of silky hair cascaded to well below her slim waist, while more was piled intricately at the back of her head. She was willowy, although not as tall as he was, wearing a burgundy gown, the copy of one worn by a historical heroine of Valtria at her royal wedding. The corset pushed up her breasts to the point of nearly spilling from the brocade, as had been the custom of that age.

He was all for historical accuracy. Absolutely.

He bowed deeply before she could notice his rapt attention to her cleavage. “Welcome to Valtria.”

“Thank you, Prince Benedek. I understand you’ll be escorting me to the stage tonight.”

She was unfailingly polite, even though she disliked him. He knew that for a fact. But her voice, soft and rich, still had the power to keep him spell-bound. He was to be her escort for tonight. Not nearly enough, although he’d come to accept that her remote behavior toward him was for the best.

For years, he’d gone to her performances in the U.S., sometimes two or three times a year, sending her a bouquet of Valtria’s signature purple roses each time, always with an invitation to dinner. Her response notes were always the same, she felt honored but no thanks.

And no matter how much he wanted to get closer to her, he’d never pushed beyond that. Because even as he’d fantasized about taking her as a lover, he was afraid that might not be enough. His twin brother, Lazlo, was the consummate ladies’ man. Benedek was more of a one-woman kind of guy. And Rayne Williams could never be his one woman.

He could never have her forever. He could absolutely not marry an American singer, no matter how famous and respected. The scandal alone would kill his ailing mother. Dark memories surfaced. He pushed them back. He wouldn’t make a mistake of that magnitude again. He was a prince. He was to marry a daughter of the Valtrian nobility who was even now being selected behind closed doors by the chancellor and his team.

Seeing how much positive publicity Miklos’s marriage and the birth of his son had brought to the monarchy, the new chancellor was obsessed with marrying off the rest of the princes. And Benedek was determined not to buck protocol again. He’d done that before with disastrous consequences.

He cleared his throat, then did his best to clear his mind of all the things he and Miss Williams could be doing instead of walking to the stage. He was a grown man, thirty two years old. He’d had lovers, passion, disappointments. Tragedies.

But Rayne Williams was Rayne Williams.

“If you will allow me the honor, Madam,” he said and offered his arm.

After tonight, she would stay for three more days in Valtria. Three days in which he would content himself with admiring her from afar and would not, under any circumstances, seduce her. Not that she looked like she would let him if he tried. Still the challenge—He killed that thought without mercy and took in those silver eyes that held nothing but politeness. No batting of the lashes, none of the come-hither looks he was used to from women.

On this count, at least, the royal family seemed safe from trouble.

TROUBLE WITH A ROYAL TITLE—Rayne summed up the man in front of her and continued wearing her stage smile.

He was as handsome as the devil himself, a prince spoiled by privilege, and way too young to be looking at her the way he had from the moment he’d set foot inside her dressing room.

If he noted the conspicuous lack of a gushing response to the enormous bouquet of purple roses he’d sent earlier, he didn’t show it. The roses, like all other flowers she received, were usually distributed among the support staff.

He was an exceedingly charismatic man in person, she noted with dismay. She’d been right to stay away from him. He carried himself with the unconscious grace of nobility, his body toned and agile. From what she’d read, all the Valtrian princes were serious sportsmen, and it certainly showed. The youngest prince of Valtria was no palace weakling; he was built tough like most of his countrymen. She supposed it came from living in this rugged country at the foot of the Alps.

“Whenever you’re ready.” He smiled a charmer’s smile. It looked unfairly good on him.

And despite her misgivings, she placed her hand onto his offered arm. She was taken by surprise when a shock wave of connection and awareness shot all the way to her elbow, despite the barrier of his tuxedo and her satin gloves between them.

She caught her breath, but said, “Let’s go then.” And glided alongside him without the slightest pause. She was a professional performer. If she didn’t want him to know the effect he had on her then, by God, he wouldn’t.

She’d been pursued by enough presumptuous rich men who thought all performers were of loose morals, living only to be pretty and to satisfy their every desire. They sent flowers to her dressing room, truffles, even jewelry. They had their expensive cars wait for her at the actors’ exit after performances. She’d always sent the chauffeurs home with an empty backseat.

Leaders of industry, even public figures showed up in her dressing room, ready for a quick tumble, treating her like she was the flavor of the month out of some musical revue at a downtown theatre. They didn’t know anything about her, nothing at all.

She wasn’t for sale, not ever again. All the rich perverts could keep their money and drown in it.

At forty, she was an accomplished singer and a woman of independent means. And she was damn proud of that.

