just her queen—not surprising, really, since the queen was only a year older than Angelina, and hadn’t been born to her lofty position.
Their friendship was something Angelina didn’t broadcast, though. She didn’t want anyone saying her next promotion was due to anything other than pure merit. But until she personally checked things out at the cathedral and assured herself that Queen Juliana and her baby would be safe, Angelina wouldn’t feel free to enjoy her day off.
She’d just turned down a side corridor that would take her to the vast parking lot behind the palace where her little Fiat—one of her few prized possessions—was parked, when someone called to her. “Lieutenant Mateja! Angelina, wait up!”
She turned, saw Alec Jones and was immediately torn. She hadn’t expected to see him again today and wasn’t prepared to deal with him—especially after this morning.
But courtesy had been instilled in Angelina since before she could walk, and she couldn’t just slip away as if she hadn’t heard him calling her name. As if she hadn’t seen him coming after her. “Special Agent Jones,” she acknowledged when he drew near.
“Alec,” he reminded her. “Remember?”
Angelina tried but failed miserably to control the slight flush that tinged her cheeks. Not at the reminder that she’d already agreed to call him Alec, but of the kiss they’d shared. The kiss she’d pretended she hadn’t wanted. The kiss that had knocked her world off-kilter.
Alec had been right this morning—damn him, she thought now. She’d wondered what it would be like to kiss him. And in that moment she’d wanted him to kiss her. She just hadn’t been prepared for it—hadn’t been prepared for the way her body had responded to being in his arms, either. Not at all.
But she wasn’t going to admit it to him. “Alec,” she agreed coolly. “Yes, I remember. What are you doing here?”
“Meeting,” was all he said. “Business. You?”
“Meeting.” She was as terse as he was.
“So where are you headed now?”
She considered his question for a moment and realized there was no reason not to tell him. “I am heading to Saint Anne’s Cathedral.”
He nodded with evident admiration, and Angelina realized he understood why she was going there, even without her saying another word. “Smart,” he said. “Very smart. Mind if I tag along?”
She raised her eyebrows in a question, and he added, “I’ve been invited to attend the christening.” He gave a little huff of rueful laughter. “McKinnon told me the princess wrangled an invitation for me. It would be rude to decline, especially since I’m here at the—” He stopped abruptly, and Angelina wondered what he’d been going to say. “Anyway,” he continued smoothly, as if this was what he’d intended to say from the start, “since I’ll be there, it would make me feel better to know the lay of the land. Advance knowledge never hurts, does it?”
“No, it does not,” she acceded. She hesitated, of two minds about letting Alec go with her. Then she remembered he was a highly trained professional who’d been in the bodyguard business longer than she had, and he might have insights she would find helpful. Just as he’d taught her a very important lesson this morning, there were other things she could learn from him. All at once her treacherous thoughts skittered down a path she refused to take—he could teach you many things, yes!—and though her body thrilled to that idea, she quickly brought both her body and her thoughts under control.
“How did you come to the palace?” she asked him.
“Taxi.” He smiled at her. “One of those cute little Zakharian taxis that seem to be everywhere. I could have called for an embassy limo—the official dignity of the embassy’s RSO must be maintained, I’m told—but it seemed kind of stuffy. Or I could have walked. The taxi was a reasonable compromise.”
“I have my car here,” she said. “If you do not mind being driven by a woman.”
Alec grinned as if at a secret joke, and Angelina mentally chastised herself for the verbal slipup. She knew American men were not like Zakharian men. Most of them anyway. American men were used to American women doing—and doing well—just about everything a man could do. But all Alec said was, “You wouldn’t ask me that if you knew Princess Mara used to drive herself to and from the university where she worked. That meant I was always in the passenger seat.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later they were in the vaulted main chapel of Saint Anne’s Cathedral in Drago. After identifying herself and Alec to the custodian, they were allowed to wander at will.
Saint Anne’s Cathedral was laid out like a giant cross, with a side chapel on each side of the main area, or nave, as it was called, facing the apse and the altar, effectively doubling the seating capacity. Angelina was mentally calculating sight lines—envisioning where the royal parents would stand near the baptismal font, where the two sets of godparents would stand, and where the archbishop and the other members of the ecclesiastical team would stand—when Alec spoke.
“What’s up there?” he asked, pointing to the distant loft in the rear.
She glanced up, following the direction of his arm. “Choir loft,” she answered absently, and pulled a notebook from her pocket to jot down a couple of questions she wanted to ask Captain Zale.
“How do you get up there?”
“Staircase. Access from the foyer.”
“Will there be a choir present at the christening?”
“Of course. This is an incredibly important event for Zakhar,” she informed him a little stiffly. “It is not just the baptism of a child, you understand. It is a celebration of the future of our country. Something like your Fourth of July, Thanksgiving and New Year’s celebrations all rolled into one. A two-hundred-voice choir will be singing the ‘Te Deum.’ Just as they did at the king’s coronation. Just as they did at his wedding to the queen.”
Alec nodded his understanding, but all he said was, “Then it’s not likely an assassin would try to hide up there.”
“There will be men posted there nevertheless,” she assured him. “We are taking no chances.”
Alec had wandered past the altar while she spoke, and now he asked, “What’s behind these pipes?” indicating the organ pipes, some of which stretched from floor to ceiling, in a series of wooden cases. There were spaces between the pipes, some only an inch or two, some more.
“Nothing. Just space to allow the notes to resonate throughout the cathedral. No one could stand behind those pipes...not when the organ is playing,” Angelina explained. “And the organ will be playing during much of the service. The sound waves...you have to understand the sound waves would cause such pain no one would risk it. It could rupture the eardrums. You would be writhing on the floor.”
“Hmm.” He slipped behind the pipes. Between the pipes and the wall was a large recess with access from both sides.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, following him, curious.
“What’s to prevent an assassin from wearing high-tech noise-canceling headphones?”
