Her stomach made a dizzying flip, exactly the kind she experienced as a child in Sarcaccia whenever she climbed the steep, rocky hillside near her home and neared the peak. The muscles in her legs always shimmied with the effort, but she knew that if she could grind out the last few steps, the Mediterranean would fill her field of vision in magical, shining blue. The anticipation—that stomach flip—always carried her up that final, most difficult section.
Experiencing it now shocked her.
She knew this man. Had seen him before, spoken with him before. If only she could place him. She didn’t think she knew anyone named Roy. No one from Sarcaccia, at any rate. Maybe she’d met him in college, or during one of the summer road trips she’d taken with her parents, when they’d met people from all over the world at bed and breakfasts and exchanged travel stories. She could’ve met him an event with Queen Fabrizia, though that seemed unlikely. Given how much preparation she did for those, she’d remember if she’d made notes on someone named Roy.
But she trusted her gut. She was nearing the summit, steps from attaining the long view. With persistence, she’d get there.
“I’m not that perceptive,” she finally said. “Some people thrive in chaos and noise. In being surrounded by activity. Others need order and quiet. Predictability. It makes sense for someone in security to like predictability. It makes his world safer. Anything out of order is interpreted as a danger signal.”
Roy’s lips twitched as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he took another long drink of his water while she polished off her sandwich, then he added her wrapper to the bag.
“I’ll toss it,” he said, standing to direct a look at the large plastic trash barrel he’d placed near his ladder. She’d noticed that he emptied it each night, even when it wasn’t full. The man’s work area was impeccable. Despite what he’d said when she sat on the sheet-covered sofa, not a speck of dust clung to her pants.
Roy was tough to figure out. His work habits indicated a person who valued organization, but his attitude was more nonchalant. It was in the way he held himself when he climbed the ladder or carried his ever-present buckets and tools. He moved with ease. When he’d discovered the old wallpaper and been compelled to stop work for the historian, throwing off his schedule, he hadn’t appeared fazed.
He was a puzzle.
Daniela rose from the sofa, gathered the used napkins, and deposited them in the bag he held open for her. He had taken two steps toward the barrel when she decided to take a chance and ask, “Where did you grow up, Roy? Here in San Rimini?”
Chapter 11
Royce crumpled the bag and strode toward the trash can without missing a beat, though his gut felt as if he’d been run through with a spike and left in the open, his wounds exposed.
Daniela was far too insightful.
When she’d returned to the residence and set up lunch on the coffee table, he’d positioned himself as far from her as he could without making the distance seem awkward. Kept his hat on. Steered the conversation toward safe topics like her walk to the sandwich place or the simple pleasures of ham on rye.
He two-pointed the bag into the trash and cursed himself.
He’d been an idiot to discuss the weather. Breezes off the water. Walking. That topic was anything but safe with her.
Then again, what else was he going to talk to Daniela about? No painter would ask her about the queen’s clothing and jewelry. Nor would they grill her about Helena’s surprise appearance and what the king’s sister-in-law said or did while in the queen’s rooms.
It should have been a tipoff when Daniela spent the meal studying him whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. His head was down, his eyes on his sandwich, but he felt her scrutiny. Her question about his upbringing wasn’t polite small talk or interest in a new acquaintance. He’d done or said something to pique her curiosity.
She didn’t remember him from Cancun—he’d bet the title to his boat on it—but she suspected there was more to him than what she’d been told. There was a look of familiarity in her eye, as if he were an aproned grocery clerk she knew in the context of a market, but couldn’t place when she encountered him on the street in civilian clothes. If they spent much time together, she’d figure it out.
He said, “Stephen Curry, eat your heart out,” loud enough for Daniela to hear before turning away from the trash can and returning to the coffee table to push it back to its earlier position. Most people would take the opportunity to say it was a nice shot, given that he’d launched the bag from three times the length of the sofa. Daniela didn’t, and it wasn’t because she couldn’t identify Stephen Curry. She was waiting for his answer.
