Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector

He delivered his line with appropriate shock. ‘‘You mean you don’t?’’

‘‘I don’t mean to criticize anyone who does believe in it, but it seems silly. Though I suppose a half-awake seer might be able to use horoscopes to tap into her abilities,’’ she conceded. ‘‘It can’t be worse than using a crystal ball.’’

‘‘You don’t believe in astrology or use a crystal ball. My illusions are shattered.’’

‘‘You’re teasing me,’’ she said resignedly.

‘‘So why don’t you use a crystal ball?’’

‘‘Real crystal can be useful, but those glass globes people call crystal balls aren’t of much use, except as a neutral focus. Glass is a psychic insulator. Drew, do you really want to hear all this? I feel as if I’m delivering a lecture in Psychic Studies 101.’’

‘‘I want to hear it.’’

‘‘All right.’’ Her attention seemed fixed on the sidewalk in front of her, or else on an interior landscape. ‘‘Many materials hold psychic impressions. Some contain or insulate them, some disperse them, like water or salt—that’s why they’re used in cleansing rituals. Gemstones intensify whatever is impressed on them, which is probably why they’ve often been thought to have magical properties. Being Fire-Gifted, I’m especially sensitive to the emanations of materials that have been through fire, such as metal or pottery.’’

‘‘I see. Your abilities aren’t limited to visions.’’

Her sudden tension revealed itself in the way her fingers tightened, then relaxed in his, telling him he’d followed the trail correctly. ‘‘I do pick up impressions from objects sometimes. From animals and people, too. But not the way an empath or telepath would, so I don’t see how I could help.’’

‘‘What kind of impressions do you get from people?’’

‘‘I feel their ‘‘I feel their èsseri—call it their essence, or their auras. When I’m close to someone, it feels as if the air is denser, slightly resistant. And I get a sort of blunt sense of who this person is. Like a smell, I guess. Just as dogs recognize a person by scent, I recognize people by the way their auras feel.’’

‘‘But you don’t pick up actual thoughts? I can see why you didn’t think you could help. But,’’ he added thoughtfully, ‘‘I don’t understand why you were so reluctant to tell me about this.’’

‘‘Don’t you?’’ Her mouth twisted. ‘‘But then, right now you don’t believe any of this is real. Think about how you’d feel if you did believe it, or just started wondering if it was true. Would you want to be around someone you thought could read your mind?’’

‘‘I suppose not. But this business of feeling people’s auras isn’t like reading their minds.’’

‘‘No. I don’t pick up thoughts. Sometimes I can tell when someone is lying, if I’m close enough. Well—almost always,’’ she corrected herself reluctantly. ‘‘But a lie detector does the same thing, and that evidence would be admissible in court. My testimony wouldn’t.’’

‘‘And is what you pick up from objects similar? A unique ‘scent’ from those who have handled them?’’

She shot him an annoyed look. ‘‘You’re persistent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were taking this seriously.’’

He took it very seriously. He didn’t believe it—hell, he’d lied to her consistently and successfully. But her life might depend on his finding the right argument. ‘‘If you could pick up a residual aura from fragments of the bomb, you might be able to identify the person who planted it.’’

She bit her lip and looked down. The sidewalk here was old and canted as it climbed a hill. It glistened damply in the red-and-blue light from a neon sign on the store they were passing. So did her hair, black and lustrous.

Hunger bit, and frustration. He wanted his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers again. And didn’t dare touch her.

‘‘It’s called psychometry,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘And yes, it might work. I hadn’t thought of trying to trace the bomber that way. Are the fragments metal?’’

He had no idea if they’d even recovered any fragments. ‘‘I’ll have to check with Lorenzo about that. Will you do it?’’

She nodded slowly. ‘‘I’ll try, anyway. Tell him not to expect too much. Even if I do pick up a clear impression, I won’t be able to identify the person it came from unless I already know who that èssere belongs to.’’

