by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
Gemma grabbed her arm. "If that doesn't work, what?"'
"Then I'll just have to prove myself, won't I?"
"Rose, no! You know the rule. You must never—"
"My taxi is here." She gave Gemma a quick kiss on the cheek and turned away. "Don't worry, Zia. The prince isn't a superstitious peasant. He won't have me burned as a witch."
Her aunt's voice reached her, quiet and intense. "That isn't the only reason for the rule, Rose. You know that. What happens if you prove yourself and the prince believes you—without understanding the limits?"
Rose's hand checked briefly as she reached for the handle of the door. She knew the answer to that question. She didn't think her aunt needed to hear it, however.
But the question continued to echo in her head as the taxi pulled away. What would she do if the prince or the king accepted her Gift as real, and then tried to force her to use it beyond her ability to control it?
Burn, probably.
The two men walking down the grand staircase at the palace were almost of a height, but otherwise looked unrelated. One was dark, with smooth, handsome features. The other was fair, his light-brown hair too long, too curly, for the grim, narrow face.
"You've been in a weird mood lately," Lucas said.
"Have I?"
"You gave me advice last night."
"That was odd of me." And undoubtedly a mistake, Drew thought. He listened well, but he had no experience with advising people and no qualifications for it. Last night Lucas had told Drew what was eating at him, and Drew had been moved by the need to help. That wasn't unusual. But he couldn't remember when he'd let that need spill over into the folly of offering unwanted advice.
Certainly Lucas hadn't been impressed by Drew's carefully tendered opinion. He still didn't intend to confide in his parents or ask his father to postpone the ceremony.
"You've been holed up in your room all week," Lucas continued. "Working too hard, according to Mother."
"You know the deal in Hong Kong is giving me trouble. That's why I'm leaving today." Right now he was wishing he'd said goodbye to Lucas at lunch, when he'd taken leave of his aunt and uncle.
"You always bring some work with you when you visit," Lucas agreed, "just as you always spend some time on the beach and generally drag me off to snorkel or scuba with you. You haven't been to the ocean."
Yes, he had. Which was why he hadn't been back. "If you wanted to go, you should have said something.
Lucas made an exasperated sound. "I am trying to find out what's wrong. I don't know how to pry people open without saying a word the way you do. Hinting doesn't seem to work, and I don't have time to get you drunk or beat it out of you. So just tell me."
For the first time in days, a small smile pulled at Drew's mouth. "You might want to work on the tact and diplomacy some more before you negotiate that treaty with the Emirate.
"I don't need tact and diplomacy with you. I need a crowbar. Or a sledgehammer."
They'd reached the bottom of the stairs. Lucas stopped and faced Drew. "You look like hell."
"Dry skin. It's hell when you forget to moisturize." He hadn't been sleeping well. Instead of crazy spells, he'd been afflicted with nightmares the past few nights, waking up in a terror sweat around three in the morning and unable to remember anything about the dream.
"My mother said you've been plagued by migraines."
"Now and then. Not this past week, however." Not since the one that had led into his last fugue spell— one week and sixteen hours ago. Soon after saying goodbye to Rose. It was hard to avoid the conclusion that she had somehow made the spells worse. If so, he might be able to go for months without another one. Since he would never see her again.
"Is there a health problem, Drew? Something you didn't want to tell my mother about?"
"Didn't your mother tell you? I had myself checked out by a specialist. He found nothing wrong."
When Lucas frowned, he had something of the stern look of his father. "If it was anyone else, I'd suspect you had woman trouble. The serious kind. But you haven't dated anyone since you came here, aside from the young woman you brought to dinner that night. Whom you haven't seen in at least a week."
"Very good. If you decide to abandon your career as a royal, you can try detective work.
"What is it with you? I spill my guts to you, and you won't tell me a damned thing, though any fool can see something's wrong. Badly wrong.
