by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
"No, Ryan. You were born to do what you do. I can't imagine your doing anything else. Did they catch the man?" Nina asked. She didn't have to specify which man.
"Yeah, I got him," Ryan said. "I knew who he was and where he might be. That same night after I saw what was left of my house, heard what was left of Kath and Chrissy, I found him. He was establishing his alibi at the time."
"You arrested him?" Nina asked tentatively.
"No, I shot him. I identified myself. He ran. I knew he would. I don't think it would have mattered if he hadn't. Lucky for me he had a gun in his hand at the time. And no, I didn't put one there." Ryan's eyes were as steady as his voice. "It doesn't haunt me. I was justified."
"Yes, you were. Let's go back to the cabin now," Nina suggested as she stood. "You could use some rest and so could I."
He joined her and reached down to take her hand, lacing his fingers through hers as they walked. "Nina?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry you had to hear all that, but I think I can discuss it now without getting so wound up. It's just that today was the first time I've actually talked about it to anyone since it happened. I feel better, but now you're shook up. That can't be good for you in your condition. If there is a condition."
She squeezed his hand, returning his bittersweet smile. "Don't worry. I'll have some oatmeal and I'll be just fine."
He actually laughed. "What am I gonna do about your eating habits? I'll bet your cholesterol is minus zero!"
"What if I make us hamburgers just like Pete's?" she asked, trying to sound cheerful.
He rolled his eyes and groaned, his good humor either restored or pretended. Either way, Nina knew he would be all right now.
What she wasn't sure about was whether she should marry him. She had known all along Ryan had baggage. She just hadn't realized how heavy it was. She glanced up at him. He did look relieved. After that long flight, their rather vigorous lovemaking and only enough sleep to muddle the mind, he hadn't needed to rehash the worst tragedy of his life.
She would have to wait and see. This love of theirs, powerful as it seemed, was too new to trust completely.
* * *
Ryan sat at the table slicing potatoes into strips while he watched Nina fry the burgers. He liked the way they worked in tandem. Hell, they loved in tandem. They would be better than good together. He also knew she needed some space, some time to think. He had tried very hard to stay calm while telling her about Kath and Chrissy, but it had been harder than he'd thought it would be. It turned out to be something of a catharsis for him. He realized now that he should have told someone else first.
Amazing how much it had helped, just getting it all out there. It had upset her. She had cried. He knew Nina well enough to know those tears had been for his family and for him.
"You're a generous woman," he said, dropping the last pieces of potato on the plate and standing up to join her at the stove.
"I know," she replied. "Otherwise I would be stirring in raisins and cinnamon right about now." She shoveled the meat patties onto a plate with the spatula.
He added oil to the pan and waited for it to heat. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." She busied herself arranging the hamburgers on buns, adding the condiments to both. "Maybe I should tell you I plan to sleep on the sofa tonight." Ryan shrugged. "It's a little narrow unless we sleep stacked up, but I don't mind. You can have the top this time."
She turned to him and placed a hand on his forearm. "Give me some time to think, Ryan."
"Sleep with me. Just let me hold you while you think, hmm? We don't have to make love."
Reluctantly, she nodded. He knew he shouldn't push, but he just didn't think he could be apart from her tonight after all they had said and done today.
* * *
The next morning, Ryan woke up feeling better than he had in years. Sunlight streamed through the window and the September breeze cooled his skin where the sheet had slipped away.
Nina lay curled next to him, her dark hair silky against his shoulder. He drew the covers over her bare arm and watched her sleep, breathed in the sweet scent of her and felt the soft rise and fall of her breasts against his body.
The silver frame on the dresser caught his eye and he couldn't help the small jolt at seeing the unexpected. Dad must have put the picture there, or maybe Trish had when she'd decorated the place.
Ryan stared at the photo for a long time, letting the memories flood back. Good memories. None of them involved Point Tipsy. Fair as most redheads, Kath always avoided the beach. And she hadn't liked boats at all.
"I didn't move it," Nina said softly, awake now and watching him. "I left it there last night on purpose. To see your reaction," she admitted, looking a little ashamed of herself.
Ryan smiled down at her. "You don't feel like you're competing with ghosts, do you?"
