Chapter Four
The little hidden lake at sunrise was spectacular. Chey stood behind the tripod, lining up a stunning shot lengthwise across the water. She'd risen at dawn and hit the stables right after, intending on capturing the photos she wanted despite the previous day, and the previous evening's events.
Tugging habitually on the hem of the pale blue sweater she wore over jeans, Chey straightened out a wrinkle in the material before turning the tripod a click to the left. It gave her a whole other vantage with a different section of the lake to focus on.
Behind her, tied to a tree stump, the buckskin mare nibbled grass, tail swishing flies away from her flanks.
All in all it was a peaceful morning. A good way to start the day. Later, after lunch, Chey had another photo shoot with the family. This, however, was her time, and she put it to good use.
Worried over the garden escapade, she refused to dwell on it. She knew Mattias would keep their confidence.
The question was—would Natalia? She would have to admit being drunk and unruly, though perhaps that wasn't unusual and no one would care.
“You're up early,” a masculine voice said behind her.
Chey yelped and nearly knocked her camera over. She caught the tripod as it started to tilt and fall. A hand shot past her to catch it, too, leaving her entire right side pressed up against Sander's.
“...don't sneak up on people like that! I almost ruined a very expensive camera.” Annoyed, she got the tripod upright—with his help—and stepped far enough away that she could swing around and glare at him without their bodies touching.
He had his hair pulled back into a low tail this morning, the ends brushing the collar of a palomino suede coat. He wore layers beneath: steel gray flannel and a white tee shirt. He'd left the zipper and buttons undone so that the white showed all the way to the waist of his jeans. Boots that matched the suede, engraved with a brogue design on the the arch and the toe, completed his attire.
Chey took all that in with a quick sweep of his person.
“I wouldn't have let it fall. Didn't you hear me coming? You should pay more attention to your surroundings,” he countered in a blasé tone.
“I'm sorry. I'm busy with work. You know, that thing you should be doing? I have no doubt you've gotten all the information on me, so you know I'm allowed to be here.” Chey huffed and stepped back behind the camera.
Now she was distracted.
Fantastic.
“Are you always this bitchy?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
Chey straightened again, set a hand on her hip, and gave him a withering look. “I'm not bitchy. You're simply impossible to deal with.”
“Most women think I'm charming.”
“Well, I'm not most women.”
“Really.” It wasn't a question.
“What is it you want, exactly, Mister Fisk?” Chey hoped she put enough irritation in her voice to make him hurry along. The way he looked her over just then was one hundred percent male. Annoyed that it made her skin prickle and hear heart pick up speed, she narrowed her eyes and glared.
“To let you know where you may and may not go. To the lake, the creek dividing the property on this side, but no further into the forest. And not at all on the east side.” He pronged his fingers and held his arm out in the direction she was not allowed to wander. His eyes never left hers.
“But I'm supposed to capture the countryside--”
“Not beyond the lake or the creek, and not at all to the east,” he repeated with an edge to his voice. “Capture as much of the countryside over here as you like.”
“Why?” Chey wanted answers.
“Because I said so, and since I'm head of security, you'll do as I say.” He crossed his arms over his chest once more, staring at her like he dared her to defy him.
Chey flashed her palms at him in the traditional sign of surrender. If he was going to be that adamant, she wouldn't push it. “All right, all right. I won't wander beyond those--”
A gunshot ripped through the early morning mist.
Close enough to be easily heard, yet far enough not to be directly in their vicinity.
Before the echo died, Chey found herself on her back, flattened by Sander. She gasped, the wind knocked from her lungs, staring up at him with his suddenly sharp eyes, thin mouth and predatory air. He snapped looks across the lake, in every direction, even behind them.
“Was that a--”
“Yes,” he hissed, then brought a finger to rest against her lips. In effect silencing her. When he glanced down, he conveyed his wish for her to be quiet. Danger, he told her without speaking a word, lurked in the forest with them.
Chey shuddered beneath him. Every breath she took was laced with the scent of him; sandalwood, musk and spice, a subtle note of amber and leather oil. She felt every contour of his muscular body, from his toned chest to the cut of his abdomen and the thick pressure of his thighs.
There was no way she could get up, even if she wanted to.
Reaching back, he dug out his phone. After another sweep of the area, he glanced down at the face while he thumbed over the surface.
