The Royal Bastard Read online

  Justine nodded. Once her breathing finally regulated, she asked, “Where to now?”

  Rocco checked his watch. “Nearly two a.m. Odds of finding a hotel are nil.”

  “A hotel?” She gawked at him in disbelief as he pushed to stand. “I was thinking more along the lines of the nearest police station. Those guys were—”

  Rocco’s eyes widened and he reached for her arm to silence her. A heartbeat later, she heard it, too: a rough voice coming from one of the streets on the opposite side of the plaza, accompanied by the heavy sound of shoes slapping stone.

  “Quick.” He cut sideways into another tight street, past several medieval buildings and a small fenced garden. To Justine’s surprise, he stopped short and tested the latch on the garden gate. When it didn’t give, he interlaced his fingers to create a stirrup. “Up.”

  “If it’s them, we’ll be trapped—”

  “We can’t keep running. Go.”

  Chapter Four

  There wasn’t time for further argument. Justine stepped into the pocket Rocco created and let him propel her over the fence so she landed on her good leg. He followed, pausing for a moment to untangle his pants from decorative ironwork before landing beside her. They crept to the back of the garden, tucked themselves amongst a darkened row of bushes, and braced their backs against the stone wall of the building that served as the garden’s rear border. Branches scratched at Justine’s face and arms, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that they survive the night.

  Approaching voices made her draw in a sharp breath. She stole a sideways glance at Rocco. Shadows made his expression difficult to read, but the tense set of his shoulders as he crouched beside her in the thick foliage proved he shared her fear. As if sensing her need for reassurance, Rocco turned his head and pressed a silent kiss to her temple before he grabbed her hand and held it against his thigh.

  Frozen in place, they waited. It didn’t take long to realize the sounds belonged to the men who’d attempted to kidnap her. The section of the street visible through the garden fence remained empty, but the low, angry instructions hissed back and forth were unmistakable. The Russians were getting closer.

  “The kids on the bridge,” Rocco whispered in her ear. “I bet they told the men we went this way.”

  He let go of Justine’s hand and pulled her body to his so she was in a tight ball against the front of his chest, making the two of them as small as possible. Her leg throbbed and her foot began to cramp, but her position prevented her from moving without making noise. Tears formed at the edges of her eyes as her body screamed with the need to shake out her foot, but she remained still. She reminded herself of her earlier statement to Rocco: better to hurt now than be killed. Because if those men heard her, she and Rocco would both die.

  Bright light pierced the blackness of the garden as the narrow beam of a flashlight swept through the iron fence to illuminate a set of worn wooden benches. After a pause, it moved left of their hiding place, going stone by stone over the wall of an adjacent building. Bushes ran along the wall’s base and a statue of the Virgin Mary stood at a break in the greenery. An unlit candle rested at her feet.

  Rocco’s stomach chose that moment to emit a loud, rolling gurgle. His arms tensed as the light jerked, then arced in their direction. Justine’s breath threatened to burst from her lungs as the brilliant beam crept over the bushes, then stopped a few feet to their left. After what seemed an eternity, it moved again, passing over them and continuing to the wall forming the garden’s other boundary. A fat calico cat yowled before turning away from the intruder who’d deigned to disturb its sleep. The light moved the rest of the way around the garden, then returned to a tree near the cat. The light slid up the tree, spotlighting the large branches one by one. It remained idle for a moment as the men conversed, then the garden plunged into darkness. A metallic clang rang through the night as one of the men rattled the gate and found it locked.

  Rocco’s fingers dug into the flesh of Justine’s arm. They hadn’t been spotted, but they were far from safe. The men remained near the gate. Justine couldn’t understand a word they said, but the gist of their hushed discussion was clear. They’d heard Rocco and Justine fleeing the plaza and knew they were close. Both thought they’d heard the jolt of a metal gate or fence being touched. They doubted it could’ve been caused by the cat, but weren’t sure what to make of it.

  Without moving a muscle, Justine strained to see through the gloom. The scarred man who’d entered her bedroom stood with his back to the gate. Though Justine couldn’t see his face, he showed no signs of having taken a hard elbow to his privates or being struck by the car door. He stood tall, shoulders squared, with his gun holstered easily at his hip. If she and Rocco were forced to run again, he’d have no trouble giving chase.

  The burly man shifted, affording Justine a better view of the driver. Blood caked the area under his curved nose and streaked across his right cheek, as if he’d attempted to wipe it away. Given the dim glow of the streetlights, it was impossible to tell for sure, but his nose appeared broken. He tapped away at a cell phone screen, then angled his head toward the plaza, urging the larger man to follow.

  “Keep still,” Rocco murmured into her hair as the men’s footsteps faded. “If they suspect we’re here, they’ll double back.”

  She nodded against Rocco’s chest, unwilling to risk a spoken response. Her leg and foot ached as they hadn’t since she’d awakened from the surgery following her accident. She closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping her breathing even in an effort to mitigate the pain. In and out, in and out.

  All it did was make her more aware of Rocco.

