CHAPTER TWELVE

JULIUSGLANCEDAT his watch. Just after seven and the sun had already set. The drive from the villa to St. George's would take some time, although from what Aroldo had said, the festivities would continue well into the night.

There was no reason to rush. No specific event to get to. But every passing minute increased the tension tightening his neck, the unease in his gut.

What if she decided not to go? This afternoon she had seemed...at peace. A touch of playfulness that had stirred his blood, a hint of shyness that had made him want to gather her close and protect her.

Except what if he was pulling her close only to push her away? To hurt her once more?

He moved to the edge of the villa's grand hall. The missing pieces of his past were slowly falling into place. Along with the answers, though, came the realization that while he had been committed to his role as a leader, he had been a lonely and personally unhappy man. One who eschewed personal connections, buried himself in work. His mother's passing had buried him until he could barely breathe. Evading the ache, burying the sadness, had been his only answer. Avoiding grief from what had been, grief from what could be.

Never thinking about what the opposite of grief could be. Never allowing himself the indulgence of hope. Would the man he'd been, the one who kept his mind focused and his heart hard, accept the changes he was making now?

You saw me that day...

When she had uttered those words last night, the pain in her voice had nearly undone him. He'd hurt her so deeply she'd fled the country she loved. She'd told him they hadn't been lovers. But they had been something more than prince and bodyguard. Tonight, he would have answers.

He leaned against a pillar and stared out over the dark sky. How would this night end? Would she be able to let go at the gala, to see him as the man instead of the royal heir? Would he be able to accept what she had to tell him?

And perhaps the weightiest question of all, the one that hurtled him toward yet another unknown: where would it all lead?

"Hello."

The tension in his neck eased. He turned and froze.

Framed between two white pillars, she looked stunning. She'd left her hair unbound and flowing, wild curls tumbling over her shoulders. The dress clung to her breasts, followed the curve of her waist and then flared out into volumes of skirt. When she moved, the fabric parted to reveal a long, slender leg.

"Deus me ajude."

She smiled at him, a smile that caught him both for its beauty and its confidence. It was a smile he hadn't seen on her before. It lit up her face, her eyes crinkling with a pure happiness that attracted him both body and soul.

"Thank you. Julius."

Her use of his name heated his blood. He waited until she was just in front of him. He held out his hand, noted her slight hesitation before she placed her hand in his. He pulled her against him, watched as her lips parted, nearly gave in.

But he simply leaned down and brushed a kiss against her cheek. Surprise and disappointment flashed across her face before she could conceal them.

"You're welcome."

A car whisked them away to the distillery, perched on a low cliff near the white powdery sands of Grand Anse Beach. Golden light poured from the massive windows as men and women dressed in everything from glamorous evening wear to more festive costumes walked up a cobblestone pathway. Terra-cotta flowerpots lined the walkway, filled with magenta-colored bougainvillea and tall stems dripping with white amaryllis blooms.

The car stopped in front of the walkway. Julius slipped on his plain black mask and turned to Esmerelda. He held out his hand.

"Ready?"

She slipped on her mask, pale blue and trimmed with pearls, then accepted his hand. His fingers closed over hers.

"Ready."

The interior was stunning, with dark glistening floors, pale walls, and café lights draped across the ceiling. The distillery itself was on display behind giant windows that allowed guests in the event space to witness the process of manufacturing rum. Waiters in crisp white shirts and linen pants carried around silver trays with bubbling flutes of champagne, rock glasses filled with rum and a variety of cocktails. White tables carried bowls of Barbados and Caribbean lilies in vivid shades of pink and orange. A band sat on a raised dais at the far end of the room. Banjos, guitars and steelpans backed up the deep voice of the lead singer as his melodious voice drifted over the crowd against an upbeat song.

"The singer is Aroldo's nephew," Julius said in Esmerelda's ear as he led her toward one of the buffet tables. "His calypso band will compete in the Spicemas festival." He nodded to a tall round display. Small bowls were artfully arranged with flickering candles in between, each filled with spices, from the vivid yellow of turmeric to the tiny clusters of cloves. "The name is a nod to Grenada's spice production."

She glanced around the crowd. He could practically hear the gears turning in her mind.

"There's a lot of people here."

He nodded toward a man standing near the door. "Aroldo booked several private guards for the evening."

A reluctant smile appeared beneath her mask. "Am I that predictable?"

"Yes." He leaned down, unable to resist a taste of her lips. "Enjoy, Esmerelda. Something tells me you deserve indulgence."

They accepted glasses of champagne and found a seat in the corner. The music transitioned into reggae as more guests streamed into the building. A woman with Aroldo's dark blue eyes circulated among the tables, inviting people to tour the distillery.

"Would you like to go?"

Julius glanced at Esmerelda, saw her glance shift to the machinery behind the glass.

"No. But," he added as she started to sit back in her chair, "you should go. You're here as a guest, not a bodyguard."

Her lips, painted a sparkling caramel, turned down at the corners.

"It feels...wrong."

"But it's not."

The air changed between them, became charged with suppressed feelings: desire, vulnerability, passion.

A tall, willowy woman approached the table. Her hair, black and thick, had been wound into an intricate braid atop her head. The scarlet hues of her dress made her dark brown skin glow. She smiled at them.

"I'm Hanna, the owner of the distillery. You must be the mystery guests my father invited."

"Perhaps," Julius replied with a slight smile.

"Welcome. I appreciate you supporting our island." Hanna nodded to Esmerelda's dress. "I'd recognize my sister's handiwork anywhere."

