The Phoenix Encounter (11 page)

Sighing, she looked at the floor.

“How in God's name could you let things go this far?”

“I didn't see it coming. I thought I could do it. Then I
realized I was pregnant and all my priorities changed. I dropped out of sight. I thought he would forget about me. Forget about that stupid autobiography. Robert, I didn't think he would come after me. But he's…obsessive and crazy.”

“Crazy like a rogue lion.”

“That's why I can't let you step into the center of this,” she said.

He jerked his gaze to hers. “No, that's your job, isn't it?”

“Come on, Robert. I know you're up to something.”

“I'm here to inoculate the children.”

She took a step toward him, raising her hand as if to touch him. “Don't mess with DeBruzkya.”

Because he wasn't sure what he would do if she touched him, Robert raised his hand, stopping her. “Don't let your imagination get the best of you.”

“All these questions about DeBruzkya. What am I supposed to think?”

He stared at her for a moment, trying in vain to ignore the storm of emotions cutting through him with the same violence and pain as the shrapnel had twenty-one months ago. The urge to go to her, to gather her into his arms, to kiss her and keep her safe was overpowering. But Robert resisted. He knew where it would lead, and it was a path he didn't want to take.

Turning away from her, he headed toward the kitchen. He heard her call his name, but he didn't stop. His legs were shaking when he crossed to the tiny porcelain sink. His hands shook when he set his cup down. Standing at the window, he stared out at the dying storm and the first fragile rays of sunlight coming through the treetops and tried not to think about how profoundly his life had been changed.

G
eneral Bruno DeBruzkya sat behind the wide span of glossy mahogany desk and stared at the frayed photograph on the leather blotter in front of him. A woman with striking hazel eyes and skin as fine as German porcelain smiled back at him. A woman he'd thought of far too often in the months since he'd last seen her.

Lillian Scott.

She reminded him of a flower. Soft and fragrant and as colorful as the mountain columbine that grew in the highlands of the Hartz Forest. He was thinking of her every day now—far too often for a man leading a country in a time of civil war. But war could be a lonely time for a man. Especially a man of his political and social stature. And so on the rare occasions when he was alone, or in the dark of night when a man's needs came calling, he thought of her. The afternoon spent at the café in Rajalla. The rainy morning at the bistro on Balboa Avenue near the bazaar where they'd drank strong Rebelian espresso and laughed at inconsequential things.

Bruno wasn't prone to sentimentalities or maudlin affairs. He was a hard man who'd led an even harder life in a world that could be brutal. In his fifty-five years, he'd seen things that would terrify most men. He'd done things that would shock even the most hardened soldiers. Bruno didn't get emotionally entangled with women. When his needs became a distraction he took care of them discreetly and without fanfare at the brothel on the east side of town. He'd known Inga for nearly ten years. But lately, the sex and meaningless small talk weren't enough.

There came a time in a man's life when he began to think about the future. About getting old. About leaving his legacy to one of his own blood. A wife. A family. An heir to carry on the work he'd begun. That he had a nephew on the way should have been enough. But it wasn't. Bruno wanted more. He wanted a son.

Lillian Scott might be an American journalist—there was no love lost between Bruno DeBruzkya and the Americans—but, she would make the perfect wife. She was young and lovely with the kind of spirit that had always appealed to him. She would make the perfect mother to the sons she would bear him. While she may not love him, she would quickly learn to respect him. That was all Bruno asked. As long as she shared his bed and bore his children, he would give her everything.

He'd dreamed of her again last night. A disturbing dream that had left him aroused and wanting when he'd wakened. Bruno didn't like wanting. Worse, he didn't like wanting something and knowing he may never get it. Wanting had been his constant companion as a child. He'd learned to despise it; he still despised it.

The memory of his childhood made him grimace. Even though those days were long gone, he would never forget what it had been like to be a skinny boy with an empty stomach and not a hope in the world of ever making something of himself. He'd grown up in a small village in the Hartz Forest. His family hadn't had enough money to send
him to school, so he'd never gotten a formal education. But he'd liked to read—history mostly—and had filled his days with tales of Napoleon and Hitler and Stalin. Tired of being poor and reliant and hopeless, certain he was destined for greatness, he'd lied about his age and joined the Rebelian Army when he was only sixteen.

It was in the military that Bruno DeBruzkya found his calling. He might have lacked a formal education, but his intelligence and natural charisma more than made up for it. He learned at a very young age how to influence people, how to manipulate them, how to make them do what he wanted. For the few who refused to bow to his wishes, he didn't have any compunction about removing them.

