Command Performance (6 page)

Because it was said without heat, she smiled. If he wanted to let the words exchanged the night before be forgotten, she was more than willing. She’d spent long enough stewing about them. “Who doesn’t?” At a closer glance he looked tired, and more than a little strained. Sympathetic, she softened. “Have you had breakfast? I can offer you coffee and croissants.”

“Yes, a few hours ago. I could use the coffee.”

She rose and took another cup and saucer from the server. “It’s barely ten, but you look as though you’ve had a difficult day.”

For a moment he said nothing. Such was his training. Then he relented. It would be on the radio and in the papers soon enough. “There was news from Paris this morning. A bomb at the embassy.”

Her fingers tightened on the handle of the coffeepot. “Oh, God, your father.”

“He’s not hurt. His secretary was injured slightly.” He paused, but his voice was calm and even when he continued. “Seward, the assistant to the minister, was killed.”

“I’m sorry.” She set down the pot to put a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry. Do they know who did it?”

“No one’s taken the credit. We have only suspicions.”

“Is the prince coming home?”

He looked through the glass to where the sun was bright and the flowers blooming. Life would never be
just that simple, he reminded himself. Never just that ordinary. “The business in Paris isn’t completed.”

“But—”

“He’ll come home when it is.” He lifted his cup and drank the coffee, black and steaming. “Cordina, like many other countries, takes a strong stand against terrorism. They will be found.”

“I hope so.” She pushed the flaky croissant aside and found the headline no longer amused her. “Why is it so many innocents pay for the politics of others?”

His fingers tightened on the cup, part in fury, part in frustration. “There is no politics in terrorism.”

“No.” There was a great deal she didn’t understand and more she would have liked to close her eyes on. But she knew that burying one’s head in the sand did nothing but put grit in one’s eyes. “No, you’re right, of course.”

“Seward leaves a wife and three children.”

“Oh, how awful. Have they been told?”

“I have to go tell them now.”

“Can I help? I could go with you.”

“It’s not your affair.”

Eve retreated, calling herself a fool for being hurt. When he rose, she stared down into her coffee and said nothing.

Why had he come here? Alexander asked himself. He’d needed to tell her, to share his frustration, his anger, his grief. It wasn’t wise for a man who had to rule to need comfort, a soft word, a hand to hold. He’d been taught to rely on himself, yet he’d come to her. And he still needed.

“Eve.” It wasn’t easy for him. She couldn’t know that a simple request set off a violent tug-of-war inside him. “It would help if you went with me. I think she could use a woman.”

“I’ll get my purse,” was all she said.

* * *

The Sewards lived in a pretty pink stucco house with a small, neat lawn bordered by white flowers. Eve saw a red bike in the drive. It was that more than anything that clutched at her heart. She knew what it was like to lose a parent, and that the hurt and grief never completely healed over.

Alexander offered his hand after he stepped from the car. Eve accepted it, then let hers remain there.

“If you’re uncomfortable—”

“No. No, only sad.” She walked with him to the door, aware that the driver watched them, but unaware that members of the security staff were stationed up and down the quiet street.

Alena Seward opened the door herself. She was a dark, plump woman of early middle age with lovely eyes and mussed hair. It was obvious they had caught her in the middle of cleaning. Her mouth dropped open the moment she saw Alexander, but she recovered quickly.

“Your Highness.”

“Madame Seward, I apologize for coming to your home unexpectedly. May we come in?”

“Of course.” Eve saw her eyes shift to the furniture that had yet to be dusted, to toys that had yet to be tidied. “May I offer you coffee, Your Highness?”

“No, thank you. May I present Miss Eve Hamilton.”

“How do you do?” The woman offered a hand. “Please sit down.”

Alexander took a chair, knowing the woman would remain standing if he did. “Madame Seward, there was news from Paris this morning.”

Seated beside Alena on the sofa, Eve felt the other woman tense. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Two bombs were planted at our embassy. One detonated before it was discovered.” He knew from experience that bad news, the worst news, was best given quickly. “Your husband was killed.”