Chey couldn't see what he typed. It was brief, that was all she knew, because he used one finger and only for a few moments. Code, perhaps, sent to other cell phones to put people on alert.
He ducked when another shot rang through the day. Breath hot on her throat, he spoke there near her ear.
“We're going to leave here. Stay low, follow me and follow my lead. Do not stand up, and do not speak.”
Chey nodded her understanding rather than agree vocally. He wanted her silent, she would be silent. Fear licked along her spine and spread out through her limbs. Someone was shooting—but at who? Them? The thought made her blood run cold. Surely it was just a mistake, someone out shooting at birds or engaged in target practice.
But then why was Sander on alert like this? He wouldn't be, she argued with herself, unless he knew the shooting was unscheduled or out of the ordinary.
He stared down at her face while he slid the phone back into his pocket. His eyes glittered, mouth pinched into a thin line. Then he was moving. Sliding off her with too much ease, staying low to the ground as he belly crawled toward the nearest trunk of a tree.
Chey, lamenting leaving her camera out in the open, rolled onto her stomach and did exactly as he did. Any second she expected to hear another shot or feel the whiz of a bullet pass her head.
When Sander reached the tree, he used it for cover, rising to a crouch. He gestured for her to come up to her feet at the tree next to his and made a point of indicating she should face the same direction, blocking sight of them from the east.
Chey reached her tree and climbed to her feet, positioning herself as he wished. This skulking about was not her forte; she left the decisions to someone who obviously knew better.
He inclined his head, holding her gaze. Telling her she'd done well. After another few moments, he crept from his tree to her own, using a hand on her hip to guide her to another tree, and another, then behind a cluster of boulders that gave them broader coverage.
Leaving the horses tethered, they exited the area near the lake in the most clandestine manner they possibly could, with pauses every so often so Sander could listen. No other shots had been fired since the last.
Using foliage for cover, he grasped her hand and led her into a light jog, moving quicker through the forest. Chey felt safer the further they got from the initial starting point, but not safe enough to run fully upright or to speak.
It seemed to her they jogged for several miles, enough to begin to put a stitch in her side. She wasn't a runner by nature. Chey preferred fast walks with little hand weights on flat ground. Hardly in a position to complain, she sucked it up and kept going, one hand cinching the spot near her ribs that ached.
A clearing broke open ahead, giving Chey a glimpse of a cabin nestled on a few acres surrounded by trees. One story, it had a large wrap around porch, a peaked roof and several rocking chairs adjacent to the front door.
Sander paused at the last tree before the clearing and pulled his phone from his pocket. Chey watched him scan through a few menus and draw up what looked to be a blueprint.
He pulled her by the hand into the clearing itself after that, traversing the distance between the forest and the cabin at a quick jog. Chey felt strangely exposed even for that short time.
Loping up the front steps, he released her and opened a screen door, then the regular wooden door, holding it for her to pass through first. Chey ducked under his arm and stepped across the threshold. The inside matched the outside for quaintness. Pine walls made the atmosphere cozy, along with plush leather furniture in shades of brown and sage green. A rock fireplace took up an entire corner, with a mantle stretching across the front. To the left sat a dining area leading into a well equipped kitchen. The open floor plan made it seem like there was more square footage than there actually was, though the cabin was not small by a long shot. A hallway divided the cabin down the middle with a handful of doors leading left or right.
Sander closed both doors and engaged two dead bolts on the latter.
“We're going to stay holed up here while the military sweeps the grounds, all right? This is bullet proof, the whole thing, even the windows, so you don't need to worry about anyone taking pot shots at us from the trees.” He thumbed in another message on the screen of his phone before sliding it away into his pocket.
“What's going on? Why would someone be shooting?” Chey stood near the back of one of the sofas, tearing her eyes off the warm décor to glance at Sander. He seemed to fill the cabin with his presence.
“Don't know yet, sweetheart.” Sander passed her for a closet in the hall where he took out a handgun and a fresh magazine. After sliding the clip into place, he checked the safety, closed the closet door, and tucked the weapon into the back of his pants.
Chey watched him retrieve the gun and wondered why he hadn't had one on him already. Distracted by the circumstances, she asked, “Were they shooting at the castle, trying to pick off one of the Royals?”
