Romancing the Crown Series

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

  The fact that Elliot had recovered, that he had fallen in love again and remarried, hadn't changed Sarah's mind one bit. She would never marry for love.Ever. She wouldn't risk her heart that way.

  It was obvious that no one in her family approved of her choice of mates. Particularly her father. That didn't bother her too much because Sarah knew what she needed, and she knew that Warren Dill would make an excellent husband despite the fact that she wasn't in love with him. Actually that's why he was perfect for her—because she wasn't in love with him.

  He'd never cause her any of the heart-shattering pain she'd witnessed in her brother. Anyway, there was already so much pain associated with her job as a child psychologist, she didn't need it at home, as well.

  Warren was perfect for her.

  If something happened to Warren... Well, she'd be very sad, distraught, even. But her heart wouldn't break. She'd survive. That is, if she didn't die of exposure and malnutrition right here before she found her way to the palace.

  Sarah sighed, concentrated on the golden glow in the sky above the palace, and made her way toward it. At the edge of the crowded ballroom, half-hidden behind a potted palm, Nick lifted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, then stared glumly into the dancing bubbles. He should probably quit this business of kissing. women's hands, he told himself. The gesture was altogether too effective. It held sexual implications that he no longer intended, and sensual promises that he couldn't keep. Before his libido had died,he used to love the startled little gasp that lodged in a woman's throat when his lips brushed the back of her hand. Now that little gasp made him want to run a thousand miles away. It didn't help a bit that women seemed to find him quite attractive, an allure he'd never understood himself whenever he looked in a mirror at a complexion he deemed too swarthy, eyes a little too intense and dark and a constant shadow on his jawline no matter how close he shaved. It was the pirate in him, his Aunt Honoria said. Just like your father, God rest his devious soul.And his father's renegade looks had served Nick well, he had to admit, in his bachelor days when he and Prince Lucas were known from London to Cairo as the Derelict Duo.

  But now his attraction for women merely served to remind him of his loss of interest in them. There wasn't much he was interested in these days, except for his work and his son. Nick looked at his watch. Only a few more hours, and then he could escape. Tomorrow he and Leo—

  A flash of red across the ballroom caught his eye, just as he heard the voices of two women rise above the chatter of the crowd.

  "What do you mean, I can't attend?" Sarah wailed. "I just don't understand this."

  "Your name does not appear on the guest list,"

  Sophia Strezzi said again, stubbornly, a little louder than before, as if she now considered Sarah deaf as well as stupid.

  "Probably not," Sarah told her. "It was a last-minute thing But I promise you, I really am Sir Dominic Chiara's date. Call his aunt. She'll tell you."

  "I don't have time to make calls once a gala has begun," the appointment secretary snapped. She tapped a vellum page, lodged in a rich leather binder and calligraphed with neat columns of names, Sarah's obviously not among them. "Look for yourself if you'd like, Ms. Hunter. It's out of my hands entirely. Only those on the guest list are permitted into the ballroom. I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to leave." Leave? Leave?! Sarah didn't think so. Not after she'd traipsed all over the royal grounds for the past forty-five minutes trying to get here. Not after she'd tripped up the palace steps in her long gown,been stopped at the royal front door, questioned by several uniformed guards and subsequently wandered into a restricted area, setting off a shrill alarm. After that she'd been nearly strip-searched only to discover that there was a magnetic anti-theft device sewn into the hem of her gown.

  She hadn't wanted to come to the stupid party in the first place, but—by God—now that she was here, she was damn well going to stay here.

  "I'm Sir Dominic Chiara's guest," she said.Date sounded a bit adolescent, if not provincial in this elegant setting.

  "Not according to the official list," the woman insisted, raising her voice another notch.

  Sarah followed suit. "Then call Lady Satherwaite, will you? She'll explain."

  "I really can't do that. Please leave, Ms. Hunter, or I'll be forced to call the palace security."