‘‘Good.’’ Satisfaction filled him. At least he’d done one thing right tonight. As for the rest of it… He stopped, facing her and putting his hands on her shoulders.

Her skin was slick from the mist, but warm, not chilled. His thumbs moved, savoring the softness. ‘‘What I say next has nothing to do with Lorenzo or anything he wants from you. This is just from me.’’ It was true. True enough to worry his security-minded cousin. Hell, it worried him, too. ‘‘I want to see you again.’’

The dim light made secrets of her eyes, and her voice was too low to give anything away. But her shoulders were tense beneath his hands. ‘‘How long will you be in Montebello, Drew? A week? Two?’’

‘‘I haven’t decided. My business…’’ He shrugged. ‘‘It’s flexible. I can handle a great deal of it from here.’’

A small smile. ‘‘I thought you were an international playboy. That’s a job with duties you could fulfill pretty much anywhere.’’

‘‘You’ve been reading your aunt’s magazines.’’

The smile widened. ‘‘I look at the pictures sometimes.’’

He thought of the one picture he knew she’d seen—him, bare-bummed on a nude beach on the Riviera. The woman he’d gone there with hadn’t been in the photograph, but there’d been several coy references to her in the accompanying article. ‘‘There was a time when I worked hard to earn my reputation. I’ve grown up some since then, but no one wants to read about my real-estate investments for some reason.’’ His thumbs moved over damp, warm skin. ‘‘Is that a problem for you? My reputation?’’

‘‘No. But you aren’t going to be here long.’’ She paused. ‘‘I didn’t think that would be a problem, before…before you kissed me. Now…I don’t know what I want now.’’

He knew what he wanted—to follow the heat that moved between them, see where it led. He wanted his hands on her, and his mouth, and he wanted to know what sound she would make when he drove inside her. And if they had been alone, if only they’d been somewhere private right now, he was almost sure he could have found out.

Unless, of course, he went crazy on her. That would be a real mood spoiler. ‘‘You said you liked the ocean. Have you ever been snorkeling?’’

‘‘A few times. But—’’

‘‘Come with me tomorrow. There’s a private beach attached to the palace grounds, a little cove that’s perfect for snorkeling.’’

Tartly she said, ‘‘I’m not royal or noble or rich. I can’t close my shop on a whim to go play.’’

‘‘You must close it sometimes.’’ He moved closer, thinning the space between them until he could catch her scent—roses and musk, an unexpected blend of the cultivated and the wild. Like her. His fingers curved around her arms, rubbing lightly. ‘‘When can you get away?’’

‘‘I haven’t decided to get away with you. Or even to see you again.’’ Her expression was haughty, like a cat that hasn’t given permission to be petted. But her breath was hasty. ‘‘I need time and space to make that decision. I want you to back off.’’

‘‘That would probably be the smart thing to do.’’ Her hair turned frisky when it was damp, he noticed, losing its sleek gloss to curls. He pushed it back with one hand, tucking those wayward curls behind her ear so he could see her face better. Neon light, filtered by mist, fell rosy and soft on the curve of her cheek and jaw.

He really should back off. She’d asked him to. But maybe it would be best to find out if he was going to lose more than his control every time he kissed her.

Bending, he claimed her mouth.

Her lips were warmer than the skin he’d caressed. Her hands flew to his shoulders—maybe to push him away, but she didn’t. Instead, her fingers dug into his skin. Held on. Hunger twisted through him, smoky and treacherous.

He wouldn’t lose control this time. If he took it slow, held back, maybe he’d be safe. Maybe he could go on kissing her, holding her.

He fitted her into the curve of his body. She felt perfect there, held tight against him. She made a small sound. His arms tightened, and his mouth took. But the hands that had been kneading his shoulders were pushing against him. She was trying to end the kiss, to stop him—and he didn’t want to stop. Instead of letting her go, he held on more tightly. I can make her accept my kiss, accept me…

The thought echoed in a suddenly empty mind. He was thinking of forcing her? Shaken, he loosened his arms.