Anyone could see that? Drew was surprised, and troubled. He could see that his cousin was truly pissed off, and he understood why. It must seem unbalanced, unfair, as if Drew were unwilling to extend the same kind of trust Lucas had. Haltingly he said, "I don't know how to talk about this sort of thing.
"You just start and see what comes out.
"Nothing comes out. That's the problem." Drew dragged a hand over his hair. He really needed a haircut. He didn't know why he kept forgetting. "Look, the car is waiting. My plane leaves in less than an hour. Even without having to go through security, that doesn't leave me much time."
"She must have mattered," Lucas said quietly. "You wouldn't be acting like such a jackass if she hadn't mattered."
Drew was silent a moment. "Yes. She mattered." He gripped his cousin's arm. "You'll take care of yourself.
"Of course."
"And think about what I suggested.
"Good God, advice again." Light irony infused Lucas's voice, but his face closed up tight. "I'd return the favor if I knew enough to have some chance of hitting the target.
Moments later Drew was in the back seat of the limo as it pulled away from the palace. Off to the east, lightning flashed. He wondered if the storm would arrive before his plane could leave.
Lucas had wanted to know what was wrong. What should he have said? I haven't had a crazy spell in a week, which is good. But I'm not sleeping. My arms feel heavy, leaden, but my legs are twitchy, as if wherever I am, I need to be somewhere else. My mind is dull, as if I were recuperating from an illness. I keep seeing her face...
When he saw the young woman in the long, black-and-white dress arguing with a guard near the gate, at first he thought he was imagining things. That he'd found a new way to be nuts. But no. It really was Rose.
He leaned forward and tapped on the glass. " Stop." A second later he stepped out of the air-conditioned limo into the clammy heat.
She didn't see him at first, so involved was she in her argument with the guard. Drew barely noticed the man. His attention was all on the tall woman in the slim dress the breeze was teasing. Her leg showed up to the thigh on the side he could see, revealed by a slit in the dress. Her black hair was caught in a loose bundle at the nape of her neck.
He didn't know why he'd gotten out of the limo. This wouldn't help anything, and there was a good chance he'd make things worse for both of them. But he kept walking.
When he was almost close enough to touch, she turned, unsurprised, as if she'd known all along he was there. Maybe she was too angry to have room for surprise. Her eyes were flashing with fury.
"Can you fire this son of a pig?" she demanded.
The oddest thing happened when she scowled at him. He felt lighter, cleaner. He felt...happy. "I'm afraid not."
"Your uncle shouldn't have such scum working for him." She rounded on the guard. "You will give me your name, and Lord Andrew will tell me whom I should report you to."
"I haven't done anything wrong," the man growled. "We can't let in every piece of ass that comes waltzing through the gates."
Drew's attention sharpened tightly on the guard. He was short and stocky, about thirty, with a crisp crease in his uniform trousers, a good shine on his shoes and bad breath. "Excuse me. Did you just refer to this young lady as a piece of ass?"
"I..." His eyes darted from Drew to Rose. "She's been calling me a lot worse, just because I wouldn't let her in to see the prince. The prince!" He was scornful. "And when that didn't work, she wanted to send word to you or Duke Lorenzo. As if His Grace had
nothing better to do than come running when she called!"
Lorenzo would know Rose was at the palace soon, if he didn't already. His men were still following her. "And what is your real name? As opposed to the ones she called you, that is."
"I don't see what—"
Drew raised his eyebrows. "I didn't ask what you saw. I asked your name."
"Edwardo Scarpa." He added defensively, "She's not on the approved list, my lord."
"And you feel free, naturally, to insult anyone who isn't on your list. I will have to ask Lorenzo if he agrees. Rose?" He turned fully to her. "Let's allow Scarpa to get back to defending the palace." He held out his hand.
She glanced from his hand to his face as if he'd offered her a dubious gift, but put her hand in his.
It felt good, right, to be holding her hand again. But the very tightness was troubling. He walked with her into the tailored grouping of trees to the east of the drive, where they would have shade and a semblance of privacy.
