“Leslie.”

  “—as if I could when they aren’t there, for pity’s sake. I know it’s his job to project his employers’ privacy but—”

  “I know where April is.”

  “What?”

  “At least I know where she was earlier this evening. Are you watching the news?”

  “No. Why? Oh, God—”

  “No, she’s fine. Fine. Looks great as a matter of fact. And happy. I’m sending you the clip right now. It should put your mind at ease.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  * * *

  Leslie Craig Roberts replayed the clip Tris had sent to her, repeating the sequence she’d gone through several times last night.

  In fact, she’d stopped last night’s repetitions only because Grady was coming to bed and would want to know what she was watching. With her immediate concerns relieved, she didn’t want Grady thinking she was overreacting … or, worse, to have him overreact. Because Grady with a full head of steam in protection of one of those he loved was not an easy freight train to stop, slow, or steer.

  It certainly was April in the news clip. She’d known that on the first play last night, when April’s smiling face had relieved fears she could only acknowledge now that they were dismissed. Even then, a particular unfamiliar figure had caught her attention.

  But she took things in order. So, the next viewing last night had been to see if she’d missed Reese somehow. No.

  This third time she’d focused on the interaction between April and — inexplicably — the aging monarch of a little-known but strategically vital country, according to Tris’ note this morning. That background information came from Tris’ husband, Michael Dickinson, the chief of staff for Illinois’ senior senator.

  As if the thought produced her, the phone rang now, identifying Tris on the other end.

  “What do you think?” her friend asked without preliminaries. “I mean, beyond that she’s obviously safe, looks terrific, and seems to be having fun. You agree with all that, right?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Good. Bette thinks so, too.” Bette Monroe was the wife of Tris’ cousin, Paul, who was close friends with Grady and Michael. “So, so you think it’s a replay of Littrell?”

  “I never thought there was anything—”

  “I know you didn’t. I tend to agree with you. But Reese Warrington? There must be some father-figure seeking in that. And this guy’s a king for heaven’s sake.”

  “Father-figure seeking?” Slowly Leslie said, “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “It would be natural with her dad dying when she was so young, but you’re thinking because she has Grady? Okay.” Still, there was doubt in the word. “Putting aside the father-figure question, though, raises the other issue.”

  “No. I’m as sure as I was with Littrell. Absolutely no on her part, and almost the same on his. Hard to be certain without knowing this man, but I see great fondness. And ... sadness.”

  “Problem is, even though we know there’s nothing going on, it could be like with Littrell. Other people thought so and that scared off eligibles.”

  “Do not speak to me of eligible.” Her native Virginia accent deepened on the words.

  Tris chuckled. “Whatever we think of Reese Warrington, he is socially eligible. What do you think about his not being there?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” She hit replay once more. Watching a different player this time. “But what with her adopting a dog ...”

  “Les, something I wanted to tell you — Roberta’s definitely back in town. But she’s gone very quiet, which makes me uneasy.”

  Leslie tucked her inner lip between her teeth. Between his mother and his ex, Reese had no backbone. Trying to help him grow one was the Herculean task April had taken on. If Roberta decided to take him back…?

  April would be out. Leslie couldn’t mourn that, but she did worry. “She hasn’t called or been in touch since Thanksgiving, and that call was so strange. If the engagement’s over, why hasn’t she told us? And if she’s not at the Warringtons’ where is she?”

  “According to what I’ve heard, possibly at the Bariavakian embassy.”

  Leslie had half expected that answer. “If so, how’d she go from the Warringtons’ to there? And why? Why hasn’t she told us anything? There’s something else, too.”

  “You mean someone else?” Tris said. “The guy in the background. The one with the face that looks like it came off Mount Rushmore? The one who looks at April like he’s trying his damnedest not to look at her, because he’s doing his damnedest not to feel what he feels when he looks at her? That someone else?”

  Despite her concerns, Leslie chuckled. “Yes, that one.”

  “Think he’s the colleague she mentioned at Thanksgiving?”

  “I have no idea. Though I’ve met most of the people she works with, and believe me, I would have remembered him. Plus, I called the Vegetable Consortium without identifying myself, and all I got was that April Gareaux was not available. But the third time I tried, the person who answered was clearly a fill-in and she said April was on leave until after the first of the year.”

  “Leave? To hang out with the King of Bariavak? And what’s Mr. Mount Rushmore have to do with it? Any idea who he is?”

  “Looks like security of some sort. But whose? And why?”

  “And what does he mean to our April?”

  “Yes. That’s the question.”

  * * *

  Leslie also talked with Bette Monroe that morning. Bette’s questions were less direct than Tris’, her concern about April just as genuine.

  The other woman kept the call brief, ending it by saying, “If there’s anything I can do or Paul can do, or if you want to change the plans to come here for Christmas… Dad Monroe’s leg might let him travel by then.”