“The castle would be an almost impossible target to hit from where we were. Too many trees. None of the Royal family are out on the property, so it's unlikely any of them were the target.” He stepped past her into the kitchen, pulling two bottles of water from the fridge. Sander offered one out when he returned.
“Thanks. But I don't understand,” she said, taking the bottle and cracking the lid. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until she saw the bottle.
“It could be any number of things. A new maintenance member foregoing the rules about guns and shooting game in the woods. Someone who entered the property overland, from the back, making a statement.” He drank from his bottle, gaze cutting to the windows every so often, on guard despite the military sweep or the bullet proof cabin.
“But don't they have the whole perimeter monitored? How could someone just walk onto the property?” Chey couldn't get comfortable. She paced a few feet one way and then another. Already a quarter of her water was gone. An askew coaster sitting on a side table was re-centered as she passed by. Somehow, she resisted the urge to fluff and straighten the pillows on the sofas.
Sander chuckled. A deep, resonant sound that shook his chest. “Chey, the family seat sits on more than two thousand acres of land. Do you realize how many miles of terrain that is to monitor? Not to mention it backs up to a preserve that is totally rugged, almost impassable unless you're a climber or a hiking enthusiast. We save the strict monitoring for the immediate acreage surrounding the castle. It's easier to catch someone coming in for a direct strike that way than to waste manpower prowling every inch of the property markers. Don't get me wrong—we have measures in place in the woods, but nothing like what we have closer to the castle itself.”
“I guess that makes sense.” She had another swallow of water, then glanced at his eyes to find him following her progress with his own. “So you don't think we were the target, do you?”
“'We'? No. We weren't. You might have been, but not we,” he said.
Shocked, Chey stopped pacing. “What? Why would anyone want to shoot at me? I just arrived yesterday. I don't even know anyone that well yet for crying out loud.”
“Simple deduction, sweetheart. No one knew I was going to check the lake today to see if you were going to come back like you said you were, so they couldn't have known I'd be there. Not to mention that whoever it was, if they were shooting at you, had to have followed you into the woods from the castle. It was a preplanned event, and I am not a part of that equation.” He sounded matter of fact.
Chey frowned. What he said made perfect sense. All except the why of it. Could Natalia have been so angry over Chey seeing her drunk that she hired someone on the property to get rid of her?
Surely not. Such an extreme measure wasn't necessary, not when the Princess could have stomped her foot and barked orders for Chey to simply be fired. There were less hectic ways to get her off the property than murder.
“It wasn't me, then. Couldn't have been. I'm thinking it was something other, like you mentioned. Someone shooting when they shouldn't have been. An accident, or just an oversight.” That suited her mind much better than the alternative.
“Mm.” The sound Sander made was nothing more than a low murmur of either agreement or consideration.
“How long will I have to stay here? I'm supposed to have a photo shoot with the family this afternoon.” Chey finished her water and walked the bottle to the trash. It was full, almost needing to be emptied. If this was a vacant cabin, why was there so much trash?
“Until they sound the all clear.”
“Does someone live here?” she asked, changing the subject. On her way past the counter, she straightened a fishing magazine that had been sitting cockeyed. Old habits died hard.
“I do. The King had this place built fifteen years ago, then lost his taste for 'adventuring' on his own property not long after, and it sat empty for almost a decade. Since I'm here so much, they had no problem with me moving in.”
“I see.” That seemed reasonable. He'd been raised on the property, and probably lived in quarters up near the castle previously. Having his 'own' private space was probably preferable to a standard room. “Until they sound the all clear? When might that be?”
Sander finished off his water and pushed off his lean from the sofa. “When they're done with the sweep, they'll call.”
“I'm just looking for a time frame, here. Two hours, four? More?” Chey paced through the living room, pausing here or there to straighten a thing, even if it didn't technically need it.
“Chey. They'll be done when they're done.”
She glanced up and caught his gaze over the back of a couch. He didn't sound angry, only decisive. His tone said that she might as well make herself comfortable for the duration. She wasn't going anywhere for a while.
. . .
“Flore is not a word.” Chey stared at the game of Scrabble, at the word Sander had spelled out, with a wary eye.
