by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
"It went to her head." Briefly Drew's expression softened. His brother Rafe had settled into marriage as if he were made for it—and perhaps he was. As long as his partner was Serena. "The last bit of bait Anna trolled across my path was a pretty blond bundle of innocence named Theresa. I gather I was supposed to have been struck by the contrast she made with my usual fare and collapsed, smitten, into matrimony. Or at least come down with a mild case of honorable intentions.
"Ah. What did you do? Or maybe I don't want to know."
"Probably not."
Lucas held his tongue through the picture gallery and into the green sitting room. "I take it you aren't feeling any overriding impulse to unburden yourself.
"You sound very American. Another result of your trauma?"
"Dammit, Drew—was the girl an innocent? And just what did you do?"
"Nothing extensive, though I'm afraid the tour I offered her wasn't exactly what your sister had in mind. Don't worry," he added drily. "I may have done more sightseeing than I should have, but I don't tour virgins."
It was easy to see Lucas didn't approve, but then, Sebastiani males were born with a hair-trigger impulse toward chivalry. "Was that really necessary?"
"It seemed so at the time. She wasn't the one I was trying to discourage."
"You wanted her to run crying to Anna so she'd stop matchmaking."
"Yes." He paused. "I suspect my mother had been encouraging her."
Lucas didn't respond, a courtesy Drew appreciated. It was well-known within the family that Drew and his mother were, if not estranged, at least at odds. Her Grace did not approve of her son's lifestyle. In time-honored female fashion, she considered that the cure lay in finding the right woman—kind, gentle, well-bred and as close to untouched as possible.
Drew often wondered how a woman as perceptive as his mother could read her own son so poorly. "You haven't asked me about the bombing," he observed.
"No need for you to go over everything more than once. I think I should warn you—oh, hell, that's presumptuous of me, isn't it? You've been here." Bitterness bit down on the last words. "I haven't.
"You've been here for the last three weeks.
"But not for months before that. What that did to them.. .I've never seen age sit on my father the way it does now. It worries me. I'm trying to help, to take over some of the responsibilities—but dammit, why did he stay up to hear from you tonight? It's past one o'clock. He might have trusted me to find out if there was anything urgent. Or even to act on it myself."
They'd reached the double doors that led to the king's suite. Drew stopped. "It isn't about you, you know. Marcus doesn't lack confidence in your ability or your dedication, but letting go doesn't come easily to a man accustomed to rule."
Lucas stared at him, grim and silent, then gave a quick bark of laughter. "God help me, you did it again. You're like a bloody stage magician—no matter how closely I think I'm watching your hands, you still pull secrets out of my hat." He slapped Lucas on the back harder than was necessary. "Go on, go in there and talk to my father before I tell you about the time I lost my virginity."
"You told me that years ago. Not long after it happened, as I recall, though the disclosure was more along the lines of bragging than confessing. You were—"
His cousin opened the door and shoved him through it.
When Drew passed through those doors again forty minutes later, he was alone. The suite reserved for the Harrington family lay in yet another wing. By the time he turned into the second-longest hall on his route, he was weaving, and after a while he realized he'd stopped moving altogether. Instead, he was leaning against one wall, staring at the paintings hanging on the other.
A Monet and one of Segatini's rural scenes. He remembered them, but he couldn't see them. It's not my eyes, he thought. There were shapes, forms, colors. His brain had simply stopped processing the input.
A vague mental image of a sofa, brocaded and plump with pillows, rose in his mind. He wouldn't have to stagger all the way to the bedroom. The sofa in the sitting room would do. Or the floor.
But not this floor. He was still in the hall. Blinking, he managed to focus, push away from the wall and take a few steps.
"Drew? Are you all right?"
Lorenzo. Turning his head, Drew saw his cousin about twenty paces away. Had Lorenzo seen him propped drunkenly against the wall? No, he decided. If he'd seen that much, he wouldn't ask if Drew was all right. It would be all too obvious that he wasn't. Drawing on the stubborn dregs of his pride, Drew shut the fatigue away once more, closing up the part of him that knew how few minutes remained before he collapsed. "I'mfine," he said curtly. "More tired than I'd realized."