As soon as they were out of sight of the guard, she pulled her hand away.
Obviously seeing him didn't make her especially happy. "You wanted to talk to me?" he asked.
"You were my third choice, actually, but you'll do. I have to see the prince."
Memory moved through him uneasily. Lorenzo had said there was some kind of plot to assassinate Lucas, and that Rose might be part of it.
Ridiculous, he told himself. But his voice was harsh when he asked, "Why?
Her head turned, held at a proud angle as she met his eyes. "I had a... call it a vision. It involves him.
"Tell me. I'll pass it on to him.
"This is too personal. He'll want to ask questions, see if I'm making this up." She chewed on her lip a moment, then opened the slim purse hanging from her shoulder and withdrew a small glass box. "Give this to him. I think—I'm almost sure—he'll recognize it. Tell him I know something about the woman it belonged to."
"A woman?" Dread balled up in his stomach. Last night Lucas had told him about a woman. "What do you mean?"
"I'll answer any questions the prince has, to the best of my ability. I don't owe you any answers."
His fingers closed around the box. He looked at it, frowning. She'd come to the palace—but not to see him. To push some kind of psychic crap on Lucas.
Or else to try to kill him.
No, dammit, he didn't believe that. But he wasn't much happier at the idea that she was here to poke at his cousin's wounds—though how had she known? Until last night, he hadn't known Lucas was deeply worried about a woman.
Guesswork, he answered himself a moment later. Given his cousin's habits, it didn't take paranormal abilities to guess there had been a woman in his recent past. It made Drew sick to think she might be trying to take advantage of Lucas's troubles, to win money or advantage that way. He wanted nothing to do with it. But he knew what Lorenzo would say—string her along, find out what she's up to.
Even though he didn't believe Rose was connected to the terrorists, it was the right thing to do. It wasn't —surely—because he wanted a few more minutes in her company that he agreed. "All right. I'll take this to Lucas." He would notify Lorenzo first, of course. He started walking.
"Ah...the palace is the other direction."
"I have to tell my driver I won't be needing him. It looks as if I won't be making my flight, after all."
"You were leaving Montebello?" Her voice was sharp. Her eyes...
Her eyes. He looked away, giving them both a chance to recover.
Whatever she said—whatever, even, she believed—she hadn't come here just to see Lucas about some vision she thought she'd had. Or to trick the prince into giving her money or favor. She'd come to see him. And the pain of it staggered him. The unexpectedness of that pain left him without a compass. Why did it hurt now, when a few minutes ago the sight of her had made him happy?
He had no idea what to say to her. He couldn't explain himself to himself, so how could he explain to her?
When he reached the waiting limo, he said simply, "It was time to go."
Chapter 11
Rose's stomach still hurt when he left her in an elegant drawing room on the first floor of the palace.
He'd been on his way to the airport. If she hadn't come to the palace today, he would have left Montebello and she wouldn't even have known. At some point her aunt would probably have read about his departure in one of the gossip columns and told her about it. Rose's mind kept coming back to that simple, bare truth over and over, like a mother cat licking her dead kitten, unable to believe it wouldn't stir and walk again.
He would have been gone, and she wouldn't have known.
So much for the blessings of denial. She felt as if she'd been gut-punched. Sitting on a gilt-and-cream chair, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, Rose faced a few more truths she'd been hiding from.
She remembered that one, blinding instant when she'd touched Drew's essereFrom that moment to this, she'd believed he was hers and she was his. That they were fated, she'd thought of him as her ideal mate, her sexual match. The one her soul cried out to. She had refused to believe her soul could be crying alone. Surely he must have felt something, too. Even blocked as he was, he must have felt something.
How many women since the beginning of time had believed that because they loved, Aemust love, too?
