by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
He lowered the barrier of his leg, allowing her to pass, and it was all Sarah—liar, liar, pants on fire-could do to walk, not run, into the house.
Chapter 12
The next morning, after Sarah showered and got dressed, she couldn't help but notice that the waistband of her old reliable denim skirt wasn't quite as snug as the last time she had worn it. In fact, the waistband was downright loose. By several inches. There seemed to be a little extra denim in the hips, as well.
If she hadn't known better, she'd have guessed it was somebody else's skirt, that she'd somehow packed the wrong one, perhaps her sister-in-law Kate's size ten rather than her own size eight. She even checked the sewn-in label just to make sure. It was an eight, all right, which meant that Sarah herself was now closer to a six.
Jeez.
She looked more closely in the mirror. Her sunburn from the afternoon at the Lido had turned into a decent enough tan, but her cheekbones did seem a tad more distinct, and when she rubbed beneath her eyes, hoping to discover that the darkness there was just leftover mascara, the smudges didn't disappear.
Ye gods. This wasn't good at all. She hadn't looked this thin or haggard since she'd had a bout with mono during her freshman year in college.
"It couldn't be because you've hardly eaten or slept for the past week, could it?" she asked her emaciated reflection.
Jeez. The royal family ought to package this as a weight loss vacation. Come to lovely Montebello, where a week with one of our glamorous knights will leave you sleek and slim. They probably wouldn't want to advertise the accompanying details like insomnia or the dark circles under the eyes.
She looked at the clock beside the bed. If her own glamorous knight, Sir Dominic, held true to his recent schedule, she'd hear the front door open and close in just a minute or two, signaling that he was off for his morning jog.
A few moments later, just as she knew she would, Sarah heard the telltale click. All right! She took one last, pitiful look in the mirror, muttered a curse, then sprinted into the kitchen for a fast cup of coffee and a couple of Leo's animal crackers before she headed out the back door.
The night before, while tossing and turning, Sarah had finally arrived at the conclusion that Leo's traumatic event was the key to unlocking and hopefully curing his silence. She had become even more convinced of her theory when article after article in journal after journal offered anecdotal evidence that once a mute patient was confronted with the inciting trauma, whether the incident was actually recreated or simply talked about by the clinician, seven out of ten cases dramatically improved and the patients were speaking within a month's time.
As far as recent trauma was concerned on the palace grounds, Sarah was pretty sure there was only the murder of the king's nephew and the subsequent fire set to cover it up. She didn't believe that Leo hadn't seen it or heard it or somehow been affected by it. The child wouldn't even walk in that direction, for heaven's sake. He was definitely afraid of something.
At the end of the Chiara sidewalk, she turned right toward the palace. It was such a lovely morning with its cloudless azure sky and just a faint and salty taste of autumn coolness in the air. The huge palm fronds overhead waved and dipped gracefully in the breeze while the sun glittered and danced in every splashing fountain that she walked past. At home right now in San Francisco, the sky was probably gray with a chilly drizzle falling from it. As much as Sarah loved San Francisco, she had to admit once more that Montebello truly was a little slice of paradise.
Maybe, if her parents really did retire here in ten years or so, she'd come back for a visit. What a great idea! What fun it would be to see Leo as a tall, gangly teenager, forever yakking on the phone. If he turned out anything like his father, he'd have hearts fluttering from one end of Montebello to the other.
It would be interesting, too, to see if, in ten years time, her then almost forty-year-old heart would still do jumping jacks and somersaults at the sight of Nick Chiara. It probably would, she thought, while a silly grin worked its way across her mouth and her almost thirty-year-old heart performed a tiny pirouette.
Then Sarah could actually feel the grin slide off her face when reality suddenly jumped up and bit her. Ten years from now, if everything went as planned, she would be Mrs. Warren Dill, and her heart would be doing just what she intended it to do, which was beat steadily and dependably from one day to another, well insulated against sorrows and shocks, without suffering any roller-coaster ups and downs.
That's what she wanted, wasn't it?
Well, wasn't it?
