Fit for a Queen (Royal Scandals: San Rimini Book 1)

by Nicole Burnham

“Whoa,” she said aloud, then carried the shoe to the window for a better look. The vines and flowers around the initials weren’t a random design. They intertwined to form a pattern of hearts and the letter E.

  Eduardo.

  A lump rose in her throat. She wasn’t a romantic, but this floored her. After staring at the design for another long moment, she set the pair to the side, away from the other shoes she’d photographed. She’d ask Eduardo about their origin, and about his wishes for them.

  She tried to imagine them at auction. Private collectors would pay an astronomical price for the pair, a boon to the charities Eduardo wished to support. On the other hand, it seemed a shame to have them disappear forever into a billionaire’s closet in Manhattan or Hong Kong. Eduardo might prefer to have these displayed with other historically significant pieces, such as the queen’s wedding gown or the cape she’d worn to his coronation.

  Then again, he might wish to keep them for himself or his children.

  She gathered the shoes she’d photographed, then carried them to the closet to exchange for a new set. Taking photographs in the queen’s sitting room required greater effort and cluttered the suite, but the lighting was superior to that in the closet. Today’s goal was to get halfway through the queen’s shoe collection, then continue making phone calls about the handbags with questionable authenticity.

  She’d need to have her head on straight when making the calls, given the delicacy with which they had to be handled.

  She returned to the sitting room, her gaze skimming the door that connected the queen’s suite to the main living area. This morning she’d entered the residence to find that Royce had—as always—arrived early. He’d positioned fans throughout the room in preparation for stripping the baseboards and was already hard at work removing them from the walls. Behind him, the room’s few windows stood open for maximum ventilation. He’d sat back on his heels, popped off his safety goggles, then used the back of his arm to wipe his forehead as he wished her good morning. The violet of a blooming bruise smudged one of his cheeks, though it wasn’t noticeable if you didn’t know to look for it.

  She’d eyed the fans and said, “You’ve been busy.”

  “You know what they say about idle hands.”

  “They’re the devil’s workshop.”

  “Precisely. Can’t have devilry under a royal roof.” Though his voice was level, his expression carried an air of mischief.

  “What if you aren’t under a royal roof?”

  He started to reply, but at the sound of the door to the vestibule, he dropped his safety goggles into place to obscure the discoloration on his cheekbone, then adopted a businesslike tone to advise her to keep the connecting door closed to limit the fumes from settling in Aletta’s rooms. “I’d like to get these stripped in one shot and run the fans overnight. I’ll likely work through lunch.”

  “I plan to go out for a sandwich and bring it back. If you want me to pick up something for you, let me know.” She’d eyed the stack of sandpaper and steel wool at the edge of his tarp. “Good luck getting it all done.”

  Miroslav had entered the great room while she spoke. He’d wished them good morning as he eyed the baseboards that had already been removed and laid out on tarps. He’d inquired about each of their agendas for the remainder of the week, urged them to contact him if anything was needed, then did a quick circuit through the entire residence before leaving.

  Royce had grinned in the direction of the vestibule door after it clicked shut, then aimed a split-second smile with considerably more heat in her direction before saying that he’d love a ham sandwich. Four hours later, he’d been hunched over a baseboard, his back to her, when she’d entered the suite with a bag from the sandwich shop. Despite the fans that whirred around him, Royce was attuned to motion in the room and lifted his head as she’d approached and deposited the sandwich near his gear. Sweat had dotted his brow and rimmed his thin painter’s cap, and spatters of dust and old varnish covered his forearms. He’d smiled in thanks before returning his attention to the half-stripped board in front of him.

  She’d closed the door to the suite, plunked her own lunch bag on the queen’s desk, and sighed before opening her laptop so she could proofread what she’d written as she unwrapped her sandwich. Now that she’d returned from the closet with another armload of shoes to photograph, she decided that eating separately from Royce today had been for the best. Not only had she accomplished more by working through lunch, if she’d eaten with him, she’d have a whole new conversation to daydream about.