  The scent of his warm skin permeating the fabric of his dress shirt. The faint tinge of Scotch on his breath. More gurgling from his stomach. The rapid yet steady beat of his heart near her ear. The solid muscle of his arm at the back of her waist. His hand on the outside of her thigh, keeping her from toppling sideways out of the bushes. The strange brush of his new beard grazing her forehead.

  She’d thought him intoxicated when he knocked on her door. As he held her now, she realized it was concern rather than inebriation that had caused his agitated hands-in-pockets stance as he entered her apartment and begged her to leave so she’d be safe from a danger he wouldn’t name.

  Questions flooded her brain. Who in the world were the Russians? Why did they want her? Did Rocco know they were coming? How did he find her in the alley?

  “I know it hurts. Another minute or two and you can change position,” he whispered. “We’ll leave soon.”

  She nodded again and continued to breathe—just breathe—two counts in, two counts out. He tightened his arms around her and lifted so he bore more of her weight, which eased the pressure on her legs.

  This was the Rocco she met all those years ago. The protective, loving Rocco she married. The man who didn’t give a rip about her fame, her medal count, or her endorsement deals. The man who smelled so damned amazing, despite having spent the day burying his mother and the night sprinting through the streets of Dubrovnik’s Old City.

  The man with so many secrets.

  She exhaled in one long whoosh. If he’d brought this hell upon her, she’d kill him.

  * * *

  Wind rustled the leaves of the lone tree in the convent’s rear garden.

  The stray cat nestled near its trunk stretched, yawned, then meandered to the middle of the garden. It sprang to the seat of a wooden bench and resettled, only to rise again when a discarded grocery bag blew into the fence. The cat glowered at the flapping plastic, then leapt from the bench, squeezed between the iron rails as far from the ensnared bag as possible, and disappeared into the city streets.

  In front of Rocco, Justine’s shoulders expanded and contracted with the measured rhythm of her breathing. He marveled that she’d held still for so long, especially given her injury. A lifetime of elite-level training had given her a mental toughness few possessed. Still, much as he wanted to wait
another ten or fifteen minutes to be certain Radich and Karpovsky were gone, he suspected even Justine’s stamina wasn’t infinite.

  With any luck, Radich had crawled into a small, dark hole to put an ice pack on his face and Karpovsky had gone with him.

  “I’m going to look. If the coast is clear, I’ll wave you out.”

  Rocco felt more than heard Justine mumble into his shirt. Taking it as assent, he released her upper body and eased away from her, then picked his way out of the bushes and crept along the grass to the fence. He saw no movement, heard nothing out of the ordinary. He leaned over the fence to ensure no one was on the street, then turned to signal for Justine only to discover she was already tiptoeing across the grass toward him. She moved awkwardly, one shoulder higher than the other, but her grimace of pain disappeared when she caught him studying her.

  “Figured it was safer to make noise once instead of twice.”

  Since he hadn’t heard her behind him, he wasn’t about to tell her she should’ve stayed put.

  Her gaze went to the gate. “Think we can unlock it from the inside instead of climbing?”

  “Let’s hope.”

  It took less than ten seconds to locate the latch and cautiously open the gate. After another check to ensure the area was empty, they stepped into the street, then turned in the direction opposite the one in which the men had gone. Keeping to the shadows, Rocco guided Justine toward the city walls while pulling his cell phone from his back pocket to call a taxi. “I’ll have it meet us a few blocks outside the Old City. I hate to ask, but are you going to be able to make it that far?”

  “Don’t have a choice unless I plan to sleep here, and I don’t.”

  An I’m sorry nearly popped out of his mouth before he thought better of it. Justine must have a million questions; apologizing to her before he could explain the night’s events wouldn’t serve either of them. Not that he could explain, even if he tried.

  He got through to a taxi service and made arrangements for the pickup. When asked for his destination, he provided the address of a villa uphill from his own.

  Justine said nothing. She remained silent for the rest of their walk through the Old City, then for the entirety of the ride. Only her eyes seemed to move, constantly checking the taxi’s rearview mirror to see if anyone followed them. It wasn’t until Rocco paid the driver and the vehicle’s taillights disappeared that she turned to him.

  He expected a demand to know the identity of their pursuers, why the men attempted to kidnap her, or why Rocco had the cab drop them off a few houses away from his own. Instead, what came out of her mouth was a flip, “When you told me I was in danger, did you have the slightest inkling I’d spend my Tuesday night running through the Old City in my pjs?”

  “It’s technically Wednesday.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and angled her face to the stars, as if silently pleading for help from the heavens. “I’m technically going to kill you if you don’t give me a full explanation, beginning with” —her look turned direct and venomous— “what…the…hell?”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t.” Before she could make good on her promise, he held up a hand. “Not entirely. And doing so while standing in front of my neighbor’s house at this hour isn’t exactly wise.”

  “God forbid we do anything unwise tonight.”

  He’d earned that, he supposed. Calmly, he said, “Before we talk, I want to check out the villa to make sure it’s secure and pick up a few things. Then we’re both getting out of here to someplace safe.”

  “How about we get to the police?”