But she did give a gracious smile to the handsome prince, even if she had the distinct feeling that she was being served on a silver platter to the man. To be invited to the reopening of the Valtrian opera, a historic occasion, was an honor, regardless of the fact that she didn’t want to be here. She would have rather chosen a place much closer to her home for her first transatlantic flight in a decade.

“Your tie is crooked,” she told him, registering the fact automatically.

He would give her introduction. She didn’t want him to go up on stage with his tie askew and have the audience looking at that instead of what he was doing. Checking and rechecking herself and the rest of the cast before shows was something she did without conscious thought.

An odd look flashed across his eyes as he reached up, his long, masculine fingers fumbling. Without a mirror, he had no idea what to adjust.

She drew a breath. “Let me.” She was tall, but he was taller so she had to reach up. She straightened the black cloth at his neck, pulling back too fast when her knuckles brushed against his strong jawline for a second.

“Thank you, Madam.” His focus on her never wavered.

Those intense dark eyes could be the doom of a woman if she weren’t careful, she thought for a fanciful second before she gathered herself. She wasn’t about to let on that she was oddly flustered. Flustered. At her age. By some prince nearly a decade her junior. How crazy was that? “Rayne, please, Your Highness.” Everybody in the business called her Rayne.

“If you call me Benedek.” His focused, mesmerizing intensity relaxed by a small degree.

He seemed pleased. Then he let go all the way, and the smile that slowly bloomed on his handsome face was absolutely stunning: warm, sexy, masculine. His eyes were the deep rich brown of the Swiss truffles she rewarded herself with on occasion. The manufacturer spoiled her with regular gifts, one of the perks of being a diva of her time. The title came with both advantages and disadvantages.

As did his, the thought crossed her mind. Maybe his life was as strange and as out of his hands at times as her own. Maybe they had something in common, after all.

His smile held. God help any unsuspecting woman he set his sights on. She was relieved to know that in three days, she would be leaving Valtria.

It’d been a long time since she’d been this aware of a man. She’d seen him before, but always from the stage, from a fair distance, even if he did sit in the best box each and every time. But now, having him this close and touching her, a faint charge ran along her skin, and she couldn’t quite tell if it was a quick thrill or a shiver of foreboding.

She had little time to ponder it. The closer they got to the stage, the more energy filled her body. Yet, at the same time, a great calm descended on her mind. She was in the zone. She was doing what she loved. Singing was who she was. She could certainly ignore the bedroom eyes of a young European prince.

“It’s too fuzzy! Who touched the ERS? Everything worked fine this morning, damn it.” A little man rushed by, shouting to someone over his headset, demanding perfect stage lighting.

She didn’t let that worry her. By the time the curtains rolled back, everything would be ready. She would focus only on her own performance. She’d learned that to pay attention to anyone else’s was the surest way to get distracted.

People were scurrying about with small props and sheets of paper, losing their heads over some minor crisis or the other that tended to pop up before every show. Rayne focused on what she needed to do and routinely ignored the rest.

When they reached the steps that led up to the stage, the prince motioned her forward. In her mind, she was already singing the selection from Valtria’s most famous operas. Troublesome princes with bedroom eyes or not, the country had had some brilliant composers.

She was on the second step when the building shook and she lost her footing in the period shoes that had been made to match her costume. She found herself, confused and alarmed, in the prince’s arms. He’d been coming up behind her and had caught her when she’d stumbled.

His strong arms held her as if she were a precious treasure.

Protective.

She blinked the temporary fancy away. Over the years, a great many men had wanted to do a great many things with her. Protecting her had never been one of them.

“What was that?” she asked as he set her on her feet.

“This way.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her back toward the dressing room with a dark expression on his face that stood in contrast to his seemingly pleased mood of before.

They met with his secretary halfway down the corridor, a man named Morin. She’d been introduced to him upon arrival. He was as skinny a man as she’d ever seen, with a rather large head and an incredibly long, thin nose. He kept his spine studiously straight and his shoulders pushed back. The first time she’d seen him, she’d thought he had an uncanny resemblance to a mosquito.

The image was reinforced now as, filled with nervous energy, he buzzed around the prince.

“The protest turned violent, Your Highness. A catering van just exploded in front of the opera house. There seems to be some confusion over whether it was an accident or intentional.”

Her pulse quickened. “There’s a protest?” She hadn’t turned on her television set in her hotel room since she’d arrived. She preferred to relax in silence when not practicing for her performance.