“Yes it is.” He sat across from her, coat stripped from his shoulders, the gray flannel shed in its wake. It left him in an unassuming white tee shirt that fit his muscular torso well.
Chey hated that it was such a distraction. “What does it mean then?”
“It's what you do when you're not exactly engaging in foreplay, but sort of. Flor-ay. The in between. That stage when you think you like someone enough to flirt, and they're flirting back, but it's still first-base with a bunch of crap batters up next who might or might not advance you to the next level.” His expression was utterly deadpan.
Chey laughed outright. “You're so full of it. I call crap on your word. You get no points.”
“See? The next batter just struck out, leaving Joe on first base.” He lamented the faux first-baser's loss with a melodramatic sigh.
Their game had been ongoing for more than a half hour. Much to Chey's surprise, Sander proved to be more than willing to pass the time badgering her about her knowledge of English, and attempting to use non-words to gain an advantage. He was comical when he wasn't being an ass, and shockingly good natured overall. Every few minutes he glanced at the windows or his phone, still on high alert despite his banter.
“That's all right. Joe needs to learn strategy. Which happens to be my next word, meaning I just won the game.” Chey snapped down her final tile with a pleased grin.
Sander frowned and bumped the board with his thigh when he stood up out of his chair. The tiles scattered across the table, and his, “Oops” was so contrived that Chey gasped, pointing a finger at his subterfuge.
“You did that on purpose. Cheater.”
He smiled a wolfish smile, tipping the board up so the rest of the tiles would fall to the table top. He closed the board after that and set it back inside the box.
“So what if I did? What're you going to do about it? Take my picture?”
“Cheaters and losers are required to make the winner lunch,” she retorted. His smart comments amused her now, rather than annoyed her. A welcome change from their abrasive first meeting.
“You're on. You get to clean up the rest of this, then, while I get started.” He waved dismissively at the remains of their Scrabble game.
Chey muttered loud enough for him to hear. She was positive that he wouldn't know the first thing about cooking. He'd probably filched meals from the castle as a child like everyone else, leaving him short on culinary knowledge. Scooping the tiles into her palm, she dumped them into a baggie, then situated everything in the Scrabble box just so before sliding on the lid.
“You want something more potent to drink? Wine, a mixed cocktail?” he asked from the kitchen.
“Isn't it a little early to hit the alcohol?” Chey wondered if he was a drinker. He seemed familiar with booze. She set the Scrabble box exactly against the edge of the table, perfectly aligned and straight.
“It's supposed to be my day off, and I'm pretty sure it's noon somewhere, to use a familiar phrase.” He took down two highball glasses from a cupboard, then opened the refrigerator door.
“Supposed to be? Oh. Me. I almost forgot that this is work for you.” She approached the bar at the edge of the kitchen and plopped down onto a barstool. From her vantage, she could see everything Sander was doing. As well as the gun still poking up from the back of his jeans.
He cut another wolfish grin over his shoulder. “I'm not officially on the clock, so I'm allowed a drink. What's your favorite?”
“Lately it's been watermelon vodka over Sprite. It changes monthly.”
“Mm. I know I don't have watermelon vodka, but I have the makings for a Tequila Sunrise.”
“That actually sounds pretty good. It was my drink about two years ago.” Chey watched him fish out the tequila, a top shelf brand, orange juice from the fridge and grenadine last.
“So, what, you cycle through drinks as soon as you're sick of them?” he asked, deftly pouring the ingredients into one of the highball glasses.
“Pretty much. Doesn't everyone?” She murmured her thanks when he delivered the glass to the counter top.
“I don't know. I think people usually find something they like and mostly stick to that. Not that you can't order whatever else, but I tend to see people picking favorites.” He returned to the alcohol and poured himself wine instead of a mixed drink. Then he started taking out packages and things from the fridge.
There were worse places she could be, Chey decided, than sitting in a fine cabin in the middle of the woods watching a man with a physique like that make lunch. Even if the lunch would probably taste like shredded cardboard. If only there hadn't been a shooter in the woods earlier, this would have turned out to be a rather pleasant day. A shocking revelation considering the first meeting she'd had with Sander.
“You sound like you know from experience.” Chey sipped at the Sunrise, finding it perfectly mixed.
He took a frying pan out from under a cupboard and arched a brow over his shoulder at her. “I do get out once in a while, you know. It's not all work, all the time.”