He’d wondered if he was being overly cautious when he’d put his security pass into his pocket rather than wear it. As Daniela pointed out, keeping it there risked questions from Miroslav if the burly Serb managed to sneak up on him. Now Royce knew the measure was warranted.
If she’d seen his last name and the hatless photo that security insisted upon when they’d issued his pass, she’d either remember their encounter or be off to her computer to search his name.
He cast a sideways look at her as he adjusted the table so it was flush to the covered sofa. “I’ve moved around a bit. Been in San Rimini a while, though. How about you?”
There. No real answer, ball in her court.
“I’m from Sarcaccia. I’ve only been here once before, on an official visit with Queen Fabrizia. I’m her personal assistant.”
He raised his brows as if hearing new information, then allowed himself to look impressed for a beat before saying, “I hate to tell you this, but you’re working in the wrong queen’s rooms.”
She grinned and inclined her head toward Aletta’s suite. “This is short term. I’ll head back to Sarcaccia when it’s finished. I haven’t had much time to explore, but what I’ve seen of the country is beautiful. I noticed that you don’t have the same accent as most San Riminians, so I assumed you were raised elsewhere.”
It didn’t escape his attention that she’d turned the conversation away from herself—and what she was doing in Aletta’s closet—and back to him. He didn’t fall for it. Shrugging, he said, “Aside from the palace and the botanical garden, the Duomo and casinos tend to be the big draws for tourists. And the aquarium, of course. Their research attracts scientists from all over the world. If you haven’t had the chance to see it, that’s where you should go first. Visit in the evening, after work. It’s much less crowded than on the weekends. It’s open late on Wednesdays and Thursdays, so you can get closer to the tanks and read about the sea life and research projects.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
He straightened the white sheet that covered the sofa. “You aren’t too dusty, I hope?”
She brushed her pants, then held out her palms for his inspection. “Nope. Clean enough to sit in the queen’s suite untangling necklaces the rest of the day.”
“That’s what you’re doing in there?”
The beguiling twitch of her lips put a knot in his throat. “Part of what I’m doing.”
She had a gift for looking at him just so, making him want to draw nearer than was wise. He kept his feet in place. “When you walked in with Miroslav your first day, I heard you say that you planned to empty the closet and take pictures, but I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t realize that meant untangling necklaces. And you thought I had a big job. That takes patience.”
“Untangle a lot of women’s necklaces, do you?”
For a split second, he marveled at her skill in once more turning the conversation in a manner that would give her insight into his background. Then he noticed a flicker in her eyes and realized it was entirely possible she was flirting. She’d asked in an unassuming manner, but…no, he wouldn’t second-guess her motives.
“I don’t, but working with anything that small takes patience.” He gestured toward the half-peeled wall where he’d spent the morning. “I work on a larger scal
e. It’s easier to see progress, which makes it easier to be patient.”
She contemplated that for a moment. “I suspect you have an abundance of patience, or you wouldn’t have been hired to tackle this job on your own.”
“Maybe I’m antisocial.”
He said it in a way that invited a smile. She bestowed one, but there was more to it, a perceptive narrowing of her eyes and a slow shake of the head. “No, I don’t think so, or you’d have dodged lunch. Told me you needed to keep working.”
Her hands went to her hips, her thumbs hooking into the tiny front pockets of her pants. The inward curl of her lower lip signaled the awkward moment where they either decided to keep talking about their jobs or return to doing them. Rather than excuse herself to head back into the suite or push the question of why he was working alone, she studied him for a breath, then said, “I was brought in to sort Queen Aletta’s closet. The king wants an inventory of her belongings. Gowns, shoes, accessories, even the necklaces. He plans to put much of it up for auction to benefit her favorite charities. Though that’s not for public knowledge yet.”
Royce drew an X over his chest.
