His expression of mocking amusement faded to be replaced by pain. “I do remember. I’ll always remember, Alessandra.”
She felt a swift surge of remorse. Dammit, she should have chosen her words more carefully. She knew the burden of guilt James carried every day of his life. She quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. “Perhaps I will let you buy me a new gown. I wouldn’t want you to be ashamed of me in Mariba.”
“Mariba?” Surprise replaced the pain in James’s face. “Where the hell is Mariba?”
“It’s the capital of an island in the Caribbean called Castellano. I’ve done some research, and I think that most likely it will be our next stop. The government there is on a par with Naldona’s regime as far as oppression is concerned.”
He chuckled and slowly shook his head. “You’re always one step ahead of me. Do you suppose we could go home for a few days first, so I can see if I still have a factory?”
The shadow was gone from his face, thank heavens. “I don’t see why not. I believe I can fit it into our schedule.” Her long lashes lifted to reveal dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Provided we skip our visit to Dior and St. Laurent.”
James chuckled, and he suddenly looked a good decade younger than his sixty-seven years. “We’ll discuss it.”
“Of course we will. Haven’t I always been a reasonable woman?”
“When your determination doesn’t get in the way,” James said dryly. “Then reason doesn’t stand a chance.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re right, we’d better get going. It’s almost seven-thirty, and we wouldn’t want to make Naldona impatient. He’s going to be difficult enough to handle without a fit of temper to contend with.”
She fell into step with him as they left the bedroom and crossed the sitting room toward the door leading to the hall. “Those fanatical eyes of Naldona’s remind me of that picture of Lenin on display all over the Kremlin.”
“His eyes aren’t the only thing about him reminiscent of Lenin. His politics fit quite nicely into a Bolshevik niche.” James frowned. “I’ll be glad as hell to get away from here. Tamrovia may have a certain Balkan charm, but when it gets down to basics, civil war is a dirty business whether it’s in Tamrovia or Guatemala.” He stopped, his expression clouding again. He added in a tone just above a whisper, “Or Said Ababa.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “But we’re not in Said Ababa now. That’s finished. In the past.” Her gaze held his with compulsive force. “And what happened there is finished too. There are only places like Tamrovia and Mariba and what we can do here and now.” She drew a deep breath and deliberately loosened her tense grip on his sleeve. “And what we can do at the moment is smile and be perfectly charming to Marc Naldona.” She suited action to her words and fixed a brilliant smile on her lips. “Shall we do that, James?”
He touched her cheek with an affectionate forefinger. “Yes, we’ll do that.” He grimaced as he opened the door. “After you, my dear.”
Alessandra found her smile becoming increasingly strained as she circulated among the guests in the ballroom. She was never comfortable in this kind of atmosphere, though she had trained herself to appear at ease. She always felt as if she were drowning in perfume and smoke and the crosscurrents existing beneath the small talk floating on the surface of the party. Lord, when were they going in to dinner? At least at the table she’d only have to be polite to her immediate neighbors.
“Miss Ballard, may I speak to you for a moment?”
She broke off in mid-sentence to glance at the young man at her elbow. She had to concentrate for a moment before she could place the rather nondescript face. Michael Fontaine, one of Naldona’s minor aides. “Yes, of course.” She excused herself from the portly businessman to whom she had been speaking and followed Fontaine a few paces away, to the bar against the wall.
He handed her a fluted glass from a tray on the bar and smiled at her with a charm that made his plain face appear handsome. “I thought you might be thirsty. Our guests have been keeping you so busy, you haven’t had a chance to touch the drink you were served earlier.”
She studied him thoughtfully as she accepted the glass. “You must have been watching me closely to notice that. Why would you—” She broke off as she felt a piece of folded paper pressed against her palm as he transferred the glass into her hand.
He met her startled gaze. “Read it,” he said softly. There were lines of tension about his lips as he shifted his position to form a barrier between her and the rest of the guests in the room. “Quickly.”