  She set the shoes beside the display table, then checked her watch. For the next ninety minutes, she made the most of the light slanting through the window. When the shadows posed too great a challenge, she carried the shoes back to the closet, noted her stopping point, and returned to the suite to make her phone calls.

  Three taps sounded at the door as she came into earshot. “Royce?”

  “Roy.”

  Odor from the wood stripping materials hit her as she opened the door and looked behind him to ensure they were alone. At the same time he said, “The coast is clear,” she grimaced and told him, “Sorry about that. I won’t do it again.”

  “Easy slip.” His shoulders lifted and lowered as he took a deep breath, the type that followed a long period of physical labor. “The baseboards and moldings are stripped, and I’m about to vacuum and mop. There’s a lot of dust, so it’ll take a while. I expect Miroslav will make another visit around the time I finish.”

  She opened the door wider, taking in the clean wood, which was laid across the tarps. It looked like he’d already filled and sanded the pockmarks decades of palace occupants left behind. “Those look pretty good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You, not so much, though.” Over the course of the day, the mark along his cheekbone had deepened from violet to a gruesome purple. She squinted for a better look. Keeping her voice down, she said, “It’s obvious that you’ve been hit.”

  “Miroslav hasn’t noticed.”

  “Not that you know of. You said he’s observant.”

  “When he came through at lunch, I was repositioning a tarp and had my head down. I’ll do the same tomorrow, and I’ll keep my goggles handy. If it gets any worse, I’ll dab on something to hide it.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  Amusement lifted his brow. “No, and I don’t need ice.”

  “It’s too late for ice now, anyway. But if you’d listened to Basia and left the pack on a little longer last night, the bruise might not be so obvious.”

  A full-blown smile created a dimple in his cheek that was enough to make a woman swoon. From the look in his eyes, he knew it had that effect and had deployed it on purpose.

  “Speaking of last night, I thought we could try another dinner, one with less drama, but I need to handle the Canadian case tonight, and tomorrow I have plans to go out with friends. Would you be interested in dinner on Thursday? I know a few out of the way spots where we’d be unlikely to run into palace staff.”

  “I have a conference call with Sarcaccia on Thursday that will run late.”

  “Friday?”

  She made him wait a beat, then two. Loved the flash of uncertainty in his dark gaze, though they both knew what she’d say. “Friday would be great.”

  He leaned in, so close she could detect the masculine note of either his shampoo or deodorant lingering beneath the scent of wood stripper and sawdust. Despite the risk, her mouth tingled in anticipation of another kiss.

  Royce put an index finger over his lips and whispered, “It’ll be our secret.”

  Then he backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 22

  Daniela captured the lock of hair that blew across her eyes and used her index finger to hook it behind her ear as Royce keyed them into the marina. Once the gate clicked shut behind them, his hand went to the space between her shoulder blades and he guided her along the wood-slatted walkway toward the Don
ati.

  If she’d known when they’d made the date that they’d come here after dinner, she’d have spent the last few days in a bundle of nerves and anticipation. But now, as they strolled past the long line of boats, warmth filled her despite the brisk sea breeze.

  This felt like satisfaction. Not in the comfortable manner of putting up her feet at the end of a hard day, but satisfaction of the invigorating, life-affirming type she experienced when she nailed the logistics of a complex event for Queen Fabrizia or looked out at the Mediterranean following a hard climb.

  Royce dropped his arm to her waist, pulling her closer as they walked. His peaceful expression mirrored their surroundings.

  For the last three days, they’d shared lunch in the great room. Daniela had itched to know more about Royce’s Canadian case and she could tell he wanted to ask about her discoveries in the closet, but they’d put those topics on hold for a safer venue. Instead, they’d engaged in lively conversation about pop culture, the upcoming election in Germany, and the accidental discovery of an ancient Christian catacomb outside Rome. Each interaction confirmed the impression she’d developed during that long walk in Cancun: Royce Dekker was enjoyable to be around. Every exchange was an adventure, and she learned more about his quirks and his world view with each passing day. Curiously, she also drew a sense of calm from him. While the sight of him made her heart skip into overdrive, and his smile sent adrenaline zinging through her veins, talking to Royce was like connecting with a best friend. There was never a sense of being judged. He sought her opinion on his work, showing her the paint chips for the wall color and the adjustments he’d made to the baseboards so they’d fit better around the room’s ancient radiators. He listened to her thoughts, asked questions, and treated her like a trusted confidante. He made her comfortable doing the same.

