Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector

‘‘Please. Mylonas is not one of my men, which he made quite clear. The idiot wouldn’t turn her loose until I persuaded his superior to override him. As to why she’s still alive…you have to remember that we’re dealing with a small, isolated remnant of our old enemy. The Brothers had resources in terms of arms, information and men that these people lack. They may not have enough men to risk exposing one of their number by trying to kill her right now. They’ll know we’re watching her.’’

It was some consolation. Drew’s heart was pounding too hard, and there was no reason for it. None. He steepled his fingers. ‘‘It’s also possible that she isn’t tied to the Brothers in any way. I’m going to proceed on that assumption.’’

Lorenzo’s eyebrows snapped down. ‘‘You want to tell me why?’’

‘‘Because that’s the most useful assumption for me to make.’’ Not because he found it impossible to believe otherwise. Though that was true, it was subjective and proved nothing. ‘‘I won’t be much help if she’s connected to the Brothers. She isn’t going to open up to me about that. But if she heard or saw something she wasn’t supposed to, she might have decided to use this psychic nonsense as a way of tipping you off without admitting she can identify one of the Brothers.’’

‘‘I see what you mean. She’d be afraid of what they would do to her if she identified one of them. But she may trust you enough to tell you the truth.’’ Lorenzo nodded. ‘‘All right. You work with your assumption, but don’t forget that’s all it is. Watch yourself.’’

‘‘Of course. You want to tell me why you had me bring her to the palace tonight?’’

‘‘Because I’m hoping like hell your assumption is wrong.’’ Lorenzo stopped suddenly, as if mastering whatever emotion had his jaw so tight. ‘‘We had another tip.’’

‘‘And?’’

‘‘There may be an attempt on the prince’s life at the Investiture.’’

‘‘Holy hell.’’ The Investiture was a centuries’ old ritual in which the king officially named his heir, who was then installed by the island’s elected body as the Crown Prince. ‘‘If they smuggle in another bomb…’’

‘‘They could wipe out most of the government.’’

Drew sat in bleak silence a moment, absorbing the implications. ‘‘How reliable was your tip?’’

Lorenzo shrugged. ‘‘Hard to say. It came from a petty criminal who sometimes turns informant. His information has been reliable in the past, but he’s never given us anything of this magnitude before.’’ Lorenzo paused. ‘‘He’s since disappeared.’’

‘‘Dead?’’

‘‘Or gone into hiding. The information he gave my man was vague. We’re trying to corroborate some of it. No luck so far, but it’s early yet.’’

‘‘You’ve told the king, I assume. He intends to go through with the ceremony?’’

‘‘I tried to talk him into postponing it. He refused. He’s convinced it’s necessary to hold the ceremony as soon as possible, both to secure the succession and as a symbol for the people. Hell, he may be right. My job, as he pointed out, is to make sure he can do his job.’’

That sounded like his uncle. ‘‘And the prince?’’

‘‘Lucas knows. The queen hasn’t been told.’’

‘‘I still don’t see why you had me invite Rose to the palace tonight.’’

‘‘Like I said, I’m hoping your assumption is wrong. If she’s one of them and seems to have easy access to the palace—to the prince—they may decide to make their attempt through her. It’s easier to guard a single, known quantity than to prevent attack from an unknown direction. And if she does try something—’’ his left hand closed into a fist ‘‘—then we’ll have her. And through her, the rest of them.’’

Drew’s temples were beginning to throb with the dull precursor of a headache. He needed to finish up and leave. ‘‘I have a suggestion. Ask her to help with your investigation. Police departments do occasionally work with psychics.’’

Lorenzo’s chair creaked as he leaned farther back. He laced his fingers together over his stomach and spoke mildly. ‘‘I’m sure you have a good reason for suggesting we work with a suspect.’’

‘‘Her value to you is as a conduit to others. You need her alive, so you need to convince the Brothers they have nothing to fear from her. If she is working with them, this might help persuade them to make the next attack through her, as you said. They’ll think you trust her. If she’s an innocent witness, let it be seen that she’s sticking to her story of seeing visions. The Brothers will have a good laugh at us for believing that psychic nonsense and put less of a priority on silencing her.’’

Lorenzo considered that for a long moment. ‘‘And if they believe in that psychic nonsense? We could be making her more of a target than she is now.’’

