Heir in Exile (4 page)

He laughed. “You make it sound like I have a one track mind.”

“That's because you do.”

“I do not.” He feigned affront.

“Really? Then what was that whole two hours after the shopping trip, and the sexy little attempt to keep me in the room before the party?” She arched her brows, staring up into his eyes. Chey contained a smile with effort.

“I thought of many things
between
all that. None of them had to do with sex. Take my recent side out with the foreign gentlemen over there.” He glanced toward the group of men he'd been speaking with who were still collected together in a circle.

Chey caught a glimpse during a turn in the dance. “You actually concentrated on business?” She pretended surprise.

“Well, I
wasn't
thinking about the slit in your dress or the way you were moaning my name earlier in the hotel room. So yes, I actually concentrated on business.”

“Did you get anything accomplished?” Her lips trembled at the corners again with the want to smile. Sander's banter never ceased to amuse her.

“We discussed a few trade options, imports and exports, things of that nature. You could say we made progress.” He slowed the pace of their dance when the music shifted into something with a more mellow beat.

“Don't you have people who negotiate all that?” she asked.

“Yes. But I like to get my hands dirty with it. You know, make some of the decisions, talk to the people we'll be in business with. Sometimes, these are the first steps of many. Really, it's just an excuse for a bunch of really wealthy people to congregate, show off their jewels and money and write all this off as some expense or another.” He snorted.

“Now that sounds a lot more like what I'm seeing here. The congregate and gossip angle.”

“The men don't gossip.”

“That's ridiculous. Of course they gossip.” Chey scoffed.

“Not like the women do.”

He stumped her; Chey had no good comeback.

Grinning, he pulled her closer and flattened his hand low on her spine. The warmth of his skin felt like a brand, a welcome one as far as Chey was concerned.

They danced two more dances, heads close, bodies closer. Chey enjoyed his presence, liked the way he hid nothing of his interest in her. She knew people were talking and didn't care. Let them talk. Most everyone seemed to think Sander had been wronged anyway, which gave him more leeway than if he'd simply left Valentina at the altar or some other ungentlemanly maneuver.

Sander broke away once more for another session with the men, promising to come collect her in a half an hour. Chey retreated to the restrooms, which were set up with entire lounge areas for women to recline, talk, fix make up or smoke in peace. She chose a divan in the corner and put her feet up, more than happy to have some down time. Fishing her phone from her purse, she pretended to have a text conversation while in reality, she perused wedding dresses.

It never hurt to just...look.

The wedding was probably years away, but this relaxed her and took her mind off everything else.

Before she knew it, an hour had gone by. Gasping in surprise when she looked at the time, she shut her phone off, tucked it into her purse, and exited the restroom. Sander was probably thinking she'd gone slinking away with some man again.

Out in the main room, she paused to get her bearings and find the group he'd been speaking with. The circle was no longer there.

Fantastic. She threaded her way through the milling guests, on the hunt for Sander.

. . .

Chey started to worry when she didn't find him after fifteen minutes of searching. Maybe he'd needed to use the men's room as well and got caught up in unexpected conversation. If his security detail was here, Chey had a difficult time pinpointing them. There were others dressed in typical black and white suits, making it hard to differentiate who was who. If there hadn't been a hundred and fifty or so faces to scan, it would have made her task much easier.

“Lost, little girl?” Sander said from behind, next to her ear.

Startled, she twitched a look over her shoulder. “There you are. I was about to go into the men's room and see if you were there.”

“I dare you,” he said, laughing.

“I don't have to now. You're here.” She smiled and faced him. “Did you finish your talks?”

“Yes, and I'm ready to blow this party if you are.” Sander offered her his elbow.

Chey slid her fingers under the crook and let him lead her through the room. From nowhere, his security appeared out of the throng and took up flanking positions. So they
had
been somewhere in the room. Or at least two of them had.

Sander passed off a few goodbyes on their way through the enormous arabesque arch. He led her along a hallway, then into another where the VIP elevator banks were located.

Pressing the button, they waited until the doors slid open and he guided her inside. The security situated two in front, two in back.

Chey slipped little glances aside at Sander as the carriage began to ascend. It was a smooth, quiet ride, with a light flickering above each number as they passed the floor. In no time, the final ding rang through the cabin and the elevator doors hissed open.

With a sudden flurry of motion, dark clad figures rushed in. Although it was night time outside, each wore sunglasses that gave their faces a bug like appearance. Sander's security had no time to unsheathe their weapons or block the blows that landed a moment later. Silencers, several of them, swept the carriage while someone shouted for everyone to freeze.

Sander shoved Chey behind him and batted at a silencer, grabbing the long muzzle with one hand while kicking at the first man's knee. Two other men swarmed in from the hall, grappling in the small space.

Chey screamed and fought off an assailant that wrapped her by the throat with an arm. Bodies of guards dropped like flies to the floor of the elevator and were summarily dragged out into the corridor.

Catching glimpses of Sander fighting for his life, Chey wrestled with the man who trapped her against his chest. He had the advantage in height, strength and experience. Bulling her forward, he guided her through the foyer of the suite and in through the already open doors.

Someone had planned this well.

She dropped her clutch on the floor when the man, rather harshly, forced her down into a chair.