  In subtle ways, he’d even pushed her to consider what she wanted in life.

  Today, as they’d enjoyed pizza from a family-owned restaurant near the palace, Royce had described his mother’s newfound obsession with ornithology, then confided his father’s plans for a surprise trip to Zimbabwe for their anniversary. “He’s researched the country for nearly a year. As of last weekend, it’s all booked. They’ll start with a safari, then visit a national park where he’s arranged a birdwatching tour, and finish at a romantic hotel near Victoria Falls. She’s going to be floored. They’ve always talked about going on safari, but the ability to take my mother birdwatching with an expert gave my dad the push to make it happen.”

  “It sounds like the perfect vacation for them. I’m jealous. I’d love to visit Victoria Falls someday,” Daniela had told him, remembering a documentary she’d seen several years earlier. “For me, the hiking trails are the draw. They’re unlike anything I can experience in Europe. It’s a big commitment, though.”

  Royce had looked at her over the final bites of his pizza crust, his expression acknowledging the expense and logistics of taking time away from her job in order to make such a trip, while recognizing the pull of a unique hiking area. “You’re lucky in that you get to see the world with Queen Fabrizia, but it’s on her family’s terms. It’s not on your terms. Hiking Victoria Falls is a good goal to set, if you really want it.”

  She’d nodded at that. It was a good goal, and deep down, she did want it. Later, as she’d searched palace records for information on one of Queen Aletta’s coats, it struck her that Royce had identified a downside of her job no one had ever mentioned. Trips with Queen Fabrizia, though glamorous, often occurred in a vacuum. No matter how amazing the sights she witnessed or how impressive the dignitaries she met, they were working trips. Daniela had no choice in what to see or do, and no one with whom to share the experience at the end of each day.

  It also meant that, when she did have vacation time, she was reluctant to get on a plane. She preferred to spend her days off lounging with her girlfriends on the beach or at one of Cateri’s wine bars.

  Tonight, as she’d dressed for the date in a pink and white patterned dress and beige wedge sandals, she’d imagined herself exploring one of the trails on the Zambia side of Victoria Falls, moving in silence so she could observe the wildlife, and stopping occasionally to wonder at the unfamiliar trees and grasses. She could even picture Royce at her side, marveling at the beauty in the world, willing to—literally—take the road less traveled, simply for the sake of seeing it.

  She’d leaned toward the mirror in her hotel bathroom and studied her eyelashes to see if they needed another coat of mascara, then paused to give herself a hard look. Fantasies about Royce were just that…fantasies. No matter how much their week of lunches felt like a week of intimate dates, tonight’s dinner was not a romantic hiking trip through Africa.

  She’d stepped back from the mirror and exhaled. Maybe she was setting herself up for heartbreak, but life was short. It’d been a long time since she’d been on a date—a real date—and she deserved to enjoy herself, even if it was only one night.

  “A good goal to set,” she’d told herself out loud. She swiped on her favorite lipstick, tossed the tube in her bag, and headed for the elevator.

  As planned, Royce had picked her up a block from her hotel. He’d eyed her outfit with appreciation as they made the short drive across the Italian border to an out-of-the-way Indian restaurant. While they’d perused their menus, they’d shared tales of visits to other Indian restaurants. However, once they’d ordered their meals and had privacy, their conversation turned to the Canadian embassy. Royce had reached for his drink as he spoke, the motion exposing his wrists at the edge of his long-sleeved, button down shirt, and she had to force herself to concentrate on his words. Who knew a man’s wrists could be so attractive?

