Juliana sighed eventually and rose, paid her bill and added a generous tip, then headed in the direction of the royal cemetery. She was just thinking to herself that Zakhar was blessed not having the kind of traffic that made driving in Hollywood and Los Angeles such a nightmare, when she stepped off the curb into the cobblestone cross street to the sound of a revving engine and squealing tires.
“Watch out!” A hard, male body tackled her, knocking the breath from her body and dragging her to safety on the far side of the street just as a dark blue sedan whipped by her so close Juliana could have reached out and touched it.
The stranger immediately let Juliana go as soon as he confirmed she was steady on her feet, and they both stared after the car that had almost struck her as it rapidly disappeared into the distance. She’d been so startled and shaken by her close call she hadn’t thought to get the license plate number, and now it was too late.
“You are okay, Miss Richardson?” the stranger asked in faintly accented English.
“Oh yes,” she replied quickly, but in Zakharan. “Thank you so much—you saved my life!” She didn’t question how this man knew who she was. Hers was an easily recognizable face, especially since all the world knew she was in Zakhar filming King’s Ransom. “That was close. My fault, I guess. I wasn’t paying attention the way I should have when I crossed the street. I should have looked both ways.” She made a rueful sound as she found she was still trembling in the aftermath. “Accidents can happen anywhere, even here. I should have been more careful.”
He gave her an enigmatic glance from his rather stern eyes and switched to Zakharan himself. “You think it was an accident, then?”
Juliana laughed shakily. “What else?”
“Yes,” the man said softly. “What else could it have been?” But he looked as if he could have told her more. He smiled, a movement of his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. “Please be more careful in the future, Miss Richardson. Zakhar would grieve should something happen to you here.” He touched two fingers to his forehead in an old-fashioned gesture that made Juliana think if he’d been wearing a hat he would have tipped it to her. Then he walked back across the street, apparently in the same direction from which he’d come.
She watched the stranger for a few seconds, wondering why he seemed somehow familiar. Hollywood? On the plane here? She racked her brain, but try though she might, she couldn’t place him. Maybe it wasn’t his face she recognized, but the way he held himself tall and straight. Almost military in aspect. Maybe he is military, she thought abstractedly. He wasn’t in uniform, but maybe he was in the Zakharian National Forces and was off duty. He was the right age for it. All Zakharian men were required to join the military when they turned eighteen and serve for at least four years—it was the badge of citizenship, and most Zakharian men were proud to serve. Some even went on to make it a career choice.
Only the royal family was exempt from the military service requirement, something Niko had accepted as his due when he turned eighteen. But Niko’s older brother, Zax, hadn’t, Juliana remembered. Neither had Andre. He’d insisted on joining the Zakharian National Forces and training with them just as hard as any basic recruit, despite his father’s vehement opposition.
Andre had actually been in the military when she’d first met him, although his military service had had to be modified to accommodate his royal duties, of course, such as his presence at official functions. Lieutenant Marianescu—he’d steadfastly refused promotion to any rank he hadn’t earned—had been a member of the Zakharian National Forces the entire four years she’d known him and had still been on active duty when she’d left Zakhar. Why remember that now?
It wasn’t until Juliana turned and continued on her way to the royal cemetery that she realized she’d never asked the man who’d rescued her what his name was. Damn! What was I thinking? He knew who she was, but unless he came forward later or spoke with the press—neither scenario very likely, since he was Zakharian—she had no way to thank him again. With a little sigh of regret for her lapse of judgment she put the entire incident out of her mind.
* * *
The phone rang suddenly, and even though the man had been eagerly waiting for it the ring startled him. He snatched at the phone. “Yes?”
“No,” said the cold flat voice at the other end, a voice he recognized.
He cursed, softly and fluently. “How?”
Both men knew better than to speak incriminating words over the phone, so the only answer was, “Interference.”