While I could understand him worrying
about her, he was a mercenary, for
God’s sake. It was more than a little
hypocritical of him to give that kind of
an ultimatum.
But she loved him, enough to marry
him. I didn’t want to come between the
two of them. It would be hard not having
her there, cheerful and efficient, helping
me get through the work day. Selfish
resentment reared its ugly head, and I
shoved it down, hard. Dawna deserved
to be happy. Chris made her happy. I’d
find someone else to work with.
“I understand.”
She sniffled, blew her nose, and said,
“He doesn’t get to tell me what to do,
Celie. I love him, and I don’t want to
lose him, but he doesn’t get to.” Her
voice was thick with tears but I could
tell she meant every word. “If I let him
order me around now, what will it be
like after we’re married? If he expects
me to understand that he has to go into
war zones for his job, he needs to do the
same for me.”
Working with me was equivalent to
being in a war zone. How sad was that?
“But Dawna…” I tried to find the
right words. Chris was perfect for her.
They loved each other.
She interrupted me. “I think we’ll be
able to work it out when he calms down.
We both just need a little time. So don’t
call for a day or two, okay?”
I felt terrible. I knew she was right,
knew he was right. I desperately wished
I could do or say something, anything.
But there really was nothing to say. This
was their business, not mine. Still, she
was my friend, and it hurt me to hear her
sounding so wounded.
Two drinks later, I was ready to call
Bruno. I had practiced everything I
wanted to say … and got his voice mail.
Typical. So I left a “We need to talk”
message and settled into the recliner. No
more news for me. I drank more alcohol
and watched mindless television until I
couldn’t keep my eyes open.
I woke at 3:00 A.M. with a stiff neck
and a pounding head. My vampire
metabolism had let me down. Usually it
keeps me from getting too drunk and
prevents me from having even the tiniest
bit of a hangover. Tonight, not so much.
Then again, I’d drunk quite a bit more
than I usually did.
I levered myself out of the chair and
stumbled up to bed. Tomorrow …
scratch that, today, was scheduled fairly
loosely. Just a few gatherings after lunch
and another luau tonight.
The gatherings were no big deal. Just
a loose group of palace insiders
mingling with the queen, Adriana, and
Dahlmar. Since it was hot and sunny,
nobody commented on my sitting under
an umbrella and wearing dark glasses.
Lopaka tried to console me even
while she was smiling and laughing at
the Rusland ambassador’s joke. I am
sorry for your loss, my niece. I know
how places can hold memories and
emotional attachments. I would be
likewise devastated if the palace had
been destroyed. I will make your
apologies. Please feel free to go to
your quarters and have a good cry. It
will help.
I nodded and took her advice. Adriana
and Dahlmar watched me leave, their
faces reflecting their concern. They
nearly followed me, but Lopaka pulled
them aside and I could see by their
reactions that she was telling them the
news. Then I closed the door behind me
and disappeared into the cool, quiet
palace.
I didn’t drink any more alcohol. I had
vowed long ago not to allow myself to
go down the same path as my mother and
crawl into a bottle. But it was a
temptation. A strong one.
Instead, I went to the well-guarded
beach and sat in the shade, looking at the
horizon and listening to the waves and
the seagulls.
By the time of the luau, I was sober
and clear-eyed. Adriana kept the
conversation away from me, allowing
me to be visibly present yet stay at the
edge of the gathering, satisfying those
who noticed such things. I drank
smoothies made with seasoned pig
drippings instead of beef. Not bad, I
suppose, but not up to La Cocina
standards. At least the fruit juice was
nice.
Mango,
pineapple,
and
pomegranate. Tasty.
I knew I had to overcome the loss of
such a big part of my life, and fast. Or at
least wall it off somehow.
Because tomorrow we were off to
Rusland for round two of the wedding.
30
There are a lot of things I don’t like
about being connected to the royal
family, but I’ll give them credit, they
know how to live. Everything is top of
the line—the food, the wine, and the
transportation. First thing in the morning,
my luggage and I were shuttled by limo
to the tarmac of the private royal area of
the local airport. Once there, I boarded
the queen’s signature plane—the siren
equivalent of Air Force One.