  “Del Prete’s father was Italian—he died in a traffic accident when Del Prete was a toddler—and his mother is Korean,” Royce had explained. “Del Prete was raised near Seoul and is a known North Korean spy, as is his mother.”

  Daniela had surmised that Royce’s case wasn’t on the level of parking violations, given that he’d put her on the phone with an official at the Canadian embassy, but thought her imagination was running away with her when she suspected it involved espionage. The confirmation had served to distract her from Royce’s wrists.

  He’d continued, “Canadian intelligence learned that Del Prete was assigned to capture a North Korean defector who was on his way to Washington, D.C. via Ottawa. Since the Canadians planned to move the defector through San Rimini, I was hired to watch the area near the embassy for unusual activity in the days prior to the defector’s arrival. No one expected anything to happen, but the night before the defector was due to arrive, I spotted a group of men who were also watching the embassy. Long story short, they were attempting to bug the place so they could learn the details of the transfer and take the defector somewhere along the way. The Canadians captured two of the men as they were planting the bugs, but two others got away. Del Prete, who was running the operation, and a man whose identity we didn’t know.”

  “Let me guess. The man who hit you?”

  One side of his mouth had curved. “I’d have said, ‘let me guess, the man you bravely pinned to the floor and had arrested,’ but yes. The Canadians identified him as soon as he was in custody. He’s small time, but has worked with some dangerous players. He’s wanted by the Germans after doing contract work for a Russian operative. With that over his head, he was willing to give up the address of the flat he and Del Prete had rented here in San Rimini. Del Prete had fled by the time the authorities arrived, but the Canadians tracked him and made an arrest this afternoon.”

  A waiter had appeared with their curries and a basket of homemade naan so fresh that steam curled from its surface. For several minutes, they’d enjoyed their meals, allowing the rich aroma and complex flavors to envelop them. Finally, Royce had closed his eyes and mumbled something about the food being divine, and his expression of bliss made Daniela’s heart skip.

  As they’d finished eating, conversati
on drifted to the palace. The Roscha sisters had made two more attempts to enter the residence during the week, claiming they wanted to check the condition of the great room, but Royce had been there each time and turned them away.

  “You think one or both could be the thieves?” Daniela had asked.

  “It’s possible. They had access and they’re territorial when it comes to the king’s private rooms. They’ve repeatedly visited despite being told not to clean while the refurbishment is ongoing. The first time they came, they spent a long time poking around, and they kept eyeing the door to Queen Aletta’s suite. They saw you leave for the pharmacy. After they left, I went to refill my bucket and Tetyana reentered the suite, claiming she’d lost a button.”

  “I remember. You stuck your head into the suite and asked how long I’d been back and if I’d seen her.”

  “Right. You hadn’t, but when I came out with my bucket, she was crouched by the sofas, so she would have been easy to miss. I had Prince Federico check the time stamps. He sent me a message yesterday saying that you returned from the pharmacy approximately five minutes after Tetyana entered. I don’t think she’d have had much time to access the queen’s suite. Not that this exonerates either of them, but—”

  “Do you think they’re just” —she took a few seconds to find the right word— “eccentric?”

  “They’re that, whether they took the queen’s items or not,” he said, cocking his head at her description. “At this point, I’m keeping an eye on them, as a deterrent if nothing else.”

  They’d skipped dessert, opting instead to stroll through the hilly neighborhood near the restaurant. They’d followed a sidewalk that offered a view of the Adriatic and watched as lights moved across the dark water far below, carrying revelers out for evening cruises. He’d reached for her hand, sending a flutter through her as their fingers intertwined. She’d asked about his other suspicions. Samuel Barden, the chef, remained a mystery. Though he’d worked in the palace during the thefts, at that time he’d served as head of the catering staff, arranging palace banquets, garden parties, and other events. Royce told Daniela, “He wouldn’t have had regular access to their private rooms or the type of knowledge the thief possessed, especially if that thief replaced the stolen objects with counterfeit versions. He’s only been King Eduardo’s private chef for six months. He took over when the former chef retired.”