She shook her head at his ridiculous gesture, and in her good humor he saw his opening. In a more serious tone, he said, “Much as I’d like to think I was hired solely for my talent, I’m also here because the royal family trusts me to maintain my silence regarding anything I see or hear while working in the king’s private residence. If I didn’t, Miroslav would do far worse than whatever punishment he’d mete out for damaging my identification. And you’ve seen how careful I am with that. Your secrets are safe.”
The more seeds of trust he planted within her, the better. It would make his job—his real job—that much easier if she felt she could confide in him.
Her thank you was sincere.
She rocked back on her heels, about to turn toward the suite, but he decided to push his luck with one more question before she disappeared. “I hope I’m not being intrusive by asking, but I was instructed not to admit anyone to the residence. Helena Masciaretti had the code to the door and she’s part of the royal family, so I didn’t say anything when she entered. When you first walked out of the queen’s suite and offered to pick up lunch, I assumed you’d come to talk to me about her. Are you sure it wasn’t a problem to let her in?”
Daniela released a long breath. “I almost dropped a pair of shoes when she walked up behind me, but no, it wasn’t a problem. She brought a few items she thought I should have for the auction. She also offered to share her personal photos of the queen in different outfits and gave her permission to use them in the auction guide, so that was useful.”
“Good to know. I was afraid I’d done the wrong thing.”
“Not at all. In fact, I’m glad you asked. I wasn’t sure what instructions Miroslav gave you.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “The king doesn’t want anyone in the queen’s rooms while I do the inventory.”
“No, I imagine not. I’m sure there are people who would love to sneak photos and sell them to the tabloids. Or worse.”
Daniela’s mouth quirked in acknowledgement. Her red lipstick wasn’t as bright as before—the sandwich had done its damage—but he found himself enticed all the same. He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “Are you expecting Helena again? Or anyone else I should know about?”
Daniela shook her head, then her expression turned thoughtful. “Well…maybe. I can’t say she won’t come back. I doubt she’s been in the suite since before the queen passed away. I got the feeling she wanted an excuse to look around the rooms as much as she wanted to help.” Daniela gave him a wry look before adding, “She wasn’t taking photos to share online or sell. So we’re safe there.”
“Still, that’s odd.” He left it hanging, hoping she’d elaborate.
Daniela shrugged. “Helena was the queen’s assistant. They spent more time together than most adult sisters, and a lot of it would have been behind those doors. An assistant’s role is both professional and personal, no matter how carefully it’s handled. For sisters, it’d be even closer. It’d be human nature for Helena to want to know what’s happening to Aletta’s belongings.”
Daniela’s eyes softened at the edges as she spoke, and Royce wondered if she was thinking of the relationship she had with Queen Fabrizia. He was relieved Daniela had told him about it. He already knew, of course, but this way, he didn’t have to worry about a slip that would reveal his knowledge.
She gestured toward Aletta’s rooms. “I should get back to it. Thank you for lunch. It was a nice change of pace.”
“You made the offer and picked it up, so I’m the one who owes thanks. I enjoyed your company.”
“Even though you’re antisocial?”
“Even though.”
The edges of her mouth rose in a gentle smile, but deeper appreciation showed in her eyes. They were vivid, warm, electric. Damn, but she was beautiful when she looked at him like that. It made him want to stare, to soak it in, to respond, but she saved him from his own idiocy by wishing him good luck with his afternoon wallpaper peeling and disappearing into the suite.
Royce spun toward the ladder, grabbed his bucket, then carried it to the king’s bathroom. As he turned the faucet handle and waited for the water to heat, he shoved aside thoughts of Daniela to consider just how close the Masciaretti sisters had been. He suspected that Daniela’s instinct was right, and that Helena’s offer of assistance was, at least in part, a pretense to walk through her sister’s rooms.
He stuck a finger under the flow of water, testing the temperature. Anyone who thought royalty lived the good life hadn’t considered a palace’s aged plumbing. When the water finally heated, Royce attached a hose to the faucet and began filling his bucket.