  “Not comfortably, the poor man. Thank you, Bette, but I don’t see us changing the plans. Seeing that clip, April looks so wonderful, I can’t imagine there’s anything seriously wrong. I do wish she’d talk to me about whatever’s happening. But if she does need help, I know you’ll both be there for her. So does she.”

  She felt reassured by the call. Bette had that effect on people.

  The next call had a different effect.

  “What is April Craig Gareaux doing with a monarch of some country I have never heard of?” demanded her grandmother, in full Grande Dame mode.

  Leslie stifled an urge to chuckle at Beatrice Craig making it sound as if Bariavak had committed a crime by not previously having come to her attention. Chuckling was not advisable when Beatrice was on a high horse that would make a Clydesdale look puny

  “I don’t know. You should ask April that question directly.”

  There was a pause. “She has not yet returned my call.”

  “Nor mine.”

  “Hmph.” Beatrice’s high horse shrank to pony size. “What is that girl thinking?”

  “I don’t know that, either,” she said evenly.

  “And no opportunity to ask her, since she’s not coming tomorrow for the Craig Christmas. All because of that upstart Warrington woman and her son. As if coming here would be lowering themselves. Yet they send April off cozying up to a mere king. Upstarts.”

  Leslie was almost certain her grandmother’s last phrase was aimed at the Warringtons, not Bariavak’s royal family. But rather than risk asking for clarification, she merely assured her grandmother that her branch of the Craig clan would be in Charlottesville for the festivities the next day.

  * * *

  April watched Hunter return to the reception room Saturday night.

  This is where she had met King Jozef’s guests for what he’d described as a small, informal dinner.

  Clearly, he’d never had dinner with Leslie, Grady, and the rest if he thought this was informal. Even accustomed to the crowds at their family gatherings, she wouldn’t call twenty-two people sitting down for dinner at a table that easily accommodated them small. Especially not with the dinner catered and served under Madame’s iron supervision. Now they had returned here for coffee, liqueurs, and conversation.

  Even with the confidence of wearing one of Maurice’s dresses, at times April had felt like she was in a riptide, about to go under.

  Each time, she’d held on to her calm, calling on her experience as Beatrice Craig’s great-granddaughter, Grady Roberts’ de facto daughter, part of their circle of family and friends, and, yes, her lessons from Hunter.

  As he entered, he scanned the room. There was minimal movement of his head, but his eyes took in everything.

  Their looks held for an instant then Hunter Pierce slowly winked at her.

  * * *

  “You did very well, my dear,” King Jozef said to April. “Did she not, Madame Sabdoka?”

  He added the last as Madame returned to the room after escorting out the last guest.

  Madame inclined her head, a gesture that managed both to acknowledge the king’s words and to dismiss April’s achievement.

  “Ah, Hunter agrees with me, do you not?” the king said, prompting both women to turn toward him.

  “Yes,” he said. Because she had. She had been herself without bumping against any of the sharp edges of protocol.

  But he’d seen the toll on her.

  Back in this room for the after-dinner drinks, he’d seen that she was flagging. He didn’t know where the wink had come from, but he’d seen her surprise. And that the surprise had given her new energy.

  “Come, sit with us for a moment, Madame,” the king said. “Let us coze a bit about our friends and enemies who were here tonight.”

  “I have a great deal to oversee in the kitchen. The wait staff and caterers that were hired—”

  “Did a magnificent job. You chose well.”

  “Thank you.” She bowed her head. “However, they require supervision now, as they have throughout the day.”

  She stood, waiting for him to dismiss her, yet with something in her almost of defiance.

  The king looked back at her. “Very well. Return to your work as you wish. For now.”

  For another instant their look held.

  Maybe there was something in April’s theory that there was something between King Jozef and Madame. The earlier debate about a live tree and his possible allergies had indicated a mutual history. And this look…

  Hunter met April’s gaze for an instant and saw a flicker of Told You So there. He stifled a grin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  * * *

  April placed the cards, stamps, address book, and pen on the library’s large table.

  It gave her a great view of the Christmas tree, which she looked at now with pleasure and a little sadness.

  The pleasure came because not only did the tree look good, but it had been the magnet that had the king, Hunter, and her eating meals in this room now. She hoped they’d spend the evening here tonight, too. A relaxed, quiet antidote to last night’s small dinner party.

  The sadness came because it reminded her that she was missing the Craig Christmas today for the first time since she was thirteen.

  Reese had said it was about time she separated from her family. God, how had she swallowed that? He’d never separated from his mother, not the least little bit.

  She propped her chin on her hands and faced the truth.

  She wasn’t going to shed any tears over Reese Warrington. Not now, not ever.

  Reese was weak, but he wasn’t a totally bad guy. He’d been kind to her in his way, especially before she moved in. She’d liked the idea of his strong roots, of his family home. Heck, she’d even looked forward to moving in. Two generations sharing a home had appealed to her … until she got to know Mrs. Warrington.

  Even with her preventing it from being a true home, it was a great house. Unlike Gerard Littrell’s, which had been cluttered, messy, and dirty when she’d gotten there. But in the end it shined. She was glad Gerard had been able to enjoy it the last years of his life the way she’d known it could be the first time she went there.

