by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
The leader had his gun drawn, a small, formidable piece of weaponry he waved toward Tristan. "Shut up and stand over there and you won't get hurt. We're just after pretty boy here." The man's eyes narrowed. "You have something that doesn't belong to you."
Tristan played for time, trying to think. "Who does it belong to?"
Both men were coming at him. The second one spoke with a slight Bostonian accent. "Like you don't know. Like you didn't steal it from that nitwit chemist. You went to bed with her for no reason, Elders. We want the formula back."
She expected panic, but all she felt was deadly calm. "How's he supposed to give it to you if he's dead?"
The first man scoffed. "He can't give it to anyone if he's dead."
Now panic reared its head. Her mind worked furiously. "That means you don't get it, either."
The second man's glare was condescending and icy. "But we've got the notes the chemist who came up with the formula took." He aimed his weapon at her. "I thought I told you to shut up."
She had no idea where the bravado was coming from. Especially since she had a terrible suspicion that the chemist they were talking about was dead. "Yeah, you did. But I don't take orders very well."
The next second, Chelsea pushed her cleaning cart at him, completely throwing him off. The gun went off, its shot going wild as he stumbled backward. He hit his head against a corner of the desk as he went down. The man was out cold.
Tristan threw himself against the other man, grappling for his weapon.
Another bullet went flying, shattering the glass door. The first gunman grabbed Chelsea's hair, pulling her to him. He aimed his gun to her head. "Got anything in your fall line to camouflage the effects of bullet to the brain, Elders?" He glared, triumphant.
"Put the gun down and maybe she lives," said the gunman.
Tristan had no choice but to comply.
Chapter Eight
The very next second, Chelsea ducked her head down as she drove her elbow into the man's ribs. It felt as if he'd ripped out her hair. Pain generated tears that sprang to her eyes. The man yelped, releasing her.
Tristan immediately grabbed the weapon he'd dropped and trained it on the gunman. "Are you all right?" he asked Chelsea.
Her scalp still felt as if it was on fire. "I'll live."
Blinking away tears, she went straight for the telephone, stopping only to pick up the other weapons and to reassure herself that the first man was still out. He was.
Tristan cocked the gun he was holding. "Call the police."
She pulled the telephone to her on the desk. "Way ahead of you."
Tristan never took his eyes off the man he was holding his gun on. Behind him, Chelsea was pressing an awful lot of buttons on the telephone keypad. "Have they hyphenated 911?"
Please be there, please be there. "This'll be faster, I promise." She counted off eight rings before she heard the familiar deep voice. "Hello, Uncle Gary? This is Chelsea. I need help." She rattled off the address on the front of the building. "We're on the 15th floor, room 12. And, Uncle Gary, this is official," she added. "Bring your gun." She hung up.
It was hard not taking his eyes off his prisoner. "Uncle Gary?"
Chelsea bent over the other assailant. He didn't move. She wondered if he had a concussion. "Not really my uncle. He's actually my godfather. Gary Worchester. He's with the L.A.P.D."
Tristan could only shake his head. The woman had all the bases covered. "Why am I not surprised?"
She came up beside him, relieved that she didn't have to worry about him any longer. And a little sorry, too. "I don't know,
why?"
"Because I'm beginning to believe that you're a magician, that's why."
The answer tickled her.
Officer Gary Worchester arrived exactly 15 minutes later. Standing 6'7" in his regulation police uniform shoes, the gentle Worchester could create an imposing impression on anyone loitering on the wrong side of the law.
Answers from the two men who had invaded the offices of Gabrielle Cosmetics and threatened the life of one of its CEOs were not long in coming. Richard Elders had stolen a formula that Mayflower Cosmetics had been working on for nearly a decade, thanks to a liaison with a rather vulnerable lady chemist with low self-esteem and a high sex drive. No one knew where Elders or the formula was.
It took another two hours before everything was squared away and Tristan and Chelsea were allowed to leave the police precinct. Her godfather had even sent a man out to check over Tristan's car. The vehicle was safe. No bombs had been planted. For Tristan the ordeal was over.
Walking out of the precinct, Tristan held the door open for Chelsea. The night air felt bracing. He took a deep breath. "Well, that ends that."
She nodded. "Except that the formula is still missing."
"Right now, I don't think I care very much about 'dramatically reducing wrinkles' and 'sensuously tightened skin,'" he said, quoting the press release that had been uncovered.
They walked briskly to her car in the darkened lot. "You might not, but a lot of women do."
"Not you." Stopping before her car, Tristan ran the back of his hand along her cheek and watched in fascination as her pupils grew larger. "Not for a long, long time."
It took her a second to find her voice. "Never too early to be prepared." Taking a deep breath, she opened her car door. Tristan rounded the hood and got in on the passenger side.
Closing the door, he strapped in. "You were right."
Chelsea left her keys in the ignition and looked at him. "About wrinkles?"
"No, that this was a case of mistaken identity. I wonder where Elders is."
She made an educated guess. "Either vacationing in some exotic resort spending his advance — or sleeping with the fishes would be my guess."
Tristan nodded, agreeing. "Well, you've been dead on so far."