She winced. "A little, maybe. Not that you should forget them. That wouldn't be right, either."
"Couldn't if I wanted to," he admitted. "But they were part of another life, Nina. I was a different man then, I think. I can't feel anything of the old one in here anywhere now, and that's probably just as well."
He got up and put the picture away, touching the two faces with a fingertip and smiling back at them before he closed the drawer and turned away. They would always be there in a part of his heart and mind, but that was all right. The goodbye had been said and he knew they would wish him well in what was left of his life. He would have wished the same for them.
Nina was watching him, but looked away when he turned.
"Ready for breakfast?" he asked. "I'm starved."
"No," she said. "What I'd really like to do is go over to the mainland and find a pharmacy."
He couldn't contain a grin and by God, it felt genuine. "Pregnancy kit, huh?"
She nodded. "I can't stand not knowing. You must be fairly curious to find out yourself."
"It might be too soon to know. Suppose you weren't pregnant before and it happened yesterday?"
"Omigod! We didn't use anything! I was so... I didn't even think about it then!"
"Because you were fairly sure you already were, right?"
She didn't have to answer, it was written all over her face. "You didn't think of it, either," she accused.
He smiled. "Is that what you'd call a Freudian slip?"
"No, I wouldn't. You certainly can't blame Freud for it."
"Me? I'd like a boy. Fishing buddy," he told her. "But if you insist on a girl, I think I can remember how to screw Barbie heads back on."
Nina laughed. "You're okay with it? You're sure?"
"I'm okay with it." He leaned down, gave her a lingering kiss, and tugged the sheet away. "So get up already. After you turn the little stick pink and I pick out the teddy bear, we have a wedding to plan."
Nina slipped off her T-shirt and held out her arms. "Not before I get the proposal I deserve. Come here, Mac."
"Uh-oh, she's calling me Mac, a sure sign of displeasure. You had a proposal, you greedy little beach bum," he argued. "Didn't I already get down on one knee? Did I dream that?"
"Well, it didn't exactly match my dream," she told him as he lowered himself over her and nuzzled her neck. "What I had in mind definitely didn't involve your knee. Are you okay with this?"
"Not yet, but I think I will be in a minute." He slipped off his shorts and brushed his body against hers, teasing, seducing, persuading, and then loving her for all he was worth.
"So, Nina Caruso," he growled, "will you marry me now?"
"The only word I can think of is yes," she said with a sigh of satisfaction. "See? It's all in the way you put the question."
"Since you're only thinking about a yes, maybe I'd better ask you again." He grinned and nibbled her earlobe.
"I'm okay with that," she murmured as she snuggled even closer. "Ask away."
* * * THE END * * *
Sara's Knight
MARY MCBRIDE
Prologue
The ringing phone sliced through Dr. Elliot Hunter's sleep like a scalpel.
Okay. Okay.
What time was it? Where the hell was he anyway? He opened one eye and saw a thin blade of daylight between drawn curtains—the resonant golden daylight that was peculiar to San Francisco in early autumn.
He was home. Thank God. The clock read 1:15 p.m., so he must've slept more than ten hours, but it seemed he'd only dropped into bed an hour or two ago after a sixteen-hour flight on a Royal Montebellan jet from Cairo, too exhausted and jet-lagged to even make love to his beautiful wife. He stretched out his left arm now, encountering only cool and empty sheets. No Kate. She would've left for the clinic hours before.
It'd be nice, he thought blearily, if she were calling him now, suggesting a lunchtime tryst. He snatched the phone from its cradle and grunted "Hunter" only to be greeted with a dial tone and another shrill, insistent ring. More awake now, Elliot realized it was the other phone on the bedside table. The secure phone. The one restricted for communication between the Noble Men.
Christ. He'd just spent eight days in the Middle East trying to cool tempers and to put out some of the fires forever being sparked in that volatile region. What more could he do?
"Hunter," he growled into the second phone.
"How was your vacation?"
