Sandra Chastain (22 page)

It seems to me that he is being very miserly with himself. I can touch him wherever I want, but he stays in chaperoned territory. He keeps himself for me, while I could be married with three kids.

I also feel weird that we diverted into an establishment of ethics over something stated pretty plainly in his ad. I wonder again, what is it that he needs?

Recently, I was helping a high school student in our tutoring program with an essay on chivalry, and we got into a pretty interesting discussion about how chivalric code, a kind of objectification of the purity of loving a woman, has sort of devolved into “chivalry,” which we agreed was the sexist objectification of regular manners. I really don’t want GearTattoo writing odes to my dropped hankies.

lieberries: Is this something more to you?

GearTattoo: What do you mean?

lieberries: Than just kissing. Like a self-denial or temptation fetish or something?

He doesn’t immediately chime back. I am starting to get nervous when he finally responds.

GearTattoo: I don’t think so. I’m drawing a boundary around it, but it’s not the boundary that interests me, just the kissing, losing an hour to it. It doesn’t bother me if you can do that with me and be with other people, too, I’m just not made that way. Making out loses its escape if I’m thinking of someone else.

Fair enough.

lieberries: Where do you do this?

GearTattoo: Do you know where the teahouse shelters are?

Celebration Park was built to honor the 150th anniversary of our midwestern city, and the planning committee divided it into sections based on the countries of the world in a sort of essentialist, theme-park way. The teahouse shelters are in the “Asian” section of the park and consist of small picnic tables with a carved pergola over each one. They’re visible throughout the park, but afford the idea of privacy when sitting inside one of the pergolas. He’s thinking of safety, my comfort, again.

lieberries: Of course.

GearTattoo: I’ll meet you at the shelter closest to the bank of water fountains this Wednesday at noon. My first name is Brian.

lieberries: You don’t want me to wear a blue scarf or carry an umbrella or something?

GearTattoo: I’ll assume the strange woman addressing me by name is you. Certainly, wear and carry what you would like, though.

I snort at that. I do realize that he hasn’t asked for a picture or description, or anything like that.

lieberries: It’s just that I have a decent picture to go by, to find you and decide this. Don’t you want a picture from me? What if I’m not your type? Won’t that sort of defeat the whole idea of losing an hour to great kissing?

GearTattoo: I’m not worried. Librarians dewey it better.

I laugh, for real, at that. Finally, there seems to be something kind of sexy seeping into our strange chat. Maybe it’s just my own realization that I’m doing this, and it’s already Tuesday morning. Anticipation of my own daring.

lieberries: And I guess, if it’s awful, you just aren’t there the next Wednesday.

GearTattoo: Or you aren’t.

lieberries: Or I’m not. Good night (good morning?), Brian. BTW, my name’s Carrie.

GearTattoo: Good night, Carrie.

I snap my laptop closed. It seems impossible, but suddenly I am drowsy. When I close my eyes, I can hear the streetlights under my window start to snap off, one by one.

Read on for an excerpt from Iris Johansen’s

’Til the End of Time

“You shouldn’t be here,” Danilo Jannot said, gazing at Sandor with a disapproving frown. He quickly closed the door and turned the lock. “I could have handled everything here in Belajo. Safeguarding the Ballard woman isn’t worth the risk of your getting captured. If Naldona got his hands on you, we’d be in a helluva mess.”

“Not for long. You know very well he wouldn’t be able to resist the pleasure of sticking my distinguished head on a pike in the town square.” Sandor Karpathan’s dark blue eyes twinkled. “Then our army would have a martyr, which might be even more beneficial than having a leader.”

“Don’t joke. You know what your capture would do to our cause. You’re the spearhead of the revolution, the savior of Tamrovia, the Tanzar. Without you, the revolution would vanish like a pricked balloon.”

“Dear Lord, I hope not.” Sandor wearily rubbed
the back of his neck. “If that’s true, a good many men have died for nothing, and I’ve wasted two years of my life. One man can’t embody a successful revolution. Why do you think I’ve trained Jasper and Conal?”

Jannot shook his head. “Jasper and Conal are good men, but they aren’t the Tanzar.” He looked intently at Sandor. “You are tired. Have you eaten?”

