Charade by Kate Donovan Page A

worn jeans or slacks?
    “Surrender your boots.”
    She moistened her lips, then nodded, trying not to show how relieved she was that he hadn’t tried to remove them himself. Moving to one of the ornate wooden benches that lined the arched hallway, she sat down, unzipped each boot, and handed them over. Then she stood and said coolly, “That’s as far as I go, sir. You can pat me down in a civilized manner if you must, but don’t even think about anything else.”
    “Nothing else will be necessary,” a new voice assured her, and she turned to stare into a pair of confident black eyes belonging to a tall, well-built man in a dark green uniform. His broad chest was covered with glittering medals, but he didn’t need them to tell her he was a born leader.
    Vlados Zelasko—she recognized his chiseled features from his photos. President. Dictator. Supreme Commander of the Realm.
    Generalissimo.
    “You did not expect to be searched?” he asked coolly.
    She wanted to give a witty reply—something about having left her Uzi in her other boots—but her mouth was too dry, so she just locked gazes with him and said nothing.
    “You are angry?”
    Try terrified, she suggested silently, wondering where he was headed with this line of questioning. Did he think it mollified her? Or maybe he was mocking her. It didn’t really matter. She had no response for either.
    “Speak,” he commanded.
    “What is there to say? You gave your word to my father that I would be protected. Not manhandled and insulted.”
    “What man has handled you? What insult has been made?”
    “What protection has been offered?” she retorted. “Your sister invited me. If you don’t want me here—”
    “You will come with me,” he interrupted, turning away from her and striding down the long, stone hallway.
    He didn’t glance backward, and she knew exactly why not. He was sure that she would follow. That she wouldn’t dare disobey.
    And he was absolutely right.
     
    Zelasko led her to a small sitting room with no windows, then he motioned to a red velvet settee. “Be comfortable.”
    “Thanks.” She sat, crossing her legs at the ankles, conscious of her stocking feet.
    “So.” He appraised her openly. “You are here.”
    Sasha nodded.
    “But before here, you were in Rome. Why is that?”
    She cleared her throat, then reminded him, “I’m Italian.”
    “You are American.”
    “Italian-American. And my father has a network of colleagues in Rome . He’s passionate about my safety. So am I,” she added with a wry smile.
    Zelasko seemed unamused. “Why are you here?”
    “Like I said, your sister invited me. But I’m also representing my father, Franco Bracciali, at the conference.”
    “No other reason?”
    She hesitated, then flashed a warmer smile. “The truth? I want to go to the ball. It’s the last of its kind. Dignitaries from four continents. Gowns. Jewels. Flash. It’s what I live for.”
    “And yet you had no interest in it until this week.”
    Sasha winced. “That’s not true. I had plenty of interest. It’s just—” she spread her hands in front of herself expressively “—I didn’t want to ask my father for a favor. I don’t expect you to understand why, but—”
    “You were estranged from him?” Zelasko arched an eyebrow. “That is the correct word?”
    “Yes. That’s the perfect word. We were estranged.”
    “And now you are not? That is convenient,” he drawled. “Tell me why you are so nervous.” Before Sasha could respond he added bluntly, “Tell me about this Athena Academy that you attended.”
    Oh no.
    Rising slowly to her feet, she forced herself to glare into his dark eyes. “I’m nervous because of the way your men treated me. And now you! A famous dictator who can have me thrown into a dungeon any time he wants. I’m at your mercy, General Zelasko. That’s not something I’m used to. Where I come from, no one would dare interrogate me this way.”
    She took a deep breath, then