Code Name: Tiara by Sawyer Bennett
CHAPTER 17
Jackson
This is it … Camille’s last day in the States, and then we’ll head back to Bretaria tonight at 6:30 p.m. via San Francisco, Sydney, and then to her home island.
I’d thought about not even making the return flight. Once in the air and with stops only for refueling and to change pilots at the airports with private, protected tarmacs, my services aren’t quite needed. I thought of broaching the subject with Dmitri a few days ago, but fuck if I could bring myself to do it.
I simply wasn’t willing to let go of those last twenty-four hours of flight time with her. It may only be sitting in a chair across from her, discussing politics or society or the Kama Sutra.
It could be spent in that private bedroom of hers, but that’s probably not going to happen with Paul on the flight. While we’ve managed to keep our affair secret, acting aloof with each other by day and tearing up the sheets in her bed by night, sex on the plane again is just too risky.
Unless Paul were to fall asleep. The man does go under hard. I could sneak in a quickie.
I shake my head, pushing those thoughts away. I’m on fucking duty right now watching Camille, and I can’t let my focus falter.
Granted… we’re alone, and she’s surrounded by no fewer than five security agents both in this room and just outside the exit points.
We’re in the Holocaust Museum in DC, and Camille is slowly moving through the last few exhibits. She studies each one carefully. When she watches video footage, she cries.
There are no other tourists in here with her, and that’s because we had to do some last-minute scrambling to arrange a private tour. Yesterday, Dmitri called me with some disturbing information.
Interpol has been picking up more chatter about the assassination plot on King Thomas. Not with necessarily details as to when and where, but the frequency of talk is alarming, occurring daily now for the last week. Within all the coded words, a phrase was decrypted that seemed to indicate Camille could be a target. It was veiled in what would appear a benign conversation to an ordinary person listening in, but those who’d been tracking the conversations between these men for weeks knew they weren’t gardeners.
The call originated in Turkey where two men who had been under surveillance discussed gardening—particularly trees. They discussed how to handle a diseased tree, and that the root must be left intact but that you had to take out the main diseased branches and even those surrounding it that might not actually be diseased but had to go nonetheless so the rest of the tree could flourish. Their conversations discussed hiring a gardener to handle the issue.
Those with half a lick of sense who are monitoring this know the diseased part of the tree is King Thomas, and Camille represents the non-diseased part that has to go, because when she turns twenty-five in less than two weeks, she will be the heir apparent.
Something else was imparted to me, something I didn’t know before about why Camille is especially vulnerable until she turns twenty-five. While there could be a legal claim to the throne if King Thomas dies before the princess turns twenty-five, once she reaches that age, Camille will be able to secretly name an heir known only to her. This is done to ensure safety to the lineage, as without knowing who is next in line, it makes it difficult for someone to try to battle their way to the crown without knowing who they’ll be battling.
It’s all very complicated, but it boils down to this: Camille will be inherently safer once she reaches her twenty-fifth birthday.
My suggestion was to pack up and head back, and Dmitri concurred. King Thomas, however, wanted Camille to finish her trip because it was clear by the nature of the conversation, nothing had been set in stone.
But I thought that was too big a leap to take. There’s no guarantee a plot isn’t already underway.
King Thomas was adamant, though, and expressed confidence in us.
I appreciated that, but I wasn’t about to let her run all over DC to visit tourist attractions without some change in security protocol. A call in to Cruce, who put a call in to the president’s Chief of Staff, and we got Camille private tours of the American History and Holocaust Museums today. It was no light undertaking, as each museum had to close its doors for about thirty minutes to let Camille come in via a back entrance where she’s been taken through the exhibits by each museum’s director. The doors were opened to the public after she was well on her way, and they were never allowed to advance on her or enter the rooms she was in.
Of course, the people tittered as they knew someone famous was within the museum. I heard many guesses—movie stars, rock stars, even British royalty. But no one would guess a Bretarian princess because ninety-nine percent of the people have probably never heard of her.