Had he eaten? Sandor couldn’t remember. It had been such a long day—but all his days were long now. “I ate this morning,” he said at last. “At least I think I did.”

“And it is almost midnight now.” Jannot looked at him sighing with affectionate exasperation. “Sit down. I will get you something and we will talk. This foolish business of not taking care of yourself must stop.” He turned and bustled toward the door to the kitchen at the rear of the small café. “Keep the lights turned out. I’ll leave the kitchen door open, and it should give you enough light to eat your meal. The patrol comes by once or twice a night, and we wouldn’t want someone to glance in the window and see you sitting here. Naldona has posted pictures of you all over the city. There’s no question you would be recognized.”

As Jannot disappeared into the kitchen, Sandor dropped into a chair. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He had no desire to turn on any lights. The dimness was a soothing balm on his taut nerves, and there were few occasions when he could wrap himself in silence and solitude these days.

Tanzar. How the hell had he become a hero? He’d never made any effort to appear anything but what he was—a man who was willing to fight
for his beliefs. Now his people were identifying him with the revolution itself and forgetting others who had been just as responsible as he for bringing their forces to this point of near victory. The thought sent a chill down his back. He wasn’t a superman. What if he were killed? They were too close to their goal now to lose everything because one man died.

Sandor opened his eyes to see Jannot setting a plate and a tankard before him on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

“It’s only a sandwich, but there’s some fine smoked ham I managed to hide from Naldona’s scavengers when you laid siege to the city. I will be glad to see you put an end to this war. I dislike serving my customers this scanty fare.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Sandor said dryly. “As if all I have to do is lift a finger and Naldona’s defenses will crumble away. If he manages to get Bruner’s help, it could extend the war another six months.” He took a bite of his sandwich and found that, in fact, he was very hungry. “And that mustn’t happen. I will
not
have more men die because Naldona won’t admit defeat.” His tone was one of cold ferocity. “I’ll kill him myself before I’ll let that happen.”

“Do you think we wouldn’t have taken care of it for you if it had been possible?” Jannot sounded faintly reproachful. “His personal security is impregnable. Otherwise I would have given my informant in the palace that small duty. He would have been delighted. His cousin was tortured and murdered by Naldona’s goon squad. We can’t touch Naldona.”

But they would have tried, even though they
knew it would be almost certain death, Sandor thought. Jannot and his men of the underground resistance forces here in Belajo had displayed a courage in the past two years that would have earned them a chestful of medals if they’d been in the field. “I know you would,” he said gently. He lifted the tankard to his lips. “But it won’t be necessary if we can stall Bruner from making a move until Zack Damon gets the munitions to us that we need for the final assault.” The beer tasted cold and biting as it slid down his throat. How long had it been since he’d had anything but field rations? “And we
will
stall him. It’s only a question of how to go about it. Fill me in on the details. Your messenger only gave me the bare bones of the story.”

Jannot shrugged. “The bare bones is all we have. James Bruner, the American munitions manufacturer, is here at the palace with his mistress, Alessandra Ballard. Naldona is wining and dining Bruner to try to persuade him to ship the weapons he needs without cash up front. Obviously, Bruner has been stalling since the leak to the Human Rights Commission regarding Naldona’s treatment of prisoners.”

Zack and Kira Damon had spent weeks before the Commission displaying the evidence Sandor had managed to smuggle out of Tamrovia. He would have to remember to send a message to let them know their efforts had not been in vain. Kira needed that knowledge. Sandor knew how painful it had been for her to stand on the sidelines these past years instead of entering directly into the fray. “And the Ballard woman has enough influence to sway Bruner?”

Jannot nodded. “So Fontaine says. They’re not demonstrative in public, but do appear to be very close. He calls her his private secretary, but there’s little doubt she’s his mistress. They occupy the same suite at the palace and she travels with him constantly.”

“It’s possible a secretary would do that.” Sandor smiled. “Sometimes things aren’t always what they seem. What makes Fontaine so sure?”

“The woman herself.”

Sandor lifted a brow. “Sexy?”

“According to Fontaine, the lady has a body built for one delightful purpose. Bruner would have to be a fool to occupy a suite with her and fail to take advantage of that purpose. And Bruner is no fool. She’s been with him a long time, which would serve to strengthen the bond. Yes, Naldona has a weapon he can use.”