Lorenzo started toward him, frowning. "You look like hell."
"I've been running short on sleep the last few days, that's all. It's caught up with me."
Lorenzo stopped in front of him. "You shouldn't have stayed at the airport so long, flexing your muscles."
Drew couldn't penetrate the fog well enough to read the other man's expression. God, he wanted to be alone. Like an injured animal dragging itself back to its den, he craved the closed door that would shut out the rest of the world. "I was hoping for a medal. Something tasteful to wear on state occasions.
That earned him a grin, but it was perfunctory. "Yeah, such a glory hound you are. I'd intended to talk to you after reporting to Marcus, but maybe I should ask you now. You don't look as if you'll be upright much longer."
True. Though he was apt to go horizontal more dramatically than his cousin expected. "Ask me what?"
"About the woman Captain Mylonas found. Signorina Giaberti. Mylonas is an idiot, of course, but he may have accidentally turned up a decent lead. We don't have any evidence against her, nothing that links her to any known terrorist groups, but she's involved somehow, or she's protecting someone who is. God knows her story doesn't hold water."
It was hard to follow a thought long enough to reply sensibly. "What's her story?"
He snorted. "She's psychic. Saw the whole thing in a dream."
Drew pictured her, the knowing eyes and amused mouth. The body, lush and firm and inviting. A small, distant flicker of sexual interest arrived with the image, along with a tinge of disgust. "As lies go, that one sucks.
"It's nonsense, of course, but there's a certain superficial credibility. Her mother was burned as a witch.
"Good God, Lorenzo, this isn't the sixteenth century!"
"Not for you and me, maybe, but in some ways Montebello is one big village, and time moves differently in the village mind. Never mind that now. I can fill you in on her history tomorrow, if you agree."
"You haven't asked me anything yet."
"I noticed a certain chemistry between you and the si-gnorina. I'd like you to pursue that. See her socially, get her to trust you. Talk to you. You're good at that.
So he was. He couldn't keep the distaste from his voice. "Pillow talk?"
"If that's what it takes. I don't want another bomb going off. Drew..." Lorenzo's hesitation was brief. "You know what a powder keg we've been sitting on the past few months. The king kept us out of war by sheer force of will, but you'll have seen what a toll it's taken on him. Now that he considers the danger over, he's...not as clearheaded as usual. I'm not going to tell him what I've asked you to do."
"He wouldn't stand for it, would he? Too bloody unchivalrous." Colors were starting to fade as the gray at the edges of his vision blurred into the rest. He could scarcely think beyond the need to be alone. "Of course I'll do it. Why not?
Chapter 3
"The flame was blue-white with heat—but tiny. Small enough to be safe. The woman guiding that flame wore a canvas apron over pink chinos and tinted safety glasses. No jewelry, no makeup. Her black hair was tied in a rough knot at her nape, though curly bits escaped to frisk around her face.
The worktable she was bent over was cluttered. Tongs, tweezers, wire cutters, a two-inch nail and a tiny hammer, spools of silver wire
and several thin golden squares crowded the surface directly in front of her. Small wooden and plastic boxes lined the back of the table, and more tools hung on the pegboard on the wall behind it. A draftsman's adjustable light was clamped to the table's edge. A vise gripped a silver arm cuff, three inches wide and partially worked, at the front of the table.
The little soldering iron kissed the air beneath the bit of wire Rose held, kissed and retreated in a butterfly's insubstantial salute. Silver beaded and fell, directed by a subtle flick of her wrist.
"Natala Baldovino is at the market," Rose's aunt Gemma announced gloomily from the doorway.
"I thought you were watching the shop." Rose released the button on the little soldering iron. The flame died.
"I needed pancetta for the carbonara sauce, and some olives. Pietra offered to go. I think she has her eye on the youngest Christofides boy."
"Pietra has her eye on both Christofides boys, along with any other male who crosses her path. She doesn't mean anything by it. Nothing serious, at least."
