“Wow,” she couldn’t help saying, stunned by the bouquet arranged to look like a culmination of fireworks. Her heart began to gallop in her chest. “Who is that from?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.” The uniformed man tapped the subtle Q Virtus crest on his shirt pocket. “I work for their concierge service. All I get is a pickup and delivery address.”
“Oh, um, would it be from Q Virtus itself, then?” That was disappointing. And made the significance of portraying fireworks a little creepy.
“There’s usually a ‘compliments of Zeus’ card if it is. Without one, I’d guess it’s from one of their members, but I really couldn’t say. I’m not privy to much that goes on there. You could be a member for all I know,” he added with a shrug.
“I imagine there are members who don’t know they belong,” she murmured ironically, thanking him with a generous tip, then burying her face in the perfume of the bouquet. She wanted to gather the fragrant leaves and butter-soft petals into herself, trying to feel closer to Ryzard.
How could he be this sweet, this pleased by her stepping out of her comfort zone and taking control of her life, and not love her a little?
Luiza, she thought with a pang. She could never compete with a woman who had shown such a level of bravery.
Taking a page from Ryzard’s book, she had Q Virtus arrange a nice lunch when her mother came to visit at the end of the month. Being scrupulously efficient, they located it in a penthouse that fit exactly what Tiffany was looking for as a new home. The decor was a bit too colorless for her taste. It needed a stained glass umbrella to jazz it up, but the floor plan and views were astonishing.
Her mother pronounced it excellent for entertaining, which only made Tiffany think of holding court with Ryzard and miss him all over again.
She sat across from her mother in tall wingbacks at a circle of white marble facing a floor-to-ceiling view of Central Park, sipping from crystal water goblets with brushed gold trim, thinking she’d rather be staring at that heart-wrenching statue if it put her back in his proximity.
“This isn’t at all how I imagined things turning out for you,” her mother murmured.
She seemed surprised that the words had escaped her and glanced toward the kitchen, where the noise and staff were well contained beyond a small service pantry.
Tiffany set down her glass and linked her fingers together, subtly bracing for reaction as she admitted, “I think it might have come to this eventually. I didn’t love Paulie. Not in a way that would have kept us together forever.”
“I know,” Barbara sighed.
“You did?”
Her mother’s perfectly coiffed head tilted in acknowledgement. “Not until you started up with that Bregnovian fellow, but once I saw the lengths you were willing to go for him, I realized you and Paulie never stood a chance. I should have seen it from the outset, but it would have been so convenient, Tiffany.”
She sputtered a laugh at that. “Yeah, well, the situation with Ryzard was more convenience on his part. You were right about that much.” Deep angst threatened to rise up and squeeze her in its clawed grip.
“Is that true? He seemed so protective of you. Still does.”
“I think that’s his nature,” Tiffany said shakily, finding it really hard to hold on to her control. “He was so supportive, made me feel so good about myself, but when it came down to it he said he didn’t need me or my connections. He—” Her voice broke, but she had to say it aloud so she could get over it and move on. “He doesn’t love me.”
“But you love him.”
Through blurred eyes, Tiffany saw her mother’s hand cover her own. The gesture was bittersweet and made her think of all the times her mother had held her hand through her recovery. Through her whole life. She was the wrong person to be mad at.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you away so much lately,” she husked.
“Shush. Your brother did it when he was eleven. I’ve been lucky enough to keep you close this long. I’m just glad I can be here for you when you need me.”
“Are you going to tell me there’s plenty more fish in the sea?”
“I’d like to, but there are so few worth reeling in,” her mother bemoaned, making Tiffany chortle past her tears. “It’s so good to see you smiling again,” her mother added with her own misty smile.
She didn’t know how often Tiffany cried. How she combed for news and photos of Ryzard, how she quietly kept tally of the countries recognizing him. She was doing exactly that one afternoon before going into a meeting, getting her fix to get her through one more day without him, when she came across a horrifying update.
Coal Mine Explosion in Northern Bregnovia, Dozens Unaccounted For, one hour ago.
Leaping to her feet, she shouted for her assistant.
* * *
Even though sabotage was not suspected, it was war conditions all over again. Ryzard could hardly bear it, but quick response on the recovery effort was critical. There was no time to ask the fates why his country should suffer this way. No way to reassure his people that they could live without fear. There were only feet on the ground, hands digging into the rubble, people trying to save people into the night.
Dark was receding, exhaustion setting in and spirits low when a throaty drone began climbing on the air. The latest batch of survivors, many badly burned, had just left on what aircraft he’d been able to muster on short notice. They hadn’t had time to drop and be back so soon. That didn’t bode well.
Squinting into the silver horizon, he saw what looked like an invasion, and his heart stopped. Then the hospital crosses on the underbellies of three of the helicopters became visible and he relaxed. Someone asked if the Red Cross was finally here. He had no idea. His phone was charging in the one small shack that had a power generator for electricity.
Jerking his chin at someone to greet and direct them, he threw himself back into the work at hand.
Sixteen hours later, he was knee-deep in rubble, numb and almost asleep on his feet, losing the light, when his eye—and half-dead libido—was caught unexpectedly by a pair of skintight jeans tucked into knee-high black boots. A blond ponytail swung against the back of a black leather jacket as the woman nodded at whomever she was speaking to.
He was seeing things. He clambered across to her, swaying on his feet as he pulled her around by a rather despondent grip on her arm, distantly surprised to catch at a solid person and still not believing his eyes, even when he saw the familiar patch of color on the side of her face.
“You’re real,” he said dumbly.
She smiled tenderly and set a hand against his cheek. Her touch was surprisingly warm, making him aware how cold he was. How utterly empty and frozen he’d been for weeks.
“All I could think was that no country would be equipped for this many burn injuries. We have a triage set up. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m sending the victims with their families to whoever can take them.”
He couldn’t speak, could only string clumsy arms around her and drag her into him. Closing his eyes, he drank in the sweet, familiar scent of her hair.
Tiffany ran soothing hands over him, feeling the chill on his skin beneath his shirt, trying to ease the shudders rippling through his muscles. He was heavy, leaning into her, beyond exhausted.
“Come with me,” she urged, dragging him stumbling across the trampled yard to the tent where cots and coffee were on hand for the rescuers.
His arm was deadweight across her shoulders. When he sat, he pulled her into his lap.
“You need to sleep,” she insisted as she tried to extricate herself.
He said something in Bregnovian, voice jagged and broken. He snugged her closer, his hold unbreakable.
Not that she really wanted to get away. It felt so good to be near him. He was grimy and sweaty, but he was Ryzard. She blinked damp eyes where he was keeping her face trapped against his chest, surrounded in his personal scent.
“You need to lie down, Ryzard. You’re not even speaking English.”
He brought her with him so the cot groaned beneath them. When she tried to rise, he threw a pinning leg across her and tangled his fingers in her hair. “Don’t leave,” he murmured and the lights went out. He became a lead blanket upon her.
Since she was jet-lagged and had been on her feet for hours, she relaxed and dozed until activity around them woke her. Then she managed to climb free of his tentacle-like hold and carry on with the rescue effort. The trapped miners had been reached and the final victims would need transport.
* * *
Ryzard woke thinking he’d dreamed her, but the jacket draped across his chest told him he wasn’t crazy. She was here, somewhere.
Coffee in one hand, jacket in his other, he went in search and found her trying to comfort an anxious wife as an injured miner was packaged into a helicopter. The woman clutched a baby and had a redheaded boy by the hand, and Tiffany held a matching toddler on her hip.