Fit for a Queen

by Nicole Burnham

  Though their backs were to Royce as they walked, he could hear Chiara say, “I doubt I’d do them justice.”

  They continued talking as they left the room. The door closed with a reassuring click as the lock engaged.

  Chiara Ascardi had access to the suite during Aletta’s lifetime, but her demeanor and the expert manner in which she’d guided Samuel from the room without making him feel as if he’d intruded made Royce believe she hadn’t been involved in the thefts. He’d spent enough time around military and security officers to recognize those whose calling ran to the very marrow of their bones.

  His father was one of those people. Chiara Ascardi was one of those people.

  “So. The good reason?”

  He shifted his focus to Daniela and frowned. “What?”

  “Before they walked in, you were about to tell me why you didn’t want to be recognized. That you had a good reason.”

  As it had in the moment she’d confirmed he was Royce Dekker, suspicion laced her voice. The chef’s visit had given her time to think, and her brain hadn’t traveled a path that boded well for him.

  Hoping to reassure her, he said, “It’s nothing nefarious.”

  “Really? Because last I remember, you were working in Guatemala and were about to enter the military. I don’t recall anything about a painting business. What I do recall was—”

  “Come to dinner with me.”

  She stopped. Stared at him in disbelief. “What?”

  He directed a look at the queen’s suite, then back to her. “This might not be the best place to speak openly.”

  She considered, then nodded. Good.

  “How familiar are you with central San Rimini?” he asked.

  “Not very. The few blocks around the palace, mostly.”

  “Do you know the Strada il Teatro?”

  “Yes.” The wide street that paralleled the waterfront was famously used for parades and served as the straightaway for the San Rimini Grand Prix.

  “Go to the main casino, the one with the white spires at the midpoint of the Strada il Teatro. With your back to the front entrance, look toward the water. Take the crosswalk across the street. You’ll see a wide set of stairs that leads down to another street. It’s a split staircase with trees planted down the center.”

  “I know it.”

  “The lower street is Via Vespri. Take the stairs to Via Vespri and turn left. Stay on that side of the street. Two blocks down, there’s a hole in the wall restaurant named Trattoria Safina. There’s no sign, but the name is on the window. I’ll ensure we have a quiet table if you can go tonight. Seven o’clock work for you?”

  “Could you do eight? I have a phone call scheduled with Queen Fabrizia before that.”

  “Eight, then.”

  “I’ll be there.” She jabbed a finger toward his chest. “You’re buying, and I want the truth.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  Chapter 16

  With the casino to her back, Daniela approached the wide staircase that descended to Via Vespri. Overhead, palm trees rustled in the evening breeze and the old-fashioned street lamps that characterized the casino and shopping district flickered to life. At the top of the stairs, a family gathered on and around a bench, eating gelato. A melted glob hung off the chin of the smallest child, who sat at one end of the bench. The father attempted to catch it with a napkin before it found its way to the boy’s shirt, but the boy wanted no part of the cleanup and wiggled backward in protest while continuing to lick his cone. Three other children stood behind the bench, ignoring their brother’s antics, and looked toward the harbor, where a large cruise ship glided along the horizon in a westerly direction, likely en route to Venice.

  The mother sat at the opposite end of the bench from her struggling son, extra napkins clutched in her fist. She wore her dark hair knotted atop her head and her eyes had drifted shut. Her eyes flew open at a shout from one of the older children, who’d spotted a squirrel under the bench. When the mother realized the reason for the alarm, she shook her head at the girl, whom Daniela guessed to be around nine.

  So much for the mother’s moment of rest.

  On the opposite side of the split staircase, a group of boys in their late teens sprinted up and down the staircase, their phones held aloft as they recorded each other performing skateboard tricks on the low granite wall that ran alongside the stairs. One teen, his muscled legs poking out from board shorts, lounged near the top step and observed Daniela’s approach, then his eyes went beyond her as he scoured the Strada il Teatro for police. Behind him, a small sign mounted to the wall banned skateboarders from the area.

