Heir Untamed (7 page)

But then why was Sander on alert like this? He wouldn't be, she argued with herself, unless he knew the shooting was unscheduled or out of the ordinary.

He stared down at her face while he slid the phone back into his pocket. His eyes glittered, mouth pinched into a thin line. Then he was moving. Sliding off her with too much ease, staying low to the ground as he belly crawled toward the nearest trunk of a tree.

Chey, lamenting leaving her camera out in the open, rolled onto her stomach and did exactly as he did. Any second she expected to hear another shot or feel the whiz of a bullet pass her head.

When Sander reached the tree, he used it for cover, rising to a crouch. He gestured for her to come up to her feet at the tree next to his and made a point of indicating she should face the same direction, blocking sight of them from the east.

Chey reached her tree and climbed to her feet, positioning herself as he wished. This skulking about was not her forte; she left the decisions to someone who obviously knew better.

He inclined his head, holding her gaze. Telling her she'd done well. After another few moments, he crept from his tree to her own, using a hand on her hip to guide her to another tree, and another, then behind a cluster of boulders that gave them broader coverage.

Leaving the horses tethered, they exited the area near the lake in the most clandestine manner they possibly could, with pauses every so often so Sander could listen. No other shots had been fired since the last.

Using foliage for cover, he grasped her hand and led her into a light jog, moving quicker through the forest. Chey felt safer the further they got from the initial starting point, but not safe enough to run fully upright or to speak.

It seemed to her they jogged for several miles, enough to begin to put a stitch in her side. She wasn't a runner by nature. Chey preferred fast walks with little hand weights on flat ground. Hardly in a position to complain, she sucked it up and kept going, one hand cinching the spot near her ribs that ached.

A clearing broke open ahead, giving Chey a glimpse of a cabin nestled on a few acres surrounded by trees. One story, it had a large wrap around porch, a peaked roof and several rocking chairs adjacent to the front door.

Sander paused at the last tree before the clearing and pulled his phone from his pocket. Chey watched him scan through a few menus and draw up what looked to be a blueprint.

He pulled her by the hand into the clearing itself after that, traversing the distance between the forest and the cabin at a quick jog. Chey felt strangely exposed even for that short time.

Loping up the front steps, he released her and opened a screen door, then the regular wooden door, holding it for her to pass through first. Chey ducked under his arm and stepped across the threshold. The inside matched the outside for quaintness. Pine walls made the atmosphere cozy, along with plush leather furniture in shades of brown and sage green. A rock fireplace took up an entire corner, with a mantle stretching across the front. To the left sat a dining area leading into a well equipped kitchen. The open floor plan made it seem like there was more square footage than there actually was, though the cabin was not small by a long shot. A hallway divided the cabin down the middle with a handful of doors leading left or right.

Sander closed both doors and engaged two dead bolts on the latter.

“We're going to stay holed up here while the military sweeps the grounds, all right? This is bullet proof, the whole thing, even the windows, so you don't need to worry about anyone taking pot shots at us from the trees.” He thumbed in another message on the screen of his phone before sliding it away into his pocket.

“What's going on? Why would someone be shooting?” Chey stood near the back of one of the sofas, tearing her eyes off the warm décor to glance at Sander. He seemed to fill the cabin with his presence.

“Don't know yet, sweetheart.” Sander passed her for a closet in the hall where he took out a handgun and a fresh magazine. After sliding the clip into place, he checked the safety, closed the closet door, and tucked the weapon into the back of his pants.

Chey watched him retrieve the gun and wondered why he hadn't had one on him already. Distracted by the circumstances, she asked, “Were they shooting at the castle, trying to pick off one of the Royals?”

“The castle would be an almost impossible target to hit from where we were. Too many trees. None of the Royal family are out on the property, so it's unlikely any of them were the target.” He stepped past her into the kitchen, pulling two bottles of water from the fridge. Sander offered one out when he returned.

“Thanks. But I don't understand,” she said, taking the bottle and cracking the lid. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until she saw the bottle.

