his life always afraid of assassination, even though in the three years of his rule he’d survived two attempts by traditionalists who resented the political and military changes Andre was trying to implement. One of those attempts he’d used as an excuse to send his sister, Mara, to Colorado, where she’d met and fallen in love with the man who was now her husband. So at least something good had come out of what could have been a national tragedy for most Zakharians.
He was a little more cautious these days—the attempts on his life had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and he no longer took unnecessary risks. But here in the palace—even exposed as he was on his private balcony—he was fairly safe.
Andre breathed deeply and looked down upon the twinkling lights of the sleeping city where he’d been born and raised, the city that was such a part of him he knew he could never live anywhere else even if he wasn’t its ruler. There were precious memories here, too—memories of himself taking fourteen-year-old Juliana and his sister, Mara, thirteen, from one historical site to another, relating the history of Zakhar to them as they listened, spellbound. Juliana, even more than Mara, had been captivated by the love story of the first Andre Alexei and his beloved Eleonora, and never tired of hearing him tell the tale.
Even that long ago he’d been drawn to Juliana. Her lovely violet eyes set in what was then a plain face had glowed with an inner light that told him she understood far beyond her tender age the anguish of lovers torn apart for years. The longing. The yearning. The hope and despair. And then, incredibly, the joyous reunion, never to be parted again in life. Not even in death.
They had stood together at the lovers’ mausoleum in the royal cemetery as he translated the Latin script carved upon the walls for her:
Two hearts as one,
Forever and a day.
He’d watched the words seep into Juliana’s soul, watched her eyes fill with tears of empathy for what the lovers had endured before being reunited. She had felt the story, the same way he always had.
He’d been immeasurably wounded when she’d mocked the love story the night of the reception. The Juliana he remembered could never have said those things, could never even have thought them. He’d struck back with a statement calculated to flick her on the raw. But then he’d seen the fear in her eyes, and that had wounded him far more. He’d never given Juliana reason to fear him. Even when he’d taken the gift she’d offered him so many years ago he’d shown her nothing but tenderness, had shown her how precious she was to him.
Once upon a time Juliana had believed in immortal love—he knew it. He didn’t know what had happened to change that belief, but if he had anything to say about it she would believe again. Somehow he had to find a way to reach her. Come to me, Juliana, he urged, closing his eyes as if that would help deliver his silent plea. Come to me.
* * *
Juliana studied the next day’s script lying in a bubble bath with a half dozen scented candles surrounding her, her favorite way to memorize lines. But somehow tonight it wasn’t working. Instead of the intimate, romantic dialogue between the newly wedded king of Zakhar and his queen on their wedding night and the poignant reunion scene she was supposed to be committing to memory, she kept hearing Andre’s voice in her head like a siren’s song, calling her to him.
She could have sworn she’d heard him calling to her eleven years ago, the night before she was to leave Zakhar, the same way she was hearing him now. The same way she’d heard him calling to her over the years. She knew it was just her own yearning—her own desires—projected in her mind as Andre’s voice calling to her. Usually she was able to block him out by focusing on a script, but not here in Zakhar. Not where everything reminded her of him. Not where everywhere she turned memories tugged her into wondering what had happened to the beau ideal prince she’d known.
She tried to drag her concentration back to the script, but it was impossible—the script itself reminded her of Andre. Too much. Finally she gave up. I’ll just have to get up extra early tomorrow morning and memorize, she told herself.
She got out of the tub and dried herself off, then slipped on one of the oversize cotton T-shirts she preferred instead of the silky, slinky, diaphanous gowns the public imagined she wore to bed. This one had a picture of a sleeping pink-and-white kitten curled up on the front, and it came down to her knees. She crawled into the comfy bed, set her little traveling alarm clock and tried to force herself to sleep. Tried to block out the eerie sensation that Andre was calling to her.
Come to me, Juliana. Come to me.
She remembered how she’d woken from a restless sleep hearing him calling to her eleven years ago, and she’d gone to him in secret. They’d shared one luminous night, a night she would remember on her deathbed. But she would never go to him again. Would never sleep with him again. Would never let herself be vulnerable to him again.
Would never let him break her heart again.
* * *
Dirk came over to where Juliana was trying to get into character as she waited for the set to be ready. Both of them were already in costume, their colored contact lenses in place. The makeup artists had done their jobs well, making them look years younger. History had it that Andre Alexei had been twenty and Eleonora had been seventeen when they were wedded. Dirk had needed to erase a few years of living from his face in order to play the twenty-year-old king in this scene. Juliana had no wrinkles, not yet, but camera close-ups could be brutal. Her face still looked like her when the makeup artist was done, but her mirror had given her a pang. She had looked just that innocent, just that eager yet untouched when...
“Are you okay?” Dirk asked her quietly. “You look...haunted. Yeah, I know your character’s about to be kidnapped, but you’re not supposed to know that ahead of time. You’re supposed to be deliriously happy on your wedding night.”
Juliana shot him a quick glance, taking in the bleak expression on his face. “You don’t look much better. What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” But his voice lacked conviction.
“Don’t lie to me,” Juliana insisted, placing a hand on his arm. “And don’t pretend everything’s okay. Something’s wrong, I know it. It’s Bree, isn’t it? Please tell me.”
Dirk hesitated, then took a deep breath. “You’re the first to know—I’m quitting the business.”
“What?” She was shocked.
“At least for the foreseeable future. I almost backed out of this picture, but Bree wouldn’t let me.” He laughed without humor. “She’d heard about the legendary love story, of course. Who hasn’t? She wanted to come here to experience it firsthand, despite...”
“Despite what?” Her voice was small.
“Bree’s sick, Juliana.”
She looked at him sharply, remembering. “The night of the reception...she didn’t look well.”
“Yeah.” His eyes squeezed shut in pain, and when he opened them again she saw her friend’s naked torment. “The doctors won’t say it, but I think she’s dying.”
“No.” Juliana shook her head in denial. “How...? What...?”
“Don’t let on you know. She doesn’t