“Supposedly peaceful. I apologize,” the prince said, keeping pace. “Order will be restored at any moment. We will delay the performance by just a few minutes.” He fell silent for a beat. “No. An hour. In an hour I’ll have this fully investigated.”

A man in a dark suit came flying down the hall. “Everything all right, Your Highness?” He scanned their surroundings.

He looked like a bodyguard. Probably the prince’s.

“You’ll go with Miss Williams,” Benedek told him.

The man looked decidedly uncomfortable as he fell in step with them. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I cannot do that.” He looked extremely apologetic, but even more inflexible on that issue. “I’m required—”

“Fine,” Benedek cut him off and stopped at the point where the corridor came to a T. He turned to his secretary who’d been flitting along, wringing his hands. “Is the chief of palace security here?”

“On his way, Your Highness. I talked to him just a moment ago and—”

“I’m trusting you two to escort Miss Williams to the palace. Call for an armored car and as many royal guards as they can spare.”

The man about snapped his heels together. “Certainly, Your Highness.”

She hadn’t been to the palace yet, although she was supposed to attend a reception there tonight. She didn’t fancy going out to the streets just now. The opera house was giant and newly restored, looking sturdy enough to withstand a full-blown military attack if necessary.

“I’d prefer not to leave the building this close to my performance,” she objected, but the prince seemed to be focused on something else and was already rushing off with a last, unfathomable look at her, his bodyguard in his wake, following closely.

“This way.” Morin was certainly determined to obey his boss. He dialed his cell phone, his lips tightening. “The line’s busy. He might be outside already, investigating the explosion.”

She assumed he was talking about the chief of palace security.

Morin called for an armored car next. “We’ll go out the back entrance,” he said as he hung up.

She barely had time to process that before they neared the back door normally used by stage staff, where people were rushing out, then rushing right back in.

The secretary cast her a concerned look. “Do not worry, Madam. I’ll investigate what’s going on out there and arrange for you to vacate the premises. I shall return as soon as possible.”

Honest to goodness, he talked like that, like some old-fashioned manual.

People rushed through, bumping into her.

She moved closer to the wall to keep out of the jostling flow. The last thing she needed was for her gown to be torn just before she went on stage. “I’ll be in my dressing room,” she called after Morin, but wasn’t sure if the man heard her.

The hallway was clogged, people elbowing each other, some speaking languages she didn’t understand. It seemed like the entire staff was back here for some reason, even the lighting assistant they’d passed earlier. She gave up fighting to get to her own dressing room and stepped inside the nearest storage room instead.

She closed the door and turned the rusty key in the lock. Her dressing room had looked brand-new, but this place didn’t look renovated unless one counted the fresh coat of paint on the walls. She supposed all budgets had their limits. Money had probably been saved on out-of-the-way storage areas. She listened. If Morin called her name out there, she would be able to hear it.

Five minutes passed. She unlocked the door with some effort—the key was sticking—and, looking out, could see her dressing room. Morin wasn’t there.

She pulled back in. Everything was going to be fine.

There had been some unrest in the country the year before, but peace had been restored. Since most of the royal family were to attend tonight’s performance, security in and around the opera house was top-notch. Craig, her agent, and she had already discussed security concerns.

According to the tour she’d been given on arrival, the building had withstood three hundred years of turbulent history, including two world wars. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. She would be safe in here.

Small bottles of mineral water stood in a crate by the door. Looking at them made her realize how dry her mouth had gone from all the excitement. She grabbed a bottle and twisted the cap off, but didn’t get a chance to drink before another explosion shook the building, this one closer than the first. Jars of stage makeup rattled on the desk.

She put her drink down, then stepped to the door and pushed the purple Bombay chest—must have been a prop at one point—in front of it, barricading herself inside. The din out in the hallway was disconcerting. Maybe the rebels were trying to fight their way in through the back entrance.

Craig was in the audience. She wished she could talk to her agent, but her cell phone was in her own dressing room. She wished Benedek hadn’t left her. He would know what was going on, at the very least. His people would keep him informed.

She stayed near the door, listening. She was fine. Everything was fine. In a minute or two, Morin would be back.

“HOW SERIOUS IS THE situation?” Benedek asked again as he scanned the wall of monitors.

The director of security for the opera house was of the opinion that the peaceful protest at Liberation Square had been a ruse by the Freedom Council. The enemies of the monarchy had gathered as many of their people as possible in the vicinity of the opera house to sabotage the opening, perhaps even capture the royal family who were supposed to be in attendance.

