The Bodyguard's Bride-To-Be. Amelia Autin

of course, from the fléchette rounds that pierced her body.” His lips tightened as if merely the idea of fléchettes angered him. “But she was turned away from the bomb when it detonated, so her face is fortunately untouched.”

      He hesitated. “The only thing that concerns me is the head injury she received. Severe concussion. Apparently the force of the bomb blast threw her into a park bench, and her head took a terrific blow. There is some swelling of the brain, but there does not appear to be any internal bleeding inside her skull. We have induced a medical coma to allow her body to heal without the distraction of pain. We are monitoring her closely, however, and will deal appropriately with any cause for alarm.” He smiled reassuringly at Marek. “Your fiancée was a healthy young woman before this happened, and the prognosis for a complete recovery is excellent.”

      How Marek was able to hang on to his stoic expression, he never knew. “Thank you,” he told the surgeon in a voice wiped clean of emotion. He shook the man’s hand. “Thank you.”

      “Always glad to deliver good news,” the surgeon replied with a smile. “You can see her as soon as they bring her up to her room. She will not be able to respond, of course, but remain positive—it is always possible she can hear you even in a coma.” He glanced at Alec and switched to English. “You may also see her as soon as she is conscious, but she will not be returning to work any time soon.”

      * * *

      “She saw my face,” Sergeant Thimo Vasska reported to his superior officer in the headquarters of the Zakharian Liberation Front. “It is possible she could identify me.”

      Before the lieutenant could reply, another man entered the room so quietly he was there before either man was aware. Sergeant Vasska stiffened, then nervously saluted the supreme commander of their revolutionary force.

      “That is unfortunate,” Colonel Damek Borka said in his flat, emotionless voice. It wasn’t his real name, of course. Everyone in the Zakharian Liberation Front went by a pseudonym because the danger of disclosure was great...although more for some than for others. “Unfortunate...for her and for you.” The colonel said nothing more, but his face conveyed how badly the sergeant had screwed up.

      Failure was unacceptable, the man knew. If the witness could not be silenced, the Zakharian Liberation Front would have no choice but to remove the link between the botched attack today and their secret organization. Sergeant Vasska nodded his understanding. “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting again. “It will be dealt with immediately.”

      * * *

      Marek stared down at the unconscious woman in the hospital bed, his emotions churning. Tahra, his darling Tahra, could have died today. And he wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing to prevent it.

      He took her unbandaged left hand in his and raised it to his lips. Forgive me, he told her silently, aware that the nurse attending Tahra and setting things up could hear every word he said. But until you are conscious, I have no choice. I must protect you the only way I know how.

      He waited until the nurse turned away, adjusting something on one of the machines monitoring Tahra’s condition, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the little ring box he’d been carrying for weeks. Tahra had declined his proposal, but that had changed nothing. She was still his mariskya and always would be. He had drawn back, wanting to give her time to see what a mistake she was making, but he’d had to repeat the lie he’d told the receptionist to hospital staff, that Tahra was his fiancée, or else he would have been shut out of her sickroom. And that he couldn’t have borne.

      He surreptitiously slid the engagement ring onto her finger, then kissed her hand again. “Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered in Zakharan. “I will keep you safe from this moment forward.”

      Tahra slept on, oblivious, but he took comfort in the slight rise and fall of her chest.

      Marek caught the nurse’s eye. “I have left my phone numbers with the main desk. Call me immediately, please, if there is any change in my fiancée’s condition.”

      The nurse nodded, and Marek walked out, passing the two soldiers from the Zakharian National Forces posted right on either side of the door, returning their salutes automatically. He hadn’t even had to ask Colonel Marianescu to post guards, although he would have if necessary. The colonel was too smart not to realize the attacks today had to all be related and were a threat to national security. Which meant Tahra—a witness to the attack on the school—was also vital to national security. No one else had been close enough to the man who’d left the knapsack to identify him, but several witnesses in the area had indicated Tahra had been much closer to the terrorist. Anything she could tell them about the attack would be crucial. Which meant it was very possible her life was still in danger...and not from the injuries she’d received.

Chapter 2

      Tahra floated in a sea of disjointed memories. Carly was there, and her parents. Then her parents were gone, and seventeen-year-old Carly was kneeling in front of ten-year-old Tahra, saying gently, “They’re not coming back, honey. They’re never coming back. But I’m here. And I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

      Tears and years.

      There was Carly, fiercely confronting the secretary of state. “You think you can sweep this under the rug? Hell, no. That’s not going to happen. The State Department is going to come up with a better solution, and this had better not impact Tahra’s career in any way, you hear me? Not in any way. Believe me, you don’t even want to be thinking along those lines, understand? Because I’ll blow the lid off this scandal so fast it’ll make your head spin. And you won’t be the only one affected by the fallout. You got that?”

      Carly, so protective of her baby sister, who, Tahra was ashamed to admit, had always had trouble standing up for herself in any confrontational situation. She’d fought off the foreign diplomat who’d attacked her—at least she wasn’t that much of a coward—and had saved herself from being savagely raped by stabbing him repeatedly. But when the State Department had tried to blame everything on her and throw her to the wolves, Tahra had called Carly from jail as her world crashed in around her. And Carly had come charging to the rescue again, bailing her out, then storming the secretary of state’s office. Carly, who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything...except losing those she loved.

      In the way of dreams, Tahra was a little girl again, watching from the sidelines as most of the kids in her kindergarten class played Red Rover during recess. She knew she would be good at it. She could run like the wind and she was stronger than she looked—the locked hands could never hold her in Red Rover, she’d break through the line in a heartbeat. But the other kids never asked her to join in the game, and she was too shy to force her way into their charmed circle the way Carly would have had no trouble doing.

      Then, through the murky depths of her dreams, she heard a voice. A masculine voice. Deep. Strong. Just a hint of an accent that made the English words sound unbelievably sexy. A voice she knew she should recognize...but didn’t. What was he saying? At first she couldn’t quite force her brain to comprehend, but then...

      “I am back, Tahra. I promised you I would be, and here I am. I will always keep my promises, mariskya. Just as I will always honor and cherish you. Just as I will protect you with my life.”

      The words floated in the ether surrounding Tahra, but there was something incredibly appealing about them. About the simple way they were uttered, too. There was also something about the voice she responded to instinctively. And she knew he spoke the truth. Whoever he was, she was safe with him, the same way she was safe when Carly was there.

      She didn’t recognize the foreign word, though. Mariskya. Didn’t know what it meant. But she wanted to. The way he said it, she knew the word was important. She also desperately wanted to know who he was. Because—like the word—the man who’d spoken it was important, too. She just didn’t know why.

      * * *

      “The Zakharian Liberation Front,” Colonel Marianescu