Much to her relief, just then she turned the corner around a big hibiscus bush, saw the burned-out guest cottage directly in front of her, and forgot to answer her own question.
This time, instead of pondering the residence from the safety of the sidewalk, Sarah walked across the lawn, hopped over a boxwood shrub, and peeked in a sooty window. As far as she could tell, it looked as if the repair work was just getting underway. There were two men, both of them dressed in white T-shirts and painters' pants. One of them happened to see her at the window and yelled something in Italian that Sarah didn't understand.
In response, she shook her head and shrugged, a kind of international gesture meaning "Huh?"
A moment later, when one of the painters opened the front door and leaned out, she called to him, "I was just looking. Just curious. Would it be possible for me to come inside?"
"Inside?" he echoed.
"Yes. Yes, please. Por favor, signer. I'd like to come inside. Just for a few minutes." She pointed to herself and then over his shoulder, gesturing inside the guest cottage, and hoping like hell he didn't take it personally and translate the gesture as Me, Jane— You, Tarzan. But the painter apparently did understand her gesture because he immediately scowled and shook his head.
"No, signorina. Polizia." He pointed toward a banner of yellow tape fluttering beside the door.
"Polizia," he said again, a little louder. "No come in. Scusa."
"But..."
The painter stepped back inside and slammed the door, putting an end to any negotiation.
Nuts. She dearly wished she knew how to say that in Italian, or better yet some other, preferably stronger expletive to communicate her disappointment.
Oh, well. Sarah took one final peek through the window. She doubted that she'd find anything inside the guest cottage now anyway that would give her any kind of clue about Leo. She didn't need a vacant residence. What she needed was an eyewitness, one a whole lot more forthcoming than Estella, the nanny.
Not knowing just what to do next, she wandered toward a stone bench not too far from the cottage. There, she sat and hiked up the hem of her skirt just a few inches above her knees to get a little more color on her legs.
Every once in a while, she turned to look at the vacant residence behind her.
You never knew, she thought. They said the criminal always came back to the scene of his crime. It had been almost a month now since Desmond Caruso's murder, but still...
And just as that rather grisly thought was crossing her mind, a pair of hands suddenly covered Sarah's eyes and a voice, very Italian and oddly familiar, exclaimed "Cara mia!"
Sarah shrieked, wrenching away the hands that were blinding her, and then turned to face Estella's ardent and once again misguided suitor, Bruno.
"Aiee," he said, slapping his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Scusa, signorina. I thought you were Estella. We used to come here. To this chair." He pointed to the bench on which Sarah sat.
Sarah blinked. "You and Estella used to come here?"
Bruno nodded. "Always. Si. Many times." "While she was working at the Chiara house?" "Si." He looked at the ground and shrugged. "There was no other time to be together. Her father... um..."
"Disapproved," Sarah suggested, recalling the angry male voice at Estella's apartment.
"Si. Her father disapproved. How do you say...big time?"
"Yeah. That's how you say it," she replied
while her curiosity increased big time. "What did Estella do with Leo while the two of you were here? Did she sneak out to meet you while he was taking his nap?"
"The bambino? He come. Estella took good care of him. She would not leave him. He come with us on his bicycle or with his toys. Sometimes he visit..."
Bruno's mouth snapped closed almost audibly, as if he suddenly realized he was about to say something he shouldn't.
"It's okay, Bruno," Sarah said quickly. "Estella's not in any trouble. She did a fine job with the boy. But tell me who Leo visited." She looked over her shoulder, back at the guest cottage. "Was it the man who lived there?"
Bruno glanced at the cottage and then nodded rather sheepishly. "Si. The bambino and Signor Caruso, they play checkers, other games. They laugh sometimes. Sing. Joke. Many laughs."
Oh my God, Sarah thought. Oh, my God. Leo and the dead man were pals. Buddies. Nick and his aunt probably had absolutely no idea that Estella was sneaking out with Bruno and letting the little boy wander around on his own. This might very well be the explanation she'd been searching for. It had to be. This was the trauma! Leo found out that his friend, Desmond, was dead and the poor little boy— out of shock, sorrow or fear—stopped speaking.
