Romancing the Crown Series

by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)

There wasn't much he didn't know about her body now. And from the look in his eyes, he liked what he saw.

  He reached for her and she danced back, laughing. "Uhuh. Let's get wet."

  His fiery Rose turned out to be a water rat.

  She played. She pounced. She tried to drown him. When they were in the deepest part of the little cove, near the reef, she dived deep, swam underneath him and bit his toe.

  The reef was a good distance from the shore, but even before he knew how at home she was in the water, he hadn't worried about that. With the tide out they could walk about half the way, waist-deep in the warm Mediterranean. The sun was hot, his muscles were loose and warm, and the woman beside him was beautiful. And happy. She had her own glow, Rose did, that warmed him in a way the sun never could.

  "I should make you carry everything," he told her. "You've exhausted me."

  "Wimp." She sounded immensely satisfied. "You aristocrats have no staying power. We peasant women have had to be strong, having all those babies while we're out tilling the fields.

  "Done that a lot, have you?" he asked with interest. "It doesn't show." Her hair hung down her back, sleek and dripping, while her swimsuit... God almighty. Everything showed. If she'd painted herself red, it wouldn't have been any more revealing.

  He looked away. "I might be able to summon a little energy if you feed me."

  "If you wait for me to feed you, you could end up with scraps. I've worked up quite an appetite."

  So had he. But he wasn't going to act on it. Yet.

  It wasn't conscience or any gentlemanly constraints that held him back. He intended to have her today, here on the beach, with the sun shining down on them. But he had to be careful, stay in control. He didn't think he could stand it if one of his crazy spells hit while he was making love to Rose, and he came back to himself to see fear and pity in her eyes.

  So when they reached the dry sand, she spread the light throw that had been in the backpack and he helped her set out the wine, cheese, bread and fruit. He concentrated on conversation while they ate, trying not to glance too often at her full breasts, or her long legs, or the slight roundness of her stomach.

  That bloody swimsuit was so snug he could see the indention of her belly button. He popped an olive into his mouth and cocked his leg up to hide the evidence of his interest.

  She'd made it clear she didn't want to touch on the heavy stuff anymore, so he avoided anything to do with terrorists or psychic bull. Instead, he asked her about making jewelry and learned that she'd taught herself bookkeeping. He told her about his business. "Why real estate?" she asked at one point.

  He shrugged. "For all the obvious reasons, I suppose. I'm a second son—I wasn't going to inherit the family land, so I set out to own as much property elsewhere as possible. I had a small inheritance from a great-aunt that got me started."

  "Do you like it, though? The whole process, I mean—evaluating properties, buying and selling them. Or is it the end result you like—the money, the ownership, coming out on top?

  The question startled him. He hadn't thought about what he did in those terms. "All of the above, I suppose," he said slowly. "I enjoy having money, of course. But these days I enjoy the game more than the ownership. I discovered I was good at it, and we usually enjoy the things we're good at."

  Somehow from that, he'd found himself telling her about tax laws in Tokyo. Tax laws, for God's sake! Admittedly it was something he knew all too much about, since he currently owned investment properties in seven countries. But it was hardly a subject with which to beguile a beautiful woman. So he asked about her aunt. Before he knew it, she'd turned the conversation to his family, and he ended up talking about the paparazzi and what it was like to have his life made into public property.

  It was damned disconcerting. Not that he didn't talk with the women he went to bed with. He did. Mostly, though, he listened. He wasn't used to talking about himself and couldn't understand why he was doing so much of it today. Except that he was comfortable with her. It was a strange thing to realize, when he was so aroused that his erection twitched every time she moved.

  Was this how people felt with him? he wondered. As if they could say anything, anything at all, and it would be all right?

  "That was good." She patted her stomach, then slid her plate into the backpack and pulled out a tube of cream. "We should probably put some more sunscreen on. Wouldn't want your delicate English skin to blister."

  There was a light dusting of sand on her thigh, pale against the dusky skin. He wanted to smooth it off. "You hardy peasants don't get sunburned, I take it."