“It could be any number of things. A new maintenance member foregoing the rules about guns and shooting game in the woods. Someone who entered the property overland, from the back, making a statement.” He drank from his bottle, gaze cutting to the windows every so often, on guard despite the military sweep or the bullet proof cabin.

“But don't they have the whole perimeter monitored? How could someone just walk onto the property?” Chey couldn't get comfortable. She paced a few feet one way and then another. Already a quarter of her water was gone. An askew coaster sitting on a side table was re-centered as she passed by. Somehow, she resisted the urge to fluff and straighten the pillows on the sofas.

Sander chuckled. A deep, resonant sound that shook his chest. “Chey, the family seat sits on more than two thousand acres of land. Do you realize how many miles of terrain that is to monitor? Not to mention it backs up to a preserve that is totally rugged, almost impassable unless you're a climber or a hiking enthusiast. We save the strict monitoring for the immediate acreage surrounding the castle. It's easier to catch someone coming in for a direct strike that way than to waste manpower prowling every inch of the property markers. Don't get me wrong—we have measures in place in the woods, but nothing like what we have closer to the castle itself.”

“I guess that makes sense.” She had another swallow of water, then glanced at his eyes to find him following her progress with his own. “So you don't think we were the target, do you?”

“'We'? No.
We
weren't.
You
might have been, but not we,” he said.

Shocked, Chey stopped pacing. “What? Why would anyone want to shoot at me? I just arrived yesterday. I don't even know anyone that well yet for crying out loud.”

“Simple deduction, sweetheart. No one knew I was going to check the lake today to see if you were going to come back like you said you were, so they couldn't have known I'd be there. Not to mention that whoever it was, if they
were
shooting at you, had to have followed you into the woods from the castle. It was a preplanned event, and I am not a part of that equation.” He sounded matter of fact.

Chey frowned. What he said made perfect sense. All except the
why
of it. Could Natalia have been so angry over Chey seeing her drunk that she hired someone on the property to get rid of her?

Surely not. Such an extreme measure wasn't necessary, not when the Princess could have stomped her foot and barked orders for Chey to simply be fired. There were less hectic ways to get her off the property than murder.

“It wasn't me, then. Couldn't have been. I'm thinking it was something other, like you mentioned. Someone shooting when they shouldn't have been. An accident, or just an oversight.” That suited her mind much better than the alternative.

“Mm.” The sound Sander made was nothing more than a low murmur of either agreement or consideration.

“How long will I have to stay here? I'm supposed to have a photo shoot with the family this afternoon.” Chey finished her water and walked the bottle to the trash. It was full, almost needing to be emptied. If this was a vacant cabin, why was there so much trash?

“Until they sound the all clear.”

“Does someone live here?” she asked, changing the subject. On her way past the counter, she straightened a fishing magazine that had been sitting cockeyed. Old habits died hard.

“I do. The King had this place built fifteen years ago, then lost his taste for 'adventuring' on his own property not long after, and it sat empty for almost a decade. Since I'm here so much, they had no problem with me moving in.”

“I see.” That seemed reasonable. He'd been raised on the property, and probably lived in quarters up near the castle previously. Having his 'own' private space was probably preferable to a standard room. “Until they sound the all clear? When might that be?”

Sander finished off his water and pushed off his lean from the sofa. “When they're done with the sweep, they'll call.”

“I'm just looking for a time frame, here. Two hours, four? More?” Chey paced through the living room, pausing here or there to straighten a thing, even if it didn't technically need it.

“Chey. They'll be done when they're done.”

She glanced up and caught his gaze over the back of a couch. He didn't sound angry, only decisive. His tone said that she might as well make herself comfortable for the duration. She wasn't going anywhere for a while.

. . .

“Flore
is not a word.” Chey stared at the game of Scrabble, at the word Sander had spelled out, with a wary eye.

“Yes it is.” He sat across from her, coat stripped from his shoulders, the gray flannel shed in its wake. It left him in an unassuming white tee shirt that fit his muscular torso well.