It was beyond nice. Everything was
designed to be elegant, efficient, and
comfortable. In addition to full access to
the common spaces of the cabin, I’d
been given a small room for my private
use. All of the furniture was built in so
that it wouldn’t fly around in the event of
severe turbulence and so well-designed
that it seemed spacious. It was decorated
as both a lounge and an office and the
couch could fold out into a bed. The
walls were dove gray, the carpet navy
blue, and the furnishings combined those
base colors with gleaming, black-
painted wood and white and chrome
metal accents.
I settled in at the built-in desk. The
queen had offered me use of the satellite
phone and I was happy to take her up on
it. My goal was to get the insurance
claim process rolling on my office
building—not that I had a lot of hope of
succeeding. If past experience was
anything to judge by, the insurance
company would do everything it
possibly could to get out of paying the
claim. I’d just bet that something in the
“Force Majeure” clause would apply.
Terrorist attack? Check. Act of War?
Check. Sabotage? Check. Maybe I could
sue Angelina Bonetti in civil court—if
she had any money, that is.
It could just be that I have bad luck.
But I didn’t think so. Death curse?
Check.
Fo
rty-five minutes into the flight, after
the fifth full cycle of elevator music on
hold, I was finally transferred to a live
person.
“We’re Reliable, the company you
can trust, Meagan speaking.”
The teenage daughter of my insurance
agent, Meagan was spending her summer
working as her father’s receptionist, as
she had the two summers before. She
could charm your socks off when she
wanted to. Unfortunately, she almost
never did. Today she was bored and
angry. I could hear it clearly in the little
sneer she put in her voice.
“Meagan, it’s Celia Graves.”
She perked up at that. “Ah, Ms.
Graves. I’ve been expecting your call.
I’m so sorry about your building. Let me
put you through to my dad.”
Ed Winters handles the insurance on
my home, the office, and their contents.
He’s in his early forties, already nearly
bald, and nearly as wide around as he is
tall, but that doesn’t keep him from
thinking he’s a ladies’ man. For all I
know, he may be. The last time I’d
visited in person he’d flirted with me
shamelessly—after his daughter had left
the room. It had been awkward enough
that I was glad to be filing the claim
over the phone. At least this way I only
had to suffer through yet another repeat
Need Is Love” until he picked up the
phone.
“Celia, hi. Ed here.”
“Ed, I need to make a claim on the
office building and contents.”
“Of course you do. Saw it on the
news. Pretty scary stuff. Glad you’re all
right though.” Lord, he sounded cheery
enough to make my teeth ache. Nobody
should be that chipper first thing in the
morning.
“We were lucky. No one was hurt.”
“That’s a blessing,” he agreed. Then,
muting his tone to regret, he continued.
“But Celia, there’s something you need
to know. There’s an exceptions clause in
the policy.”
Of course there was. I waited,
steeling myself for the inevitable.
“The policy isn’t valid for acts of
war. Since the president declared War
on Terrorism…” He let the sentence tail
off.
I silently counted to ten. A loophole.
He was trying to get out of the claim on a
loophole. Well, not this time. I smiled
and there was steel in my voice. “The
bomb wasn’t planted by terrorists. Have
you looked at the police report?” I didn’t
bother to keep the satisfaction out of my
voice. I’d been a dutiful customer of the
insurance industry in general, and his
company for years, paying my premiums
on time, every time. But let me try to
make a claim and they’ll find a reason to
deny it.
He spluttered a little. “It wasn’t? But
the news…”
“Nope. This was personal. A jealous
woman did it. Ever seen that show
Snapped?”
He harrumphed at that. “Fine. Well,
be sure to submit police reports and any
proof you may have of that to us in
writing with the completed claim. I’ll
send you the appropriate forms. What’s
your e-mail address?”
I was still on the phone with Ed until
after we’d landed in L.A. I was going
over the claim forms with him item by
item. We were just wrapping it up when
I heard a light tap on the door. Bruno
poked his head into the room.
I remembered then that we were
picking up several people while we
refueled, to take to the ceremony. “Can I
come in?”
I waved for him to come in as I
spelled out my address for Ed for the
second time. That finished, I was able to
say good-bye to my agent and hello to
my boyfriend.
