Free A Throne for the Taking by Kate Walker Page A

she had left behind in London and would never, ever see again. Casually dressed in a loose white shirt and worn denim jeans, his hair blown about in the breeze, his powerful frame still had a heart-stopping impact, an effect that was multiplied a hundred times by his dominant position so high up above her.
    ‘No mistake at all,’ he said now, dark eyes locking with hers. ‘I asked for you to be brought here.’
    ‘You did? But why?’
    ‘It seemed ridiculous to let you fly cattle class when we are both going to the same place.’
    ‘We are?’
    Had she heard right? Was he actually saying that he was flying to Mecjoria? Could he be thinking of agreeing to her request that he claim the throne? The man who had turned his back on her both physically and emotionally.
    ‘We are. So are you going to stand there dithering for much longer or are you going to come up here and take your seat? Everything is ready for take-off but if we don’t leave soon we will miss our allocated slot.’
    ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’
    He couldn’t have reversed that brutally unyielding decision in the space of less than twenty-four hours, could he? And yet if not then why was he here?
    The slightest of adjustments in the way that he stood gave away the hint of a change in his mood—for the worse.
    ‘So it really isn’t a matter of life or death that I go to Mecjoria and look into the situation for the accession after all?’
    As he echoed the description she’d given him, he managed to put a sardonic note on the words that twisted a knife even more disturbingly in her nerves. She didn’t know why this was happening, she only knew that suddenly, for some reason, he seemed prepared to toss her a lifeline, one that she would be the greatest fool in the world to ignore.
    ‘All right!’
    Not giving herself any more time to think, Ria pushed herself into action, flinging one foot on to the steps and then the other, grabbing at the rail for support, almost tumbling to the ground at Alexei’s feet as she reached the top.
    What else could she do? She had spent last night wide awake and restless, going over the scene in his house again and again, berating herself for failing so badly, for driving him further away rather than persuading him round to her side. She had cursed herself for bringing her father into the discussion, seeing the black rage and hatred simply thinking of him had brought into his eyes. She had even reached for her phone a couple of times, wondering if she rang him that he might actually listen, and each time she had dropped it back down again, knowing that the man who had turned his back on her and told her to leave so brutally had no room in his mind or his heart for second thoughts or second chances. Today she’d faced the prospect of going back home knowing that everything was lost, and with no idea how she was going to face the future.
    And then suddenly this...
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    She was gasping as if she’d run a mile rather than just up a short flight of steps, but it was tension and not lack of fitness that caught her round her throat, making it impossible to breathe.
    But Alexei was clearly in no mood to offer any explanations. Instead with a bruising grip on her arm he steered her out of the sunlight and into the plane where she blinked hard as her eyes adjusted to the change in light.
    Once she would have been the one with access to a private plane. Not for her sole use, or even that of her family, but she had sometimes travelled with a member of the royal family, or accompanying her father in his official role. But it had never been like this. The Mecjorian royal plane had been as old-fashioned and stiffly formal as the regime itself, reflecting the views of the old king. This one was a symphony of cool calm, with pale bronze carpets, wide, soft seats just waiting for someone to sink into their creamy leather cushions. Everything was light and space, and spoke of luxury beyond price; and