Royal Affair. Laurie Paige
Max had teased him about expecting a spy behind every curtain. Lately the idea didn’t seem funny.
Chuck’s eyes were light blue and seemed to see everything that might be the slightest suspicious. His hair was brown with blond streaks from their hours of jogging on the beach. His frame matched Max’s inch for inch, pound for pound. In college they’d shared a room the first semester, then, finding they got along superbly, an apartment after that until they graduated.
Chuck was five years older than Max and had been an Army Ranger before going to school on the G.I. bill. That the two had met at all was a demonstration of American democracy in action when they’d been randomly assigned to share a room.
Max’s father, the late king, had suggested Chuck come to Lantanya and advise them on security matters. Perhaps the king had known at that early stage of their friendship that Max would need a friend in the palace. Chuck, with his all-seeing gaze, had detected the conspiracy and warned Max, thus bringing him home early.
Max poured the coffee and filled a plate, then sat in his favorite chair. Chuck did the same.
“This reminds me of days with my father,” Max told his friend. “Except, the king sat where I am, in a big black leather chair, and I sat in this chair, which was located where you are.”
“What happened to the king’s chair?” Chuck asked, taking a muffin and several spoons of fruit.
“I had it placed in the royal museum along with his suit of armor and ceremonial outfits.”
Chuck smiled. “Are you going to have armor made for yourself?”
“No. The bulletproof vest you insisted I buy is more than enough for my tastes.”
“It’s more effective when it’s worn,” Chuck said dryly.
Max cocked one eyebrow. “I’m not going to sleep in it, and that’s final.”
They smiled at each other with the ease of companions who’d seen each other puking their guts out after their first—and last—overindulgence in beer, moaning over the fickleness of college girls who threw them over for the captain of the football team and cursing their professors for tests that were impossible to pass.
“Speaking of sleeping. Or not sleeping, as the case may be…” Chuck said, the words trailing off as he studied Max with his omniscient gaze.
Max tossed him a questioning glance as he bit into a muffin. It seemed odd, in light of the morning activities, to realize he was hungry. Life had a way of going on, he reasoned.
Chuck lifted a muffin. “You gotta get married,” he said, and took a bite.
Max nearly choked. “What the hell brought that on?”
His friend chewed and swallowed, then took a sip of coffee. “Last year, before he died, your father made me promise to see that you found a bride by the end of the mourning period. You must produce an heir.”
Max muttered a curse, then another. Neither helped calm the swirl of emotion in his breast.
Chuck observed him with an odd little smile playing about the corners of his mouth. “An heiress will do,” he continued. “Either English or European would be acceptable to your people. Or American.”
Max glared when a full smile broke over his friend’s face. There was knowledge in those blue eyes that said Chuck knew more than he was saying.
“Spit it out,” he invited, knowing there was more.
“Your tryst at the resort probably saved your life, or at least prevented a nasty injury. I like to tell myself that the guards, whom I trained, would have interceded before great bodily harm was done.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“So?”
“So?” Max echoed, not sure what the question was.
“Is it the American?”
Like the petals of a flower suddenly clamping shut, Max withdrew, not wanting to share that night with anyone, not even his best friend. He shook his head slightly, not in denial of the possibility, but of sharing it.
“She might be pregnant,” Chuck said and calmly put the rest of the muffin in his mouth.
Max sprang to his feet as if an electric current had suddenly run through his chair. He paced to the window. The vase of roses blew gentle kisses of sweet scent at him. He paused and touched one.
“What makes you think that?” he finally asked.
“I’m your security chief, Your Highness. I’m paid to know what goes on around you.”
Chuck always reverted to formalities when he gained insights into Max’s life that might transgress friendship. Max appreciated the gesture. That left it up to him to decide the level of the discussion.
“She was a virgin,” Max said softly.
“Yes, sir.”
“It was a night like none other,” he continued. “When I ran out of condoms, I took a chance with her. How did you know that?”
“There was, uh, evidence on the sheets. I took the liberty of confiscating them…in case there were future questions about the child’s conception, if there should happen to be a child.”
“In case I got whacked,” Max said sardonically, catching on to his advisor’s line of reasoning.
However, his demise wasn’t uppermost in his mind at the moment. He recalled pulling the petals from a dozen roses and sprinkling them over the bed and her. His friend would have seen those, too, and known what a sentimental fool Max had made of himself. He groaned internally.
Chuck studied him for a long minute, then smiled in understanding. “Are you in love with the American beauty?” he asked, one friend to another.
“Love? I’m not sure what that means at the present. I loved my uncle and trusted him with a child’s belief in those close to him. That nearly got me killed.”
“Does she know who you are, or did you go by Max Hughes?”
“Isn’t there anything you don’t know?” Max spoke in irritation. His alias, like that night, was his alone to enjoy, his little secret from the demanding public of his world. Secret? Ha!
“It’s my job—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Max interrupted impatiently. “Due to the circumstances, the treason and all, I’m cutting you some slack here, but you’re on dangerous ground.”
Chuck raised his eyebrows and showed no signs of quaking in his boots. “Crosby Systems is headquartered in Portland, Oregon. If you leave on the nine-twenty flight tonight, you can be there tomorrow morning.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To woo the American beauty. It wouldn’t be a bad match. She’s smart, well-educated and used to moving among the elite of her society.”
“In other words, she wouldn’t be an embarrassment as my queen,” Max cut in dryly.
“She’s also compassionate and does more than take part in charity auctions. She volunteers at a clinic called Children’s Connection. It’s an adoption agency, mostly funded by another family in the area, the Logans.” Chuck paused. “The Logans and the Crosby family are enemies, I think. Twenty-eight years ago, two of the sons were best friends, then six-year-old Robbie Logan was kidnapped while playing at Danny Crosby’s house. His mother was supposed to have been watching them.”
“The year before Ivy was born,” Max said, combining what she’d told him with Chuck’s information.
“Yes. The families are also rivals in the high-tech-systems business world.”
“You have been busy,” Max murmured.
“Once