Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector

Lorenzo didn’t look happy. He stood. ‘‘I’ve notified them. Find some time to visit the shooting range. I doubt you’re in practice. You know, Drew, if it were anyone but you, I’d be worried. This woman is smart, she’s sexy, and you sound as if you admire her. Maybe it’s just as well you came home early tonight.’’

Anger hit, making Drew’s head throb. ‘‘But you know better, don’t you? If I were capable of losing my head over a woman, I’d have done it long ago.’’ He nodded curtly and left.

The night was warm and quiet, the noise of the city cushioned by the trees that rimmed the grounds. From somewhere nearby a nightingale called, its song rising in a liquid crescendo. Drew hurried along the path that led to the palace, wanting to be in his room, alone, as soon as possible.

It might be a normal headache. Probably it was, and a couple of aspirins would prove that. In the past year he’d had six crazy spells, none of them closer together than four weeks. But the interval between them had shortened, and a headache was the usual precursor.

Still, this particular ache could be the product of pure sexual frustration. He’d been very ready for Rose when he didn’t kiss her good night. Alarmingly so. And maybe that was the real reason he hadn’t kissed her—on some level she frightened him.

No. No, that was absurd. He might fear losing control, but he wasn’t afraid of the woman.

For once Rudolpho, the majordomo, wasn’t on duty, and if the guards at the palace door noticed the bulge in Drew’s pocket, they ignored it. He took the stairs quickly.

He’d done what he could to protect her. He wouldn’t apologize for wanting to. Drew thought of the way she’d discussed the economic consequences of the bombing at the dinner table with four royals, himself and Lorenzo, and smiled. She’d been nervous, but she hadn’t let it show.

What made him think she’d been nervous? He frowned as he crossed the picture gallery, unable to remember an expression, an awkward word, anything but his simple certainty. Maybe he’d imagined it, or assumed—

Between one step and the next, it hit. All at once this time—the glassy separation, the slicing agony in his skull, the dislocation of his senses. Walls melted into floors, colors ran together, and chaos chuckled in the hollow space between self and madness. He lost touch with his body—was he moving, falling, frozen in place? Was he anywhere?

He still was. He was here, dammit, even if he couldn’t find here in the swirls of colors and jutting angles, the walls that moved and traded places with floor or ceiling. Even if he couldn’t feel his body, he still existed in his mind. Desperate, he began to count, then switched to long division…

‘‘…get help? Drew, answer me!’’

He blinked. He was standing in the hall near the royal suite. His skin was clammy, chilled. And his aunt’s face was looking up at him, the patrician features tight with worry. Her hand clutched his arm. He felt her fingernails, dulled by the cloth of his sleeve, digging into his flesh.

He felt. The reliable witness of his senses had returned. Dizzy with relief, he tried a smile. ‘‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you.’’

‘‘Never mind that. Are you all right? I haven’t seen you look like that since you were a boy. Those migraines you used to get—’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Gratefully he seized on the explanation she’d unwittingly offered. ‘‘I’m afraid they’ve come back.’’

She released his arm, but her worried frown didn’t ease. ‘‘Are you sure that’s what this is? You look ill. Have you seen a doctor?’’

‘‘A neurologist, actually.’’ Amazing how easy it was to deceive while speaking the truth. ‘‘He put me through any number of indignities and didn’t find anything wrong. No bleeding, tumors or other abnormalities.’’ No traces of drugs. No explanations at all.

‘‘Now, that scares me almost as much as your pallor did a moment ago. The headaches must be severe for you to give in and see a doctor without being nagged into it. Unless…oh, your mother must have—’’

‘‘She doesn’t know,’’ he said quickly. ‘‘I hope you won’t tell her. You know how she worries.’’

‘‘Oh, Drew.’’ She caught her lower lip with her teeth. ‘‘It doesn’t seem right to keep something like this from her.’’

‘‘Aunt Gwen.’’ He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. The exhaustion was already sweeping over him, making his thoughts sluggish. I can’t hold it off this time. Panic and adrenaline turned him light-headed even as they plundered the last of his reserves. How long did he have? Minutes? ‘‘You know why I had migraines as a boy. Mother doesn’t deal well with reminders of that time.’’

The queen was still chewing on her lip. ‘‘It was terrible for all of us, but worse for you. If the migraines have come back, is it because of Lucas’s disappearance? Oh—I’m so selfish. That never once occurred to me. We did think at first he might have been kidnapped, and I never stopped to think how that might affect you.’’

‘‘Don’t.’’ Drew had to get away. Now. But he took a moment to put an arm around her shoulders and squeeze quickly. ‘‘You had no reason to think about that. You were sick with fear, then grieving. I didn’t want you to worry about me. I still don’t.’’

Her mouth turned up wryly. ‘‘I know that well enough. But I reserve the right to worry about the people I love.’’