  Sarah stood her ground, clenching her fists and gritting her teeth. She remembered how this Strezzi dame had behaved at Sir Dominic's house earlier,and it suddenly occurred to her why the woman didn't want her hanging around. Sophia wanted old Sir Nicky unaccompanied, unencumbered and all to her snarly, officious little self this evening. In fact, the woman was gazing over Sarah's shoulder right this minute as if she were searching for her knight in ancient armor among the crowd. The look Sophia's face was positively luminous with anticipation, just gooey with adoration for the doddering old coot.

  "Why don't we just cut to the chase here, cookie," Sarah said, no longer willing to play this female's silly little game. "Let's ask Sir Dominic, shall we? Let's let him decide whether or not I'm his guest tonight."

  The oddest smile worked its way across Sophia Strezzi's lips just then—triumphant and very, very sly—a smirk actually-before she purred, "Ask him yourself, Ms. Hunter. He's standing directly behind you."

  "Good," Sarah snapped. "Fine."

  She whirled around and found herself staring into a bronze medal embossed with five Olympic rings.

  This was her guy, all right. Good.

  She lifted her gaze to his face.

  Oh, God.

  This really wasn't happening, was it?

  It was the jet lag, obviously, and the lack of sleep.

  She was hallucinating.

  And when the hunky plumber grasped her hand and brought it to his lips, Sarah thought she just might pass out.

  Chapter 5

  Nick recognized the petite nanny instantly. He had never seen a female face, much less any human face, progress through so many emotions in the space of a few seconds. It was like watching a charming cartoon.

  First came the astonishment that slackened her jaw and widened her green eyes. After that came the bewilderment that tugged at her finely shaped eyebrows and twitched at the corners of her mouth. A 1ovely mouth, Nick couldn't help but notice. It was lush without seeming obvious. Soft and pliable and perfectly shaped. He had to force his gaze back to the rest of her face.

  Next came a kind of embarrassment or consternation that heightened the color of her cheeks, and then—finally, outlandishly, and so delightfully—came the amusement that brightened her entire countenance like a sudden ray of sunshine.

  The nanny burst out laughing. "Obviously you're not the plumber," she said when she was finally able to speak.

  "Not this evening anyway, Ms. Hunter," Nick said. He remembered he'd idly thought she was somewhat attractive when he'd seen her earlier to-day. The light in Leo's bathroom must've been bad. The nanny was absolutely lovely. Far more beautiful than any other woman in the room. Perhaps in the entire world.

  Far and away more beautiful than the king's appointment secretary, who was wedging herself like a human hatchet between them at the moment. "Ms. Hunter is not on the royal guest list, Sir Dominic. I've checked and I've rechecked," she said, tapping a long fingernail on her sacred document. "I've been trying quite politely to explain the situation to her, but she doesn't seem to comprehend the problem. I'm sure you, of all people, understand that it's impossible to abandon protocol at the last minute."

  The woman's voice was rising with each successive word. The hand that wasn't clutching the list was making harsh chopping movements in the air.

  "It simply isn't done," she screeched. "His Majesty would be horribly upset if I were to..."

  The nanny's laughter had subsided enough for her to say, "Wait a minute. Wait just a minute, will you? This isn't the end of the world as we know it, Ms.Strezzi. Good grief. It's a party, that's all. A silly dinner dance. Well, I realize it's a
royal one,but still..."

  "There are rules," the woman snapped. "There is palace protocol, not to mention security." Her dark eyes narrowed on the nanny.

  Nick was tempted to put an end to the confrontation between the two females, but his curiosity suddenly got the better of him. He wanted to see how the nanny handled herself under the stress of Sophia Strezzi. Up until now, Ms. Hunter had shown an ingrained politeness and great restraint, he decided, but he detected a growing fire in her green eyes along with a stiffening of her bare shoulders and a stubborn lifting of her chin.

  "You're not on my list," the appointments secretary said, this time stabbing a finger close to the nanny's delicate collarbone.

  That was enough. Nick was fully prepared to step between them just as the Hunter woman rolled her eyes toward the gilded ceiling and said, "This is ridiculous. I don't even want to be here!"

  She whirled around like a small crimson tornado then and took off down the corridor.

