Chương 2

By the time Louis reached Pacific Hall, Judith Collins was already waiting under the east portico. In the garden light she looked almost impossibly young for a woman with a grown son: blonde hair swept back, pale eyes fixed on him, her mouth held in a hard line. She wore a black sequined dress, and her heels tapped against the marble as he stepped out of the car.

"Where were you?" Judith asked.

"Vesper Row." Louis kissed her cheek, then drew back with a smile.

"With a friend."

"Which friend?"

"The kind that isn't invited to the reception tonight." Judith sighed and shook her head. She turned from the portico and started toward the residential wing.

"Your father has guests. Important guests. And you are late." Louis walked beside her, his hands in his pockets.

"I wasn't planning to be here. I'm not in the government."

"Of course you are. You're his son. That's the only qualification that matters." She gave him a brief look, her mouth tight at one corner.

"And you look like you spent the night crawling through bars."

"I did," Louis said.

"It was a good one."

"Get dressed." She stopped at the door. The guards moved aside without a word.

"And for the sake of appearances, try not to smell like a nightclub." Louis saluted her lazily and disappeared into the suite kept for him at Pacific Hall. The bed was made. The desk was bare. He peeled off his jacket, threw it onto the bed, and headed for the shower. The water came on the moment he stepped inside. He stood under it with his eyes closed until the smell of liquor was gone. When he came out, a valet was waiting with a pressed shirt and a dark suit.

Louis let himself be dressed, barely paying attention. The valet buttoned, straightened, adjusted, then stepped back and nodded. Louis caught his reflection in the mirror: blond hair forced back except for one pale wave at the front, clear blue eyes, smooth skin, a full mouth, a face made for charm. He looked exactly like what he was: the well-fed, well-dressed heir to a dynasty that had won.

"Good enough," he said. The valet bowed and opened the door to leave. Serana slipped past him before he could close it. Her dark hair was parted cleanly down the middle and fell straight past her shoulders, framing a small pale face that still had the roundness of childhood. She looked Louis over once and rolled her eyes.

"The reception started twenty minutes ago," she said, closing the door behind her. Louis raised an eyebrow.

"Are you my shadow now?"

"I'm your sister. And Mom sent me to make sure you weren't going to embarrass us." He laughed, adjusting his cuffs.

"Did she think I'd show up naked?"

"I think she was more concerned you wouldn't show up at all." He smiled at her.

"And you? What did you think?"

"I think you are a spoiled brat," Serana said.

"And you only do what you want, even when you should care about the big picture. Uncle Philip is here. Dad wants him to be close to us. This is important."

"Philip has been close to us for years. You talk about him like he's some visiting dignitary." Louis moved toward the door.

"I'll behave. Don't worry."

"Behave like you are a Collins." Serana walked beside him as they headed toward the grand hall.

"Not like some bar prince."

"I'll try," Louis said.

"But no promises." They came through the private corridor into the Pacific Hall ballroom. The room had been built before the Dominion had a name, part of the old California State Capitol, later expanded under Constantine's rule, with old stone left visible between long Dominion banners of purple and gold. The chandeliers cast warm light over a floor crowded with guests who had arrived in armored cars and private jets. Supreme President Constantine Collins stood near the center of the room.

The cameras had loved his face before he ruled anything: dark brows, clear blue eyes, brown hair cut back from his forehead, and a close-trimmed beard along a hard jaw. He wore a white double-breasted jacket, the violet-and-gold Dominion pin fixed to his lapel. Philip Bourbon stood beside him in black evening dress and a white waistcoat, his dark hair threaded with silver and combed back from a broad, controlled face. Another Dominion pin rested on his chest. Constantine noticed Louis from across the room.

His smile stayed in place for the guests, but it tightened when it reached his son.

"Louis," he called, raising his glass.

"Good of you to join us." You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. People made room as Louis crossed the floor. Smiles came first, then small bows. He accepted both without slowing. Constantine put a hand on his shoulder for the room, then leaned close enough that only Louis could hear him.

"You're late."

"I had business," Louis said, matching his volume.

"Someone was misbehaving in our capital."

"Ah." Constantine looked amused.

"I trust you handled it."

"Of course." Louis glanced at Philip Bourbon.

"Congratulations, Philip. I didn't think you'd accept the job." Philip inclined his head.

"I didn't expect your father to offer it."

"Don't be modest." Constantine chuckled, his hand still on Louis's shoulder.

"Philip has been running half my diplomatic back channels for years. I'm just making it official."

"It is an honor," Philip said.

"Especially in a time of uncertainty. The world has become less predictable than ever."

"That's why we need good people." Constantine turned to the room and raised his glass.

"Ladies, gentlemen. A toast. To His Majesty, King Philip Bourbon of Navarre. The new Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Dominion of the Pacific." The applause came at once. Glasses lifted across the room. Louis raised his with everyone else, sipped, and looked over the guests: Hollywood faces, tech moguls, university presidents, generals in civilian suits, and diplomats from countries that had once belonged to a union that no longer existed. He lasted seven minutes before boredom began to itch under his skin.