Once Camille finishes these last few exhibits, we’ll head straight for the airport and board for our six thirty takeoff.
I move around the edge of the room we’re in. The director stands quietly beside Camille to watch a video clip of a survivor because there’s no explanation needed for the incredibly painful story she’s watching. The room is dark, but the glow from the screen lights up the tears staining her cheeks. She reaches into her purse, pulls out some tissue, and dabs her eyes as she stoically watches.
It fucking sucks that my only inclination is to go to her side and hold her hand while she gets through it.
It sucks that I can’t.
It sucks that I even want to.
It sucks it’s even bothering me at all.
I suppose it’s stupidity at its finest to think that, despite the fact that Camille and I agreed back in Jonesboro that this is just a fling, that there won’t be feelings attached. Except we traveled to Houston, Vegas, Los Angeles, Jackson, Wyoming, and then on to DC, and there have been feelings.
It’s been a hectic pace, and she’s had a full schedule in all places—some business and some personal. Regardless, we’ve both managed to act as no more or less engaged with each other while in public than we were before. She’s treated me no differently than she’s treated Paul, and I’ve done my job to watch and protect her.
But the nights… Christ… they’re blistering. I spend all night in her bed once she retires, and we’ve managed to try probably every sexual position known to man, and I’m sure we’ve created new ones. There is no part of her body that is foreign to me, and I mean no part. I’ve let her explore me at her leisure, and while shy at first, she’s become quite the vixen.
Clearly, we can’t fuck every minute of every evening we spend with each other. There’s been talking in between. She’s learned more about my childhood, naval career, and what I want from life. I’ve learned more about the very tiny box she will continue to live in, as well as more about her parents and their very close bond. It’s one of the reasons Camille will do her duty, because of her love for them.
I’ve even learned about Marius and their friendship, including their disastrous first—and only—kiss. I told her about my friends at Jameson—that they’re more like brothers—but she couldn’t reciprocate and tell me about her friends. She really only has Marius, and it made me sad for her. She’s an equestrian and has horses on Bretaria, and they’ve been her friends, but that made me even sadder. She’s lived in a free country and yet has been a prisoner.
The days were what they were, but the nights have gone by way too fast. Just this morning, sensing our impending farewells, I grabbed her just as she was ready to reach for the door that would lead us out into the hallway.
I jerked her back, slammed my mouth on hers for a bruising kiss before turning her to face the wall. I hiked up her skirt, got her wet with my fingers, and then fucked her from behind slowly. I had to keep my hand over her mouth the entire time, except for when she came. I twisted her head so she was facing me and I kissed her deeply, sucking her moans into me.
Rather than satisfying me for the day, those glorious moments of getting lost in each other have only highlighted that we’ve pretty much run out of time.
“You have it bad, mon frère.”
My head whips right, but I don’t need to see to know those words came from Paul. He moves in beside me, back to the wall, hands clasped before him. He stares at Camille, a knowing look on his face.
Not concerned.
Not angry.
Not amused, though, either.
No clue what he’s thinking.
Most men would deny it, but I’m not about to insult his keen intelligence and powers of observation. I thought we’d been careful, but somehow we haven’t been.
So I merely say, “Fuck off. It’s none of your business.”
Paul chuckles and inclines his head my way, eyes still on Camille. “I don’t judge you, friend. I’d tap that if she were interested in me.”
His words are meant to provoke, but they push me past what a normal response should be. I turn to him, lean in close, and murmur low, “If you ever talk like that about her again, I will slit your throat.”
The man doesn’t even have the sense to be offended or afraid. He snorts and shakes his head, turning back to look at Camille. Reluctantly, I do the same because that is our job.
“I would never disrespect the princess like that,” Paul finally admits after a drawn out, tense silence. “I merely wanted to see how deep you’re in.”
Fucking deep, Paul. Way fucking deep.
