the wind across the microphone were the only sounds. The unseen cameraman worked the zoom lens, and Jade was suddenly watching herself—with Harry, the station cameraman, right behind her—standing just outside the palace gates. She saw her own image argue with the guard, then grab the iron gate and shake it. She watched as she sent Harry back to the van, as she confronted J.T.
She relived the whole confrontation because she was simply too stunned to hit the stop button. In the video, she saw her hair ruffled by the wind. She felt the cameraman’s obsession as he slowly tightened the zoom to pan in on her alone—in effect, cutting her off from J.T. and the rest of the world. Keeping her separate.
For him only.
Slowly, the camera panned from the top of her head to the sole of her tapping foot and back up again. Jade felt her stalker’s obsession as if it were a living thing in the room with her. The shot tightened further, lingering on her eyes, her mouth. She could hear the cameraman’s labored breathing as he watched her, and the sound nearly choked off her own air.
At last, when she was turned away from the palace gates, the tape ended, fading into a solid blue screen that finally woke her out of her stupor. She jabbed the stop button with one fingertip, then dropped the remote to the floor as if it were poisonous.
Silence crashed down around her. The drapes, still billowing in the wind, suddenly made her aware of an unsecured entry point, and Jade hurried across the room. Of course, to break into a third-story apartment through the balcony doors, her stalker would have to be Spider-Man. But it made her feel better to slam the glass door shut. She locked it, then bent down to drop the metal guard into the track behind it.
Alone and scared, she turned her back on the view and stared at her apartment. For the first time, she didn’t see the comfortable, yet stylish furnishings. What she saw now was her sanctuary…invaded by a threat she couldn’t identify.
And she wanted to call J.T. so badly, her heart ached.
There was too much going on for J.T.’s liking.
He sat in the single chair opposite his boss’s desk and let his mind wander while Franklin Vancour was on the phone. In his fifties, Franklin was as fit as a man half his age. It came from years of military training, no doubt, and J.T. could appreciate that. The other man was as dedicated to duty as he was, and on that common ground, the two men understood each other.
Morning sunlight filtered in through the windows of the security office located on the ground floor of the palace. The wood-paneled walls gleamed richly from years of careful polishing. Framed certificates and royal proclamations hung on the walls, and their glass fronts winked when a stray sunbeam glanced off of them. A row of bookcases lined one wall, and hundreds of leather-bound, well-read volumes rested alongside mementos left behind by former heads of security.
The RII—Royal Intelligence Institute—was responsible for the safety and security of the royal family. The guards posted outside, as well as J.T. himself, had been plucked from the different branches of the Penwyck military and assigned to the palace. Every man here was the best of the best.
Next door was the king’s office, and J.T. knew without having to be told that Sir Selwyn, the king’s secretary, would be there, positioned to keep out all intruders. A thin, wiry man, he was dedicated to his employer. Even to the point of putting up with Broderick, the man who so wanted to be king of Penwyck, but never could.
But until Morgan, the rightful king, either recovered from his illness or was succeeded by one of his sons, Morgan’s twin, Broderick, would remain temporarily in charge, reigning in his brother’s stead.
J.T. could not understand how twin brothers could be as different from each other as the king and Broderick were. Morgan was fair-minded and loyal, with an innate sense of decency. Broderick, on the other hand, couldn’t be trusted as far he could be thrown. But since it was J.T.’s sworn duty to protect the royals, he was bound to keep his opinions to himself and simply do his job.
As Franklin hung up the phone and leaned back in his black leather chair, J.T. turned to find the man studying him. “What’s this I hear about you and a female reporter having a public argument at the gate yesterday?”
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Not much got past Vancour. Which was why he was in charge of security around here.
“Not really an argument,” J.T. countered, crossing his right foot atop his left knee. “She wanted in. I disagreed. I won.”
Franklin’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted slightly. “So I heard. But the point is, we can’t afford to offend the press right now.”
“Offend her?” J.T. almost chuckled, but he knew it wouldn’t be appreciated. “With her attitude, she’s lucky she didn’t get shot. Lieutenant Gimble deserves a medal for putting up with her tirade.”
Franklin sighed and shook his head. “Ms. Erickson is a popular personality these days.”
J.T. shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to like the direction this conversation was taking.
His boss continued. “The queen watches her People in Penwyck reports every day.”
“Yeah,” J.T. said. “Real in-depth reporting there. What was her last bit? About the cats who’ve lived in the palace?”
“Doesn’t matter,” the other man countered. “The point is, your former wife’s making a name for herself.”
“I know.” There were only a handful of people on this whole island who knew that he and Jade had once been married. They’d divorced long before she’d become an on-air personality. Vancour knew only because of the security check J.T. had had to pass before accepting the promotion to the palace guard.
But this was the first time in two years the other man had mentioned it.
“No way,” J.T. muttered, suspicion crawling through him. He pushed himself out of the chair. “You’re not suggesting we let her into the palace to do her interview, are you?”
“No.” Franklin propped his fingertips together as he thought about it. “Not yet, anyway. Soon, though. Won’t be able to avoid it much longer. What I’m suggesting is that you show her around the palace grounds for now.” He shrugged. “Give her a little and maybe she’ll be satisfied.”
J.T. doubted that. “Not her. She wants an interview and she won’t be satisfied until she gets it.”
“No interviews. Yet.”
There was something in his tone, an underlying edge of excitement, that caught J.T.’s attention.
“Is there news on the king?”
Franklin studied J.T. for a long minute, decided he had no qualms about telling him what he knew. Jeremy Wainwright was the most trustworthy man he’d ever known. The lad was headed for big things one day, Franklin mused. Maybe even this job.
And in this office, with the door closed, the two men could talk freely, without worrying about being overheard or quoted.
Nodding, he said, “The king’s doctors seem to think there are encouraging signs. It seems he may be rousing from the coma.”
“That is good news.” Hell, it was great news. As a citizen of Penwyck, J.T. had