“And intends to use.” Sandor finished the sandwich and leaned back in his chair. “When?”

“Tomorrow night. We’re not sure how, or what the exact circumstances are, but Fontaine says the woman will definitely be murdered and the crime laid at your door.”

“Which would infuriate Bruner and motivate him to step over into Naldona’s camp to get revenge.” He gave a low whistle. “A plan worthy of a Borgia. He might have been able to pull it off if Fontaine hadn’t tumbled to the plot.”

“Go back to your base,” Jannot said. “Let us handle this. Your place is with your men.”

“My place is where I want to be.” There was the sudden sharpness of steel in Sandor’s voice. “And I want to be here, Jannot.”

Jannot’s eyes widened. It had been a long time
since Sandor had spoken to him in such a fashion. He had been allowed to forget who Sandor Karpathan was, but now he had been abruptly reminded. Sandor might be younger than Jannot’s own grandson, but he was man enough to have become a legend to his army and the people of Tamrovia. “What do you wish me to do? You know I meant no disrespect … sir.”

Sandor muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Damn, I’m sorry, Danilo. I’m a little on edge.” His hand tightened on the handle of the tankard. “I thought all we had to do was wait. We’re so
close
.” He drew a deep breath. “It will work out. I’ll make it work. All we have to do is stop Naldona from harming the woman and keep her safe until our own arms shipment arrives.”

“Not an easy task. There are all sorts of ways he can get to her at the palace. Poison, knives, bullets.”

“Then, we’ll have to get her out of the palace. That’s why I’m here. None of your men knows the palace as well as I do. I spent over a year there before King Stefan was deposed, and I became familiar with every nook and cranny of the place.” His lips tightened grimly. “I made it my business to be sure I did, after I began to suspect Naldona wasn’t the republican I originally thought he was.”

Jannot had forgotten Sandor had been personal adviser to King Stefan-during the tension-fraught period preceding the revolution. It was difficult to connect Sandor Karpathan, the Duke of Limtana, with Sandor Karpathan, the
Tanzar
. Yet perhaps the latter couldn’t have existed without the former. Sandor’s inborn arrogance, his charisma, had made him a remarkable leader. He was a
brilliant man, who handled those from all walks of life with finesse. “He fooled all of us. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Whom else should I blame? I helped Naldona overthrow the monarchy,” Sandor said wearily. “I didn’t realize he was a Marxist, until it was too late. Men have died because I made that mistake.” He finished the beer in two swallows and set the tankard down on the table. “The deaths have to stop. Naldona isn’t going to get his hands on Bruner’s weapons.”

“You’ll need our help to get you into the palace.”

“Perhaps not. Who is occupying Princess Kira’s former suite?”

Jannot blinked in surprise. “I believe that’s where they’ve put Bruner and his mistress. It was the only suite with two bedrooms, and Naldona thought Bruner would prefer to maintain the private-secretary fiction.”

“Well, that’s a stroke of luck, anyway.” Sandor rose to his feet and stretched lazily. “But since you don’t know when the murder of the woman is to take place, I’ll have to do a little investigating before I can devise a plan. What happens tomorrow evening?”

“A large cocktail party at seven, followed by a small dinner party. It will be attended by all Naldona’s loyal sycophants.” He frowned. “You’re not planning on going to … Sandor, it would be suicide!”

Sandor shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re right. I may have to use Fontaine. I’ll decide after I’ve taken the Ballard woman’s measure.” He clapped his hand on Jannot’s shoulder. “But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, old friend, I’d give my soul for a
bath and a clean, soft bed. I can’t remember when I last had either.”

“Use the bathroom in my quarters. They’re in the rear of the café, the first door on the left after you enter the kitchen. I think I can find clean clothes in your size. I try to keep a large stock on hand.” His lips tightened bitterly. “When we’re occasionally able to liberate prisoners from Naldona’s cells, their clothing is almost as torn as their bodies.”

“But thanks to you and your men, we’ve been able to mend quite a few of those bodies,” Sandor said gently. “Remember that, Jannot.” His smile suddenly lit his face with warmth.