Bruno was very good at eliminating obstacles.

In the following years, he rose quickly through the ranks of the army, eventually gaining favor with King Luna. The king even invited him into the royal palace in nearby Rajalla where they dined on lamb, fresh vegetables from the queen's garden and sweet German wine. King Luna had talked about his hopes for the Rebelian Empire, and all the things a talented young man like Bruno could do to help make that future a reality.

Outwardly, Bruno had nodded with excitement. But inwardly, he'd laughed. What an old fool! King Luna was soft and incompetent and completely unworthy of taking Rebelia into the twenty-first century. Rebelia deserved more than what an old man with a soft head could offer. Two days after having dinner with King Luna, Bruno and his soldiers rushed the palace and slaughtered the royal family in their sleep.

At first, the Rebelian people had rebelled against Bruno's ideals and his new style of leadership. To prevent civil war, he'd taken over the newspaper and started a powerful propaganda campaign. He imprisoned the few who dared to speak out against his regime. He controlled the rest by withholding food or medical supplies—or simply by destroying their homes and businesses.

In an effort to win the hearts and minds of his people, Bruno gave public speeches at the town square. Eventually, some of the people began to listen; some even began to believe. Be patient, he told them; good things come to those who wait. Stand behind him and he would lead Rebelia to a greatness the likes of which the country had never seen. And to those courageous few who believed, he'd given food and medicine and hope.

But after two years of being in power, civil war had broken out. Bands of rebels roamed the countryside, holing up like rats in the forests and villages surrounding the city, speaking out against his leadership. Stupid peasants. What did they know about running a country? Not a damn thing. He'd been so close to taking his nation to the next level, to taking the next step. If only the rebels hadn't interfered.

Restless and angry and disturbingly uncertain, Bruno reached for the crystal tumbler of cognac and sipped, marveling at the slow, rich burn at the back of his throat. He picked up the photograph and studied the lovely lines of her face. Even though the war wasn't quite going as he had planned, he was going to have to make time for Lillian Scott. He wasn't getting any younger, after all. All he had to do was find her.

Never taking his eyes from the photo, he drew on the Cuban cigar, savoring the rich tobacco, then tapped the ashes into the brass tray next to his blotter. Lillian stared back at him with those incredible eyes. Eyes that burned with intelligence and a woman's secret passions. She was by far the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. Not only was she quick-witted and engaging, but she shared his ideals. Such a rarity in a world rampant with sheep. Lillian Scott was no sheep. She was a wolf. Like him. He'd sensed her power from the start. He only wished he'd had the foresight to have appreciated its rarity.

The uneasy realization that he may never see her again caused an odd flutter of panic in his chest. For the hun
dredth time he berated himself for having let her slip away. She was such a prize. How could he let that happen?

It seemed just yesterday he'd found her, broken and burned and at the mercy of his soldiers. His men had been ready to pounce on her like wolves on an injured lamb. But if Bruno admired any trait in a human being, whether it be man or woman or American, it was guts. Even injured and bleeding and in pain, she'd stood up to his soldiers, ready to fight them to the death.

To think of how close his soldiers had come to killing her—or worse—made him shudder. He smiled at the memory of how he'd saved her from such a terrible fate. He wasn't sure why he'd done it at the time. Maybe the way she'd looked at him. Not pleadingly, the way some had. No, Lillian Scott would never beg. She looked at him as if to say she'd see him in hell before she'd let anyone lay a hand on her. She'd been baffled when he'd ordered her taken to the hospital in Rajalla. She hadn't realized just how much he prized her kind of courage.

Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his finger to the photograph. “Where are you, my flower?” he whispered into the silence of his private chambers.

She smiled at him. An angel with a dazzling smile and the kind of body that could blind even the most cautious of men. Bruno considered himself very cautious.

He pressed the intercom button on the phone and summoned Colonel Hansel Sokolov, his right-hand man and the closest thing to a confidant he would ever have.

An instant later, a firm knock sounded and Sokolov entered, greeting him with a formal salute. “General!”

“At ease,” DeBruzkya said.

“Sir.” Sokolov approached his desk.

“I have two orders this afternoon that will take precedence over all else.”

“Yes, sir!”

“I want our forest patrols increased. All rebels are to be brought to headquarters and interrogated. If they are found
with contraband, particularly any literature speaking out against my regime, they are to be taken to a judge, convicted of treason and executed.”

