She moved from a case of Art Deco broaches to a smaller case with tiny, ornate boxes.

  If she could get him off-balance. Maybe it would open him up enough to—

  “You have found something you would like to purchase?” There was both curiosity and a hint of censure in Madame’s voice.

  “What?”

  “Your focus indicates you have found something that pleases you.”

  “An excellent choice, an excellent choice,” enthused the gnome-like clerk.

  April looked more closely at the tiny boxes in the case. Not one of them had a price tag. Not a good sign.

  “Which one has caught your interest?” Madame’s words seemed to have an unspoken, yet surely exasperated finally hidden among them.

  Without saying a word about it, she had made clear that she considered April’s aimless wandering around the establishments they had stopped at so far a dead weight. But really, none of the places Madame had taken them were what April had in mind. So what could she do, while she waited for her turn to select where they would go, other than idly look at these elegant extravagances? The ones with price tags had her turning away. The ones without, she didn’t even want to think about.

  “Ah,” breathed the clerk, drawing a gem-encrusted square from the center of the case. “I am sure the young madame’s excellent taste has drawn her to the spectacular example of fifteenth century Florentine craftsmanship.”

  He held it out to her, and what could she do but accept it? The gold that formed the box glowed and the gems decorating it winked their varied colors under the artful spotlight above.

  Fifteenth century? That was antique as in lots of zeroes at the opposite end from the dollar sign. April’s muscles clamped around a sour ball in her stomach.

  This was why she stayed on the outside of the windows when she looked — it was so much safer, and you never had to tell the hopeful clerk that no, you weren’t going to buy his fifteenth century Florentine example of — of what? A pillbox? Stamp box?

  “Whom are you considering purchasing it for?” Madame asked. A frown drew down her brows, “His Highness appreciates fine pieces, but I am not at all sure that a snuff box—”

  “Snuff box?”

  Her voice had skidded up, but now she saw the lifeline and grabbed it with both hands.

  “I’m sorry, but that won’t do at all.” She extended the box toward the clerk. He did not take it, as if thinking that as long as she held it she would have to purchase it. She raised one eyebrow a la Madame, and he took it. “No, nothing related to tobacco. His Highness is concerned about the health of his countrymen and would not set such an example. Thank you for showing it to me. It is quite extraordinary.” If gaudy. “If you don’t mind, I will wait in the car while you complete your purchases, Madame.”

  Madame inclined her head the smallest amount to indicate acceptance, and April fled.

  If it could be considered fleeing with Hunter doing his me-first-into-the-line-of-fire routine at the shop door, escorting her to the car, holding the back door for her, then going around to the driver’s door. With Rupert off today, he was driving as well as escorting.

  Their eyes met in the rearview mirror. Only because he was looking around for lurking threats and happened to choose that instant to check the mirror. As for why she was looking at the mirror …

  “You handled that well,” he said.

  “Thank you. I’m not sure Madame would agree.”

  “Don’t let her get you down.”

  On that unexpected bit of advice, he got out of the car again to open the door for Madame.

  Back in the driver’s seat, Hunter said, “Ready to return to the embassy?”

  “I have completed my purchases,” said Madame, with extra starch in her voice. “Miss Gareaux, however, might have additional stops she wishes to make.”

  April sat up straighter. “Yes, I do. If you would rather not come, since you’ve finished your shopping, we could drop you at the embassy. In fact there’s no need for Hunter—”

  “I’m driving you wherever you’re going,” he interrupted.

  “His Highness expressed his wish that we be paired for this outing.” Clearly, as far as Madame was concerned, that settled that.

  “Okay. Let’s go to Tysons Corner.”

  She saw Hunter’s jaw working as if he were going to say something, but before he could, Madame turned her whole torso toward her. “That is a mall. You intend to shop at this mall? This Tysons Corner?”

  “Oh, no,” April assured her. “I scout at the regular malls, then go to the outlet malls to buy.”

  “Outlet?” Madame’s voice climbed toward the heavens. “The guest of the King of Bariavak does not shop at an outlet!”

  “April—”

  She ignored Hunter’s warning from the front seat. “I’m buying presents for my friends, not King Jozef’s, so I’m spending my money. But if you want my opinion, he has better things to do with Bariavak’s money than pay full price.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  * * *

  King Jozef came down the back stairway as they entered, as if he had been waiting for them.

  “A successful afternoon of shopping?”

  “If you will excuse me, sir, I have duties to fulfill in my office,” Madame said, descending the stairway to her basement command center.

  “If you will excuse me, sir, I have things I need to do in my room,” April said, climbing the stairs past him.

  King Jozef looked toward Hunter, as he hung his coat in the back closet.

  “You were longer than I expected. A successful afternoon of shopping?” he asked again.

  “Some things were bought, but I wouldn’t say it was particularly successful, no. Have you ever watched those nature shows where two Big Horn sheep run at each other, lock horns and butt heads? Let’s just say, it’s behavior not restricted to the males in some species.”

  “Ah,” the king said. It held a wealth of comprehension.

  For a moment, they shared the amusement, tinged with a hint of terror.