She tore herself free. Her chest was heaving. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. But it wasn’t anger he saw in her eyes. It was fear.

Appalled, he could only say he was sorry, that he had never meant to frighten her. Then he thought he should have kept his fool mouth shut, because a woman with her pride wouldn’t like being accused of fear.

She took a steadying breath, met his eyes and said something that made no sense. ‘‘I know. But you can hardly help scaring me.’’ And she turned and walked away.

He stayed with her, of course. In silence. In silence they climbed into his car, and neither of them spoke for several blocks. He told himself he was being ridiculous—he’d grown up knowing how to make social small talk. This silence shouldn’t be hard to fill. But she was the one who spoke first.

‘‘I suppose you’ll tell His Grace that I’ve agreed to help, if I can.’’

‘‘I’ll let him know.’’ They’d left the busy streets behind. Here, near her shop, the street was almost empty. He could see Roberts’s little Fiat in the rearview mirror. ‘‘I’ve screwed things up, haven’t I?’’

‘‘It’s not you. Or rather, it is you, but it’s me, too.’’ Her laugh was shaky and short, but genuine. ‘‘And if you understood that, please explain it to me.’’

‘‘You’re confused about what you want. There’s a hell of a lot I’m not too sure of myself, but I know what I want.’’ He double-parked in front of her shop. ‘‘I’ll walk you upstairs.’’

‘‘There’s no need. Truly.’’ She turned in her seat to face him. ‘‘Once you’ve had time to think it over, you’ll probably be relieved things ended between us when they did.’’

The muscles along his shoulders tensed. ‘‘You said you needed time to think, not that you were refusing to see me again.’’

‘‘Drew.’’ She shook her head slightly. ‘‘I’m confused, yes, for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I had a psychic moment.’’

He smiled, relieved. If that was her main objection, he could find a way to reassure her. ‘‘Is that what happened?’’

‘‘Can you honestly say you’re still interested in me? A woman who thinks she has visions?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. I want to see a great deal more of you. And I mean that in every way, including the one that worries you.’’

Her expression was calm, but her fretful fingers told another story as they slid the pendant back and forth on its chain. ‘‘That’s honest, at least. I’m not sure it’s flattering, since you think I’m nuts.’’

‘‘I think you’re brave and smart and lovely. Will you go to the ocean with me as soon as you can take some time off?’’

‘‘I…no, I don’t think so.’’

‘‘You pick the place, then.’’

She grimaced. ‘‘Pushing me to make a decision won’t get you the answer you’re looking for.’’

He wanted to push her, to make her agree, but some sliver of conscience or common sense held him back. ‘‘Just a minute,’’ he said, and got a business card from his wallet. He scribbled a number on the back of it and handed it to her. ‘‘That’s my cell-phone number, so you won’t have to go through the palace switchboard. Call me. Day or night, whenever you decide, call.’’

She turned the card over, studying it as if it held a mystery more significant than a private number. ‘‘All right.’’

When she got out, he didn’t stop her. He watched as she climbed the stairs, forcing himself to sit in the car instead of seeing her to her door. The drizzle had stopped, leaving the air clear, the shadows stark. A car moved slowly around him.

No doubt he was blocking traffic. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He watched as she opened the door, watched as it closed behind her. And still he sat there like a fool with nowhere to go, feeling as alone as he ever had in his life.

Chapter 8

Rose knew her aunt had waited up for her before she reached the top step. Strains of an aria from Carmen drifted out through the walls and door, and the window nearest the door glowed.

Damn. Rose wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about what had happened tonight. Not yet. She jabbed her key in the lock and twisted.

‘‘Couldn’t sleep?’’ she asked dryly as she closed the door behind her.

Gemma was curled up in the big green recliner reading a magazine. Her hair was braided for the night, as usual. The long braid hung over one shoulder of her powder-blue robe. She looked absurdly young. ‘‘I’m thinking of diversifying a little more,’’ she said placidly. ‘‘There’s an interesting article in the Economist about utility bonds.’’