‘‘If they actually believe she can peer into her crystal ball and identify them, she’s as good as dead now,’’ Drew said flatly. ‘‘Unless you lock her away somewhere for her own good.’’

‘‘I need her alive and where they can contact her. And dammit, I need to know what she knows and hasn’t told us. All right. We’ll try it your way and see how it goes. Not that I plan to believe a word she says, you understand. Here’s how we’ll play it.’’

They talked for another ten minutes. Drew was on his feet, about to leave, when Lorenzo said, ‘‘One more thing.’’ He moved the chunk of quartz and picked up the pistol, letting the map roll up in a quick shudder of paper. He held out the gun. ‘‘From now on, I want you armed whenever you leave the palace.’’

Silently Drew accepted the weapon. It was a Glock automatic, the model he’d learned to shoot with on the firing range below the palace more than ten years ago. ‘‘Your memory is remarkable. I’m still better with a rifle, but a rifle would be hard to tuck under a jacket. I’ll need a shoulder holster.’’

‘‘That could be awkward. Not that I’m asking about your sex life, mind. But she’s apt to notice it.’’

‘‘Not a problem.’’ Drew slid the gun into his jacket pocket. It was heavy, the weight obvious. ‘‘I pointed out my tail earlier and gave Rose a brief explanation. She might be surprised to discover that I’m armed, but she’ll associate it with the threat of kidnapping.’’

‘‘You pointed out Roberts?’’

‘‘She would have spotted him sooner or later. Chances are she’ll spot whoever you have on her, too, but that’s okay. She’s expecting it. And no,’’ he added, smiling at the expression on Lorenzo’s face, ‘‘I didn’t tell her you would have her followed. She told me. She’s bright, and not one to play ostrich when life gets nasty. Will palace security be alarmed by the bulge in my pocket?’’

Lorenzo didn’t look happy. He stood. ‘‘I’ve notified them. Find some time to visit the shooting range. I doubt you’re in practice. You know, Drew, if it were anyone but you, I’d be worried. This woman is smart, she’s sexy, and you sound as if you admire her. Maybe it’s just as well you came home early tonight.’’

Anger hit, making Drew’s head throb. ‘‘But you know better, don’t you? If I were capable of losing my head over a woman, I’d have done it long ago.’’ He nodded curtly and left.

The night was warm and quiet, the noise of the city cushioned by the trees that rimmed the grounds. From somewhere nearby a nightingale called, its song rising in a liquid crescendo. Drew hurried along the path that led to the palace, wanting to be in his room, alone, as soon as possible.

It might be a normal headache. Probably it was, and a couple of aspirins would prove that. In the past year he’d had six crazy spells, none of them closer together than four weeks. But the interval between them had shortened, and a headache was the usual precursor.

Still, this particular ache could be the product of pure sexual frustration. He’d been very ready for Rose when he didn’t kiss her good night. Alarmingly so. And maybe that was the real reason he hadn’t kissed her—on some level she frightened him.

No. No, that was absurd. He might fear losing control, but he wasn’t afraid of the woman.

For once Rudolpho, the majordomo, wasn’t on duty, and if the guards at the palace door noticed the bulge in Drew’s pocket, they ignored it. He took the stairs quickly.

He’d done what he could to protect her. He wouldn’t apologize for wanting to. Drew thought of the way she’d discussed the economic consequences of the bombing at the dinner table with four royals, himself and Lorenzo, and smiled. She’d been nervous, but she hadn’t let it show.

What made him think she’d been nervous? He frowned as he crossed the picture gallery, unable to remember an expression, an awkward word, anything but his simple certainty. Maybe he’d imagined it, or assumed—

Between one step and the next, it hit. All at once this time—the glassy separation, the slicing agony in his skull, the dislocation of his senses. Walls melted into floors, colors ran together, and chaos chuckled in the hollow space between self and madness. He lost touch with his body—was he moving, falling, frozen in place? Was he anywhere?

He still was. He was here, dammit, even if he couldn’t find here in the swirls of colors and jutting angles, the walls that moved and traded places with floor or ceiling. Even if he couldn’t feel his body, he still existed in his mind. Desperate, he began to count, then switched to long division…

‘‘…get help? Drew, answer me!’’