She shuddered. "Please, use another word. I think I'll stay away from 'dead' for a while." Chelsea started the car.
He looked at her profile as she backed the vehicle out and eased it onto the street. "So I guess I won't be needing your services any longer."
Where had this awful pang come from? An overwhelming sadness draped her. "Guess not."
Was it proper to ask your P.I. out after the fact? He had nothing to guide him except the way he felt about her. "By the way, you never did tell me what you charge."
She supposed now was as good a time as any to come clean. It was over, right? "There's a reason for that."
He remembered. "Right, your secretary handles all those details."
Chelsea eased down on the brake as the light up ahead turned red. "No, a different reason." She took a deep breath. "Those two goons thinking you were Elders wasn't the only case of mistaken identity that was going on." This was coming out all wrong, she thought, stumbling over her own tongue.
She could feel Tristan looking at her.
"I don't follow you."
The light turned green. Her foot covered the accelerator. Her heart was accelerating, as well. "I'm not M. Ryker."
"You're not?" He stared at her, thrown completely off balance. "Then what were you doing at the computer — are you a secretary?"
She laughed, though she didn't find it very funny. "Not even warm."
Five minutes ago, he would have said his life was finally back on track; now it felt as if the rug had just been pulled out from under him. Again.
"If you're not M. Ryker and not the secretary, then just who are you?"
Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Chelsea dug into her side pocket with the other. Pulling out her wallet, she held up her driver's license for him, so that he'd have proof she wasn't lying again.
"Chelsea Mack." Closing the wallet, she tucked it back into her pocket. "I'm an investigative reporter."
That went a long way in explaining her ability to think quickly on her feet, but didn't make a dent in why she'd lied to him in the first place. "Just who are you investigating?"
She s
lanted a look in his direction. He didn't look angry, but then, that could just be deceptive cover. "Max Ryker."
Some of the pieces were beginning to fit together. "Then you were hacking into his computer."
"Something like that."
Tristan still found the story incredible. "And he let you?"
"He's out of the state." She thought about telling Tristan that Ryker was the missing former Duke of Montebello, but decided that it would only make her story sound even more implausible. For now, she'd keep that to herself. "It's for a story for the Times..."
Now it was making sense. "And that man on the phone earlier tonight?"
"That was my editor. I was supposed to file my notes earlier." And her deadline was getting closer and closer, she realized.
This was turning out to be one hell of a day — and night. "Let me get this straight. You're not a P.I."
She was hitting all the lights. At this rate, she'd have him back in the parking lot, and his car, in no time. And out of her life. "No."
"You're a reporter."
Was that anger in his voice, or disappointment? She couldn't tell. She could only be honest with him. Finally. "Yes."
He didn't understand and he was getting tired of not understanding. "Then why did you help me?"
This part was easy. "Because you needed it. Because someone was shooting at you." She paused, then gave him her original reason. "And because I thought I could get an inside slant on the kind of life Ryker leads if I worked one of his cases."
There was a long moment of silence, and then he said, his voice deadly calm, "That's fraud, you know, posing as something you're not."
"I prefer to think of it as undercover work." She allowed herself a smile as she looked at him, mentally crossing her fingers. "You could come home with me and find out the difference."
And then, to her relief, Tristan's solemn expression melted and he grinned. "I guess I could at that." He saw his car up ahead and put his hand into his pocket to get his keys. His fingers came in contact with a piece of paper. He pulled it out, scanning it. "I guess I won't be needing this anymore."
Entering the parking lot, she saw the paper in his hand. "What is it?"
"Ryker's phone number and address. I copied it from the phone book."
She thought she saw writing on the other side. A gut instinct jumped into play. Chelsea stopped the car. "Wait, let me see that." He gave it to her. She flipped it over, then looked at him. "Where did you get this piece of paper?"
"It was stuck on the runner in Elder's closet. I pulled it out this morning and I must have written down Ryker's address on it. Why?"
She grinned, holding it up to him. "Look at it."
As he took in what he saw, it occurred to Tristan that he was probably never going to be surprised by anything again after tonight. "It looks like a formula of some sort."
It did to her, too. "Might be what all the fuss was about. Shouldn't we get it to somebody?"
It was past three in the morning. "It can wait. Right now, I'm still interested in finding out what other kind of undercover work you do."
A warm feeling slipped around her. "I had no idea you had such a one-track mind."
The hell with waiting until they got to her place. He leaned over and kissed her. Slowly.
"I have a feeling, Chelsea, that I'm going to be on this track for a long, long time." He searched her face for a sign. "Is that all right with you?"
"The engineer has no complaints. Besides," she grinned, "you're the man with the formula that'll keep me looking eternally young."
He laughed. "I believe in stacking the deck whenever I can."
She had a feeling she was going to be late with her notes after all. "If you feel that way, put your mouth where your money is."
He leaned over and undid her seat belt. "Interesting turn of the phrase."
The notes were going to be very, very late. "Shut up and kiss me again, Tristan."
She didn't have to tell him twice.
* * * THE END * * *
The Disenchanted Duke
MARIE FERRARELLA
ROMANCING THE CROWN
A kingdom holds its breath...a duke comes out of hiding. ..trial and temptation meet as the search for the missing crown prince of Montebello stretches across the globe!