Rose shook her head. Gemma sometimes had trouble with simple addition. She had no problem with esoteric economic principles, however, or investment strategy. Her portfolio wasn’t large, but it was as healthy as her herb garden. ‘‘Well, you can stay up and read if you like,’’ she said lightly. ‘‘I’m for bed.’’

‘‘That’s fine, dear,’’ Gemma said, putting the magazine down and uncoiling her legs. ‘‘I’ll make you some tea. Chamomile, I think. You’ll need a little help sleeping tonight.’’

Rose’s breath huffed out in exasperation. ‘‘How do you do that? I know darned good and well you aren’t reading my mind.’’

Gemma padded up to Rose and patted her cheek softly. ‘‘Cara mia, I know you. I don’t need telepathy to know when you’re hurting. Maybe valerian would be better than chamomile?’’

Abruptly Rose’s eyes stung. ‘‘Aunt Gemma, he’s an empath. A very strong, completely blocked empath.’’

‘‘Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry.’’ She blinked as her eyes, too, filled. ‘‘That poor boy. But he can’t be completely blocked, can he? I really don’t think he’s homicidal.’’

Her laugh was ragged. ‘‘No. No, Drew isn’t a sociopath. I exaggerated. His shields are thick and strong and utterly involuntary, but there must be some leakage I can’t detect. Maybe another empath could, if we could find a strong Water-Gifted who isn’t nutty.’’

‘‘There’s my cousin Pia…well, no, I suppose not. She’s strong, but…’’

‘‘Nutty,’’ Rose said wryly. ‘‘She’s blocked, too.’’

‘‘Her shields are voluntary,’’ Gemma said chidingly. ‘‘But I suppose she wouldn’t be very helpful. She doesn’t process what she receives well. There’s Cousin Gerald, too, but he only has a thimbleful of the Gift…and Gerald’s daughter is only seven, so I don’t think she…’’ Gemma sighed. ‘‘I’m not sure how much it would help to have another empath try to read Drew, anyway. He isn’t likely to cooperate. Unless he’s had some training?’’ she ended hopefully.

‘‘He’s completely unaware, from what I could tell. He doesn’t believe in psychic nonsense.’’

‘‘Still, you were able to get past his shields at some point. You must have, or you wouldn’t know he’s an empath.’’

‘‘His shield slipped.’’ She hugged herself, thinking of the split second when he’d been unshielded. He’d been kissing her…such a tiny slice of time to change her world so completely. ‘‘Just for a moment, it slipped. And scared him half out of his mind.’’

‘‘I’m sure it did, since he doesn’t believe in any of this. Though he can’t have been so completely blocked all of his life, surely. He seems to function very well.’’

Silence fell. Rose thought of all the ways an untrained empath could fail to ‘‘function well.’’ The Water-Gifted were in danger two ways—from the deluge of emotions their Gift exposed them to, and from blocking that Gift. It was impossible to predict what damage a blocked Gift would do, but Rose thought of it like water backed up in a dam. The results varied depending on where the dam was located, but one effect was inevitable: the conscious part of the blocked empath slowly dried up, becoming parched of emotion, while behind the dam the power built. And built. Until eventually no dam—no block—could hold it.

The solution was shields, not blocks—soft, layered shields that were flexible and porous, allowing some leakage. Shields the empath controlled. Shields that were acquired, learned, from childhood on.

Rose didn’t know an adult empath with Drew’s power who hadn’t been trained from childhood. Because without that training, they generally went insane.

‘‘There’s something…’’ A faint wrinkle formed in Gemma’s smooth, round forehead. ‘‘Something I can’t quite bring to mind. I read it a long time ago…’’

‘‘Something you read about Drew?’’

She nodded. ‘‘Not about any of his affairs or that woman he was engaged to. This was long before that.’’ She sighed. ‘‘Oh, well. I suppose it will come to me eventually.’’