“Yes? And what do you do for fun? Besides provoke innocent women.” Chey buried a grin into her drink when he snorted.
“I provoke non-innocent women.” He leveled a specific look at her, laughter in his eyes, and turned back to the stove. Shortly, the distinct scent of cooking steak filled the kitchen.
“Are you saying I'm one of the non-innocent? Sander Fisk, how dare you.” Playfully petulant, she leaned an arm on the counter, glass curled in her fingers.
“I know, right? I'm playing with fire.” He worked while he talked, more efficient in the kitchen than Chey would have given him credit for.
“What else?” she asked.
“It might be more appropriate to ask what I don't do. I enjoy hiking, fishing, rock climbing, canoeing, skiing—pretty much all outdoor sports. You?” He shredded lettuce and cheese and brought out a bevy of peppers, tomatoes, cilantro and other hot sauce ingredients.
Chey arched a brow. He was going to make hot sauce from scratch? “I like taking pictures of all those things. Before my mother passed, we used to go horseback riding and spend time at the beach.”
“Not bad pursuits. You should try canoeing before the weather turns. Latvala has some fantastic rivers.” He paused, then added, “I'm sorry to hear about your mother. That must be difficult.”
“It was. Is. It's only been just under nine months since the accident that took her and my father.” Chey had a longer drink, turning her mind from the painful recent past to thoughts of the future. It was better that way. The topic of her parents was still fresh and hurtful. “Maybe I will try the canoeing, then. You should suggest the best place to go.”
“I'll do you one better,” he said, stirring the meat. “I'll take you myself.”
Chey twitched in surprise. It wasn't an unpleasant prospect when she thought about it. He knew Latvala much better than she did.
He glanced over his shoulder, both brows arched.
Realizing she hadn't answered, and that he probably thought she didn't want to go, she nodded. “Yes. Sorry. I was imagining what it would be like and whether I should bring a camera or not.”
“I won't let us tip over. Bring the camera,” he said, turning back to the food. He dumped the hot sauce ingredients into a food processor and turned it to grind. In short order, the meal finished cooking. He carried plates of hot steak strips to the counter along with the shredded lettuce and cheese. Sliced tomatoes, avocado dip and chips accompanied the flour tortillas he heated over the stove.
“I can't believe you made all this,” Chey said. She set her glass down and accepted a plate from Sander before beginning to fill a tortilla with fajita fixings.
He set the hot sauce, now in a small bowl, beside everything else. Using the toe of his boot, he pulled a stool around to his side and straddled it so they were facing each other across the counter.
“I did mention that my mother was a chef, right?”
“I know, but I didn't think you actually learned anything from her.” Chey smiled, sheepish at the confession.
He laughed. “Why wouldn't I? It wasn't like she shooed me out of the kitchens at every turn. She was the type, anyway, that demanded I learn how to take care of myself.”
“It seems like it worked out pretty well for you,” she said, leaning over her plate to take a first bite.
“I suppose it has.” Sander filled three fajitas for himself, dolloped guacamole on his plate and added a few chips. After a quick scan of the windows and a check of his phone, he dug in.
“Anything?” Chey asked when he glanced at the phone.
“You'll have to put up with me for another two or three hours, then you can head back to the castle.” Sander eyed her while he ate. He took large bites, holding the fajita in two hands.
“Did they say whether the photo session is still on?” Chey watched his mouth instead of his eyes for a long minute, then dropped her gaze to her plate.
“Mm. Yeah. They're pushing the time back a little. You'll get details when you return. Something about the big garden, I guess.” Sounding unimpressed and disinterested in the Royal pictures, he took another bite of his food. “They have your camera, too, and the mare.”
“Oh good.” Chey, relieved to know her camera hadn't been left to the elements, dipped a chip into the guacamole and ate it. The guacamole was as good as everything else. “Thanks. For all this. Keeping me entertained while we have to wait, making lunch. I have to admit—it's really good.”
“Don't worry about it. I don't get company out here all that often. It's nice for a change.” He chuckled and finished off fajita number two. “Thanks,” he said after he chewed and swallowed.