‘‘I’m fine,’’ he told her with every bit of sincerity he could muster. ‘‘Aside from being more of a sorehead than usual. I’ve got some medicine for it in my room, if you’ll excuse me.’’

Hearing that, of course, she sent him on his way.

When the door to his suite closed behind him, he locked it, closed his eyes and leaned against it. He was shaking.

This time had been different. He’d been in the hall leading to the wing that held the Harrington suite when the spell hit. When he came back to himself, he’d been near the royal suite. This time, he’d continued walking after the spell hit. That had never happened before.

Fear bit deeply. What else might he do while out of his senses?

He straightened and pulled the gun from his jacket pocket, staring at it with a chill that cut partway through the exhaustion dragging him down. Maybe he shouldn’t carry it. Tomorrow…tomorrow he would decide. Weaving slightly, he made it to the desk, opened a drawer and shoved the gun inside.

Seconds, now. It was all happening much faster this time. He had only seconds left.

Lorenzo was right to worry about him, though he had hold of the wrong reason, Drew thought as he stripped, his clothes falling in a ragged trail to the bedroom. He wasn’t losing his head over a woman. He was losing his head, period. Or his head was losing his body…. And as the darkness closed in, taking him to a place where thought stopped, there was time for one image to float through his mind—a woman’s face, her lips moist and parted, her eyes smiling, her skin as soft and smooth as every unbroken promise ever made. Rose’s face, tilted up to him as it had been earlier, inviting his kiss.

There was time, too, for the flash of fear that followed him down into the waiting darkness.

Chapter 6

Rose woke all at once the way she had when she was a child. The air was warm, the light pure, as if it had been born fresh for that day. But this wasn’t her birthday or a holiday….

Then she remembered. And smiled. Rose had never been one to hold on to anger. It flowed hot when it hit, but then it flowed on. And Drew had been so charming…. No he hadn’t, she thought grinning. He was far too direct for charm. He’d been courteous, certainly—holding doors, taking her arm—but beneath the courtesy had been something much headier.

He’d been focused on her. Even when speaking with the others, he’d been aware of her, as he’d shown in a dozen small ways. Turning to her just before she spoke. Asking her opinion of a new trade treaty. Catching her gaze with his when the prince told a joke, that secret smile in his eyes.

It had been a magical evening. The palace had been splendid—a little overpowering maybe, but the king and queen had been warm and gracious, and the prince, truly charming. And if Cinderella had had to return to her garret, well, it was a very nice garret, made even nicer this morning by lovely memories.

And the hope of making more and even lovelier memories. Unable to lie still a moment longer, Rose climbed out of bed and stretched.

No wonder she’d woken up anticipating something wonderful. It wasn’t likely to happen today, though. Drew hadn’t even kissed her last night, though she’d let him know she would welcome his kiss.

But he’d wanted to. She walked the short hall to the bathroom with her clothes folded over her arm and her blood humming. Turning on the shower, waiting while the pipes banged and the old hot water heater labored to rise to the occasion, she smiled as she remembered the look in his eyes.

They’d been standing in front of her aunt’s home, after all. Not much privacy there, and he was a man who valued privacy, she thought. He was also a man who liked to plan things. She slipped out of her nightgown and under the shower, tilting her face into the warm spray to savor the pleasant shock of heat hitting night-chilled skin.

The question was, should she allow him to plan her seduction? Or should she plan his?

By the time he called her later that day, she had some ideas about that, and a plan of her own.

The fioreanno of the eldest daughter of Cletus Anaghnostopoulus was a great success. On every table the flowers were fresh and bright. Laughter rang freely and the little cafe´ was satisfyingly crowded, while in the piazza across the street a band played—the same one the Calabrias had engaged for their daughter’s wedding and really quite good, though the trumpet player had started playing jazz after a few drinks, and who could dance to that?

Among the friends, neighbors, relatives and well-wishers attending were such important people as Adolfo Oenusyfides, Commissioner of Roads; Signore Calabria, who owned three fishing boats, as well as the cafe´ where the celebration was held; and several members of the Vinnelli family headed by old Porfino, whose son was a doctor and whose niece had married a rich American and lived in Los Angeles with the movie stars.

If Cletus was inclined to congratulate himself rather too often on the success of the party, his friends overlooked this while their wives complimented his wife on having had the foresight to ask Signora Serminio to stand as godmother sixteen years ago. For a fioreanno is always given by the child’s godmother, and Signora Serminio was herself a person of importance now, the owner of a fine pharmacy and the mother of a son with a promising career at the palace.

And if a few people glanced at one of the guests and muttered under their breath, most were more tolerant. Maybe Rose Giaberti was una strega, maybe not. Her mother had been, but young Rose did not sell charms and potions and fortunes as her mother had done, and if she didn’t attend Mass as often as she ought, what young person did? Certainly she was lively and friendly, with good manners. And she always brought a nice gift to a fioreanno.

She had brought more than a prettily wrapped box with her that night.