She shot up from the bench so fast it startled Bruno, who jumped back a foot or two.
"You know that the man who lived there was murdered, don't you, Bruno?" she asked.
He sighed and glanced at the cottage again. "Si. Aiee. That happen the day before my boat leave. Sad."
"Then I guess Estella had to tell Leo that his friend was dead. Did she tell him?"
"No."
Bruno's reply was instantaneous and offered with absolute certainty, but at the same time Sarah noticed that his gaze wavered from hers. The fact that the man couldn't maintain eye contact with her was a pretty clear indication that he was lying, so she asked again, this time a bit more urgently.
"Did Estella tell Leo that Desmond Caruso was dead? I need to know, Bruno. Please tell me the truth. It's very important."
His gaze flitted off again. "Oh, signorina..."
"You won't get in trouble if you tell me," she said. "Neither you nor Estella. I promise you. This is just between us. But I need to find out exactly what happened."
To emphasize her seriousness, Sarah clasped Bruno's arm just above the elbow. "Did you know that Leo hasn't spoken a word since Desmond Caruso died? Not a single word. I came all the way from the United States in order to help him speak again, but I can't help him at all if you won't tell me the truth."
His eyes met hers now. "I did not know. The bambino does not speak? This is terrible, no? Not good. Not good."
"No, it isn't good at all." She tightened her grip on his arm, and stepped a bit closer. "But with your help, I know I can get the little boy to speak again and be happy again. Please, Bruno. Tell me. Did Estella tell Leo that his friend, Desmond, was dead?"
"No. No, signorina. She did not have to tell him."
"Excuse me?"
"The bambino... He..." Bruno drew in a long breath, then let it out as he said, "He saw his friend dead."
"He saw..." Sarah's hand went from Bruno's arm to her own astonished mouth. All of a sudden she felt light headed, so she sat back down on the stone bench, murmuring, "Oh, my God. Leo saw the body. Oh, that poor child. No wonder."
"He saw more," Bruno said solemnly, lowering himself beside her. He lowered his voice, too, as he leaned closer to Sarah closer and whispered, "Signorina, he saw more. I believe he saw the murder."
She could only stare at him now.
"The boy, he ran to us. He was crying." Bruno pointed to his own eyes. "Big tears. So, we go with him to the house and we see the man, the blood. Aiee. Terrible. Terrible."
"And you didn't tell anyone?" Sarah asked.
"Me, I want to tell the polizia right away. But Estella..." He shook his head. "Too afraid to lose her job, you know? Afraid of Sir Dominic and the big lady. Afraid of her papa most of all. So I promise her not to talk. And Leo, he promise her, too."
Bruno started looking sheepish again. In fact, Sarah thought he looked pretty damned guilty, which he certainly was for not doing anything to alert the authorities about the murder while agreeing to let a child suffer its aftereffects all alone, with no one to console him or explain what had happened to his friend.
"What did Leo promise?" she asked again.
"Not to talk. He promise not to talk to anyone. Estella tell him that if he talks, the bad person will come back and hurt him. If he say one word, then maybe the bad person try to kill him, too."
"Oh, my God," Sarah moaned, suddenly understanding what had happened. She never would have guessed. "Estella told him not to talk about the murder, but the poor baby must have taken it literally and thought she was ordering him not to talk at all."
No wonder he was silent! It all made perfect sense now. Perfect, horrible sense. Poor Leo thought he'd be murdered, just like his pal Desmond, if he made even a single peep. Talk about a traumatic experience! And it wasn't even in the past. The poor little kid was still living under a death threat. Even now.
She jumped up from the bench. "Thank you, Bruno. You've helped more than you can imagine. Grazie."
Sarah turned to race back to the Chiara cottage, but Bruno caught her hand.
"Signorina, you promised to tell me where to find my Estella," he said. "Por favor, Signorina. Where is she?"
Grateful as she was for the information he'd just given her, Sarah wasn't about to reward the man who'd been partially responsible for Leo's silence.