‘‘He was engaged?’’ Rose asked, startled.

‘‘Oh, yes, years ago. It ended quite sadly—the poor thing wasn’t very stable, apparently. She tried to kill herself.’’

‘‘Dear God.’’

‘‘Of course, the tabloids printed a lot of nonsense about it. You know I don’t take the things they say seriously.’’

‘‘Of course not,’’ Rose murmured.

‘‘And it was all very one-sided, making Lord Andrew sound like a beast. I remember feeling sorry for him. It can’t be pleasant to be accused of driving your fiancée to attempt suicide—assuming, of course, he isn’t a beast, and I don’t think he is.’’

But she didn’t sound sure, and Rose knew why. ‘‘I’m going to wash and get into my nightgown,’’ she said abruptly.

Gemma patted her arm. ‘‘I’ll make your tea.’’

All evening Rose had been calling up everything she remembered of the lore as it applied to the Water-Gifted. It wasn’t encouraging. She creamed off her makeup and tried to be realistic.

Most people had a touch of empathy, just as many were brushed lightly by the other Gifts—dreams did sometimes come true, close friends or lovers sometimes knew what the other was thinking, and nurses, mothers and doctors often did bring comfort with a touch. In small doses, the Gifts were normal and human. They didn’t become troublesome until they reached a sort of critical point, when the Gift was too strong to remain unnoticed.

Empaths were the least stable of the Gifted when the Gift was strong, for obvious reasons. A strongly empathic baby didn’t distinguish between its feelings and those of others. It never developed much sense of self.

The Gifts didn’t usually show up in babies, of course. But an empathic toddler still suffered. Even the most loving of mothers had moments of anger, exhaustion, frustration, times when she just wanted her screaming or whining darling to shut up and go away. Such perfectly normal feelings didn’t damage most children, and actually helped civilize the little monsters. They learned that temper fits didn’t get them what they wanted.

An empathic child, however, felt its mother’s anger and knew itself to be the object of that anger. This didn’t make for a healthy child, or a healthy adult.

It all depends, Rose reminded herself as she slipped her nightgown over her head, on when Drew’s Gift first appeared. The more powerful the Gift, the earlier its arrival—that was the maxim. But sometimes a Gift didn’t manifest fully for years. Unfortunately her family’s lore was confusing, even contradictory in places, about why or how a Gift’s full strength might be delayed.

Gemma’s cousin made that point quite adequately. Poor Pia. She’d been identified as a Water-Gifted soon after she was born, thanks to Rose’s mother. Elenore Giaberti had been Fire-Gifted, like her daughter, and so able to touch the baby’s èssere.

The members of Pia’s family had done everything they could. It hadn’t been enough. Oh, Pia wasn’t damaged in the way an empathic baby in an unaware family might have been. But her Gift had been so strong. Pia had never been able to process the welter of emotions she received when unshielded, so she spent most of her life cut off from her Gift—with decidedly peculiar results. She was a gentle soul, mildly paranoid and convinced she talked to aliens.

But at least she’d been guided in developing her shields. Some empaths developed shields naturally. And those who shielded too completely, from too young an age, felt no connection with their fellow humans. They became sociopaths.

Drew’s Gift couldn’t have shown up when he was still a baby, Rose thought as she sat on her bed and began brushing out her hair. If it had, he wouldn’t have such a strong sense of self. And she couldn’t, she wouldn’t, believe he was sociopathic. She’d touched his èssere…

Her hand stilled, the brush, her hair, the room and everything else forgotten as she remembered. Such a tiny slice of time…

‘‘Here’s your tea, dear.’’

Rose stirred and put the brush down. She hadn’t even noticed Gemma come in. ‘‘Yes. Thank you.’’ The woodsy scent of chamomile soothed her. She took a sip.

‘‘What are you going to do?’’

She found a reassuring smile. ‘‘I’m a big, soggy, confused mess right now, but I’ll be all right.’’

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