She hesitated as she searched his face. It was more than tension. Fear. He was frightened. She put the cocktail glass down on the bar and swiftly unfolded the small note. It was very brief and scrawled in bold black script.
Come to me on the terrace. If you don’t come, you will quite probably die. Mention this note to Naldona, and the man who gave it to you will most certainly die. K.
Alessandra slowly crushed the note in her palm. “K.?”
Fontaine moistened his lips with his tongue. “There are some names that aren’t safe to mention here.”
Karpathan? She felt a tingle of shock run through her, and her gaze went involuntarily to the French doors. The most wanted man in the country was only a few yards away. Practically in Naldona’s grasp.
Her gaze shifted across the room to the small, elegantly clad man speaking with burning intensity to James. It wasn’t only Fontaine who would die if she mentioned the note. The man who had written it would have no chance either. She reached for her cocktail and sipped it slowly. “The phrasing in the note could be interpreted as a threat, you know.”
“No threat. A warning.”
“Interesting.” Her gaze moved to the French doors again. “He must be quite a man to inspire you to take a risk like this. You must trust his judgment a great deal.”
“He’s been watching you this evening and thinks you will not betray us,” Fontaine added simply. “And he is the Tanzar.”
Tanzar. “Does that mean he walks on water?”
He shook his head. “Loosely translated, it means the man who gives all. But when the people refer to Karpathan, it means something more. The man who is all.”
“I see.” She didn’t really, yet she was undoubtedly intrigued. She had no use for politics or folk heros, but she had a sudden desire to meet this Tanzar and hear what he had to say. She put the glass back on the bar. “Can you cover for me if I slip out?”
An expression of profound relief appeared on his face. “With no difficulty. I’ve gained considerable practice in the art in the last two years. Drift over to the terrace doors. I’ve arranged for Naldona to be summoned to the study for a phone call. He’ll be kept busy for fifteen minutes. I’ll watch the doors and make sure no one goes out on the terrace while you’re there.”
“You have it all planned.” She turned toward the door. “Just make sure James isn’t worried about me while I’m gone.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
She began to wander casually in the general direction of the French doors leading to the terrace.
Sandor hadn’t expected her to be tall. Jannot’s terse description had brought to mind the image of a Bardot-type sex kitten, but there was nothing kittenish about the woman slowly making her way toward the terrace doors. Alessandra Ballard was close to six feet tall, built on queenly lines, and every inch radiated voluptuous earthiness. The aura of lushness she projected filtered through the sheer Austrian drapes of the French door and reached him clear and vibrant as a siren’s call. No wonder Fontaine had been sure she was Bruner’s mistress. Though she was probably twenty-seven or -eight and Bruner rapidly approaching seventy, Sandor doubted that even Methuselah would have been immune to her sexuality.
There was certainly no question of his own arousal, he realized half incredulously. His body had responded the moment he had seen her, and now he felt it hardening to near-painful readiness as she walked toward him. Hell, what was wrong with him?
It hadn’t been that long since he’d had a woman, and Alessandra Ballard couldn’t even be termed pretty. Her shining nut-brown hair was worn in a severely simple bun on the top of her head. Her features were definitely irregular. Large, wide-set dark eyes glowed serenely beneath winged brows. Her nose was a trifle long, and her lips were a little too full. However, her neck and shoulders were truly magnificent, and the sight of the full globes of her breasts springing from the low-cut square neckline of her white gown made a simmering heat start to tingle through him.
He stepped back into the shadows as she opened the door and stepped out on the terrace. She closed the door behind her.
“Karpathan?” Her voice was a mere thread of sound, but clear and unafraid. Her eyes, searching the shadows beside the door, were also free of fear. “Let me see you. You’ve obviously been out here watching me. It’s my turn now.”
