Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector. Carla Cassidy
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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’m fine,’’ 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