There was no mistaking his father's voice—tough as his wiry physique, tinged with his keen sense of humor. When Dr. Gordon Hunter had worked as a field surgeon in Vietnam—Captain Hunter, then—his mobile operating room had no doubt born a startling resemblance to the one in M*A*S*H. His father, in his late sixties now, was the best man Elliot knew, a belief he had made official when he'd asked his old man to stand up for him when he and Dr. Katherine Remson were married last year.
"The vacation was great," Elliot replied. "Thanks. I did some snorkeling."
He knew that his father would translate his words to mean that he had successfully and secretly entered Cyprus at Famagusta, where he represented the Noble Men in negotiations between Greece and Tamir.
"Was it pleasant?" his father asked.
"Only slightly," Elliot said.
"Ah, well." It was one of the few times the young surgeon detected weariness and worry in the elder doctor's voice. "I wanted to let you know I just put your sister on a plane to visit our old friend."
Elliot sat straight up in bed. "You what?" Our old friend was the commonly used code name for King Marcus of Montebello. Why the hell was Dad sending Sarah to Montebello?
"Marc has a young friend in need of her expertise," his father said, abandoning the standard, veiled communication, which wasn't like him at all, even in light of the secure phone.
Now Elliot was fully alert. Worried, too. He swung his legs over the side of the bed as he spoke. "They have child psychologists in San Sebastian, Dad. Why send Sarah halfway across the planet? What's up?"
Gordon Hunter sighed. "She got herself engaged while you were away. To that idiot accountant who works for Kate's clinic."
Elliot blinked. "Warren?"
He took his father's gruff curse for a yes, then sat there rubbing the stubble on his jaw, doubly confused. As far as Elliot knew, his twenty-nine-year-old sister wasn't interested in marriage in any way, shape or form. And even assuming she was interested, why in the world would a woman as beautiful and vibrant and free-spirited as Sarah Hunter choose Warren Dill for a mate? The guy was completely humorless, an accountant to the marrow of his bones. His idea of a good time was probably knocking back a few lite beers while he read actuarial tables.
"Why?" It was the only question Elliot could think to ask.
"Your guess is as good as mine, but apparently her mind's made up. She's like your mother in that respect, you know." His father sighed. "Stubborn. Mulish."
Elliot almost laughed. Gordon Hunter wasn't exactly known for his fickleness or ability to be swayed once he'd made up his mind. He was a stubborn, diehard ally and a formidable foe. Sarah hadn't fallen far from the tree. "So you shipped her off to Montebello, hoping she'll come to her senses," he said. "It would've been cheaper to send her to London, Dad, or on a Caribbean cruise. Safer, too. Things are still pretty unsettled in Montebello. I heard there was a murder on the palace grounds."
"Yes, Marc mentioned that. The victim, Desmond Caruso, was his nephew. Rather a ne'er-do-well, I gather. Coincidentally, the child who needs psychological help stopped speaking at about the same time as the murder. You might know his father, Elliot. Sir Dominic Chiara is the palace physician."
"I know him by reputation." What Elliot had heard was that Dr. Chiara's promising career as a surgeon had been derailed by the death of his wife. Hell, they'd probably had a lot in common a few years ago. On the other hand, maybe not. Dominic, or Nick as he was known to friends, Chiara had been left with a baby son. Elliot had been left with no one when his wife and baby daughter died. "I didn't meet him. He was away on sabbatical when Katie and I were there last year after the bombing."
His father snorted. "Well, he's there now, and apparently in severe denial about his son's problem these past few weeks. At least according to the king. Marc's hoping Sarah can set the fellow straight."
"Knowing my little sister, she'll accomplish that in about two minutes."
"The hope, my boy, is that it will take her a bit longer than two minutes. At least long enough to forget about this ridiculous engagement."
Elliot laughed. "Careful, Dad. You're playing Cupid again."
"I'm damned good at it, too. Look at you and Kate."
The playfulness evaporated from Gordon Hunter's voice then. He was a Noble Man again, through and through, when he said, "Stop by the house this evening, Elliot. We'll discuss that snorkeling."
Chapter 1
Somewhere high above the Mediterranean, Sarah Hunter stared at her watch, which was still set on Pacific time. So was her body clock, she thought, and since it was after 11:00 p.m. at home in San Francisco, it came as little surprise that she could hardly keep her eyes open. No surprise, either, that she couldn't for the life of her figure out what the local time would be when she finally—finally!—landed in Montebello.