  "I've got more melanin protecting me, paleface." Her finger made a little circle in the air. "Turn around and I'll put some on your back.

  He didn't move. "Rose, if you put your hands on me now, I'll have your swimsuit off in two minutes. Maybe less. Is that what you want?"

  Her eyes widened. "I didn't—You haven't—" She stopped, frowned and said, "You haven't shown any signs of being overwhelmed by lust."

  "I'm hoping to avoid being overwhelmed. I'd like to keep enough control to do a few of the things I've been fantasizing about." He plucked the tube of sunscreen from her lax fingers. "Rose, you're not naive. You've seen me looking at you in that damned swimsuit." Then he did what he'd been wanting to do and brushed at the sand on her thigh.

  Her skin was warm and dry. She shivered. He curled his hand around her thigh and looked at his hand on her, looked at all that smooth, dusky skin and the scarlet tease of her swimsuit. His heart pounded. Slowly he dragged his gaze up to her face. Her pupils were dilated.

  She liked his hand on her.

  The knowledge sent a rush of pleasure through him. "You know why I asked you to swim here, where we would be alone. You know what I want.

  Her head moved in a tiny nod.

  "If that isn't what you want, you need to say so now."

  She didn't answer. Not in words. Instead, she took the sunscreen from him and put it down. Then she slid her arms around his neck. Her fingers teased the hair at his nape. Her voice was unsteady. "You sure there aren't any paparazzi around with telephoto lenses?"

  "I can't guarantee anything." He eased her up against him, and everywhere she touched it felt like sparklers going off just under his skin, a thousand tiny flashes of heat. "Not a damned thing, Rose. I wish I could." And he kissed her.

  He'd thought he was prepared. But there was no way to be ready for the rush of hunger, the sudden hollowing of his stomach, as if the world had suddenly dropped out from under him. Her mouth was sweet and giving, and it wasn't enough. He needed more. He didn't want her willing, he wanted her wild, wanted her as lost as he was in a strange, high country where the air was thin and the blood pumped thick and hot.

  He ran his hand up her thigh, along her hip, finding the dampness of her suit, the curve of her belly. He loved the feel of her stomach, the curves and softness of her. He lingered there a moment, caressing her waist, feeling her muscles shift as she moved, bringing herself more fully against him. Making him shudder.

  Cupping her breast with one hand, he pressed her down onto her back. He couldn't make himself stop kissing her. Her taste was like a drug, and much as he wanted to sample her elsewhere, he couldn't tear himself away from her mouth. She made a small sound of approval, her hands eager on his shoulders, his back. His legs moved restlessly.

  He tugged on one strap of her swimsuit. When she didn't protest, a fierce exultation seized him. This time she wasn't pushing him away. This time she wanted him.

  Then, because he had to see, he pulled his mouth from hers. The damp suit clung to her skin. He needed both hands to peel it down, unwrapping her carefully, stopping when the scarlet clung to her waist.

  Her breasts were full, her nipples dark and hard, the areoles large and pebbly. She was breathing quickly. He glanced at her face, wanting her to know how much she pleased him, excited him. Her lips were parted, her eyes swallowed by pleasure, and he knew she liked having him look at
her.

  "We're going to end up with sand in all sorts of uncomfortable places." Her voice was breathy, happy.

  "I don't mind," he assured her, and bent to taste.

  She started to laugh, but it changed to a moan when he licked one upright nipple. He licked it thoroughly, then started to suck. She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him to her.

  He was almost sure he was going to last until he could get her out of that swimsuit, but knew he'd better not wait too much longer. He started tugging at it again, and she distracted him by squirming, her hips pushing against him.

  He knew what she wanted. Firmly he cupped her, and her quick gasp of pleasure made the delay worthwhile. He massaged her gently, making sure the heel of his hand put the pressure where she needed it.

  Her head tilted back, and her low moan sent his blood surging. She clutched his wrist. "Drew...oh. Oh, my. I need to tell you..." Her voice ended in a gasp as he rotated his hand.