"I'm not sure the young men realize that. She said Natala Baldovino had already made the rounds."
Rose studied the way silver swirled over gold in a stylized, intricate yin-yang design on the arm cuff and nodded, satisfied. "I suppose Signora Baldovino is allowed to buy olives."
"If that had been her purpose, I'd have no objections," her aunt observed in a fair-minded way. "But you know it isn't. You know what she's saying."
Rose had a pretty good idea. She also cherished some hope of finishing the cuff—and avoiding the lecture Gemma had been trying to deliver ever since the police released her yesterday. She loosened the vise, turned the cuff and tightened it again. "I'm thinking of using mother-of-pearl here, for the moon."
"Very pretty, dear. It reminds me of that new ring."
"What new ring?"
"Didn't I tell you? A rather flashy young woman brought it in yesterday morning. An American."
"You bought a ring for the shop." Rose inhaled a slow breath for patience as anxiety bit. The shop did well normally, but this summer hadn't been normal. The possibility of war with Tamir had discouraged tourists, sales were half what they'd been last year at this time, and her bank balance hadn't been this low since she'd first opened the shop.
Now it might be in the red. "You didn't check with me. You know you have to check with me before you buy anything.
"How could I? You were in jail."
Defeated, Rose swiveled on her stool.
Her aunt stood in front of the desk Rose used when she couldn't avoid paperwork any longer. Gemma Giaberti was a small woman, plump and firm as a pear, with black hair coiled high on her round head. She had cow's eyes—big, brown and placid, with extravagant eyelashes. Her skirt was long and full, the color of moss. Her blouse was white and embroidered. Today she wore only two necklaces, a baroque locket of about the same age as her house, and an intricately worked chain her niece had made for her two years ago.
"I wasn't in jail," Rose said, studying those placid eyes with suspicion. "I spent hours at the police station because Mylonas is an idiot, but they didn't put me behind bars. How could they? They have no evidence of any wrongdoing.
"Of course not, but that isn't stopping Natala Baldovino from passing around her version of events."
"Maybe the gossip will bring people into the shop." When her aunt just blinked at her in polite skepticism, Rose grimaced. "I know, I know. They're more likely to put a rock through the window."
"Oh, surely not. No one's done that in years, have they? Except for the Peterson boy, and really, I don't think he counts. He threw rocks through everyone's windows until he went into the army." Gemma clucked her tongue. "Rose, your head is hurting. You forgot to eat lunch again, didn't you?"
"I had a big breakfast. Do you by any chance remember how much you paid for this ring?
"I'm sure I wrote it down. I know you like everything to be accounted for.. .the receipt book?" Her forehead, smoother than a woman her age had any right to have, puckered now as she considered the matter. "Yes, that's it. I asked her to give me a receipt for the money, and she did. She signed it and—" Gemma finished with triumph " —I had her put her address below her signature.
"That will help—if it's her real name and address."
That brought a moment's silence. "I suppose I should have asked to see identification. A passport or something.
"It might have been a good idea." Rose stood and stretched, unkinking stiff muscles. How long had she been bent over her newest design? A glance at the clock informed her that Gemma was right. She had forgotten lunch. "Just think how happy it would make Captain Mylonas if we bought stolen goods and he found out."
"Bah. He's a worm."
"A worm with a badge." Gemma had been right about something else, too. She had a headache. Nothing vicious, more like a tired child whining for attention. Rose reached up to loosen her hair and rub her temples. "I'll need to give the police a description of the ring so they can check their list of stolen property, just in case. Is it in the stockroom?"
"I put it with the receipt book, I think. In the cash drawer."
' The cash drawer? No, don't tell me. I'm sure it made perfect sense at the time." She untied her apron as she walked briskly to the door. "What does the ring look like?"
"Not terribly old, but unusual. A ruby and a pearl set in a thick band. I'm sure you'll like it. After all, the pattern is the same as the one you're making now, so that proves it, doesn't it?"
Her apron went on a hook on the back of the door. Her hands went to her hair, finger-combing it quickly. Fruit, she thought. Or maybe some nuts. A little food would cure the ache in her head. She pushed open the door to the shop.