Warren would know. Her fiance was a marvel when it came to numbers of any kind—time zones, mileage, cost per page of copying patient files at the clinic, square yardage for the new Berber carpet in her apartment—including closets, everything. If it had anything to do with numbers, Warren Dill had it covered. What a guy.
Sarah hadn't even had a chance to tell poor Warren goodbye this afternoon. Her father had hustled her to the airport and onto King Marcus Sebastiani's private Gulfstream jet, conveniently available after Elliot's return, so fast her head was practically spinning.
Just about the last thing she'd said to her father was "Call Warren and explain where I've gone and why, will you, Dad? Tell him I'll be in touch as soon as possible."
But when he gave her a thumb's up and replied "Absolutely," Sarah noticed that furtive little glint in his eyes, the same glint she'd witnessed for her entire life when her father would say he'd been "away on business." Dr. Gordon Hunter was as chock-full of secrets today as he had been for the past several decades. Bless his devious heart, he thought she didn't have a clue about his international, often heroic activities with the Noble Men, but Sarah wasn't stupid. Years ago she'd learned the secret from her mother. She was incredibly proud of her father and his efforts in keeping the world on an even keel.
That didn't keep her from being aggravated with him, though. At the airport, when she'd handed him a hastily scribbled list of Warren's numbers—office, home, cell phone and pager—Sarah couldn't help but notice that old Gordo crumpled the paper in his big fist before he shoved it in a back pocket
Okay. Fine. Her supermacho father didn't like wimpy Warren. Sometimes Sarah didn't like him very much either. But she was still going to marry him, dammit. She'd be wearing an engagement ring right now if it weren't for the fact that she never wore jewelry—it distracted her young patients to
o much— and the fact that Warren considered diamonds a terrible investment when, for the same price as a one-karat, pear-shaped solitaire, he could buy her a hundred shares of Microsoft.
So what if it wasn't a marriage of the heart? As a psychotherapist, she gave far more credence to the mind and its rational choices. She'd chosen Warren after great deliberation. They wanted the same things in life—a perfect balance of home and family and career, and they were equally determined to achieve their mutual desires. Sarah didn't have a doubt in the world that they would.
"We shall be landing in approximately forty-five minutes, Signorina Hunter."
Giorgio, the wickedly handsome flight attendant and for the past fourteen hours or so her own personal slave, materialized out of nowhere. How in the world did he manage to look as if he'd had a good night's sleep? His black uniform with the gold braid on the sleeves was as perfectly pressed as it had been hours ago in San Francisco when she'd boarded the plane.
"May I serve you a small snack, signorina?" he crooned in his deep and dreamy Italian-accented English. "Strawberries and cream, perhaps? Royal Tamir figs for the lovely lady? Caviar? Or an omelet, if you prefer something more substantial?"
During the long flight, he'd not only been plying her with gourmet goodies—champagne in crystal flutes, Beluga caviar, and to-die-for Godiva chocolates imprinted with the royal Sebastiani crest—but they'd been flirting with each other pretty outrageously.
Sarah imagined that was part of Giorgio's job description. "Make the lady passengers happy." As for herself, well, she was just naturally flirtatious, it had nothing to do with her attachment to Warren, and it was a pleasant way to pass the hours over the Continental Divide, the Great Plains, the Atlantic, and at last the Mediterranean. It was all perfectly harmless. She was, after all, engaged to Warren, and she suspected gorgeous Giorgio spent his layovers with an equally gorgeous significant other named Carlo or Leonardo or Fabrizio.
Still, his compliments were helping her brush up on her Italian, a language she knew only peripherally from being fluent in Spanish. Let's see. According to Giorgio, she had graziosi verdi occhi, which meant he thought her green eyes were lovely. Her shoulder length hair was colore marrone ed ondulati. Actually, she liked to think of her brown hair as wavy,not undulating. That sounded a bit too much like Medusa. As for the rest of her, Giorgio hadn't so much described her in words, but rather with a lift of his eyebrows that implied she was fairly well endowed. Zaftig was no doubt the same in any language.