  He kept his movements small and careful, clinging to the edge of his control, and smiled tightly. "Yes?"

  "I...you should know before we go much further...I'm something of a newcomer to this."

  He froze. No. No, she didn't mean that the way it sounded. She couldn't. He spoke with the same care and precision he'd been using with his hand. "You're sexually experienced."

  "Well—yes. Sort of. But technically, I'm a virgin."

  Technically?

  He threw himself off her, rolling onto his back. His chest heaved. He stared up at the sky, so angry he didn't trust himself to speak or move. He didn't watch her sit and pull her swimsuit back up, but he knew from the slight sounds, the corner-of-the-eyes glimpses, that she was covering herself.

  Then she spoke. " If this is some kind of... of excess of gallantry, you' d better get over it fast."

  She sounded nearly as furious as he was. "I do not—ever—seduce virgins." His jaw was so tight he had to grit the words out.

  "Here's a news flash—I was the one seducing you, and a hard time I was having of it, too, for a while. So you can tuck your overactive conscience back where it belongs, and—"

  "Let me put it this way." He sat up and began slinging the remains of their picnic into the backpack without looking at her. "I don't go to bed with women who don't know the score."

  "The score?" Her voice rose. "Is that what this is about—scoring? Are we playing soccer? For God's sake, Drew." She made an effort to smooth the anger out of her voice and put a hand on his arm. "Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong.

  He shook her off and stood. "Get your things together.

  She muttered under her breath as she grabbed her towel and coverup—first in Italian, then in German. Drew recognized most of the Italian. He didn't know as much German, but he caught a couple of the words she used. His eyebrows shot up. Quite a vocabulary she had.

  Anger was good, though, he thought as he yanked up the throw they'd nearly made love on, stashed it in the backpack and grabbed his gear. Anger was excellent. If she'd cried...but Rose wasn't the weepy sort. She'd probably cut off her arm before she let herself cry in front of him now.

  He found himself hoping rather desperately that was true. "I wasn't being gallant," he said abruptly. "Or acting on my conscience. I'm a selfish man and I acted selfishly. I prefer experienced women."

  The phrase she snapped out was in English this time. He ignored the insult to his mother, silently agreed with her opinion of his intelligence and started for the path.

  He'd never set out to infuriate a woman before. It wasn't hard to do, even if it did leave him feeling like something the cat hacked up on the carpet.

  She joined him on the path. "Does this infuriating nobility of yours—which I agree is damned selfish— have anything to do with the woman who tried to kill herself?

  "What?" Furious all over again, he made a mistake. He looked at her. "What do you know about Laura?"

  Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She didn't try to hide them, either, meeting his gaze with stubborn pride. "You were engaged to marry her, and she tried to kill herself. That's all I know."

  Something ripped inside him. He wanted to cup her cheek, to kiss the salt from her eyes. But he knew better than to touch her, so he started walking again. "Laura made the mistake of falling in love with a cold bastard who couldn't give her what she needed. I made the mistake of becoming involved with a clinging woman. I won't do it again."

  "I'm not that vulnerable, Drew." She kept pace with him. "And I've never clung in my life."

  "I've already hurt you. I'm not going to make things worse."

  "You want to tell me what a thin little membrane has to do with whether I get hurt or not? Drew," she said, exasperated, "I may not have done the deed before, but I've enjoyed men and they've enjoyed me. I'm not completely inexperienced."

  "How old are you?"

  "Plenty old enough to make this decision for myself," she snapped.

  "All right, I'll guess. You're under thirty, over twenty-five—"

  "I'm twenty-seven, if it matters."

  She wasn't looking at him now. That helped. "It matters. A woman doesn't make it to the age of twenty-seven with that little membrane intact unless it matters."

  When she didn't answer, he knew he was right. Her virginity meant something to her. How could it not, if she'd waited this long to allow a man the final intimacy? She was Catholic, living in a country that clung to that bloody village mind-set he kept being reminded of. Maybe she had done some heavy petting. Maybe she'd done everything except intercourse. The fact remained that she'd stopped short of taking that final step, and there had to be a reason, a powerful one, for a woman as passionate as Rose to stop.