Bruno looked so good. He was
wearing new black jeans with a black
dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up slightly
to show muscular forearms. His belt was
black leather, chased with silver runes
that almost seemed to move as they
caught the light. His dark hair had been
recently cut, so it was a little shorter
than I like, and there were traces of gray
showing at the temples. He carried a
duffel, black leather and suede in a
patchwork pattern.
He stood in the middle of the room,
looking at me, his posture uncomfortable
and uncertain.
“Hi.” I put the phone in its cradle and
stood up to give him a hug.
He set the duffel on the floor and
returned my hug with a fierce one of his
own. “When you didn’t call I was afraid
—,” he said, stumbling over the words.
“You were already pissed about the
body bind, and after what Angelina
did…” I stopped his stammering with a
kiss.
I looked him straight in the eyes,
willing him to believe me. “The
Angelina thing is not your fault. You
didn’t lead her on and I don’t blame
you.” I tried to lighten his mood with a
bit of a joke. “As to the binding, well,
I’ll just have to take my revenge for that
later.”
He winced but didn’t argue. Actually,
while I’d never have admitted it, there’d
been so much going on I’d completely
incident until Dawna had reminded me.
That probably meant I’d already
forgiven him. Still, she was probably
right. It wouldn’t hurt to let him try to
make it up to me, and it might keep him
from doing something stupid like that
again. I gestured toward the couch. We
sat, his arm wrapped around me. I turned
toward him, resting my head on his
shoulder, and felt the tenseness of his
muscles start to ease.
He kissed the top of my head, then
started talking, his words soft and filled
with sadness. “I’d hoped that Angie had
gotten your hair somewhere other than
from my mom, but the more I thought
about it, the less likely that seemed. So I
called home and spoke to my mom, had
her check the siren charm I’d given her.
Angelina had tampered with it and
several hairs were missing. Mama
turned the evidence over to the feds, but
I doubt they’re going to use it.” The
bitterness in his voice was cutting.
“Why?”
He closed his eyes for a second.
Then, taking a deep breath he steeled
himself, opened his eyes, and told me the
bad news. “Angelina is going into
witness protection. She plans to testify
against my brother M
ike and cousin
Joey.”
Oh, hell and damnation. This so
sucked. Yeah, Joey and Mike are bad
guys. I get that. They were probably long
overdue for a stretch in the slammer. But
Angelina was getting off? Without so
much as a slap on the wrist? That
sucked. My office was downtown. What
if the bomb had gone off during a
weekday—how many innocent people
would she have killed?
Joey and Mike were mobsters. They
were also Bruno’s family. I held him
close, trying to ease the hurt I knew he
was feeling, but was too proud to show.
We stayed like that until the
announcement came over the intercom.
“This is your captain speaking. Please
stow all personal items and fasten your
seatbelts. We are preparing for takeoff.”
It was a long flight. I didn’t mind.
Bruno and I rarely got a chance to sit and
talk in private, without any life-
threatening crises or other interruptions.
It was wonderful. I even took a nap,
curled up next to Bruno, who entertained
himself by reading.
He kissed me awake when the plane
finally landed. We disembarked at 10:38
P.M., later than originally scheduled,
having been forced to reroute to avoid
bad weather over the Atlantic. The
motorcade was waiting and the road to
the palace was lined with cheering
spectators waving flags or holding
candles or pictures of the happy couple.
It was almost as if the common people
were trying to make up for the actions of
the terrorists by giving Adriana an even
warmer welcome than they would have
otherwise. Assuming Dahlmar hadn’t
arranged the whole thing for the
reporters. I wouldn’t put it past him.
He’s a cagey one and he’s ruled long
enough to know the power the press has
over the minds and hearts of the people.
When we arrived, the palace was
brilliantly lit and buzzing with activity. It
looked just like a storybook prince’s
castle.
There
were
elaborate
architectural details, servants in elegant
livery. Everything had been made
absolutely perfect in honor of the
ceremonies. For a long moment I just
stood staring in wide-eyed wonder. I
mean, yes, I do get to see some pretty
fancy places guarding the rich and
famous. But this … this was just …
wow. It was the kind of memory you
store away for a lifetime.
Creede was standing at the top of the
castle’s front steps. When he saw me