Maureen Child - The Royal Treatment

Something J.T. had never understood.

Now, once again, standing between her and accomplishing her task was that mountain of a man. “Nothing’s changed there, has it?” she asked herself. Three years ago, he hadn’t wanted her to work, either. He’d wanted a traditional wife. A woman who would have dinner on the table every night at six and be content with taking care of him and their future children.

On the surface, there was nothing at all wrong with that. But Jade wanted more. Always had. And when she couldn’t get it through J.T.’s thick, chauvinistic skull that her ambitions were no less important than his, she’d stomped out of his life in a fit of righteous anger.

The only problem was, she’d left her heart behind.

Looking back now, she could see that she should have stayed and worked it out. Or at least tried. But she’d been so much younger then. So full of fire and impatience. And J.T., she conceded in her own defense, hadn’t been much better.

Jade sighed heavily and faced reality. The plain fact was she’d left, determined to have a career. But now that she had it, the career she’d wanted so desperately wasn’t making her happy. Maybe things would change if she actually managed to get the interview with the queen. But right now, Jade felt as though she’d made a stupid bargain when she’d given up her marriage for ambition.

Seeing him again hurt. The near electric shock of meeting his gaze was still buzzing through her brain. Almost as if she’d found something she hadn’t known was lost.

“Oh, you’re in sad shape,” she muttered, turning away from the ocean view to go back inside. She left the glass door open, and the sheer white drapes billowed in the wind like a sail. Like her, they were anchored and going nowhere.

A knock sounded on the apartment door and she jumped. Unease skittered along her spine, but she went to answer it anyway. Any interruption at all was better than letting her brain focus on J.T. and what they’d both lost. But she froze with her hand on the knob. The days of just throwing her door open without thinking about it were over.

She peered through the peephole and sighed as she recognized her building’s doorman.

“Charles?”

He stepped back and smiled, knowing that she was looking at him, then held up a manila envelope. “A package was delivered for you. From the television station. I’ll just leave it outside your door.”

“Thank you.” Quickly, she disengaged the locks and opened the door.

Charles was already walking to the elevator.

Jade snatched up the envelope, stepped back inside and closed and locked the door again. She looked down at the envelope. From the feel of it, there was a video tape inside, and when she tore it open, she was proved right.

A piece of notepaper fell from the envelope and she bent over to pick it up. “Found this on your desk. Thought it might be important.” It was signed by Janine, her secretary.

“On my desk?” Jade muttered as she walked back into the living room. There were no labels on the tape. Nothing to indicate what it might contain. But someone in the newsroom must have left it for her. Heading directly for the TV, she slipped the tape into the VCR, then turned on the set and hit Play.

An image of the palace appeared on the oversize television screen, and a chill crawled up her spine to lift the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. Traffic sounds, the call of birds and the sighing of the wind across the microphone were the only sounds. The unseen cameraman worked the zoom lens, and Jade was suddenly watching herself—with Harry, the station cameraman, right behind her—standing just outside the palace gates. She saw her own image argue with the guard, then grab the iron gate and shake it. She watched as she sent Harry back to the van, as she confronted J.T.

She relived the whole confrontation because she was simply too stunned to hit the stop button. In the video, she saw her hair ruffled by the wind. She felt the cameraman’s obsession as he slowly tightened the zoom to pan in on her alone—in effect, cutting her off from J.T. and the rest of the world. Keeping her separate.

For him only.

Slowly, the camera panned from the top of her head to the sole of her tapping foot and back up again. Jade felt her stalker’s obsession as if it were a living thing in the room with her. The shot tightened further, lingering on her eyes, her mouth. She could hear the cameraman’s labored breathing as he watched her, and the sound nearly choked off her own air.

At last, when she was turned away from the palace gates, the tape ended, fading into a solid blue screen that finally woke her out of her stupor. She jabbed the stop button with one fingertip, then dropped the remote to the floor as if it were poisonous.

Silence crashed down around her. The drapes, still billowing in the wind, suddenly made her aware of an unsecured entry point, and Jade hurried across the room. Of course, to break into a third-story apartment through the balcony doors, her stalker would have to be Spider-Man. But it made her feel better to slam the glass door shut. She locked it, then bent down to drop the metal guard into the track behind it.

Alone and scared, she turned her back on the view and stared at her apartment. For the first time, she didn’t see the comfortable, yet stylish furnishings. What she saw now was her sanctuary…invaded by a threat she couldn’t identify.

And she wanted to call J.T. so badly, her heart ached.

There was too much going on for J.T.’s liking.

He sat in the single chair opposite his boss’s desk and let his mind wander while Franklin Vancour was on the phone. In his fifties, Franklin was as fit as a man half his age. It came from years of military training, no doubt, and J.T. could appreciate that. The other man was as dedicated to duty as he was, and on that common ground, the two men understood each other.

Morning sunlight filtered in through the windows of the security office located on the ground floor of the palace. The wood-paneled walls gleamed richly from years of careful polishing. Framed certificates and royal proclamations hung on the walls, and their glass fronts winked when a stray sunbeam glanced off of them. A row of bookcases lined one wall, and hundreds of leather-bound, well-read volumes rested alongside mementos left behind by former heads of security.

The RII—Royal Intelligence Institute—was responsible for the safety and security of the royal family. The guards posted outside, as well as J.T. himself, had been plucked from the different branches of the Penwyck military and assigned to the palace. Every man here was the best of the best.

Next door was the king’s office, and J.T. knew without having to be told that Sir Selwyn, the king’s secretary, would be there, positioned to keep out all intruders. A thin, wiry man, he was dedicated to his employer. Even to the point of putting up with Broderick, the man who so wanted to be king of Penwyck, but never could.

But until Morgan, the rightful king, either recovered from his illness or was succeeded by one of his sons, Morgan’s twin, Broderick, would remain temporarily in charge, reigning in his brother’s stead.

J.T. could not understand how twin brothers could be as different from each other as the king and Broderick were. Morgan was fair-minded and loyal, with an innate sense of decency. Broderick, on the other hand, couldn’t be trusted as far he could be thrown. But since it was J.T.’s sworn duty to protect the royals, he was bound to keep his opinions to himself and simply do his job.

As Franklin hung up the phone and leaned back in his black leather chair, J.T. turned to find the man studying him. “What’s this I hear about you and a female reporter having a public argument at the gate yesterday?”