  Ms.Strezzi uttered a sound that wavered somewhere between a snort and a growl. "Americans," she said, tacking on a dismissive sigh. The word sounded vaguely like barbarians. "It never ceases to amaze me that some people show so little regard for manners and tradition. Don't you agree, Sir Dominic?"

  "I do agree," he said solemnly, his gaze still locked on the retreating red gown, the fetching sway of the nanny's derriere as she hustled along the corridor, the men who turned to take a second look, and some a third after she'd passed by them. "I wonder if you'd do me a great favor, Ms. Strezzi?" Nick glanced at her now in time to see the quick but distinct flare of desire in her dark eyes. "Yes, of course. Why, I'd do anything for you, Sir.Dominic," she murmured. "Anything. I...I thought you knew. All you have to do is ask." "I appreciate that," he replied while he lifted the ribbon and bronze medal and eased them over his head. "It's traditional to have my medal front and center at this annual affair. I wouldn't want to ruin the king's expectations, or the Olympic committee's, for that matter. So, I was wondering..." He held the ribbon in front of her, high, as if about to encircle her head.

  "I was wondering, Ms. Strezzi, if you'd do me the great honor of wearing it for me this evening?" Nick heard the woman's breath catch in her throat and actually saw her pulse throb in her neck, and for a fleeting second he felt like the lowest of heels, the rottenest of rogues, the worst of wretches. Ah, well. It wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

  "It would be my pleasure, Sir Dominic," she whispered huskily, then licked her lips as he slowly fit the ribbon over her head and laid the medal against the bodice of her dress.

  "There," he said, gazing down at her. "It looks wonderful on you. Just grand. Very traditional."

  She glanced down. "Yes. Thank you."

  "You're most welcome. And if you'll see that it gets back to the museum tomorrow, I'll be most appreciative. Good night, Ms. Strezzi. Please give my regrets to the king and queen."

  He turned just in time to see the hem of the red gown disappear like the flicker of a flame around a corner, just in time to feel his indifferent heart kick in a few extra beats.

  He followed as fast as he could.

  With each step down the palace stairs, Sarah cursed somebody else. She started with the Strezzi dame, wishing she'd said something a bit more clever, a lot more clever than just "I'm leaving." Actually she wished now that she'd told the royal appointments secretary just where she could put her guest list. In fact, Sarah almost wished she'd done it for her.

  Then she cursed her father for sending her to this Mediterranean monarchy, this medieval paradise, in the first place. That was just nuts, flying her halfway across the world when there were dozens, probably even hundreds, of available therapists, competent ones, closer to Montebello. There was Renata Falci in Rome, after all, and Dr. George Stern in Geneva, both of them world famous and miracle workers when it came to troubled children. There was Russell Burke in London. There was Hanna Vrooman in the Netherlands. What had her father been thinking? Assuming he was thinking at all.

  She cursed King Marcus, too, who presumably had asked her father for advice. She added another little expletive for Lady Satherwaite, who'd been in cahoots with the king.

  She tripped again on the hem of her dress, then hissed a few well chosen oaths.

  Just for good measure, she cursed her fiance, Warren Dill. If they'd gotten married when he first asked her, the way Sarah had wanted to, this probably wouldn't be happening to her now. But no...Warren wanted a wedding with all the proper traditions and trimmings. Of course he did. He wouldn't be paying for it. Her parents would.

  Last but hardly least, she cursed Sir Dominic Chiara. Roundly. Soundly. Up one side and down the other of his elegant black tuxedo. How dare he turn out to be the gorgeous plumber instead of the old geezer she'd imagined him to be? How dare he have those gooey brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black? Not chocolate like normal brown eyes, but lovely, luscious licorice. How dare he wear a five o'clock shadow so sexily when most men with even a suggestion of stubble on their jaws looked like bums? The son of a pirate, indeed! The bluebeard!

  God bless it. How dare the man kiss her hand and send a jolt of pure electricity through her when she had deliberately unplugged herself from those sort of attractions? And he hadn't zapped her just once, but twice—first as a plumber, then as a certified knight. Or a duke or a baron or an earl. Whatever the hell the Sir stood for.