“Do
not
move,” he snarled, brandishing the gun to show her he meant business.

She screamed, a high pitched, blood chilling sound that caused the assailant to backhand her hard across the cheek. Tasting blood, she choked, swallowed and went silent. Fuzzy bees blurred the edge of her vision, swarming in and out in a dizzying pattern. She blinked them away, desperate to regain full control of her senses.

The shape of Sander, arms wrenched behind his back, came into sharper focus when the assailants shoved him into the suite from the foyer. Blood spattered the once pristine white vest, shirt and tie. It took four men to subdue him. Several more staggered in wearing split lips, wounded arms or legs, and abrasions to their faces.

The man in charge yanked his sunglasses off his eyes and kicked the penthouse doors closed with his boot.

“Now then,” he said with a heavy mid-eastern accent. “That will be enough of that.”

Each member of the unit had sun-dark skin that placed their heritage in the nearby vicinity and thick black mustaches that Chey might have thought were fake if only because they all looked exactly the same. The men wore goatees as well, trimmed precisely alike. The crazy thought that the tans and accents were part of a disguise stubbornly persisted.

Shoved down into a chair adjacent to Chey, Sander said nothing. He glared, however, gaze raking over the men while he tongued his swollen lip.

Chey knew he was assessing, calculating, looking for weakness and openings. Waiting for one person to slip up so he could make a move. She knew it as well as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Sander, not of pampered gentry, was able to fend for himself. Skilled and cunning, he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty in a fight. The only question was—would the men shoot to kill? Chey thought the motive here was clear; the King, after warning Sander something else was coming, had made a major move.
What befalls you from here is your own doing.

Surely he wouldn't kill his own son. Not the firstborn, heir to the throne. It was too radical a step even for Aksel. Wasn't it?

She was another matter. Chey had no illusions that Aksel would do away with her for good this time. It made her stomach queasy, made her light headed. They had taken a chance by confessing their relationship to the King and Queen and now they would pay.

The leader of the group approached Sander, gun held down at his side. He tucked his sunglasses into a front pocket on his shirt.

“I will make this as short and painless as possible,” the man said, making eye contact with Sander.

Sander still said nothing. His face was set into stoic, neutral lines, eyes cold and flinty.

“You will return to Latvala as soon as we are finished here. There is a meeting arranged between you and the King, where he will immediately, and permanently, send you into exile,” the leader said.

Chey stifled a gasp of shock. Exile? Aksel was willing to give up his first born, the natural heir, because of all this? Killing, as she suspected, was too extreme. Permanent exile was not.

Sander showed no reaction. He didn't scowl, or snort, or argue.

The leader arched his brows. “You
do
hear me, yes?”

Sander remained stoic. No agreement, no nod.

“I know you are not deaf,” the leader said. “You will accept the exile and leave Latvala for a distant holding in another country. The point is, you will be stripped of your ranking, your privileges and your title, along with your money. For all intents and purposes, you will become a commoner, forced to live under the protection of the ruling family if for no other reason than they wish not to deal with ransom situations.”

Silence met the leader's mocking announcement. The man looked briefly annoyed and gestured at Sander with his gun hand.

“To press the point home, in case you are thinking of an escape, or that you might somehow salvage the situation, know that should you fail to do exactly as I have said,
she
will become a casualty of the human trafficking trade.” The leader gestured Chey's direction while he paced closer to her chair. “She will be absorbed into a system that, as you well know, tends to make citizens disappear with alarming speed. The Chey Sinclair sitting before us will cease to exist and become some sheik's plaything in a harem until she loses whatever appeal she might have. Then she will become someone else's plaything, or used to generate income in a manner I don't think either of you would approve of.”

Chey listened with growing horror. This went far beyond being detained in a musty cell below the King's castle. They meant to make her disappear for good, in a way that would ultimately be worse than death. She glanced at Sander. He wasn't looking at her, but at the leader of the group. Following the man with his eyes. Chey couldn't tell what he was thinking, although he must still be planning an out. Some kind of escape.

He would not allow her to be sent off and get lost in any human trafficking system.

“Do you understand? This is non-negotiable, Sander Ahtissari. You
will
be exiled, and she
will
become a victim of trade if you do not do as you're told. Accept your due, and she will be returned to her old life.” The leader of the group circled Chey's chair twice, flicking a piece of her hair with a finger. He came to stand in front of their chairs once more, looking between them.

“I can see from the look in your eyes that you need more convincing,” the leader finally said to Sander.

“He has always been stubborn like that,” another, familiar voice said from around the corner of an archway.

Chey snapped a glanced that direction. A cold chill gripped her spine.

Mattias stepped into view, leaning a shoulder against a marble column. Dark eyes shifted between Sander and Chey with careless disregard. He said, “But I'm guessing he didn't see
this
coming.”

Chapter Four

Not Mattias.
Chey repeated the mantra while shock held her immobile in the chair. She heard Sander hiss to her right, the first sign of reaction since the leader began speaking. Glancing between brothers, Chey found them staring at each other with impossible to read expressions.

No matter how Chey tried to reason what was going on, her mind simply refused to accept that Mattias had a hand in this. He couldn't have been stringing Sander along the whole time—could he? Was it all a lie? Mattias stood next in line to the throne; he had the most to gain if Sander was ousted as heir.