Except that the Queen had felt unwell earlier in the evening, and Benedek’s brothers lingered by her side, running late. She’d taken to her bed over a year ago, her condition fluctuating since. So when the crowd attacked, the princes were still safely at the palace. Benedek, who’d been here since early morning, making sure opening night would be a resounding success, was the only member of the royal family currently in the building.

“How many rebels are we talking about this time?” he asked, tacking another question onto the first before the director had a chance to answer.

“About two thousand is the best we can estimate from the upper windows, Your Highness.”

He nodded. At least Rayne got out in time and was inside the palace by now, under heavy guard. He barely had a half dozen royal guards here. The rest were supposed to arrive later, with his brothers. “Who’s their leader?”

“A very angry young man, Your Highness. Goes by the name of Mario and fancies himself a freedom fighter. The palace just sent over a security report on him. Supposedly, he’s not associated with the Freedom Council.”

Maybe he hadn’t been before, but Benedek had a feeling the Council had gotten to him and were using him now.

The three nameless men who ran the council were ruthless in their quest to dethrone the monarchy and break up the country, along ethnic lines, into small republics they would have full control over.

“Should I initialize lockdown?” The director waited for his answer.

The opera house had a massive security system in place. A computer program handled the entrances, all of which could be sealed at the push of a button. But if they locked down, it would be viewed as a step toward conflict, the crowd outside would be provoked and might lay siege to the building. He didn’t want to risk the damage, not while they still had other options. “I’ll try negotiating first.”

The director paled. “I beg you to think of your safety, Your Highness. I shall go out there immediately. ”

“You stay here and keep people from panicking.”

“Your Highness—” The man tried to stand in his way and stop him while remaining respectful and deferential, not an easy task.

The royal guards stepped closer as well. His new bodyguard didn’t seem amused either.

“This is my opera house.” Benedek gave them a level look. “Anyone wants to lay a finger on it, they answer to me.”

Two bombs had already exploded outside.

The rebels, whatever they wanted, needed to know that he wasn’t as easily intimidated as that. He hadn’t started fighting yet. Before the evening turned into night, he would have the rebels gone and Rayne back on stage. Or else.

“THERE ARE THREE BOMBS in the building,” the voice said on the other end of the line, playing his trump card over and over again, sounding triumphant and frustrated at the same time.

The call had come in on a red cell phone someone had left in the security office. Nobody there now knew who it belonged to or how it got there.

The dozen men inside the opera’s security office watched Benedek intently, hoping for a resolution at last. He silently shook his head. That first bomb outside had exploded an hour ago and they hadn’t yet gotten anywhere.

“Almost a thousand innocent people are in this building. Your quarrel is with the monarchy. This has nothing to do with tonight’s audience. I’m the only member of the royal family here. You let these people go and I will willingly give myself into your hands,” he repeated his best offer, and the men around him protested again.

Negotiations were at a deadlock. He’d been trying to talk reason into the man on the other end of the line on and off for the past hour, to no avail.

The enemy was frustrated because they’d expected six princes and got only one instead.

“You say your revolution is for the people,” Benedek reminded the man. “Then don’t hurt the people, Mario. You can’t think that the publicity to your cause would be anything but negative. If you want to gain public support, murdering a thousand innocent civilians is not the way to go about it. This isn’t a glorious battle for freedom, you and I both know it. It’s mass murder. Somebody is using you as a means to an end.”

Dead silence on the other end.

“I’ll let them walk out unharmed,” the man said after a full minute, probably as frustrated with the stalled negotiations as Benedek. “But you will not leave the building. Not you, not that American singer.”

And for the first time, Benedek relaxed. “She has nothing to do with this,” he offered a token protest to make sure the man didn’t become suspicious. Thank God, Rayne had left before the building had been surrounded.

Two thousand rebels circled the opera house; five hundred police as well as royal guards, investigators, antiterrorist unit agents and other security circled the rebels. Helicopters hovered in the air above—he could see and hear them through the window. He imagined the scene must look like a giant bull’s eye from the air. With his opera house smack in the middle.

His muscles were tight with outrage.

Security forces couldn’t move without risking that the rebels might set off the bombs. They were at an impasse.

Which would remain the same even after the people were let go. Security forces wouldn’t risk the lives of their prince and a high-profile American by rushing the rebels. The rebels knew this.

“In exactly five minutes, a gap will open in our ranks directly across from the main entrance. Anyone who wants to leave the building, can walk through. They’ll have five minutes to leave before the ranks close. Anyone outside after that, between us and the building, will be shot at,” the voice on the phone said.