  Then the moment was gone.

  “Come into my office, Hunter.”

  He would have preferred not to. But his preferences weren’t the issue.

  The king took the seat by the fireplace he’d occupied the first time they came here, and gestured for Hunter to sit across from him.

  “I have been receiving the extension of the flyover agreement. You wish that I sign?” King Jozef asked.

  “Yes. Having access to that airspace will allow the United States government to maximize its air bases to reach trouble spots. It cuts hundreds of miles off flights, reducing risks for the crews and personnel they carry.”

  “Why is it important to you that I sign this agreement, Hunter?”

  “I’ve told you—”

  “No, you’ve told me why it is important to your government and why it is important to your military. Why is it important to you ?”

  “I am a servant of my government.”

  The king simply looked at him.

  “Faster air support.” He wasn’t sure why those words had come out of him.

  The king looked at him for a long moment then nodded slowly. “To support troops on the ground. To come to the rescue of those on the ground who might be under attack.”

  “Yes.” The one word came grudging and sharp.

  “To protect soldiers you don’t know in a war you’re not part of, because of the one soldier who died. Ah, Hunter, you are more Bariavakian than you know. The past rides on your coattails.”

  * * *

  Hunter, even more withdrawn than usual, escorted them to the row that held their seats for the concert at the Washington Cathedral that evening.

  Them included Madame, who apparently had received an order.

  “Hunter, you will sit with us,” the king said.

  “Your Majesty, that—”

  “It is what I wish.”

  The older man leveled a look at Hunter she had not seen him use before, and the order behind the wish was clear. If she had needed a reminder, considering Madame’s presence, of the power of a king, this provided it. Until today she had seen the man, not the sovereign.

  Hunter’s jaw tightened, but he dropped his head in a curt nod. “I sit on the aisle,” he said grimly.

  “But of course,” the king agreed, smiling.

  Then, the king took her wrist, holding her back. He gestured for Madame to go in first, followed her, then drew April along after him. His maneuver left her nothing to do but sit one seat in from the aisle, with Hunter beside her.

  The king tipped his head and spoke very quietly to her alone.

  “Ah, you see, my dear, you must agree that at times, an order is much more efficient than a request.”

  * * *

  Madame issued formal thanks, then disappeared before the rest of them had their coats off.

  The king asked her, “Did you enjoy that magnificent music, April?”

  “It was magnificent, wasn’t it? It was so kind of you to secure the tickets for us, sir.”

  “To instruct Madame to secure the tickets,” he corrected with a chuckle. But you have not answered my question concerning your enjoyment of the music. Is it, perhaps, that you did not care those moments of whispering, followed by an explosion of sound?”

  “Why do they do that? Get so quiet and then shout at you?” She chuckled. “It’s like they’re testing to see if you’re awake — but first they put you to sleep. And it always makes me jump, even though I have been listening.”

  “So it was this method that induces guilt that prevented you from fully enjoying the music?”

  Hunter cut across whatever tactful response she’d been formulating. “She wanted to sing.”

  “Indeed? You harbor an ambition to perform musically, my dear?”

  “No! No, I — I don’t know what he—”

  “She wanted everybody to sing.” Let her try to deny that.

  When she didn’t, the king said, “Ah.”

  She glared at Hunter. He looked back at her.

  “All right, yes. It seems a shame to have everyone sit there when we could all be participating — yes, singing—” She shot at him, as if it were a high caliber retort. “Everyone knows the words and the songs are so beautiful when voices simply come together. Plus, if the idea is to get people into the spirit of the season, having them participate does a lot more than making everyone sit there being sung at.”

  Her crescendo of belligerence — which had grown as she’d stared at him — fell off a cliff of good manners when she looked back at the king. “Not that it wasn’t beautiful signing. I don’t—”

  “Do not apologize for having an opinion, April.”

  * * *

  Hunter saw April studying the King’s face at breakfast Wednesday.

  When Madame came in with the daily digest, he watched with a good deal of surprise as April caught the older woman’s eye, raised her brows and tipped her head slightly toward the king. The surprise deepened when Madame, after surveying the king under the guise of rearranging the plate of toast, gave a brief nod.

  “This evening is the open house at—”

  “Sir,” April interrupted. “Would you mind if we skipped that tonight? I want to do a bit more shopping this morning, but beyond that I could use a quiet day. If you don’t mind?”

  The king looked over his reading glasses at her. “Whatever you wish. You’re not feeling poorly, are you?”

  “Not at all. But I could use a laidback day.” She flashed a look toward Hunter that he didn’t understand, but that put him on alert. “Especially because I do have one more thing I would like to do this week. I thought of it yesterday while we were out shopping — a personal holiday tradition that I’ve done every year since I was little, no matter where we were living. May I fulfill my tradition Friday night, since we have no social obligations then?”

  What was she going to inflict on him now? Her holiday traditions were ending up as holiday tortures.

  “Of course, my dear,” the king said. “May I inquire what it is?”