He blinked. He was standing in the hall near the royal suite. His skin was clammy, chilled. And his aunt’s face was looking up at him, the patrician features tight with worry. Her hand clutched his arm. He felt her fingernails, dulled by the cloth of his sleeve, digging into his flesh.

He felt. The reliable witness of his senses had returned. Dizzy with relief, he tried a smile. ‘‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you.’’

‘‘Never mind that. Are you all right? I haven’t seen you look like that since you were a boy. Those migraines you used to get—’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Gratefully he seized on the explanation she’d unwittingly offered. ‘‘I’m afraid they’ve come back.’’

She released his arm, but her worried frown didn’t ease. ‘‘Are you sure that’s what this is? You look ill. Have you seen a doctor?’’

‘‘A neurologist, actually.’’ Amazing how easy it was to deceive while speaking the truth. ‘‘He put me through any number of indignities and didn’t find anything wrong. No bleeding, tumors or other abnormalities.’’ No traces of drugs. No explanations at all.

‘‘Now, that scares me almost as much as your pallor did a moment ago. The headaches must be severe for you to give in and see a doctor without being nagged into it. Unless…oh, your mother must have—’’

‘‘She doesn’t know,’’ he said quickly. ‘‘I hope you won’t tell her. You know how she worries.’’

‘‘Oh, Drew.’’ She caught her lower lip with her teeth. ‘‘It doesn’t seem right to keep something like this from her.’’

‘‘Aunt Gwen.’’ He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. The exhaustion was already sweeping over him, making his thoughts sluggish. I can’t hold it off this time. Panic and adrenaline turned him light-headed even as they plundered the last of his reserves. How long did he have? Minutes? ‘‘You know why I had migraines as a boy. Mother doesn’t deal well with reminders of that time.’’

The queen was still chewing on her lip. ‘‘It was terrible for all of us, but worse for you. If the migraines have come back, is it because of Lucas’s disappearance? Oh—I’m so selfish. That never once occurred to me. We did think at first he might have been kidnapped, and I never stopped to think how that might affect you.’’

‘‘Don’t.’’ Drew had to get away. Now. But he took a moment to put an arm around her shoulders and squeeze quickly. ‘‘You had no reason to think about that. You were sick with fear, then grieving. I didn’t want you to worry about me. I still don’t.’’

Her mouth turned up wryly. ‘‘I know that well enough. But I reserve the right to worry about the people I love.’’

‘‘I’m fine,’’ he told her with every bit of sincerity he could muster. ‘‘Aside from being more of a sorehead than usual. I’ve got some medicine for it in my room, if you’ll excuse me.’’

Hearing that, of course, she sent him on his way.

When the door to his suite closed behind him, he locked it, closed his eyes and leaned against it. He was shaking.

This time had been different. He’d been in the hall leading to the wing that held the Harrington suite when the spell hit. When he came back to himself, he’d been near the royal suite. This time, he’d continued walking after the spell hit. That had never happened before.

Fear bit deeply. What else might he do while out of his senses?

He straightened and pulled the gun from his jacket pocket, staring at it with a chill that cut partway through the exhaustion dragging him down. Maybe he shouldn’t carry it. Tomorrow…tomorrow he would decide. Weaving slightly, he made it to the desk, opened a drawer and shoved the gun inside.

Seconds, now. It was all happening much faster this time. He had only seconds left.

Lorenzo was right to worry about him, though he had hold of the wrong reason, Drew thought as he stripped, his clothes falling in a ragged trail to the bedroom. He wasn’t losing his head over a woman. He was losing his head, period. Or his head was losing his body…. And as the darkness closed in, taking him to a place where thought stopped, there was time for one image to float through his mind—a woman’s face, her lips moist and parted, her eyes smiling, her skin as soft and smooth as every unbroken promise ever made. Rose’s face, tilted up to him as it had been earlier, inviting his kiss.

There was time, too, for the flash of fear that followed him down into the waiting darkness.

Chapter 6

Rose woke all at once the way she had when she was a child. The air was warm, the light pure, as if it had been born fresh for that day. But this wasn’t her birthday or a holiday….

Then she remembered. And smiled. Rose had never been one to hold on to anger. It flowed hot when it hit, but then it flowed on. And Drew had been so charming…. No he hadn’t, she thought grinning. He was far too direct for charm. He’d been courteous, certainly—holding doors, taking her arm—but beneath the courtesy had been something much headier.