  Daniela smiled to herself as she descended. Some things were the same everywhere, the behavior of energetic teens and tired children topping the list.

  A glance at her watch showed she had nine minutes.

  Her call with Fabrizia had focused on business. The calendar in the queen’s phone hadn’t been accurately updated to reflect a time change for next week’s speech introducing a new museum exhibit. She also had questions about the expected guests at an upcoming luncheon. So far, the assistant filling in for Daniela had done a fair job, but, as Fabrizia was kind enough to say, “No one is as good at this as you, Daniela. You think of things like updating the calendar in my phone, in addition to the daily and weekly schedules.”

  The queen finished the call with a list of items that needed review. Daniela would need to wake up earlier than usual tomorrow to address them, but knowing the queen valued her was motivating.

  When she reached the bottom step, she turned onto Via Vespri. A signpost designed to match the streetlights offered directions to points of interest in multiple languages. Across the street, a money exchange and tourist information center were closing for the evening, their entrances half-covered by rolling metal shutters as their final customers departed. She passed a clothing boutique, an Indian restaurant jammed with customers, and a traditional San Riminian restaurant that smelled of lemon and garlic. A man and woman stood near the restaurant entrance, translating the posted menu to French for their two children and urging them inside. A similar scene played out across the street at a Greek restaurant, where a couple close to Daniela’s age perused the menu and debated the choices. Outdoor benches dotted the sidewalk at regular intervals to keep tourists from flagging taxis when their feet and legs ached from walking. It was a smart move by the shops and restaurants, as more than one bench was occupied by foreigners who used the respite to scour restaurant reviews on their phones.

  Despite checking each door as she passed, Daniela nearly missed Trattoria Safina, which was wedged between a jewelry shop and another clothing boutique. The entrance was narrow, with a single window to the right of the entry. Unlike the other establishments, it lacked an overhead sign and was identified only by the etching on its glass door, exactly as Roy had described.

  Correction: it was exactly as Royce had described. Irritation pricked her as she scanned the nearby benches, then eyeballed her watch. Four minutes to eight.

  She’d brooded about Royce Dekker since figuring out his identity. First, she was mad at herself for failing to recognize him sooner, then mad at him for lying to her. Or, if not outright lying to her, for being deceptive. But by the time she’d said goodbye to her mother and boarded the plane back to San Rimini, she’d taken a mental step back and wondered if Royce hadn’t been deceptive at all, but had forgotten her entirely. One night and one kiss, years ago, likely wasn’t an event that stuck in a guy’s memory, though admitting that to herself was a blow to the ego.

  By the time the plane landed, however, she’d set aside that reasoning. It didn’t add up. If he’d forgotten her, why the name change? Why hide behind his hat?

  Finally, at midmorning, she couldn’t take it any longer. She’d stalked out of Queen Aletta’s suite without a plan beyond calling him Royce and waiting for his response.

  To her shock, he not only remembered her, he’d admitted it. Even more shocking, w
hen he’d said he had good reason for acting as he had, she’d wanted to believe him, even if she couldn’t imagine what that reason could be. His voice, his attitude, his word choice—even that cheesy line about giving him hope—had resonated with her.

  Then again, maybe it was that he’d taken off his hat and looked straight into her eyes as he’d said it. Royce Dekker wasn’t handsome in the sense of a billboard or magazine model. His nose resembled a blade, and his features weren’t quite symmetrical. He also bore a scar that curved like a backward letter C on the right side of his forehead, midway between his eyebrow and his hairline, one that looked too new to have existed in Cancun. As she’d looked at him, she’d observed other changes. His hair was much shorter, the easy waves replaced by a near-military style, and there was a hardness that spoke of challenges. But he was a good-looking man—incredible, really—with dark brows, a tight jawline, and muscle-stacked shoulders. Solid. The kind of man you’d want alongside you in a fight, or when you were in the mood for a sexy night out. But it was his expressive, intelligent brown eyes that tripped her instinct to trust him, just as they had when she’d agreed to walk with him years earlier. He seemed to look right through her, to catalogue her innermost thoughts and feelings at the same time he drew her into his confidence.

