Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

       Chapter One

       A dmiral Harrison Monteque moved with the silent aggression of a nuclear submarine as he strode down the gilded main hall of the royal residence. Uniformed guards snapped to attention in his wake, doors opening to allow him entry without question as he moved toward the queen’s private apartments.

      Not one of those young guards made eye contact with him. A fair number held their breath. No one wanted to draw his attention for fear they weren’t standing smartly enough, weren’t looking alert enough. He wasn’t even their commander. Not directly, anyway. Yet every one of them knew that the formidable man in the impressively decorated navy-blue uniform held the respect of every officer in the military and that he demanded the best of anyone who served the crown.

      The best was nothing compared to what he demanded of himself. Rumor had it that he constantly pushed his own limits, asking even more of himself than he did of others.

      Lately he’d been pushing himself more than many would have thought humanly possible—had they known the pressures and responsibilities he and a handful of his peers had secretly undertaken.

      For nearly two months he had lived on four hours of sleep each night. Five at best. He spent his nights poring through reams of diplomatic communiqués, stacks of ministerial requests and reports usually meant only for the eyes of the king—all to keep the government running smoothly and protect the interests of the kingdom of Penwyck’s citizens.

      He spent his days in briefings with his three counterparts on the king’s Royal Elite Team—each of whom had spent the night with piles of paper of his own—and overseeing the fleets of ships, the aircraft and the fifty thousand sailors under his command.

      His caffeine consumption had doubled.

      So had his intake of antacids.

      If he’d still smoked, he didn’t doubt that he’d be up to a couple of packs a day by now. If not before, then certainly after this morning.

      Prince Owen, one of the king and queen of Penwyck’s twenty-three-year-old twin sons and a possible heir to the throne, had been kidnapped.

      A note to that effect had been delivered to the royal offices two hours ago. The prince’s absence, along with the signs of struggle the guards had found in the prince’s bedroom, proved the note hadn’t been a hoax.

      Harrison had been in an intelligence meeting when he’d received the call. As head of the Royal Elite Team, he had immediately ordered full security for the rest of the royal family. Those he could find, anyway. Prince Owen’s vagabond twin, Prince Dylan, was still off trekking Europe, deliberately ignoring the need for security for someone of his stature. Or perhaps escaping it. But Harrison had taken full measures to protect those he could. He’d then had the king’s personal secretary break the news of the prince’s kidnapping to the queen.

      He would have told Queen Marissa himself, but there had been other security measures to implement, questions to ask, answers to demand. Aside from that, he never did well when it came to breaking upsetting news to a woman. Where females were concerned, he definitely lacked training when it came to offering emotional support.

      He had no choice but to speak with her now. As he understood it, Her Majesty had been at breakfast with two of her three daughters, the Princesses Megan and Anastasia, when the note had been received. Security precautions demanded they be separated. The princesses had been escorted to their rooms on the second floor of the east wing. The queen had retired to her chamber.

      The thud of Harrison’s polished black shoes echoed off the marble floor as he approached a set of carved double doors. His only hope was that she would remain as calm and serene as she always appeared to be.

      A baby-faced lieutenant in the Royal Guard’s red-jacketed uniform and red beret jerked his rifle to parade rest and snapped a salute. “Admiral.”

      “Lieutenant,” Harrison returned, and walked past the door the soldier held for him.

      The queen’s drawing room was as ornate as the rest of the palace: ceilings and cornices were coffered and curved; walls were covered with hand-carved plaster and gilded wainscoting; the marble fireplace was graced by marble columns. Except, here rich colors of royalty gave way to frankly feminine shades of cream and yellow. Other than the pale velvet sofa framed by a sheer-curtained window, the furniture was all dainty chairs and chaises covered in silk damask and totally unsuitable for use by any male with muscle on his bones.

      The secretary’s desk, tucked against a far wall, was unoccupied. A guard had called ahead, so they’d