  “We will.” Eventually. Once he figured out what in the world he’d tell them…and how he’d answer their inevitable questions without blowing his entire life—and those of his siblings—to shreds.

  “Now?”

  “Soon.”

  “Of course. Soon. We’ve been shot at, chased, beaten—you’re still bleeding, for Pete’s sake—but hey, let’s go to the villa first.” Despite her anger, she kept her voice down. “I could give you a thousand other arguments, but since I’m in moccasins, sweats, and a nightgown with no money and no phone, I don’t suppose I’d win any of them.” She swooped a hand in the direction of his villa. “Let’s go.”

  He wasn’t going to give her a chance to reconsider. He strode through a stand of trees to approach his villa from the rear, keeping his pace slow for Justine’s sake. Behind him, she continued to mutter. Finally, he swung around and asked, “What are you mumbling about?”

  “I said, ‘good thing I still have on my bra. Too bad it wasn’t made by Nike.’”

  He turned back toward the villa, refusing to rise to the bait. She had every right to be angry. She was hurt and tired and had no idea what was happening. But he was angry, too.

  A man shouldn’t have to bury his mother, deal with his biological father’s spouse, and defend his estranged wife from gunfire all in a twenty-four hour period. And—he pressed a hand to his temple and realized that Justine was right, he was still bleeding—he shouldn’t have to pound his fists into another man’s face.

  The stone wall surrounding his property materialized in front of them. He stopped and used his cell phone to access his surveillance system. All was in order. Nevertheless, he approached the rear gate with his senses on alert and gave the back yard a thorough scan before disengaging the locks and going in.

  “You think they might come here?” Justine’s question was barely audible as she slipped through the gate behind him.

  “It’s not out of the question.” He led her through the back door, then up the wide staircase to the master bedroom without turning on the lights. They both knew the villa well enough to move through it in the dark. The bedroom, in particular.

  “There’s aspirin and ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet.”

  She ignored his offer, tracking his movements instead. “You’re packing a bag.”

  “I told you, we’re going to go somewhere safe. Then we both need to sleep.” He could feel her argument coming and cut it off. “We can’t deal with the police when we’re this tired. Chances are your neighbors called when they heard gunfire and the police are already on it.”

  “In that case, chances are I could go back to my apartment and sleep in my own bed.”

  “Justine.” Two simple syllables carried the weight of his fatigue, both physical and mental.

  She slumped into the chair in the corner. It wasn’t like her to give up during an argument, which solidified his decision to prioritize sleep. They were both exhausted and on edge. He strode to the bathroom to grab his shaving kit, then rummaged in a drawer to find a toiletry pack he’d received a few weeks earlier on a flight. It didn’t have makeup, but it’d provide Justine with the basics. He threw in the aspirin and ibuprofen along with antibiotic ointment and a few bandages before returning to the bedroom.

  Justine’s eyes were closed. Long wisps of hair had fallen across her face. Before he could reach out to wake her, she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Think faster.”

  “Follow me.”

  Sliding one backpack strap over his shoulder, he went to the study and accessed its hidden safe. He couldn’t risk having anyone—the police or the Russians—go through his private materials. After stuffing the papers and memory stick in his backpack and adding his laptop computer, he remembered the cornflower blue box Queen Fabrizia had left behind. If anyone entered the study, he didn’t want them to find it and question its origin. He withdrew it from his desk drawer without looking inside and added it to the backpack.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded, though he could see she was fighting to stay on her feet. With a glance out the window to ensure all remained quiet, Rocco turned and took the stairs down to the garage. Bypassing the cars, which he assumed Karpovsky and Radich could identify, he grabbed the old Vespa his sister Lina had asked him to store. Justine didn’t argue as he slipped the backpack onto her
shoulders and urged her to climb on behind him. After checking the gas gauge, he eased it out of the garage and took an indirect route to the marina, where he parked the Vespa behind a row of trash cans.

  “I’m not spending the night on your yacht.”

  “Too dangerous,” he agreed. “We’re going to my stepfather’s boat instead.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She paused. “Wait…I didn’t know Jack had a boat.”

  “My mother planned to sell it after he passed away.” Of course, she’d never gotten around to it. “Kos has arranged for maintenance, so it should be in good shape.”

  “Rocco—”

  “It’s a place to sleep. We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.”

  She stared at him, indecision clouding her light blue eyes before she slung the backpack at his chest. “First thing in the morning, I’m going to the cops.”

  Chapter Five

  Rocco Cornaro was a momma’s boy.

  Justine hadn’t known that when she met him, of course. One didn’t discover such character traits during early evening conversation at a ski bar in the storybook setting of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany. Or even the next day, after being tossed out of the same bar at closing time, talking for yet another hour beside the fire in her hotel lobby, then experiencing mind-blowing sex with a sensual, attractive, well-built man whose world view and manner of speaking made it clear he was no ordinary ski bum. A man who, unlike the other men who’d pursued her, wasn’t the least bit interested in managing her career or stealing a piece of her spotlight. Rocco was well-traveled, confident, astute, and possessed an inner calm that most men she knew lacked. Likely because he was eight years her senior, an age gap that suited her just fine.