He excused himself with a nod to his father, moved through the crowd, and slipped to the bar at the far end of the hall. A blonde server stood at the bar, arranging glasses on a mirrored tray. She was curvy and pretty. Louis leaned against the counter beside her and watched her work.

"You're very efficient," he said. She looked up, startled. Then she recognized him, and color rose in her cheeks.

"Oh my, Mr. Collins," she said, smiling.

"What can I get you?" Louis rested one elbow on the bar.

"What do you think I should be drinking?" he asked.

"That depends, handsome." She glanced at him.

"Do you want to look important or do you want to enjoy yourself?" He laughed.

"I'm always important." She smiled and reached for a bottle of bourbon.

"Then you can afford to enjoy the drink." She poured with steady hands, then passed him the glass. Her fingers brushed his.

"Thank you," he said, and took a slow sip.

"Let me know if you need anything else." She turned back to her tray. Louis was just about to ask when she got off when someone came to the bar three seats down. He turned his head slightly and saw dark curls loose around a warm, sun-touched face.

"A cocktail," she said to another bartender.

"Something dry. Nothing sweet." Louis watched her. Her eyes were dark brown, her mouth full, her expression already tired of the room. He thought he recognized her. Before he could recall her name, something older came back first. It was a fenced field in Oregon under a rainy spring sky, years earlier. There was a small chestnut pony with a bad temper and a white blaze down its nose. Within minutes of arriving, Louis had decided that anything belonging to the Bourbons could probably belong to him for a while.

He had climbed up without asking, dug in his heels, and lasted perhaps ten seconds before the pony threw him into the mud. He remembered the ground knocking the breath out of him, the pain in his arm, and the humiliation of hearing someone laugh. When he looked up, he saw her at the fence in riding boots, younger than he was, looking down at him with irritation. That's my pony, she had said. Louis glared up at her, grass stuck to his sleeve and mud on his cheek.

She took the reins from beside his hand and walked away, leaving him in the dirt with his pride ruined. The girl he remembered had been furious and certain of herself, with no patience for fools. The woman at the bar was harder to look away from. He could still see the old impatience in the line of her mouth and the cool way she watched the room. The bartender set her cocktail in front of her. She took a sip. Her shoulders eased slightly. Then she looked over and found him watching.

For a second they held each other's gaze. He saw when she recognized him. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her chin lifted. Then her face settled again, composed but curious. Louis smiled. He set his glass down and moved along the bar toward her. When he reached the empty space beside her, he leaned in close enough to speak over the crowd.

"Does your pony still kick people?" Her mouth curved.

"Yes," she said.

"He just doesn't let guests steal him anymore." Louis laughed.

"I wasn't stealing. I was borrowing."

"If you fall off something, it's not a borrowing." She looked him over from shoes to face, then nodded.

"You look better than you did covered in mud." He leaned against the bar.

"That's the advantage of being older. You learn how to stay upright." She studied him again.

"Louis," she said, the name coming a little slowly.

"Angelique." He smiled.

"I didn't expect to find you here." His eyes flicked to her dress.

"You don't seem to be in the mood for celebrating." She took another drink, then set the glass down.

"I think one Bourbon in the spotlight is enough for one evening." He tilted his head.

"Your father doesn't look uncomfortable with it."

"That's my father," she said.

"I inherited the less political parts of the family." Louis smiled.

"That makes two of us." She let out a short laugh.

"I doubt that." Louis was still smiling when a voice behind them said, "Angelique." Her mouth went still. Her shoulders squared before she turned. Louis turned too. Malcolm Lancaster, the son of the Minister of Finance, stood a few feet behind him with a glass in one hand and a careful smile. He was Louis's age, tall, pale-eyed, and polished, his hair neatly combed, his jacket immaculate. He gave Louis a small, respectful nod.

"Louis."

"Malcolm," Louis said. Malcolm's smile widened.

"I didn't realize you were attending tonight. Angelique and I assumed you would find the formal part of the evening intolerable."

"Clearly I have been misjudged." Louis's voice was light.

"So I see." Malcolm glanced at Angelique.

"You always leave after the second toast. I thought I'd find you here." She gave him a cool smile.

"I didn't know I was so predictable."

"Only to me." Malcolm smiled.

"May I get you another drink?"

"Thank you, Malcolm," she said.

"You are very considerate."

"Anything for you." He signaled the bartender, then looked back at Angelique.

"No orange peel," he told the bartender.

"She hates it." The bartender nodded. Louis watched the exchange without interrupting. Malcolm turned back to Angelique. She met his gaze.

"You spoil me," she said.

"I try." He leaned slightly closer.

"You look tired." She gave a small shrug.

"It has been a long week."

"Perhaps we could take a break from the noise." He nodded toward the terrace doors.

"There's a garden walk outside. It's quiet." She hesitated. Then she glanced at Louis before returning to Malcolm.

"That would be nice." Malcolm extended his hand. Angelique took the drink first, then allowed him to take her elbow. They moved away together toward the terrace, and the crowd closed behind them. Louis lifted his glass and took another sip. The bourbon had gone flat in his mouth.