He’d been focused on her. Even when speaking with the others, he’d been aware of her, as he’d shown in a dozen small ways. Turning to her just before she spoke. Asking her opinion of a new trade treaty. Catching her gaze with his when the prince told a joke, that secret smile in his eyes.

It had been a magical evening. The palace had been splendid—a little overpowering maybe, but the king and queen had been warm and gracious, and the prince, truly charming. And if Cinderella had had to return to her garret, well, it was a very nice garret, made even nicer this morning by lovely memories.

And the hope of making more and even lovelier memories. Unable to lie still a moment longer, Rose climbed out of bed and stretched.

No wonder she’d woken up anticipating something wonderful. It wasn’t likely to happen today, though. Drew hadn’t even kissed her last night, though she’d let him know she would welcome his kiss.

But he’d wanted to. She walked the short hall to the bathroom with her clothes folded over her arm and her blood humming. Turning on the shower, waiting while the pipes banged and the old hot water heater labored to rise to the occasion, she smiled as she remembered the look in his eyes.

They’d been standing in front of her aunt’s home, after all. Not much privacy there, and he was a man who valued privacy, she thought. He was also a man who liked to plan things. She slipped out of her nightgown and under the shower, tilting her face into the warm spray to savor the pleasant shock of heat hitting night-chilled skin.

The question was, should she allow him to plan her seduction? Or should she plan his?

By the time he called her later that day, she had some ideas about that, and a plan of her own.

The fioreanno of the eldest daughter of Cletus Anaghnostopoulus was a great success. On every table the flowers were fresh and bright. Laughter rang freely and the little cafe´ was satisfyingly crowded, while in the piazza across the street a band played—the same one the Calabrias had engaged for their daughter’s wedding and really quite good, though the trumpet player had started playing jazz after a few drinks, and who could dance to that?

Among the friends, neighbors, relatives and well-wishers attending were such important people as Adolfo Oenusyfides, Commissioner of Roads; Signore Calabria, who owned three fishing boats, as well as the cafe´ where the celebration was held; and several members of the Vinnelli family headed by old Porfino, whose son was a doctor and whose niece had married a rich American and lived in Los Angeles with the movie stars.

If Cletus was inclined to congratulate himself rather too often on the success of the party, his friends overlooked this while their wives complimented his wife on having had the foresight to ask Signora Serminio to stand as godmother sixteen years ago. For a fioreanno is always given by the child’s godmother, and Signora Serminio was herself a person of importance now, the owner of a fine pharmacy and the mother of a son with a promising career at the palace.

And if a few people glanced at one of the guests and muttered under their breath, most were more tolerant. Maybe Rose Giaberti was una strega, maybe not. Her mother had been, but young Rose did not sell charms and potions and fortunes as her mother had done, and if she didn’t attend Mass as often as she ought, what young person did? Certainly she was lively and friendly, with good manners. And she always brought a nice gift to a fioreanno.

She had brought more than a prettily wrapped box with her that night.

‘‘You should try the souvlakia,’’ Rose said, indicating the spicy shish kebab, one of many offerings on the groaning buffet table. ‘‘Emil—he’s the cook here—has a wonderful way with lamb.’’

Obediently Drew placed one on his plate, but slid her a wry glance. ‘‘I think you just want to see me dribble sauce on my shirt.’’

She grinned. ‘‘No, I wanted to see if you’d eat it with your fingers or struggle with a knife and fork.’’

Rose had brought Drew to the fioreanno after giving him the same amount of notice as he’d given her last night. None. She’d told him something of what to expect on the way here, assuming that, while he might have heard of the fioreanni, he wouldn’t have attended one. The upper classes didn’t. A fioreanno was like the quinzeñero celebrated by young Mexican girls, or the coming-out ball given young ladies of his class in England. His sister, she supposed, would have been presented to society. This was much the same thing.

She’d also given him a hint of how to dress, since he’d done that much for her. Casual, she’d said, and for herself she’d chosen a sleeveless sundress, full-skirted for dancing, baticked in the deep colors of a dying sunset. She wore one of her favorite necklaces with it, a copper-and-brass design of her own.