“Maurice?” Her fingers tightened on Eve’s hand, though she was unaware that it had been offered. “Dead?”

“He was killed instantly,
madame.
My father sends his grief and his condolences, and I and the rest of my family give ours.”

“There is a mistake?” There were no tears, but the fingers around Eve’s hand were like clamps.

He hated the helplessness more than anything else. He could give her no hope, and sympathy was such an empty gift. “No,
madame.
He was alone in the office when it exploded.”

“Brandy.” Eve forced Alena’s attention to her. “Madame Seward, where is your brandy?”

“Brandy?” Her voice was as blank as her eyes. “There is brandy in the kitchen.”

Eve only looked at Alexander. He rose and went to find it himself.

“But I spoke to him just yesterday,” Alena murmured. “He was well—tired. The meetings drag on so long. He’d bought a little jeweled pin for our daughter. Her birthday is next month.” On this her voice began to quiver. “There’s a mistake.
Mademoiselle?
”

Then the tears came. Eve did the only thing she knew how. She held. When Alexander entered the room again Eve had the widow’s head on her breast. Her own eyes were overflowing as she stroked Alena’s hair. Grief filled the room, replacing disbelief. In a movement that had nothing to do with protocol and everything to do with compassion, he knelt in front of them and urged the brandy on Alena.

“You have a sister,
madame,
” he said gently. “Would you like me to phone her now?”

“My children.”

“I’ll have them brought home.”

She took a shaky sip of brandy. “I would like my sister, Your Highness.”

“Where is your phone?”

“In the office. Maurice’s office, down the hall.” She turned back into Eve’s shoulder and wept.

* * *

“You were very kind,” Alexander said when they were back in his car.

Eve shut her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat. “Kindness often doesn’t seem to be enough.”

He could say nothing to that. He’d felt the same. Why, when he carried the burden of power, was there so little he could do?

“What will happen to her?”

“She and her children will be provided for. We can do that.” He pulled out a cigarette. The taste in his mouth was already harsh. “We can’t heal the wounds.”

She heard it in his voice, the bitterness tinged with frustration. For the first time, she thought she really understood. “You want to punish someone.”

He lit the cigarette, then turned to see her eyes open and on him. “I will punish someone.”

The way he said it had Eve’s mouth going dry. He had the power, not only in his title, not only in his birthright. If he’d been born a peasant, he’d have had it still. Maybe it was this above everything else that kept her drawn toward him even as she inched away.

“When you were on the phone, Alena asked me who had done it. I had to tell her I didn’t know, but I know she’ll ask again, when the grief eases.”

“When the grief passes there comes a hunger for revenge.”

“You want that.”

“It could have been my father.” For the first time, she saw his control slip. It dangled dangerously a moment, showing in the heat and fury of his eyes, before he ripped it back. “We are responsible to our country, to our people. Seward’s death will not be ignored.”

“You believe the bomb was planted for your father?” She reached out to take his wrist. “It was meant for him?”

“It was planted in his office. It was only coincidence that he was called away moments before the explosion. Had he not, he would have died with Seward.”

“Then that’s all the more reason he should come home.”

“That’s all the more reason he must stay. If a ruler is intimidated, his country is intimidated.”

“Damn it, he’s your father.”

“He is Armand of Cordina first.”

“You don’t believe that. You don’t really feel that way.” The intensity was in her voice, in her fingers as
they gripped his flesh. “If your father’s in danger, you have to convince him to come back.”

“If he were to ask my advice, I would tell him that to return to Cordina before his business is completed would be a mistake.”

She withdrew slowly until they were no longer touching. “Bennett said you were hard, had to be hard. I wonder if he meant this much.” When the car pulled up at the palace steps, she was out before him. “For a moment back at that house, I thought I saw something in you, warmth, humanity. I should have known better. You have no feelings, because you have no heart.”

He caught her arm before she reached the door. “You understand nothing. I’m under no obligation to explain myself to you or to anyone.” Yet he had a need to. The man inside the title desperately needed her understanding. “A man is dead, a good man, an honest man, a man I hunted with, gambled with. His wife is left with her grief and the grief of her children and I can do nothing. Nothing.”

