Royal Protocol. Dana Marton

before she gathered herself. She wasn’t about to let on that she was oddly flustered. Flustered. At her age. By some prince nearly a decade her junior. How crazy was that? “Rayne, please, Your Highness.” Everybody in the business called her Rayne.

      “If you call me Benedek.” His focused, mesmerizing intensity relaxed by a small degree.

      He seemed pleased. Then he let go all the way, and the smile that slowly bloomed on his handsome face was absolutely stunning: warm, sexy, masculine. His eyes were the deep rich brown of the Swiss truffles she rewarded herself with on occasion. The manufacturer spoiled her with regular gifts, one of the perks of being a diva of her time. The title came with both advantages and disadvantages.

      As did his, the thought crossed her mind. Maybe his life was as strange and as out of his hands at times as her own. Maybe they had something in common, after all.

      His smile held. God help any unsuspecting woman he set his sights on. She was relieved to know that in three days, she would be leaving Valtria.

      It’d been a long time since she’d been this aware of a man. She’d seen him before, but always from the stage, from a fair distance, even if he did sit in the best box each and every time. But now, having him this close and touching her, a faint charge ran along her skin, and she couldn’t quite tell if it was a quick thrill or a shiver of foreboding.

      She had little time to ponder it. The closer they got to the stage, the more energy filled her body. Yet, at the same time, a great calm descended on her mind. She was in the zone. She was doing what she loved. Singing was who she was. She could certainly ignore the bedroom eyes of a young European prince.

      “It’s too fuzzy! Who touched the ERS? Everything worked fine this morning, damn it.” A little man rushed by, shouting to someone over his headset, demanding perfect stage lighting.

      She didn’t let that worry her. By the time the curtains rolled back, everything would be ready. She would focus only on her own performance. She’d learned that to pay attention to anyone else’s was the surest way to get distracted.

      People were scurrying about with small props and sheets of paper, losing their heads over some minor crisis or the other that tended to pop up before every show. Rayne focused on what she needed to do and routinely ignored the rest.

      When they reached the steps that led up to the stage, the prince motioned her forward. In her mind, she was already singing the selection from Valtria’s most famous operas. Troublesome princes with bedroom eyes or not, the country had had some brilliant composers.

      She was on the second step when the building shook and she lost her footing in the period shoes that had been made to match her costume. She found herself, confused and alarmed, in the prince’s arms. He’d been coming up behind her and had caught her when she’d stumbled.

      His strong arms held her as if she were a precious treasure.

       Protective.

      She blinked the temporary fancy away. Over the years, a great many men had wanted to do a great many things with her. Protecting her had never been one of them.

      “What was that?” she asked as he set her on her feet.

      “This way.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her back toward the dressing room with a dark expression on his face that stood in contrast to his seemingly pleased mood of before.

      They met with his secretary halfway down the corridor, a man named Morin. She’d been introduced to him upon arrival. He was as skinny a man as she’d ever seen, with a rather large head and an incredibly long, thin nose. He kept his spine studiously straight and his shoulders pushed back. The first time she’d seen him, she’d thought he had an uncanny resemblance to a mosquito.

      The image was reinforced now as, filled with nervous energy, he buzzed around the prince.

      “The protest turned violent, Your Highness. A catering van just exploded in front of the opera house. There seems to be some confusion over whether it was an accident or intentional.”

      Her pulse quickened. “There’s a protest?” She hadn’t turned on her television set in her hotel room since she’d arrived. She preferred to relax in silence when not practicing for her performance.

      “Supposedly peaceful. I apologize,” the prince said, keeping pace. “Order will be restored at any moment. We will delay the performance by just a few minutes.” He fell silent for a beat. “No. An hour. In an hour I’ll have this fully investigated.”

      A man in a dark suit came flying down the hall. “Everything all right, Your Highness?” He scanned their surroundings.

      He looked like a bodyguard. Probably the prince’s.

      “You’ll go with Miss Williams,” Benedek told him.

      The man looked decidedly uncomfortable as he fell in step with them. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I cannot do that.” He looked extremely apologetic, but even more inflexible on that issue. “I’m required—”

      “Fine,” Benedek cut him off and stopped at the point where the corridor came to a T. He turned to his secretary who’d been flitting along, wringing his hands. “Is the chief of palace security here?”

      “On his way, Your Highness. I talked to him just a moment ago and—”

      “I’m trusting you two to escort Miss Williams to the palace. Call for an armored car and as many royal guards as they can spare.”

      The man about snapped his heels together. “Certainly, Your Highness.”

      She hadn’t been to the palace yet, although she was supposed to attend a reception there tonight. She didn’t fancy going out to the streets just now. The opera house was giant and newly restored, looking sturdy enough to withstand a full-blown military attack if necessary.

      “I’d prefer not to leave the building this close to my performance,” she objected, but the prince seemed to be focused on something else and was already rushing off with a last, unfathomable look at her, his bodyguard in his wake, following closely.

      “This way.” Morin was certainly determined to obey his boss. He dialed his cell phone, his lips tightening. “The line’s busy. He might be outside already, investigating the explosion.”

      She assumed he was talking about the chief of palace security.

      Morin called for an armored car next. “We’ll go out the back entrance,” he said as he hung up.

      She barely had time to process that before they neared the back door normally used by stage staff, where people were rushing out, then rushing right back in.

      The secretary cast her a concerned look. “Do not worry, Madam. I’ll investigate what’s going on out there and arrange for you to vacate the premises. I shall return as soon as possible.”

      Honest to goodness, he talked like that, like some old-fashioned manual.

      People rushed through, bumping into her.

      She moved closer to the wall to keep out of the jostling flow. The last thing she needed was for her gown to be torn just before she went on stage. “I’ll be in my dressing room,” she called after Morin, but wasn’t sure if the man heard her.

      The hallway was clogged, people elbowing each other, some speaking languages she didn’t understand. It seemed like the entire staff was back here for some reason, even the lighting assistant they’d passed earlier. She gave up fighting to get to her own dressing room and stepped inside the nearest storage room instead.

      She closed the door and turned the rusty key in the lock. Her dressing room had looked brand-new, but this place didn’t look renovated unless one counted the fresh coat of paint on the walls. She supposed all budgets had their limits. Money had probably been saved on out-of-the-way storage areas. She listened. If Morin called her name out there, she would be able to hear it.

      Five minutes passed. She unlocked