"I don't know," she lied, pulling away from him. "Sorry. Thank you again, Bruno. I really have to go now."
"But, Signorina..." he protested.
"Sorry."
Sarah took off at a lope for Nick's place with Bruno on her heels like a sad-faced, Italian bloodhound.
On his morning jogs, Nick habitually made a wide circuit of the old part of San Sebastian before turning back toward the palace. On King Augustus Avenue, a few blocks from the quay, he always paused for a minute or two in front of the building where he and his aunt had lived when he was growing up. He'd tell himself he was just stopping to catch his breath, but the truth was that he enjoyed those moments of nostalgia, gazing at the stucco-fronted Number 24 with its wrought iron balconies and blossom-laden window boxes.
The little cafe on the ground floor was still run by the Rendazzi family. Their cats still basked in the sunshine of the doorway, and the smell of the espresso machine still wafted out onto the sidewalk,luring in pedestrians. Amazingly enough, when Nick looked up, the window box on the second floor apartment was planted with pink geraniums, just as it had been when he and Aunt Honoria had resided there all those years ago.
Sometimes it seemed as if nothing in Montebello ever changed. Sometimes it seemed as if everything changed in the blink of an eye. He'd gone from husband to father to widower in what seemed like a heartbeat. One day Leo was laughing and talking nonstop; the next day his son was silent. Now Sarah Hunter had come into his life and Nick had the feeling that, whatever happened between them, things would never be the same for him again.
He cursed himself then for letting his thoughts turn toward the woman he was running to avoid thinking about. Better to fill his brain with work, to contemplate the clinical trials for a new analgesic the hospital would soon undertake, to organize his thoughts about the proposed expansion to the surgical wing, or decide whether or not he should remain the palace physician, allowing his own surgical skills to atrophy while he tended to the queen's migraines and the king's ulcer and Prince Lucas's rehabilitation.
While he negotiated the traffic on the broad Avenida Media, he did his best to clear his head of everything but the feel of the pavement beneath his feet and the warmth of the sun on his face. Then he turned onto the palace grounds, was waved through by the guard, and continued on the path toward home, walking now, cooling down.
Then, almost home, Nick turned a landscaped corner and,
not too far away, saw Sarah being chased by some slick-haired, T-shirted, weight-lifting Romeo.
Every synapse in his body seemed to fire instantaneously as he raced to her rescue.
Chapter 13
Sarah considered herself a pretty good runner, even at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. Her jewelry box at home still held the medal she'd won in high school for the four hundred meter relay. It helped that she did her jogging—when she got around to doing it these days—on the hilly, sometimes torturous streets of San Francisco. Considering all that, she'd been fairly sure that, once she took off, she'd leave the muscle-bound Bruno in the royal dust.
But it hadn't happened that way. The guy was relentless. Apparently his desire to obtain Estella's address and to see the nanny again had put wings on Bruno's sandaled feet.
The Chiara place was still a good hundred yards away when Sarah decided the race wasn't worth the stitch in her side or the sweat that was starting to soak through her shirt. She'd give her pursuer the nanny's stupid address. What did it matter anyway?
Then, at the same instant that she decided to slow down, Bruno apparently decided to speed up. He crashed into her with his full two hundred plus pounds at thirty miles per hour, and Sarah went wind-milling forward and then sprawling onto the perfectly clipped royal grass.
She wasn't really clear on what happened in the next few seconds. There was a lot of shouting above her, but since it was in Italian she couldn't understand much of what was said, except for a few explicit four-letter words that were pretty much the same in any language. There was some scuffling of feet and several deep-throated grunts followed by more four-letter words.
Then, while she struggled to get up from the ground, she heard the sound of retreating footsteps, and the next thing she knew she was five feet off the ground in Nick Chiara's arms.
She didn't like to be babied or coddled—that just wasn't acceptable in her family, where if you fell, you got up and went on. End of story. As a result of her upbringing, her first instinct was to push away from the solid chest against which she found herself pressed.