“For God’s sake,” he snapped, his veins prickling. “Hurry up and tell me this is a joke.”
Exhaling roughly, Frankie raised a hand to her ear, and after a moment of fiddling, set a small object on the seat between them.
A wireless earpiece.
For a second, he thought the car had crashed. His vision swam; his lungs seized as if he’d been winded, and there was the kind of violent silence that accompanied a sound too loud to process.
He gripped the door with all his might as the car glided through the palace gates.
“That is why I told you to wait,” she muttered.
He couldn’t respond; could no longer deny it.
Only once the car pulled up to the sweeping front entrance to the palace did he unpeel his grip. Still he sat unmoving, stunned, until Hanna opened his door with a murmured, “Your Highness.”
He stepped out into an unnerving, strange world. Frankie—his Frankie—was talking to Peter on the other side of the car.
“I’ll accompany him to his suite,” she said a little unsteadily. The low, throaty sound seemed to slam his lungs together, winding him for a second time. Her usual east coast accent was well and truly gone. “Station the overnight team. Tell them to ignore the shouting.”
“Right away, ma’am,” Peter said, nodding once.
Without a backward glance, she strode up the grand sweep of steps and disappeared into the lustrous glow of the entrance hall. The familiarity of her stride, the surety of her route had Kris pressing a palm to his chest.
She really had been here before.
Horror settling, he turned to Hanna standing straight and unobtrusive beside him. “Explain the last twenty minutes to me,” he managed to say.
She hesitated, her gaze skimming his. “I wish I could, Your Highness.”
Not the answer he wanted. “Is she really on your team?”
The young guard’s attention darted after Frankie. “She runs our team, Your Highness.”
His fingers curled. A reminder of strength as fissures cracked every part of his life wide open. “This whole time?”
She inclined her head.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak as he staggered through his soul for something to get him through this. It was too late for denial, for reason, and way too late for assuming innocence until proven guilty. Anger beckoned—he clasped it tightly.
Inside the palace, he took his time catching up to her.
He crested the grand marble staircase on the second floor, moving past the flickering gilt torchères that flanked it, and saw her figure retreating down the hall to the royal quarters.
Her shoulders stiffened as he drew closer. Nothing sounded quite like cowboy boots echoing off the polished floors. Her stride slowed—presumably so he could overtake her—and then faltered as she angled her head to one side and assessed him out of the corner of her eye. She stiffened further as she seemed to realize he was intentionally matching her pace.
She’d trailed him tonight. It was only fair that he returned the uncomfortable experience.
Their route passed Tommy’s chambers and the guards positioned on either side of his door, but she didn’t stop until she reached Kris’s own rooms. She knew where he lived, where he slept, and had never come to him. Gut cramping, he moved in as she opened his door and stood back with her feet apart, hands behind her back, and gaze lowered.
Unable to process what it meant, what anything meant, he halted in front of her. Half a stride apart, they stood in crippling silence. Her throat flexed. His heart raged. With a scoff, he turned inside.
By the time the door clicked closed, he had a palm pressed to the summer-warmed floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the sitting room. The night lights of the city below had the audacity to twinkle up at him. Appalled, he turned and found her standing just inside the door, her hands concealed behind her and chin tipped down.
“At ease.” His anger curled around the words like a talon.
She lifted her face. Her features were blank as she met his stare.
“Where to start, sweetheart?” A quiet challenge and unmistakable swipe. He knew exactly how much she hated being called sweetheart.
She didn’t react.
“I hardly know what I’m feeling right now.” His voice came out cold. “But none of it’s good.”
Nothing from her.
“Just,” he said, and slowly raised a palm. “Tell me. Is this really true?”
After a moment, she inclined her head. Fierce, assertive Frankie just . . . nodded. She was acutely familiar, standing there with her spiky red hair; with her pale