Royal Protocol. Dana Marton

      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: [email protected].

      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