  She’d drawn deep on her reserves of willpower to concentrate this afternoon, rather than allowing her thoughts to drift to the painter in the next room, but that determination had paid off. Fashion wasn’t her forte so much as organization, so it had taken a solid hour of research and a few phone calls to be sure, but a jolt of satisfaction rocketed through her as she’d ended the final call, then hidden the handbag inside the wardrobe that contained the queen’s most prized gowns, tucking it on the floor where it was obscured by the fabric.

  Her employment with Fabrizia taught her that sometimes it wasn’t the public accomplishments that an employer valued most, but one’s ability to prevent public disaster. The confirmation she’d made this afternoon fit that category.

  A German couple emerged from the trattoria, their faces reddened from a long day spent in the sun and eyes heavy-lidded with the exhaustion of travelers nearing the end of an extended vacation. They stood at the curb, debating whether to walk or call for a ride. When they opted to walk and departed arm in arm, Daniela checked her watch again. With no sign of Royce outside, she decided to push through the restaurant’s heavy door. A short woman with black, spiky hair stood behind a counter stacked high with food containers. In Italian, she asked if Daniela had come to pick up an order.

  Daniela peered into the shadowed room. It was deep and narrow, with tile floors that looked original to the building. Mirrors with thick frames lined the walls, interspersed with sepia-toned pictures of San Rimini’s waterfront as it appeared a hundred years earlier. Overhead, a chandelier sparkled despite the dim interior, its crystals and wrought iron arms free of cobwebs or dust.

  Clean as it was, Daniela’s back stiffened. It was the type of dark, confined place she tried to avoid. Where other people felt coziness, she had the sensation of walls moving inward to squeeze the air from her lungs. She looked at the chandelier again, mentally drawing on its light. If she focused on the fact the place was spotless, that no piles of junk would rain down on her head, it should alleviate her sense of dread.

  She finally answered the woman at the counter. “I’m meeting someone, but I’m a few minutes early.”

  An expression of familiarity lifted the woman’s brows and she gestured for Daniela to follow her. They passed four empty tables, then two that were in the process of being cleared by a busboy. Behind the busboy, Royce sat with his back to the wall at a table crafted of wood so timeworn it was nearly black. Flatware, two menus, and two water glasses with condensation clinging to the sides rested on the table. Royce rose as she approached, then rounded the table and pulled out the chair opposite his. While it meant Daniela’s back would be to the door of the restaurant, the large mirror mounted on the wall behind Royce’s seat provided the illusion of being in a larger space.

  “Grazie, Basia,” Royce said to the woman who’d manned the front counter.

  She bobbed her head in acknowledgement, then moved away as the door opened to admit a man who’d come to pick up an order.

  “They do a lot of takeaway, especially on weeknights,” Royce said as he took his seat, aiming a look at the door. “The seating area is mostly for tourists.”

  “You know the woman at the counter?”

  “The Safina of Trattoria Safina is long retired, but she stops in from time to time for dinner, and I assume to keep an eye on the place. Basia is her granddaughter. The chef is one of Basia’s cousins. Took a few years to discover all that, though. This was the first restaurant my parents visited when they moved to San Rimini. We’ve ordered from here ever since.”

  “That was when you were a teenager, right?”

  Before she’d even finished the question, Daniela regretted it. Asking other people about themselves was her habit, polite interaction that allowed her to learn about the other person while keeping them from asking too much about her. But in this case, the question gave away too much, letting Royce know that she remembered small details of their evening together, which meant it had mattered to her more than it should.

  He ran his index finger over the base of his water glass. “Your memory astounds me. I told you that? Back in Cancun?”