  She smiled. “Ice skating at the Mall.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  * * *

  “I don’t know, Sharon. It’s awfully … uh …”

  Hunter heard April’s voice through the open doorway of the Periwinkle Room. He could see in, but neither she nor Sharon seemed to know he was there.

  April’s face was turned away, while her figure was in profile to him.

  He heard Maurice’s voice in his head. Chin, throat, chest, to your bosom. Yes, you have a fine, high bosom.

  She wore a floor length dress in a reddish color. It dropped straight over her hips with a subtle flare at the bottom so her movement wouldn’t be restricted, say, if she were dancing.

  “That’s exactly the point,” Sharon said. “Sometimes you need a dress that’s awfully ‘uh.’ Sometimes you need dynamite to blast through granite. Or an ice jam.”

  “Granite?” Her voice went up. “I’m not trying to blast through granite. Why would you think —”

  “You don’t believe me? Here’s Hunter, let’s see what he thinks.”

  April pivoted to face him through the doorway, her right hand holding a wrap in the same material over her left shoulder. “Hunter. What are you doing here?”

  Good question. “I don’t remember this dress.”

  “I’ll return it. I wasn’t sure—”

  Sharon overrode April’s words. “Tonya from Maurice’s delivered it with those that needed additional alterations” And that explained the three tea cups on the coffee table. No doubt April had insisted they all sit down and chat. Probably ate cookies. “Along with a note from Maurice de Chartier saying he’d come across it after you left the shop last week and he’s convinced it’s perfect for April. I agree, but she won’t listen.”

  “It’s a beautiful dress, but …” April looked down at the skirt. Uncertainty resided right beside fragile exultation. “We didn’t order it, but Tonya and Sharon say … And Maurice sent it and they say Maurice has the best taste in Washington. I don’t know.”

  “It looks very nice on you.”

  “Without the wrap,” Sharon said from the loveseat beneath the window.

  The smirk in her voice warned him. It didn’t matter. April released her hold on the wrap, it slid off her shoulder, and then it could have burst into flame as far as he knew. All he saw was what it revealed.

  A flow of creamy skin from April’s throat, over her delicately carved collarbone, and down, to the rising curve of her breasts. Then the dress curved in, defining the line between her breasts, cupping their smooth curves like a lover’s hands would cup them in the second before his mouth —

  “It’s too low.”

  The words came too fast, but his voice sounded normal. That was a damned miracle.

  Sharon made a sound that might have been an aborted chuckle, but he didn’t look her way. He made himself look up, to meet April’s eyes.

  Uncertainty had surged to the lead in her expression, leaving the exultation trampled in the dust.

  Then she sighed.

  You would think a man with any sort of discipline would have no trouble surviving one single intake and output of air by a woman. Hell, all he had to do was look somewhere else. The ceiling, his shoes, out the window. Anywhere.

  Instead, he saw her lips part for the inhalation and his gaze dropped to her chest. Her breasts rose, micro-millimeter by micro-millimeter. The fabric rose, too, but not at the same rate. Einstein should have had a formula to show how a low-cut dress and a deep sigh could bring a man to his knees. Her breasts seemed to fight for freedom with that breath, gaining territory an atom at a time. He wanted the battle to go faster, to be over, to know the result and have it behind him. He wanted to slow it so it lasted a lifetime.

  Stillness. Absolute stillness. No sound, no movement. The smooth flesh’s curve pushed above the slight restriction of material. He could feel the smoothness of that flesh in the tingle of his fingertips, taste its sweetness in the dryness of his mouth, smell its musk in the flare of his nostrils.

  And then the slow release of April’s breath, the slow retreat of her breasts back into the cover of the clinging material.

  Those precious micro-millimeters out of sight, though God knew not out of his mind. Not out of his body, either.

  It was as if the release of that pent-up air from her body had entered his, expanding and swelling his groin until it hurt.

  “I’m sorry you don’t like it.” She squared her shoulders and replaced the wrap over her shoulder. “But I’m going to keep it. I might never have a chance to have another dress like this, and I’m going to keep it. I’ll pay for it. I wonder if Maurice has a lay-away plan? Or—”

  “We’ll pay,” Sharon said. “You need something for the White House party.”

  “Oh, God. The White House.”

  “Relax, April. It’s a party — a big party, but just a party. First say you’ll keep the dress.”

  But April wasn’t listening. She was turning toward him, and as she did, the wrap slid off her shoulder again.

  He had to get out of here. Now. Before his body reacted — Oh, hell! Before she or Sharon spotted his body’s reaction.

  “But … Are you sure it’s okay, Hunter? If you think it’s too low …?”

  He didn’t answer. He grabbed the doorknob and pulled it after him.

  Before the door closed, he heard Sharon’s chuckle behind him, along with something that sounded like “Ka-boom!”

  * * *

  He could hear Maurice’s voice.

  Yes, you have a fine, high bosom, and we shall show that off.

  But it was what he kept seeing behind his closed eyelids that was driving the bus at the moment.

  April blushing. The slow rise and fall of her breasts. Her head tipped back as if waiting for a kiss. Her hair mussed from pulling a sweater over her head, the way she would look if she were peeling her clothes off … for a man.

 

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