Esmerelda laughed softly. "Touché. It's stunning. She could sell anywhere in the world she wanted to."

"I hope one day she will get the confidence to do so." She gestured to a small crowd gathering by the door that led into the distillery. "Would you like to join us for a private tour?"

"She'd love to," Julius answered before Esmerelda could decline. He felt her irritation, her sideways glance. But she rose and followed Hanna. A quick survey of nearby tables revealed more than one set of male eyes on her departing form.

His jaw tightened. Hard to be caught between the pride and happiness at seeing her feel as beautiful as she looked to him while wanting to lock her away where no other man could ogle her.

He stood and walked back to the spice display. Other small round tables in varying heights carried similar exhibits, from elaborate masquerade masks from the Spicemas carnival to pictures of the devastation a hurricane had wrought less than twenty years ago.

As he read, learned of the struggles faced by the island nation, the slim threads of responsibility that had been emerging with every recovering memory strengthened. As he saw the crowds of people sitting outside homes reduced to nothing but rubble, read of the challenges still faced by such loss, the threads knitted themselves together into something he recognized in the look he'd glimpsed on his own face as he'd read news articles, social media posts and blogs.

Duty. Obligation. Allegiance.

The sheer weight of it pressed on him, warred with how he felt about Esmerelda. Before his memories had started to return, before his present self had begun to merge with his past, she had been his focus.

But now...now he felt the pull, felt what the role of prince meant. Had he fought this battle before? Had he been a coward and simply given up? Or worse, had his former self discovered something he hadn't yet? That in order to carry on leading a country, he had to give up the one thing he wanted?

Fingers threaded through his. The pressure that had begun to build in his head eased as he looked down at their joined hands.

"Aroldo told me there are still struggles. He said a hurricane took out almost all of the buildings on the island. That was twenty years ago." She nodded toward the nutmeg seeds resting in the bowl. "One tree can take up to ten years to be fruitful."

"Generations lost in hours." He shook his head slightly. "It makes my current plight seem inconsequential."

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "But they haven't given up."

"No." He nodded at one photo that showed dozens of sailboats piled together like an angry child had scooped them up from the ocean and dumped them on top of one another. "It hits different. Seeing where the country is now, the work they've done, the work that still needs to be done."

"You're questioning yourself."

"Yes."

She leaned in. That floral scent that had been taunting him since the day he'd pulled her from the water wrapped around him. Orchids, perhaps, or some other exotic flower, touched with hints of vanilla and ebony. Sexy yet sweet. A scent that teased at one of the memories that had grown clearer but still lurked just beneath the surface of his consciousness.

"That makes you a good leader, Julius."

A satisfying warmth spread throughout his body. Not once had Esmerelda ever voiced anything but support for him as a leader, even as he doubted and questioned. That she continued to maintain her belief in his abilities, despite whatever had happened between them, touched him.

He brought her hand up and brushed his lips across her knuckles as the offbeat rhythms of reggae transitioned into a sultry, dark jazz.

"Dance with me."

Her eyes widened behind her mask.

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

That telltale flush crept up from the bodice of her dress, spread over her décolletage and moved up her neck.

"What if someone recognizes you?"

"Now you're making excuses." He leaned down, his lips a breath away from her ear. "You want to dance with me, Esmerelda. So do it."

He heard the catch of her breath. Savored the soft exhale.

"All right."

He led her out onto the dance floor. He laid one hand on her waist and cradled her fingers in the other. The music sank beneath his skin. He pulled her closer, rested his cheek on her silky curls, cherished the feel of her in his arms. They drifted in and out of the other couples. The world blissfully faded away, leaving just the two of them in each other's embrace.

"Esmerelda..."

She relaxed against him, her trust meaning more than he could express.

"Yes?"

Her voice, low and gravelly, heated his blood. An invitation rose to his lips, to ask her to stay with him tonight. One hand glided up her back to draw her closer. His fingers brushed a raised scar on her back. He'd forgotten last night that the horse had first kicked her in the back when she'd shoved him out of the way. His throat tightened. He started to say something, to thank her, to chastise her, he wasn't sure.

But the words disappeared as he heard a horse's frightened whinny echo in his head, screams, wince as he felt the sharp scrape of gravel on his hands.

And the swift, stark fear.

He saw it then, a memory as real as his surroundings. Esmerelda's face twisted in pain, her eyes seeking out his face as he knelt beside her. The tiny smile of relief before her eyes rolled up and her head lolled to the side. He remembered the ride to the hospital, insisting on riding with her in the back of the ambulance. Pacing inside a private waiting room for hours before finally being allowed into her hospital room. Walking in and seeing her so pale beneath the freckles, her attempt to salute. Something inside him had come to life, as if it had been straining for years against the chains he'd bound around it and finally broken free.

Behind that memory, another rose.

He lifted red curls off her back, felt his throat tighten at the sight of the half-moon scar on her shoulder blade. For the first time in years, he surrendered to his emotions and pressed a soft kiss to the scar. The one she had sustained for him...

Julius reared back.

"Julius? What is it?"

So strange, how the different memories came back. Some felt like whiplash, whereas others trickled in.

This memory, the night he had raised a hand to her face, had cradled her as she'd leaned into his touch and accepted what he had offered, simply appeared, there all along waiting for him to open his mind to what he had shared with this woman.

This woman who, when he had asked if they had been lovers, had looked him in the eye and told him no.

Heat drained from his body, replaced by a chill that filled his chest.

"You lied."