  Sir...as in surprised!

  As in surreal.

  As in he certainly wasn't what she'd expected little Leo's father to be, although why she had assumed Sir Dominic Chiara was a withered and doddering old codger was beyond her recollection right now. Had her father said something to lead her astray? Or was it the king who'd given her the impression that Dr. Chiara was an elderly widower? Was it something Lady Satherwaite had said?

  No wonder Sophia Strezzi had behaved like a bitch in heat this afternoon and then again this evening.

  Sarah probably would, too, if she felt her territory was threatened by another woman.

  Not that she had to worry about jealousy with Warren. That was another reason she was so comfortable with her choice of a mate. If he left her for another woman, it would undoubtedly give Sarah's ego a pretty good drubbing, but it surely wouldn't break her heart. Hell, it might not even break her stride. That was the whole point of marrying Warren, after all.

  But a man like Nick Chiara...?

  Oh, brother. Sarah didn't even want to think about all the hearts he'd probably broken. Nor did she want to think about the fact that as a widower, his own heart had likely been shattered several years ago when his wife passed away.

  While she was cursing and trying not to think about the man who'd just unsettled her so, it occurred to Sarah that she'd probably turned in the wrong direction after hustling down the palace steps. She should have turned left, but instead she'd gone right. Or was it the reverse?

  Just ahead of her, she saw a stone bench beside another one of the palace's many fountains. This one appeared to be a chubby marble Cupid with his bow tightly drawn and his arrow aimed directly at the moon. Maybe if she sat for a moment she could get her bearings. As if she'd had any for the past twelve hours or so.

  Plopping down on the bench, Sarah smoothed out and arranged the vast satin yardage of her skirt in front of her. In the moonlight, its color was less a vivid red than a rich and wine-drenched burgundy. She reached down and edged back the hemline in order to peek at her toes in the silver sandals. Their thin, metallic leather straps glittered almost magically.

  "Weren't you supposed to lose one of those slippers on the palace stairs, Cinderella?"

  Much to Sarah's amazement, she recognized Sir Dominic Chiara's voice after hearing it only a few times. It was a deep, rich baritone, now touched by an Italian accent, now tinged by some kind of private amusement. Solid. Sure. Sexy. It sent a cascade of chills down her spine.

  "If Cinderella's shoes had been this tight, her fairy tale would have ended at midn
ight," she answered, slipping off one of the sandals and reaching down to rub her foot.

  "Well, then, thank heaven for loose shoes."

  "Mmm," Sarah murmured. "None of this was my idea, Sir Dominic. Your aunt was the one playing fairy godmother tonight."

  "Doesn't surprise me," he said with a chuckle. "May I join you?"

  "Won't they miss you at the palace?"

  "Probably. It doesn't matter."

  Sarah moved her skirt to make room for him on the little bench. His shoulder was warm against her bare arm. Moonlight glanced off the tips of his polished shoes while a faint breeze wafted his aftershave in her direction. He smelled divine. Citrus and sandalwood and something very intensely male. She almost didn't want to speak, but rather just sit here inhaling his scent.

  Still, Sarah had never been known for her ability to maintain silence. Especially when she was nervous. Her mind tended to race. It was going about ninety miles an hour at the moment. In circles. "How did you win it?" she asked. "Excuse me?" "Your bronze medal."

  "Oh. That." He pointed toward the fountain that was gently splashing in front of their bench. "Just like our friend over there," he said.

  Sarah blinked and then stared at the pudgy marble statue. "You won a medal for playing Cupid?"

  "Archery, Ms. Hunter." He laughed softly. "It's an ancient and much revered sport in Montebello, something every schoolboy learns as soon as he's tall enough to hold a bow."

  Playing Cupid! She felt like slapping herself up the side of her head. How stupid could she be? He probably thought she could win a medal for being dense. It was just that he smelled so good, and the warmth from his black sleeve was seeping into her,and she was so jet-lagged that she couldn't think straight.

  "Archery. Of course. You must have learned very well."

  "Well enough," he said. "That was a long time ago."