But then, she hadn't thought in terms of love, had she? Looking back, she marveled at how deftly she'd dodged that particular word, never allowing herself to think it. To claim it. Now, her eyes dry, her hands white-knuckled, she faced the truth. She'd fallen in love with Drew. And he hadn't even planned to tell her goodbye.
Be fair, she told herself fiercely. He thought they'd already parted. She was the one who'd been keeping a two-fisted grip on denial all week.
She realized she was breathing too fast, like a wounded animal panting to overcome the pain. She made herself relax her hands, breathe deeply and slowly, and for the first time noticed her surroundings.
The walls were hung with gold brocade. The ceiling was high and ornately plastered; the medallion at its center was repeated on a smaller scale over each of the tall doorways. Twin sofas were upholstered in a delicate print on a cream background, the same light cream that had been used on all the woodwork. Touches of smoky olive—on one chair, and in the pattern of the carpet—kept the gold from overpowering, and subtly echoed the greens in the landscapes displayed in heavy, gilded frames.
The painting over the mantel looked like a Renoir.
Rose glanced at the sleeveless cotton dress she'd pulled on in such a hurry. It was a black-and-white print in a simple design, a slim tube that fell straight from her neck to her ankles, with slitted sides so it wouldn't hamper her stride. There was nothing wrong with the dress. It was one of her favorites. She'd found it in a little shop halfway up the coast that sold everything from magazines to scarves to psychedelic condoms.
All at once she felt as misplaced as a piece of costume jewelry that has landed by accident in a museum display.
She smoothed the dress with a shaky hand, then scowled and stood. So what if she didn't fit in his world? He didn't want her in it, anyway, and not because of where she bought her clothes. She didn't think her intact hymen was the real problem, either. Maybe it was her claim to be psychic, maybe it was a dozen other things. Problems from his past. Religious differences. The way his mother had treated him when he was little. The fact was, she didn't know him well enough to guess.
She loved him, but she didn't know him. Not the details of him, at least.
But his heart.. .the hot squeeze of pain made her rub her breastbone. She knew his heart.
Restlessly she paced over to the spotless fireplace and frowned at the painting above it. She wasn't sure that Drew actually owed her answers, but by God, she wanted them. Once she'd done what she came here to do and spoken with the prince...
"Lucas wants to talk to you. I'll take you to him."
She turned. Drew stood
in the doorway, looking as grim as he'd sounded. She lifted one eyebrow. "You don't approve?"
"Lorenzo will be there, too."
It wasn't an answer. She studied his face. Maybe it was a warning.
* * *
He took her to the prince's personal suite. The difference between the room she'd been in, the opulence and the formality of it, and the private quarters of the heir to the throne struck her immediately.
Oh, the furnishings were still costly. But the fabric on the overstuffed couch was worn, the dark blue faded by the sun. This fireplace had been used recently, and a modest pile of wood was stacked neatly in it, waiting for a match. A fire in July was a rich man's indulgence, to be sure, but it was a homey indulgence. There were no windows—the prince's sitting room was surrounded by other rooms—and the walls were richly paneled, giving the room a warm, masculine feel. The end table beside the wing chair where the prince lounged held newspapers, a half-empty glass and a candy wrapper, as well as a Sevres bowl filled with more candy. Riding boots leaned against each other beside the chair.
This was a room that was lived in. A place where a man could kick off his shoes and relax.. .as the prince had.
His socks were dark brown. There was something irresistibly appealing about a sock-clad prince. Rose smiled as she sank into a curtsy.
He'd risen politely when she entered. So had the other man, the cousin who was head of Montebellan intelligence —and, until Lucas's return, the most likely heir to the throne. But she didn't think manners alone drew Lorenzo Sebastiani to his feet. To her prickly senses he seemed to radiate suspicion. Unlike the prince, he wore a dark sports jacket. And shoes.
"Thank you for coming to see me." Prince Lucas held out a hand to shake.
She was struck, as she had been when they were introduced, by the man's sheer physical beauty. He was far more conventionally good-looking than Drew. And didn't move her at all.