Uncertainty flickered in Sokolov's eyes an instant before he shouted, “Yes, sir!”

“And I would like to place a bounty on the young American woman we imprisoned for a time last year.”

“A bounty?” Sokolov's brows knitted. “An American? Sir?”

“Lillian Scott. She is an American journalist. I'm offering one hundred thousand American dollars to any man, woman or child who brings her to me.”

“But, sir, for civilians?”

“You have your orders. I suggest you make these two things a priority. Are we clear?”

“Very clear, General.” Sokolov saluted.

“That will be all.”

DeBruzkya watched the other man leave, realizing that giving the order had lifted his spirits. Leaning back in his chair, he drew on the cigar and let the rich smoke swirl around his tongue. With a bounty of one hundred thousand American dollars on her head, it wouldn't take long to find her.

He glanced at the photograph and felt the familiar coil of need. Oh, yes. He would find her. When he did, he would convince her to write his autobiography just as she'd promised all those months ago. And when she was finished, if she didn't agree to become his bride, to bear his children until he had the son he wanted, he would simply kill her.

 

Twilight hovered quietly over the forest. It was a magical time when the cool winds from the mountains to the north eased into the valleys and turned the air to crystal. When the songbirds from the highland meadows sang and received answering calls from their prospective mates.

Dusk was Lily's favorite time of day. On evenings like this she liked to pack a snack of grapes, cheese and crusty
bread and take Jack down to the stream for a picnic. Even though he wasn't yet old enough to eat solid food, she would spread the pretty woven blanket on the grass, and they would play simple games and laugh at silly things and for a few short hours forget about all the worries in the world. Turning to take a final look at the cottage, Lily couldn't help but wonder if those days were over for good. The thought brought a tinge of melancholy.

She slipped the straps of Jack's carrier over her shoulders, hefted his little body against her abdomen and smiled at him. “We're going to take a little hike, big guy,” she said.

“Gah!” Jack cried in answer, kicking his feet out on either side of her.

Laughing outright, she craned her neck forward and touched her nose to his. He looked so happy and healthy smiling at her she wanted to laugh. Robert had given him an oral iron supplement along with a vitamin B-12 shot earlier. While Jack hadn't much liked being subjected to either of those things, his condition had improved in just a matter of hours.

“He looks good,” Robert said, coming up beside her.

Lily glanced at him. “He smiled a moment ago.”

“He made off with one of my boots this morning.”

“I noticed. I stopped him right before he dropped it into the commode.”

Robert chuckled. “I think the terrible-two phase may come a little early with him.”

Lily smiled at Jack, and her heart swelled with love. “As long as he's healthy and happy. That's all I care about.”

“The disease can be controlled. Researchers have made some breakthroughs in the last several years.”

“He'll be able to live a normal life?”

“Aside from being sick a few times when I was young, I've led a completely normal life.” His gaze lingered on hers a moment too long.

When her cheeks heated, Lily turned quickly away. Of
all the things she could have been thinking of, the kiss they'd shared the night before shouldn't have been one of them. They were about to embark on a dangerous journey, yet here she was thinking of that kiss. Damn it, she wasn't a schoolgirl. She was a grown woman with a sick child, a boatload of responsibilities and a very dangerous war raging all around her. How could she be thinking of something as inconsequential as a stolen kiss?

But Lily knew the answer. And while she may not like the route her thoughts had taken, she'd never fallen to lying to herself. There had been nothing inconsequential about that kiss. It meant something—to both of them, she was sure. Something that had absolutely nothing to do with the joining of lips and everything to do with unfinished business between a man and a woman who'd once been very much in love. A man and a woman who now shared the bond of a child.

Lily closed her eyes against the reality of that. She wasn't an impulsive woman. It wasn't like her to let a moment like that get out of control no matter how hot the kiss. But every time she looked at Robert she couldn't help but think of those fleeting moments when she'd come apart in his arms. The way his mouth had covered hers, the way his hands had moved over her body, the heat of his caress when he'd touched her intimately. The answering call of her body when she'd peaked…

Good Lord, what had she been thinking letting him touch her like that?

What had happened between them was a mistake. A moment of poor judgment run amok. The result of high emotion and hot tempers and good old-fashioned lust. While the kiss had been erotic and moving and breathtaking, she couldn't let it mean anything. She couldn't let it make her remember the feelings she'd once had for him. She couldn't let herself feel the loss of a future she'd once wanted desperately. She couldn't let her attraction to him coax her into doing something irrevocable.