Duke Maximillian Ryker Sebastiani: The Disenchanted Duke will do anything to help the search for his missing cousin, the crown prince of Montebello. Even give up his precious anonymity: and maybe his heart!
Cara Rivers: Life has taught the bounty hunter to trust no one. Now her destiny rests in the hands of an intriguing man whose very identity is suspect.
King Marcus Sebastiani: His Majesty hopes the criminal his nephew Max seeks will hold the key to find his missing son and heir.
Kevin Weber, aka Jalil Salim: Is he a petty criminal? Or a threat to the crown of Montebello?
Dearest Reader,
In The Disenchanted Duke you have before you my favourite type of story: the feisty, chipper heroine going toe-to-toe with the strong, handsome, sombre hero. During the course of the story, she shows him it's all right to be human, and he shows her it's all right to be vulnerable. Mix in a little danger, a little intrigue, a good dose of banter and healthy sex, and voilà, you have (I hope) a good read to curl up with on a rainy day. Or a sunny day. Or maybe not even a day at all, but an evening. Anyway, the point is that I love writing this kind of story and, I hope, this love translates into a really good read for you, because some of what I'm feeling when I'm getting to know these characters who have leaped off the keyboard and popped up on my computer screen has to filter back to you, the reader. I've never tackled a duke or a bounty hunter before, so after one hundred and thirty books, I can honestly say this was a new experience for me. I sincerely hope that it is a pleasing, exciting one for you, as well.
Whatever you do, keep reading! And from the bottom of my heart, I wish you love.
Marie Ferrarella
Chapter 1
"You got a strange call in this morning that you might not want to return."
Max Ryker had just walked into the first-floor office that he maintained in Newport Beach's trendy Fashion Island, a warm check in his pocket and the satisfying rush of a job well done still coursing through his veins. He paused before closing the outer door, puzzled by the enigmatic sentence his grandfather had just greeted him with.
"Well, seeing as how I just wrapped up a case for Lilah Beaumont." He mentioned the name of the most recent Hollywood star who had availed herself of his well-honed investigative services, "if the call is about taking on a new assignment, strange or not, the odds are I'll be returning it."
William Ryker pivoted the wheelchair he'd learned to operate expertly like an extension of the legs that no longer obeyed his command and looked at his grandson. A fortuitous twist of fate had brought Max back into his life nearly sixteen years ago after an absence of almost twenty. It wasn't many men who found themselves learning to become a grandfather to a full-grown man.
For all intents and purposes, he and Max came from two different worlds. But Bill was grateful for the chance to bridge that gap and the years that had come before.
Grateful, too, that even now his handsome, thirty-six-year-old grandson had gone out of his way to find a place for him in his life. Bill spent his days working as Max's all-around man Friday at the detective agency Max had started up several years after he left his birthplace, the tiny kingdom of Montebello, and came to live in Southern California. Felled by a robbery suspect's bullet five years ago and confined to a wheelchair by a shattered vertebra, Bill found that working at the agency gave him the opportunity to use the experience he'd amassed in his years on the L.A. police force.
It made him feel useful, something he knew Max acitly understood.
"I don't know about that," Bill murmured in response as he moved the large wheels of his chair to the desk where he'd left the carefully written message. His aim was less than perfect, and one of the w
heels hit the side of the desk. He cursed quietly, righting his position.
Max watched his grandfather maneuver his wheelchair. He knew better than to get behind Bill and push. A man's pride was a fragile thing and should be respected. Still, it bothered him to see the man struggle.
Max suppressed a sigh. "I wish you'd let me get you a motorized one."
It was familiar ground. They'd covered it more than once before. Bill knew the concern came out of love rather than impatience or a tendency to patronize, so it didn't irritate him. He picked up the phone message, then spun the chair around 180 degrees.
"And I told you I don't need one of those fancy things. How'm I supposed to get my exercise if I sit on one of those metal magic carpets? Besides," he snorted, "the batteries could die while I'm out in the middle of nowhere, then what?"
Max shook his head. Sometimes he thought the Rockies would sooner crumble than his grandfather would change his mind once he'd made it up.
But for argument's sake, he said, "Then you call me on the cell phone you'd have with you and I'd come and get you."
The answer made no impression. "Supposing you're occupied?"
Bill emphasized the last word as if there was only one way that someone as handsome as his six-foot-one grandson could be occupied. He raised and lowered bushy black-and-gray brows in a devilish fashion, wishing with all his heart that he was thirty-six again, too, and whole.
Max grinned fondly at the old man. "For you, Grandpa, I'd always make time."
Funny word, "grandpa," Bill mused. He'd always thought he'd hate the sound of it, that hearing it applied to himself would make him feel old. But he had been separated from both his grandsons by his late daughter, Helen, for so long that all he felt whenever he heard the name was grateful.
"Here." Bill held out the yellow piece of paper he'd written the long telephone number on. The former police sergeant fervently hoped that what was on the piece of paper would not ultimately take the young man out of his life again. Not after he'd waited all this time to have Max come into it.