His surprise was instantly replaced by amusement. He stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. “Miss Ballard.” He bowed mockingly. “I assure you it wasn’t my intention to deprive you of your feminine rights. I’m afraid it was an instinctive act of self-preservation to cling to concealment. Shall I revolve like a runway model to make amends?”
“That won’t be necessary. I can see you quite well now.”
Perhaps more than she wanted to see, she thought suddenly. She was experiencing an unaccountable tension that had nothing to do with fear. She could feel it in the contracting of the muscles of her stomach and the tightness of her chest. She had seen newspaper photographs of Sandor Karpathan and knew he was good-looking, but now she saw he was more than handsome. The perfection of his classic features and the crispness of his dark hair were overshadowed by the force field of strength surrounding him. He was wearing a dark sport jacket over a long-sleeved dark shirt and close-fitting trousers, and his tall, sinewy body looked hard and fit.
Hard. Why was she so conscious of the unflinching masculinity of the man? She was suddenly excruciatingly sensitive to the soft fullness of her own body—the swell of her breasts against the chiffon of her gown, the teasing brush of the material against her thighs as the gentle summer breeze pressed the skirt against her body. She drew a deep breath and ignored the urge to scurry into the shadows from which she had called him. The instinct for self-preservation, he had said. She knew that particular instinct well enough to recognize it when she felt it, and it was here throbbing between them. “May I ask why I’m honored by your attention?” With an effort she managed to keep her tone light and slightly mocking. “When I received the note, I wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a warning. Fontaine said it was a warning.”
Karpathan nodded as he took a step closer. “We haven’t much time, so I’ll be as brief as possible. Naldona is planning to murder you and lay the crime at my door. He thinks the desire for revenge will push Bruner into giving him the arms he needs.”
She inhaled sharply. She was shocked, though she had no reason to be. She had known what Naldona was from the instant she met him. “When?”
There was a flicker of admiration in Karpathan’s face. “You’re taking this very calmly. No shocked exclamations, no arguments. Aren’t you afraid?”
She made an impatient gesture with one hand. “Of course I’m afraid. Why shouldn’t I be? But being afraid won’t keep me from getting murdered. There’s a chance that knowledge might. When?”
“We’re not sure. Tonight sometime. I doubt if it will be before you’ve retired for the evening, but I can’t be sure. Fontaine will keep an eye on you at the dinner party. I’ll come to your suite later tonight and take you out of the palace.” He paused before adding with a touch of sarcasm, “Do you think you can discourage Bruner from occupying your bed for one night? It’s going to be difficult enough for me to get you out of here without worrying about stumbling over your aging lover.”
“You won’t have to worry about stumbling over anyone.” Her eyes were fixed on the formal rose garden beyond the stone balustrade. “Thank you for the warning, but I won’t need your help. I’ll take care of it.”
“The hell you will!” He was staring at her in stunned disbelief. “We’re talking about a skilled assassin. Do you think Bruner is capable of saving you from Naldona?”
She lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t ask him to. It would be stupid to tell James about this. He’d feel he’d have to protect me, and probably get himself killed. James doesn’t know how to handle violence.”
His eyes narrowed on her face. “And you do?”
“I hate violence, but I know how to deal with it.” She started to turn away. “I’d better go back inside.”
“Wait just a minute.”
His hands were on her bare shoulders. Heat. His hands were only mildly warm, yet she felt a throbbing hotness flowing, spreading, from the flesh beneath his hands to every part of her body.
His face was taut, his eyes blazing, as he gazed down at her. “I’m not about to be dismissed. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m involved in Naldona’s plot. If you die, this war may go on for another six months. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you send me away with a polite thank you.”
“James and I will be leaving the day after tomorrow.” To her surprise she found herself trying to placate him. “Now that I’ve been warned, I’ll surely be able to avoid any danger until then.”
“Will you?” He gave her a shake that wasn’t exactly gentle. “And how do you think you’ll do that? Do you know how many ways there are to kill a person? Well, I do. I’ve become an expert on the subject in the last few years.”