Her spirits lifted. The shining counters, the shelves and display cases full of the beautiful, the fanciful, the unique—this was hers. Her aunt helped, certainly. So had the bank. But persuading a banker to take a chance on a young, unmarried woman—one who lacked the convenience of a father —had been as much of an accomplishment as finding the stock, teaching herself bookkeeping and building a clientele and a reputation.
A different reputation, that is. The one she'd been born with had its drawbacks.
She turned the key in the cash drawer. First the receipt book... The figure she saw entered in Gemma's rounded handwriting made her mutter something in German. Rose considered German the best language for cursing, partly because of all those clacking consonants. Partly, too, because her aunt didn't understand it.
"Where's the ring?" she demanded. "Is this it?" She held up a small glass box, her eyebrows raised. "Glass, Zia?"
Gemma smiled vaguely. "It seemed best.
Wonderful. She was going to have to use almost all of her savings to cover a check written because her aunt refused to stop meddling. Rose scowled and snatched off the lid. "This had better be..."
"Yes," Gemma said softly from Rose's shoulder. "I thought it was the same, and it is."
Executed in miniature on the band of the ring was her own yin-yang design—a design that had come to her in a dream. She gave one quick, irritated shake of her head. "Damn. I'd better see why it showed up, then." She reached for the ring.
"Rose, wait until—"
Too late. She'd closed her hand around the ring.
Seconds later her knees went soft. She swayed.
A plump arm closed around her shoulders, steadying her. The ring left her hand, breaking the connection. Her eyelids lifted."My God."
"Are you all right?"
She blinked. Gemma had put the ring back in its glass box, shielded once more. "You might have warned me."
' T tried to," Gemma said tartly. "Though I had no idea it would hit you so hard."
"You put it in glass. You knew it needed warding.
"I knew it was for you to see, that's all. Psychometry isn't my Gift." She released Rose's shoulders. "What did you feel?"
Her aunt's voice held all the crispness it usually lacked. Rose responded autom
atically. "Grief. Wild and deep...whoever she is, she's hurting."
"You're rubbing your stomach. Is she in physical pain?"
Oh. So she was. Rose stopped rubbing but kept her hand on her stomach, turning her attention to the echoes of feeling still trembling inside her. "Not physical pain. Emotional. An empty womb." Her voice went flat and bleak. "Whoever she is, she's lost a child. Miscarriage, maybe..." Rose shook her head, throwing off the traces of someone else's heartache. "I don't understand why the connection was so strong. Aside from the ring being made of metal, there's no link to fire—"
"Are you sure?"
She glanced at her aunt, impatient. She knew what Gemma wanted. The same thing she always wanted— for Rose to explore her Gift, to learn it, use it. That was why she'd bought the ring. "I couldn't very well miss that. I didn't recognize her."
Gemma patted her arm. "You will next time, dear."
"No."
"The ring came to you. There's a reason for that, even if—"
The chimes above the door rang. "Later, Zia." Rose tucked her hair behind her ear, turned to the door— and froze.
It was him. The man from the airport. The one who'd been with His Grace, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani, nephew of the king and head of Montebello's intelligence service. His clothes were cleaner and more casual today, but just as expensive. His face was hard, lean. Not a lovely face, but the sort a woman remembered. And the eyes—oh, they were the same, the clearest, coldest green she'd ever seen.
So was the quick clutch of pleasure in her stomach. "What are you doing here?"
"Rose." Gemma's tone was repressive.
"Your store is open, isn't it?" He had a delicious voice, like melted chocolate dripped over the crisp consonants and rounded vowels of upper-class English.
Gemma moved out from behind the counter. "Pay no attention to my niece. Missing a meal makes her growl. Did you have something specific in mind, my lord, or would you like to look around awhile?"
My lord? Well, Rose thought, that was no more than she'd suspected, and explained why he seemed familiar. She must have seen his picture sometime. This man wasn't just rich, he was frosting—the creamy top level of the society cake.