Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(23)

But time is running out, and I shake my outstretched hand. Instantly, Alexei takes it. I step onto the railing, and Alexei joins me, standing high above the water running below.

His hand is warm in mine. So sure. So strong. For a second, I just feel it—feel him. He looks down into my eyes. Blue staring into brown. Neither of us blinks as we stand atop this bridge in the center of Paris.

Maybe it’s the fatigue, the fear, or the sheer force of the adrenaline that is pounding in my veins, but I’m not thinking anymore. I just bring my free hand up and weave my fingers into Alexei’s dark hair, pull him close, and kiss him. Like maybe it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.

And maybe it is.

That’s the thing that this whole mess has taught me. My mother was a young woman, strong and healthy right up until the moment she died. My brother had most of his life in front of him, and he came within an inch of having it all slip away.

I may never get off this bridge. I might die in Paris. Right here. Right now. But I won’t die alone, and for that I will always treasure Alexei.

When we pull apart, there is a question in his blue eyes—fear and confusion and … hope? I don’t know. And it’s far too late to ask because there’s movement in the corner of my eye.

The guards are almost here. Someone is yelling in French, words that feel like “Stop! Police!” My gaze is on the water. It ripples and flows like freedom, running out toward the sea. And then, I see it, the bow of a boat peeking out from beneath the bridge, running underneath us.

It’s red and two stories, the boat equivalent of the bus that brought me here. I can actually hear a woman on the loudspeaker, explaining in rapid German the historical significance of the bridge they are passing under.

They have no idea.

And hopefully no one will ever know that this is the place where the rightful princess of Adria escaped from the usurper.

I drop Alexei’s hand. When his eyes go wide, I say, “Thank you.”

And then I jump, falling free, crashing to the roof of the ship below.

A second later, Alexei follows.

And then the boat is gone, too far from the bridge for anyone else to jump. As if anyone else would be that crazy.

I barely catch my breath before I roll off the side of the little roof, grab the edge, and dangle for a moment, then drop lightly onto the deck below.

Somewhere, the guide must have missed all the action, because she’s still talking. But the people on the deck gasp and scream at the sight of the windblown American girl who seems to have fallen from the sky. When a slightly confused Russian drops to the ground beside her, people scatter.

“What was that?” Alexei practically screams.

He doesn’t notice the tiny blond who is left standing alone on the deck once the tourists flee.

“That was my plan,” Rosie tells him. “And it worked, I’ll have you know. My plans always work.”

She’s got a cocky gleam in her eye. This is Rosie’s proudest moment, I can tell.

She pauses for a second, listens to the woman on the speaker. “Okay,” she says. “We’re clear.”

“Rosie,” Alexei says, trying to summon all of his calm, “what are you—”

“Well, hello, stranger,” Noah says, and Alexei spins. “Enjoying Paris?” Noah asks as if we’ve all just bumped into one another outside the Louvre.

Alexei looks at him and then glares at me. It’s a look that is the same in every language: I have some explaining to do. But I’m too worried to stop now.

I turn to Noah. “Did we get it?”

He shrugs. “There’s one way to know.”

Then he and Rosie turn and start toward the stairs that lead to the lower levels. The steps are narrow and slick as I follow Noah, Alexei on our heels.

Somehow, Alexei doesn’t seem surprised when we find Megan sitting by herself behind a laptop in the boat’s tiny café. Really, there’s just a couple of tables and a vending machine. No one else is here. The day’s too nice, and they didn’t pay good money to sit in a tiny room with only a sliver of a view.

“We were right,” I say when I reach her. Megan barely looks up.

Noah is tall enough to glance out the high windows, almost at the same level as the water. “Grace, what are the odds they’re going to follow us?”

“Very, very good,” Alexei answers. He’s trying to control his worry and his anger. Trying. But failing.

Megan has barely looked up from the laptop. Her fingers practically fly across the keys. “Did you get it?” I can’t keep the impatience—the fear—out of my voice.

Megan pulls a cord out of the headphone jack. In the next instant, Princess Ann’s voice comes through the laptop’s speakers.

“Grace, do you think the royal family would try to harm you?” Ann’s voice says. Then, a few moments later: “Get her.”

It’s not a confession, but it’s not nothing. I’m not sure what this means. Is it leverage? Is it proof? Is this a recording that might guarantee my freedom and my brother’s safety?

Not even close.

But it’s a start. And it’s more than I had an hour ago. Most of all, now I know. Not everything, but the list of people I can trust just got a whole lot smaller. The good news is that the list of people I can depend on is growing, too.