Of course, what passed for casual with Drew stood out in this company every bit as much as she’d failed to blend with royalty at the palace last night. He looked every inch the relaxed aristocrat in khaki chinos and a shirt of unbleached linen that had probably cost more than her favorite little black dress.

They carried their laden plates to one of the tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk. A short, middle-aged man sat alone at a nearby table—Drew’s bodyguard. He’d followed them here in a tiny Fiat and was looking everywhere except at them.

He was the only one who wasn’t watching them. Amused, Rose sat at the little table. ‘‘Will you dribble sauce on yourself, do you think?’’

‘‘Undoubtedly, if there’s a photographer from the Tattler or Le Stelle within flashbulb range. Otherwise I may manage to muddle through. Which brings up a question,’’ he said, putting down his plate so he could draw out her chair. ‘‘Why did you introduce me to our host and hostess as Drew, no last name? You said your neighbors all know who I am.’’

‘‘This way they can pretend they don’t. More comfortable for everyone that way. Rather like the way your aunt, uncle and cousins pretended last night that they didn’t know that I am, at best, that crazy woman who claims to be psychic. Or at worst…’’ She lifted her eyes to his as he sat across from her at the tiny table. ‘‘The worst would make me something unspeakable.’’

‘‘I don’t believe the worst,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘As for what my family believes, Lorenzo asked me to—’’

‘‘Please.’’ She put her hand on his wrist. ‘‘I shouldn’t have said anything before we’ve had a chance to taste Emil’s souvlakia. I didn’t intend to. If His Grace asked you to convey some message to me, you can tell me after the party, all right? For now, let’s eat too much and talk about our neighbors and enjoy ourselves. That’s what a fioreanno is for.’’

He didn’t respond right away. She wouldn’t have known what he was thinking, what he was feeling, if her fingers hadn’t been resting on his wrist, where his pulse beat. It had picked up when she touched him.

As had hers.

‘‘All right,’’ he said, but it was his mouth that carried his smile this time, not his eyes. ‘‘Tell me about your neighbors, since none of mine are nearby to gossip about.’’

So she did. While they ate souvlakia—he did use his fingers and didn’t get any spots on his shirt—she told him brief, amusing stories about some of the people she knew in the crowd. And insisted he uphold his end by talking about people he knew back in England. You could learn a lot, she knew, about a person by the way he spoke of others.

At first he resisted. ‘‘I’m not asking for secrets,’’ she told him severely, spreading melitzana on a slice of crusty bread and handing it to him. ‘‘Or anything hurtful. Just the sort of thing that everyone knows already. You know…who’s been married five times, who is getting married—and why, if possible. That makes it more interesting. Who collects Elvis memorabilia, or better yet, thinks she’s spoken to Elvis recently.’’

Amusement softened his face and made his green eyes bright. ‘‘The sort of thing they’d put in the Tattler, if the Tattler were ever to do an edition about normal people?’’

‘‘Exactly. Though you can omit the candid photos.’’

Though his stories were short, they revealed a dry wit and tolerant acceptance blended with a good deal of perception. She listened, she chuckled at times, and she watched the strong bones of his wrists and the way the candlelight gilded the messy curls of his hair.

Impulsively she asked, ‘‘Why do you wear your hair long? I like it, but it doesn’t seem to fit.’’

If her question surprised him, it didn’t show. But for a second, she thought he looked uneasy. ‘‘I don’t like getting it cut. It’s childish, of course. As soon as I’m told to sit still and behave, I get restless.’’

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t a handsome man or a charming one. He was too self-contained for charm, and his face was too long, his shoulders broad but too bony for true masculine beauty. But there was something in the way he moved that drew the eye, something compelling in the way those uneven features were knit together, something in even his silences that fascinated…and then he smiled. He smiled, and you forgot whatever silly ideas you’d once held about what was and wasn’t beautiful.

They were interrupted a few times. Drew watched their latest visitor—an old woman with a mustache and a black cane—hobble off. ‘‘Amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so thoroughly interrogated without being asked a single question.’’

Rose chuckled. ‘‘It would be rude to question you, since everyone knows you’re here incognito.’’

His gaze flicked back to her, the creases beneath his eyes deepening. ‘‘Everyone knows? As in, one of those things everyone already knows and part of the stories making the rounds tonight?’’