He tossed her arm aside, then strode back down the stairs. Eve watched him disappear into the side garden.

For a moment she stood where she was, breathing hard, close to tears. She took a deep breath, another, then went after him.

This woman, damn her, was making him forget who he was, what he had to be. There was a distance that had to be maintained between his feelings and his obligation, between the man and his title. With his family, in private, it could be different. Even with his closest friends the reserve had to be put into place when necessary. He couldn’t afford to allow himself the luxury of being too—what had she said?—human, when the responsibility was so great. More now than ever.

He’d lost a valued friend, and for what? Because of some vague and violent statement by a nameless group of terrorists. No, he didn’t believe that. He tore a blossom from a bush as he passed. A man was more than a stalk to be broken on a whim. There had been a purpose, and Seward had been a mistake.

His father had been the target. Alexander was as sure of that as he was of his own name. And Deboque, the animal, had been the trigger.

“Your Highness.”

He turned and saw Eve. The garden flowered around her, ripe, lush and tropical. It suited her name, he thought, as she did. But with the first Eve it had been the fruit that had been forbidden, not the woman.

“I want to apologize.” She said it quickly. For her, apologies, like mistakes, were easier to swallow than to speak. “When I’m wrong, I’m often very wrong. I hope you’ll believe that I’m sorry.”

“I believe you’re sorry, Eve, just as I believe you meant what you said.”

She opened her mouth to contradict, then shut it again. “I guess that has to do for both of us.”

He studied her a moment, aware she was still angry, and angrier still that her conscience had forced her to apologize. It was something he understood perhaps too well, the frustration of having a temper and being forced to restrain it. “A peace offering,” he decided on impulse, and offered her the flower. “It doesn’t sit well with me to have been rude to a guest.”

She took the blossom, breathing in the light tang of vanilla while she struggled not to be charmed. “It would be all right to be rude if I weren’t a guest?”

“You’re very blunt.”

“Yes.” Then she smiled and tucked the flower behind her ear. “Lucky for both of us I’m not one of your subjects.”

“That’s something we won’t argue about.” He looked up at the sky, as clear and perfect a blue as could be wished for. She saw the strain, the sorrow, and was moved to reach out one more time.

“Is it only permitted for you to mourn in private, Your Highness?”

He looked at her again. There was compassion there, an offering of friendship. For so long he’d forbidden himself to accept even that much from her. But there was a weight on him, a desperately heavy one. He closed his eyes a moment and made a quick negative move with his head.

“He was closer to my father’s age than mine, yet he was one of the few people I could talk with freely. Maurice had no pretensions, none of the sharp edges ambition often gives us.”

“He was your friend.” She came closer, and before he realized her intention, had wrapped her arms around him. “I hadn’t understood he was your friend. I’m so sorry.”

She was killing him by inches with her warmth, her understanding. He needed more, too much more. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders when he burned to skim them over her to bring her closer. The scent of her hair, of her skin, raced through his system, but he could do no more than stand and be assaulted.

He’d been trained to fight, to defend, to protect, yet he was defenseless. Flowers spread out, curtaining them from the palace, but there could be no haven for a man who coveted what belonged to his brother.

It hurt. He knew that beneath the title, beyond the position, he was flesh and blood, but it was rare to experience pain this sharp and sweet. It tangled with the grief and the anger until it threatened to explode in a passion he would be helpless to control. Feelings released weren’t as easily ignored as feelings restrained.

He drew away abruptly and his eyes were cool and distant.

“I have a great deal to see to.” The struggle with desire made his voice curt and his manner stiff. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ll see if Bennett is available to join you for lunch.”

And he was gone while she could only stand and stare after him.

Didn’t he feel anything? Eve demanded. Couldn’t he? Was he so empty of normal feelings that he hadn’t been affected when her insides had turned to jelly? For a moment she’d thought … She’d been a fool to think, she told herself, but found a small stone bench because her knees had begun to tremble. A fool to think he’d felt that need, that longing, that crystal-clear rightness when their bodies had touched.