Chey wondered if Sander was involved with anyone, a thought that struck her out of the blue. There were no signs a woman lived here with him, which meant little to nothing. He could be dating someone outside the compound, preferring to meet up with her on his off time away from the castle. A quick check of his left hand turned up no ring on his finger. It wasn't concrete proof that he was single, but it indicated he wasn't married, at least. Feeling the weight of his stare, she glanced up from her plate to find him watching her.
Holding his eyes, she let the chemistry between them build until the air all but sizzled. Unable to deny the attraction, she finally concentrated on finishing her lunch. What were the odds that she would run into two attractive men on this trip? Mattias had the intrigue of Royalty going for him and Sander...was just Sander. Blunt, abrupt, cocky, self assured. Although they had a rocky start, she found herself enjoying his company more and more.
Sliding off the seat, Chey ferried her plate and glass to the sink. Rinsing it along with her glass, she set each in the dishwasher, helping herself to his facilities. He'd made it, the least she could do was clean up.
Stepping up behind her, right at her back, he leaned over to set his plate and glass in the sink. The dishwasher still open at her side, Chey froze when he leaned so close. She could feel the heat bleeding off his body, the warmth of his breath graze her throat. It was dizzying.
“Did they give you a phone?” he asked, bracing a hand against the counter. He didn't move otherwise, crowding her space by the sink.
Chey stayed facing forward, looking out the little window with a view of the trees. “Yes, they did.”
“Here. Let me give you my number and I'll take yours. That way, I can contact you directly and we can plan the canoeing trip.”
She glanced aside and up. Sander studied her eyes, a back and forth tick before dipping to her mouth. Chey would have bet half her paycheck that Sander was about to kiss her. Did she want him to? The man who had tackled her off the horse, the man she'd just slapped only yesterday?
Or was she reading too much into it?
“All right. I just need to grab—oh. It's with my camera equipment. In one of the bags.” It took all Chey's willpower to keep her gaze on his and not glance at his mouth.
“Not to worry. I'll write mine down. Shoot me a text later and then I'll save yours to my phone.” He grinned, all teeth and sudden charm. Turning away, he opened a smaller drawer in the kitchen and took out a notepad along with a pen. With slanting, sharp script, he wrote down his number, tore the paper off, and handed it to her.
Chey watched Sander the whole time. How his muscles played under the shirt, the ease with which he moved. He was entirely too distracting. Accepting the paper, she glanced down at it, before folding it twice and sliding it into the front pocket of her jeans. “Thanks.”
He put the pad and pen back and closed the drawer. “Thank me when we're on the river.” Winking, he started clearing the remains of their meal off the counter.
“Here, I'll help--” Interrupted by a series of hard knocks—two short, followed by three more—Chey glanced at the door.
Sander set down the plates in his hands and drew his gun before the second knock rang through the cabin. His demeanor changed, becoming predatory and alert. There must have been a signal in the pattern of the knocks because he lowered his weapon and held it down against his thigh.
“They're here early. C'mon. Don't worry about this. I'll get it,” he said, indicating the left over dishes.
“I thought I had another couple hours?” Chey discovered she was disappointed to be leaving earlier than planned.
“You sound disappointed you won't be staying,” he pointed out with a devilish grin.
Chey scoffed and followed him toward the door. “I wanted to hear more about the trip and what things I might be photographing.”
“Mhm.” He didn't sound convinced. At the door, he issued brisk words in his mother tongue. A sharp answer came from the other side. Swinging the door open, he traded another few terse sentences with a man dressed in a dark business suit. After a moment, Sander nodded once, a curt gesture, then glanced at Chey. “He'll drive you back to the castle.”
The suited man glanced from Sander to Chey, then stepped aside to indicate he wanted her to go first. Parked not far from the cabin, a rugged Jeep sat with the engine idling. Chey hadn't heard it pull up.
“All right. Thanks again for...everything.” Chey glanced once more at Sander, who cut her a brief smile, and stepped out to the porch.
From there, the suited man escorted her to the Jeep, head on a swivel to study his surroundings, and opened the door to the passenger side. Chey climbed in with a murmur of gratitude for his help. He closed the door with a quiet thump, rounded the nose of the Jeep, and got in. Chey watched Sander, who stood in the open doorway, until the Jeep swerved around and headed away down a narrow path in the opposite direction.
Questions about the intentions of the shooter lurked in the back of her mind all the way back to the castle.