  “You said you’d lived in The Hague, then came to San Rimini a couple years before you started at university. At least, I think that’s what you said. I’ve slept since then.”

  The edge of his mouth hooked into a smile as he recognized her backpedal for what it was. “I was sixteen when we moved here.”

  “You decided to stay permanently.”

  An odd look crossed his face before he nodded, giving her the sense he objected to her word choice, though whether it was to “decided” or “permanently,” she wasn’t sure. He was about to say something else when a waiter approached to offer bread with olive oil and take their orders. When he informed them that the special of the night was spinach lasagna with a side of green beans from the family farm and local wild mushrooms, they both ordered it. After checking with Daniela regarding her wine preference, Royce added a carafe of the house Pinot Noir.

  When the waiter left, the busboy trailing behind him, Royce steepled his fingers on the table. He kept his voice pitched for Daniela’s ears only, despite the fact the only other person in the room was spiky-haired Basia at the front counter. “So, my explanation. May as well pull out the splinter now.”

  She waited. It took him a full ten seconds and a deep breath before he began. “When we met in Cancun, I was working in Guatemala. Do you remember?”

  She nodded.

  “When the project wrapped, I joined the British Army. I completed my training in England, then went into intelligence. I enjoyed it and I was good at it. I thought I’d found my place. Plenty of mental stimulation. Enough outdoor time to keep me from going stir crazy. Decent pay and benefits, the opportunity to see the world.”

  He broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the olive oil, but in the distracted manner of someone who needed to keep his hands occupied rather than satisfy hunger pangs. He let the bread hover over the plate as he spoke.

  “I went to Greenland first. I’d never been there, and I loved it. Then it was on to assignments in Wales and Cyprus. From there, I was sent to Turkey for four weeks as part of a multinational training exercise. Eight countries conducted mock raids, ammunition drops, live fire drills, that kind of thing. It was a big deal. When the exercise concluded, a few units stayed on due to an uptick in violence in Syria, including mine.”

  He took a breath and tapped his bread on the side of the plate, but his eyes didn’t leave hers.

  “One night, about a month into the extended assignment, I went out to dinner in a village with two soldiers from another unit. I’d met them during the original exercise and they were due to rota
te out in a few days. I chose a small place I’d visited before, about a ten-minute drive inside the Turkish border from Syria. Good food. Cheap. Run by an extended family. We’d spent the afternoon doing follow-up drills and were on an adrenaline high when we entered the restaurant. The three of us ate like kings, paid our tab, and left a hefty tip. We felt good about ensuring the family had a solid income that night, and were happy to have solidified our friendship. We even promised to keep each other in the loop about future assignments to the extent we could, in case we had the opportunity to meet up again.”

  Royce drew in his shoulders as if unconsciously bracing for a punch, and Daniela’s stomach dropped.

  “We saw the guy at the same time. He was in the driver’s seat of an old VW van parked across the dirt road from the restaurant, his eyes fixed on the door as we exited. He looked as scared as a little kid who’d been bullied into going on a rollercoaster. Determined to go through with it, but praying he wouldn’t vomit or cry. I knew what that look meant, why he was there. We hit the ground and yelled for the people in the restaurant to take cover.”

  Royce’s chin lifted as their waiter appeared with the carafe and poured the wine. Royce thanked him and waited until the older man had returned to the kitchen to continue his story. “We got lucky. Only the bomber was killed. One of my friends took a piece of shrapnel to the neck and the other had several nails lodged in his calf. Two women who were walking on the other side of the street had damage to their eardrums and shrapnel wounds, but nothing life threatening. Windows were blown out at the restaurant, but no one inside was hurt beyond cuts and bruises.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’d only partially ducked when the blast hit, so it knocked me the rest of the way to the ground. Ended up with a concussion and some gravel and broken glass in my forearms and palms. A few pieces in my forehead. Nothing a saline rinse and a handful of ibuprofen couldn’t handle.”