  There had to be a reason, a powerful one, for her to decide not to stop, too.

  Drew didn't want to think about that, but he couldn't seem to keep fom it. Either she'd hoped to barter her virginity for title, or she felt something for him—something strong, something that might be love.

  He couldn't believe the one explanation. He was terrified of the other.

  They trudged up the rest of the way in silence, as close physically as they had been when they went down the same path. Except, of course, that he wasn't holding her hand now. He would never hold it again.

  Foolishly, it was that loss that burned in him more cruelly than anything else.

  The drive back to the shop passed in stiff, miserable silence. Rose was disgusted with both of them. Obviously telling him she was a virgin had been a huge mistake. But she'd seen his face, felt the tension in his 1 body. She hadn't wanted him to drive into her like a freight train. And how could she have known he had such a hang-up about it?

  If she hadn't told him, though...he'd been close to losing control. Maybe, if she'd been less worried about a brief physical pain, his shield would have dropped. Maybe she would know what it was to be joined, body and soul, with the only man she would ever want to give herself to.

  And maybe, she thought, shifting restlessly, he'd be twice as angry now and still locked tight behind his walls. There was no way of knowing.

  When he turned off on her street, she swallowed hard. He didn't intend to see her again. She knew that, and it hurt.

  He was such an idiot. She wasn't giving up, but how could she make the stupid man change his mind if she couldn't see him, talk to him?

  Since it was Sunday, traffic was light and there was parking along the street. Drew pulled up right in front of her shop. Caught up in her unhappy thoughts, Rose gathered her things without looking at him. She didn't realize something else was wrong until he started cursing.

  Her startled gaze flew to his face—and then she saw what he was staring at. Big red letters were sprawled across the window of her shop: Non soffrirete una strega per vivere.

  Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  They'd added a crude drawing of flame, in lieu of punctuation.

  So it had started. Rose's heart beat a little too fast and the sour taste in her mouth was more
fear than anger. But her voice sounded level enough, at least. "I take it you read Italian.

  "Well enough for this." He turned to her, and there was nothing smooth or detached about his face now. It blazed with anger. "I'm calling the police."

  She shrugged and reached for the door handle. "It won't help.

  "They can question your neighbors. Someone may have seen the son of a bitch who did this.

  "And if they catch him, he'll be fined for vandalism. That won't erase the sentiment." She pushed the door open and got out.

  She meant to go directly into the shop. There should be some turpentine in the back, and getting this cleaned off as quickly as possible sounded like a very good idea. Instead, she found herself standing right in front of the defaced window, looking at those dripping letters, at the crude, malevolent image of fire at the end of the sentence. Her mind was empty. Her stomach hurt.

  She didn't know Drew had gotten out, too, until she felt his touch on her arm. "Rose. Lorenzo told me about your mother. I'm sorry, maybe he shouldn't have, but this.. .You need protection. It takes a truly sick mind to do something like this.

  She couldn't argue with that. "More than one, probably. This sort travels in packs for courage."

  "You don't seem surprised."

  "I've been afraid of something like this ever since Captain Mylonas made it obvious he suspected I'd had a role in the bombing.

  "All the more reason, then, to call the police. Or my cousin. Lorenzo can let it be known that you're cooperating with the authorities. That should reassure people you aren't connected to the terrorists."

  She slid him a glance. He really didn't have a clue. But then, she'd been careful not to tell him all the reasons she'd been reluctant to work with the authorities. His cousin probably knew—the Sebastianis understood their people fairly well—but Drew came from outside her world. He hadn't realized what he was asking of her, and she hadn't wanted to burden him with that knowledge.

  Probably not one of her brainier ideas. "It won't help. They'll just assume I've cast a spell on your cousin.

  "They can't be that stupid."

  That drew a short, hard laugh from her. "Never underestimate the power of fear combined with ignorance. Drew, the people who did this don't think I helped anyone plant a bomb. They think I caused the fire all by myself.