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply coolly, my eyes pinned on Camille as she silently weeps over the video. Can’t stand what that’s doing to my heart, but I can’t help her the way I would if we were alone. It goes against my job duties and would give our secret away to the other agents watching. “This was never more than a temporary thing. It ends when I drop her off in Bretaria.”
“And she’s cool with that?” he asks, and this time I detect actual concern.
My tone is curt, hoping it doesn’t invite further conversation. “We both agreed.”
“Well, your secret is safe with me,” he says nonchalantly. “I mean, I have no scruples outside of taking my job seriously. You’ve done excellent work heading up this security detail, and as long as you and the princess are on the same page, no harm, no foul.”
I don’t give a fuck what he thinks, and I’m definitely ready to change the subject. “Have you heard from Dmitri lately?”
Paul nods. “About fifteen minutes ago. He said there’s no chatter at all.”
Once again, my head whips his way. “None?”
“None for the last thirty-six hours,” he replies, his tone grave. “Not since the last bit they picked up indicating Camille was now a target too.”
This is not good. The chatter about the potential assassination has been frequent since it started, and the last week, it has been daily, several times a day. And now for thirty-six hours, not a peep?
“They’re either on to us, or the plan is set and is going to be put into action,” I mutter pensively.
“Yup,” Paul agrees. “Dmitri is going to have an additional contingent of security and police in both San Francisco and Sydney. It’s doubtful the tarmac can be breached and the air space is protected, but it’s smart to take extra measures.”
“Agreed.” My gaze cuts back to Camille, but I’m not finished talking to Paul. “And when we arrive in Bretaria?”
“Double the regular detail to escort her back to the palace.”
This is good. Once she’s inside the palace walls, the risk to her will decrease significantly, although Paul is positive Dmitri is putting additional measures in place. I’m betting there are now metal detectors at all entrances, a hiring freeze, and a recheck of all palace insiders including what will be an insidiously illegal look into every person using any means necessary.
“What do you think the chances are that a move will be made on her?” Paul asks.
I shrug. “She’ll never be fully safe, but if this intelligence is actionable, it’ll be before her twenty-fifth birthday. Once she turns twenty-five, has legal claim to the throne, and can name a secret heir to ensure her security, everyone can breathe a bit easier.”
“She’ll be safe behind Bretaria’s walls,” Paul says.
“Except for the one person who has slipped through the vetting process. Someone who might have been in the circle of trust but who has been offered a fortune to kill the king and Camille. Say, perhaps … someone like me.”
Paul jerks and rounds on me, eyes wide with astonishment. He realizes it could be anyone, and he’d be right to be suspicious of me, just like I’ll be suspicious of anyone other than the king and queen themselves.
“Of course, if I were going to kill her, I’d have done it long before now and with an undetectable poison,” I say mildly.
He utters a long curse in French. “The next few weeks will be perilous for her and the king, even in the sanctuary of the palace.”
“Agreed,” I say flatly. “Keeping them both alive is going to take a lot of work, because the enemy could potentially be within. It’s unlikely, but it is possible, so she can only be surrounded by the most trusted. That has to be you and Dmitri.”
But even I can’t guarantee they’re a hundred percent trustworthy. I’m going on gut instinct as I’m usually a good judge of character.
“Has the princess inquired why the security protocols were changed on this last day?” Paul asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet, but I’m afraid it’s coming.”
“The king doesn’t want her to know,” Paul reminds me.
“I’m not going to lie to her if she asks me point-blank whether she and her father are in danger.”
“The king won’t like that,” Paul warns.
“Fuck the king.” And I truly mean that. I don’t answer solely to him now. By virtue of my personal relationship with Camille, I unfortunately also answer to her.
Camille and I might have an end date that’s fast approaching—really the time it takes to get to Bretaria and for me to turn around and leave the next day after I debrief Dmitri—but I am never going to lie to her.
Even if that means incurring a king’s wrath.