  Oh.

  The click in her head was almost physical. Had she been drawn to those two very different men because they had homes that had been in their families for generations? A reaction to her years wandering with Melly? Some instinct to recreate the Craig family home in Charlottesville?

  She’d have to think about that. If she was developing a pattern … Although Hunter certainly didn’t match — not that there was anything between her and Hunter or … well, anything.

  She looked down at the table in front of her.

  Enough of this.

  These Christmas cards weren’t going to get done on their own.

  * * *

  He knew where she’d be. Where she was most of the time now, in the library with the Christmas tree.

  He held his laptop in one hand as he slowly turned the knob with the other. Might as well keep an eye on her while he did his other work.

  The door eased open silently — Madame would not tolerate any squeaks.

  April sat at the table, her head bent, concentrating on what she wrote.

  Sunlight dipped strands of her hair in gold and red. It was nice, but he’d liked the more subtle sheen of her pre-Etienne hair, too.

  As he watched her, a glow stole up her throat and into her cheeks. Not the bright color when she’d been angry at Madame, not the color when she was embarrassed… He veered off from defining what she emotion she might have been experiencing when that color had brightened her cheeks, and made the color of her eyes deepen and soften, making a man feel as if he could fall into them and …

  No. His disciplined mind closed the door on that thought, too, though it took some effort. He wasn’t accustomed to meeting so much resistance from the other side of these closed doors.

  Her head came up. She looked straight ahead an instant, as if steeling herself, then whipped her head around.

  “Oh.” It wasn’t a sound so much as the shape of her mouth. “I knew it was you.”

  She couldn’t have known anybody was there. He hadn’t made a sound, or let his reflection be caught, or made a move that could have disturbed the airflow around her.

  Her eyes, those honest eyes, though, said she believed what she’d said. That could explain the rising color. She’d been aware of someone nearby.

  His heart jammed against his ribs, as if he’d been running. Not someone. Him. I knew it was you.

  No. It wasn’t logical. She couldn’t have sensed it was him.

  You were following me … From the Willard.

  Not when Derek was on surveillance, only when he came on.

  “Are you all right, Hunter?”

  His mind shoved those thoughts, too, into the room behind that closed door — getting crowded in there — and dealt with the issue in front of him.

  April Gareaux.

  He called up a reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Did you need me for something or does the king—”

  He dropped a hand to her shoulder to stop her from rising. It stopped her all right. Froze her solid in that half motion, then her muscles seemed to give out, because she dropped back to the chair. He refused to let his hand follow her shoulder down.

  “Everything’s fine. I wondered what you’re doing. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  “You’re wondering? What I’m doing?

  It was the sort of thing he’d ignored for years coming from Sharon — although April’s seemed genuine astonishment rather than sarcasm. Maybe that’s why it jabbed under his skin like a splinter that stung. Stung a lot.

  He picked up a stack of hand-addressed envelopes. There were addresses in California, Ohio, Louisiana, Arizona, Florida, Minnesota, Georgia.

  “What are these?”

  “Christmas cards.”

  “I know that.” He did receive a few cards every year. The dry cleaner, office of the Secretary of State, his landlord, a few co-workers like Sharon not deterred by the fact he didn’t reciprocate. “Who are all these people?”

  She picked up an envelope addressed to Cincinnati, Ohio. “The Mastersons were terrific to me. When I was about ten and they were newly married, I thought they were the most sophisticated, romantic people I’d ever seen.” She chuckled. “They, bless them, were beyond patient. Now they have four kids, with the oldest at Ohio State.”

  “These were all neighbors?”

  “No. This is to a former teacher.”

  “So most of these people were closer to your parents’ age than yours?”

  “Their age doesn’t matter. It’s important to remember the people we think of fondly. They were all kind to me.”

  Did she realize what she gave away in the wistful spaces between her words? Her mother had been so wrapped up in herself that she’d uprooted her daughter time after time with little opportunity to do more than gather addresses for sending Christmas cards a couple decades later.

  He would have liked to take Melly Gareaux by the back of the collar and shake her … if that weren’t such a ludicrous thought. Hunter Pierce didn’t get involved with other people’s lives — especially not when one of them was dead.

  “I like to let them know I’m doing fine now. And, no, I’m not telling anyone about this.” Her sweeping hand took in the room as well as both of them.

  What would she write if she were to write about him?

  Of all the stupid questions….

  “I’m not,” April insisted.

  It took him a moment to realize he’d shaken his head — at himself — and she’d interpreted it to mean he hadn’t believed her. “You want to keep in touch, I understand.”

  Her eyes widened. “You do?”

  He shrugged. “Bother you if I work in here a while?”

  “Not at all,” she said politely, then added, “But I’m not changing the music.”

  For the first time he realized Christmas carols were playing softly. “As long as Saint Nick’s not on any rooftops.”

  She chuckled, and turned back to her task.

 

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