He was due to update Prince Federico on Saturday night. They planned to meet at Royce’s office, which was located a short drive from the palace in a building situated in the center of a narrow side street. Little parking was available, though a gap between buildings provided Royce a dedicated spot for his van. A tailor at one end of the street did a brisk daytime business, as did an adjacent shoe and luggage repair shop owned by the tailor’s brother. The remaining doors on the street served as rear entrances to shops on a larger parallel street.
The location was well-suited to Royce’s business. Easy to find, close to everything, yet light on both foot and automobile traffic. Those who walked the street had a destination in mind. The rent was reasonable, there was air conditioning, and the fire escape that served the floors above Royce’s office provided a discreet place to hide a security camera. At night, it was dead quiet.
The prince would have no problem entering unnoticed.
Royce arched his back, giving it a good stretch as the bucket filled. Given all the cloak and dagger this job entailed—the secret meetings with Prince Federico, explaining his presence and role to the staff, even his careful interaction with Daniela—Royce wished he had more to show for the effort. But, as with most security jobs, it’d been ninety percent tedium.
If not for Daniela’s presence, it would’ve been closer to ninety-nine percent.
The pipes rattled in protest as he shut off the hot water. He recoiled the hose and carefully set it inside the sink’s ceramic bowl. Each time he did so, he feared he’d chip the ancient surface. So far, it’d worn like iron.
He wondered how many generations of kings and queens had used this sink. Three? Four? Walking the palace corridors these past few days, working its walls, and discovering the historic building’s unique details gave him a sense of awe. Tedious as his labor might be, he appreciated the significance of his surroundings and the access he’d been granted by the diTalora family.
Hefting the water-filled bucket, he strode back to the great room. The doors to Aletta’s suite were partially open, as they’d been during her work hours since the first day. Daniela crossed in front of the open doorway, using her hips to balance a drawer carried in front of her. A few seconds after s
he disappeared from view, Royce heard the light thunk of the drawer being set atop the ottoman.
At the exact moment he forced his gaze away from Aletta’s suite, footsteps and a grumble of dissatisfaction from the direction of the vestibule caught his attention. Two women of identical height, each with pale skin, wide noses, and hair the color of dark roast coffee stood several steps inside the room. They wore the demure gray and white uniforms of the royal household’s cleaning staff, but stood with their arms crossed over their chests and their chins raised, scrutinizing the walls as if they’d discovered a graffitied mural in the midst of a classic museum, its spray paint dripping and the artist on the run. One of the women pointed to the area where Royce had been working before lunch, murmured something, then allowed her arm to fall to her side as the other made a disdainful grunt.
These, then, were the Roscha sisters. According to the information Federico provided, the women weren’t twins, though Royce imagined they could pass as such. Now in their late fifties, they’d worked in the palace since they were teens, having emigrated from the Ukraine with their parents, chefs who’d secured positions on the palace banquet staff and were now retired. The Roscha sisters had cleaned the private residence for more than fifteen years.
Federico said—off the record—that the women weren’t the easiest for others to understand. While they weren’t rude, they weren’t friendly, either. They avoided the employee lounge and locker area, and declined invitations to evening happy hours held by the rest of the housekeeping staff. Each year, they left the palace holiday party immediately following the appearance of the royal family. Due to their standoffishness, the rest of the staff gave them a wide berth. However, Federico had explained, his father trusted them.
“They work hard and take pride in what they do. The carpets, the stone surrounding the fireplace, even the screws that attach the drawer pulls…everything in my father’s private apartment is in pristine condition because Olena and Tetyana Roscha make it so. They know every centimeter of this building, the residence in particular, and their attention to detail is unparalleled. The only time I’ve seen either of them smile is in my parents’ presence. However, as much as they might have loved my mother, we cannot ignore the fact that they had regular access to her closet. Helena kept my mother’s clothing in order, but it was Olena and Tetyana who polished the wood, vacuumed the floor, and cleaned the mirrors in the closet. It would not have been difficult for either of them to walk out of the suite with an extra item tucked into their cleaning supplies.”
Fit for a Queen Page 11