Chey hated that it was such a distraction. “What does it mean then?”

“It's what you do when you're not exactly engaging in foreplay, but sort of.
Flor-ay.
The in between. That stage when you think you like someone enough to flirt, and they're flirting back, but it's still first-base with a bunch of crap batters
up next who
might or might not advance you to the next level.” His expression was utterly deadpan.

Chey laughed outright. “You're so full of it. I call
crap
on your word. You get no points.”

“See? The next batter just struck out, leaving Joe on first base.” He lamented the faux first-baser's loss with a melodramatic sigh.

Their game had been ongoing for more than a half hour. Much to Chey's surprise, Sander proved to be more than willing to pass the time badgering her about her knowledge of English, and attempting to use non-words to gain an advantage. He was comical when he wasn't being an ass, and shockingly good natured overall. Every few minutes he glanced at the windows or his phone, still on high alert despite his banter.

“
That's all right. Joe needs to learn
strategy.
Which happens to be my next word, meaning I just won the game.” Chey snapped down her final tile with a pleased grin.

Sander frowned and bumped the board with his thigh when he stood up out of his chair. The tiles scattered across the table, and his,
“Oops”
was so contrived that Chey gasped, pointing a finger at his subterfuge.

“You did that on purpose. Cheater.”

He smiled a wolfish smile, tipping the board up so the rest of the tiles would fall to the table top. He closed the board after that and set it back inside the box.

“So what if I did? What're you going to do about it? Take my picture?”

“Cheaters and losers are required to make the winner lunch,” she retorted. His smart comments amused her now, rather than annoyed her. A welcome change from their abrasive first meeting.

“You're on. You get to clean up the rest of this, then, while I get started.” He waved dismissively at the remains of their Scrabble game.

Chey muttered loud enough for him to hear. She was positive that he wouldn't know the first thing about cooking. He'd probably filched meals from the castle as a child like everyone else, leaving him short on culinary knowledge. Scooping the tiles into her palm, she dumped them into a baggie, then situated everything in the Scrabble box just so before sliding on the lid.

“You want something more potent to drink? Wine, a mixed cocktail?” he asked from the kitchen.

“Isn't it a little early to hit the alcohol?” Chey wondered if he was a drinker. He seemed familiar with booze. She set the Scrabble box exactly against the edge of the table, perfectly aligned and straight.

“It's supposed to be my day off, and I'm pretty sure it's noon somewhere, to use a familiar phrase.” He took down two highball glasses from a cupboard, then opened the refrigerator door.

“Supposed to be? Oh. Me. I almost forgot that this is
work
for you.” She approached the bar at the edge of the kitchen and plopped down onto a barstool. From her vantage, she could see everything Sander was doing. As well as the gun
still poking up from the back of his jeans.

He cut another wolfish grin over his shoulder. “I'm not officially on the clock, so I'm allowed a drink. What's your favorite?”

“Lately it's been watermelon vodka over Sprite. It changes monthly.”

“Mm. I know I don't have watermelon vodka, but I have the makings for a Tequila Sunrise.”

“That actually sounds pretty good. It was my drink about two years ago.” Chey watched him fish out the tequila, a top shelf brand, orange juice from the fridge and grenadine last.

“So, what, you cycle through drinks as soon as you're sick of them?” he asked, deftly pouring the ingredients into one of the highball glasses.

“Pretty much. Doesn't everyone?” She murmured her thanks when he delivered the glass to the counter top.

“I don't know. I think people usually find something they like and mostly stick to that. Not that you can't order whatever else, but I tend to see people picking favorites.” He returned to the alcohol and poured himself wine instead of a mixed drink. Then he started taking out packages and things from the fridge.

There were worse places she could be, Chey decided, than sitting in a fine cabin in the middle of the woods watching a man with a physique like
that
make lunch. Even if the lunch would probably taste like shredded cardboard. If only there hadn't been a shooter in the woods earlier, this would have turned out to be a rather pleasant day. A shocking revelation considering the first meeting she'd had with Sander.