The fresh scent of soap and a woodsy fragrance reminding her vaguely of burning leaves clung to his body. She shook her head as much to rid herself of this new sensual impact as in rejection. “Let me go. We’re talking about my life. No one tells me what to do with it.” Their eyes were almost level as she glared at him. “Damn you, take your hands off me.”
He glared back at her for a moment before his hands reluctantly released her. He muttered a shocking expletive before he stepped back. “This isn’t the end of it. Until Bruner leaves Tamrovia, your continued good health is very much my concern. There’s no way I’m going to let Naldona murder you because you’re too stubborn to accept help.”
She turned away. “Go back to your war, Karpathan. I refuse to involve myself in the games you and Naldona play with other people’s lives.”
“Games!” She could hear the roughened sound of his breathing behind her, and it sent an involuntary thrill of fear through her. She felt as if she’d turned her back on an enraged puma. “War is no game, Miss Ballard.”
“Isn’t it? Perhaps not to the victims, who act as pawns in your political quarrels. I’m afraid your romantic, folk-hero image doesn’t impress me any more than Naldona’s ‘man of the people.’ In your own way you’re just as ruthless as he is.”
“I know.” The words were softly menacing. “However, I didn’t realize you were aware of that aspect of my character.”
Perhaps it had been a mistake to antagonize him by pointing out that she knew how ruthless he could be. She was usually more diplomatic, but her physical response to him had caught her off guard, and she had reacted with instinctive defensiveness. But it was too late now to worry about regrets. She squared her shoulders as she reached for the knob of the door. “I’m fully aware of it. You even put Fontaine in danger to deliver your message tonight. If you’d been wrong in your gauging of my reaction, he very well could have been killed. You knew that and did it anyway.” She glanced over her shoulder and met his eyes challengingly. “What would you have done if you’d seen me take your message across the room to Naldona?”
He returned her gaze unflinchingly. “I would have shot you,” he said simply. “I had my pistol trained on you from the minute Fontaine approached you. You would have been dead before you opened your lips.”
“You would have murdered me?” she whispered. “Shot me down in cold blood?”
“I wouldn’t have wanted to do it. It would have
come down to a question of choices.” His voice was suddenly weary. “If you had spoken to Naldona, Fontaine would have died and Naldona still would have found a way to asassinate you. If you’d died without revealing his complicity, there would have been only one death. I’ve had to make a number of unpleasant choices in the last two years. This would have been just one more.”
And these decisions had left their mark on him. He looked both disillusioned and soul-sick. For a fleeting instant she felt a surge of sympathy, before she recognized the emotion and quickly crushed it. Good Lord, the man had said he would have shot her and she was feeling sorry for him. “You wouldn’t have to make choices like that if you weren’t set on becoming the great revolutionary hero.”
“You’re wrong. I have to make these choices now because I made the wrong choice two years ago. It’s my hair shirt.” His lips twisted. “And I have an idea you’re going to be a hair shirt, too, Miss Ballard.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and crossed the terrace, fading once more into the shadows.
Alessandra drew a long, quivering breath and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them, smiled determinedly, and opened the French door. Fontaine was standing at discreet attention beside it. She nodded politely, and her smile took on added brilliance as she quietly slipped back into the ballroom.
Two
Lord, it was difficult to sit here and wait. Alessandra leaned back in the Queen Anne chair and tried to relax her tense muscles. She couldn’t have been sitting here in the darkness as long as it seemed, or she would have turned into a doddering old lady. Her lips curved in an involuntary smile as she imagined the reaction of her would-be attacker if he crept into her bedroom and found himself confronting the stereotypical spunky old lady.
Then the smile faded as she glanced critically at the bed across the room. Perhaps she should rumple the covers a little more. The dummy she had made with pillows looked realistic enough in the dimness, but a little disarray might—