Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector

‘‘I want to hear it.’’

‘‘All right.’’ Her attention seemed fixed on the sidewalk in front of her, or else on an interior landscape. ‘‘Many materials hold psychic impressions. Some contain or insulate them, some disperse them, like water or salt—that’s why they’re used in cleansing rituals. Gemstones intensify whatever is impressed on them, which is probably why they’ve often been thought to have magical properties. Being Fire-Gifted, I’m especially sensitive to the emanations of materials that have been through fire, such as metal or pottery.’’

‘‘I see. Your abilities aren’t limited to visions.’’

Her sudden tension revealed itself in the way her fingers tightened, then relaxed in his, telling him he’d followed the trail correctly. ‘‘I do pick up impressions from objects sometimes. From animals and people, too. But not the way an empath or telepath would, so I don’t see how I could help.’’

‘‘What kind of impressions do you get from people?’’

‘‘I feel their ‘‘I feel their èsseri—call it their essence, or their auras. When I’m close to someone, it feels as if the air is denser, slightly resistant. And I get a sort of blunt sense of who this person is. Like a smell, I guess. Just as dogs recognize a person by scent, I recognize people by the way their auras feel.’’

‘‘But you don’t pick up actual thoughts? I can see why you didn’t think you could help. But,’’ he added thoughtfully, ‘‘I don’t understand why you were so reluctant to tell me about this.’’

‘‘Don’t you?’’ Her mouth twisted. ‘‘But then, right now you don’t believe any of this is real. Think about how you’d feel if you did believe it, or just started wondering if it was true. Would you want to be around someone you thought could read your mind?’’

‘‘I suppose not. But this business of feeling people’s auras isn’t like reading their minds.’’

‘‘No. I don’t pick up thoughts. Sometimes I can tell when someone is lying, if I’m close enough. Well—almost always,’’ she corrected herself reluctantly. ‘‘But a lie detector does the same thing, and that evidence would be admissible in court. My testimony wouldn’t.’’

‘‘And is what you pick up from objects similar? A unique ‘scent’ from those who have handled them?’’

She shot him an annoyed look. ‘‘You’re persistent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were taking this seriously.’’

He took it very seriously. He didn’t believe it—hell, he’d lied to her consistently and successfully. But her life might depend on his finding the right argument. ‘‘If you could pick up a residual aura from fragments of the bomb, you might be able to identify the person who planted it.’’

She bit her lip and looked down. The sidewalk here was old and canted as it climbed a hill. It glistened damply in the red-and-blue light from a neon sign on the store they were passing. So did her hair, black and lustrous.

Hunger bit, and frustration. He wanted his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers again. And didn’t dare touch her.

‘‘It’s called psychometry,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘And yes, it might work. I hadn’t thought of trying to trace the bomber that way. Are the fragments metal?’’

He had no idea if they’d even recovered any fragments. ‘‘I’ll have to check with Lorenzo about that. Will you do it?’’

She nodded slowly. ‘‘I’ll try, anyway. Tell him not to expect too much. Even if I do pick up a clear impression, I won’t be able to identify the person it came from unless I already know who that èssere belongs to.’’

‘‘Good.’’ Satisfaction filled him. At least he’d done one thing right tonight. As for the rest of it… He stopped, facing her and putting his hands on her shoulders.

Her skin was slick from the mist, but warm, not chilled. His thumbs moved, savoring the softness. ‘‘What I say next has nothing to do with Lorenzo or anything he wants from you. This is just from me.’’ It was true. True enough to worry his security-minded cousin. Hell, it worried him, too. ‘‘I want to see you again.’’

The dim light made secrets of her eyes, and her voice was too low to give anything away. But her shoulders were tense beneath his hands. ‘‘How long will you be in Montebello, Drew? A week? Two?’’

‘‘I haven’t decided. My business…’’ He shrugged. ‘‘It’s flexible. I can handle a great deal of it from here.’’

A small smile. ‘‘I thought you were an international playboy. That’s a job with duties you could fulfill pretty much anywhere.’’

‘‘You’ve been reading your aunt’s magazines.’’

The smile widened. ‘‘I look at the pictures sometimes.’’

He thought of the one picture he knew she’d seen—him, bare-bummed on a nude beach on the Riviera. The woman he’d gone there with hadn’t been in the photograph, but there’d been several coy references to her in the accompanying article. ‘‘There was a time when I worked hard to earn my reputation. I’ve grown up some since then, but no one wants to read about my real-estate investments for some reason.’’ His thumbs moved over damp, warm skin. ‘‘Is that a problem for you? My reputation?’’

‘‘No. But you aren’t going to be here long.’’ She paused. ‘‘I didn’t think that would be a problem, before…before you kissed me. Now…I don’t know what I want now.’’

He knew what he wanted—to follow the heat that moved between them, see where it led. He wanted his hands on her, and his mouth, and he wanted to know what sound she would make when he drove inside her. And if they had been alone, if only they’d been somewhere private right now, he was almost sure he could have found out.

Unless, of course, he went crazy on her. That would be a real mood spoiler. ‘‘You said you liked the ocean. Have you ever been snorkeling?’’

‘‘A few times. But—’’

‘‘Come with me tomorrow. There’s a private beach attached to the palace grounds, a little cove that’s perfect for snorkeling.’’

Tartly she said, ‘‘I’m not royal or noble or rich. I can’t close my shop on a whim to go play.’’

‘‘You must close it sometimes.’’ He moved closer, thinning the space between them until he could catch her scent—roses and musk, an unexpected blend of the cultivated and the wild. Like her. His fingers curved around her arms, rubbing lightly. ‘‘When can you get away?’’

‘‘I haven’t decided to get away with you. Or even to see you again.’’ Her expression was haughty, like a cat that hasn’t given permission to be petted. But her breath was hasty. ‘‘I need time and space to make that decision. I want you to back off.’’

‘‘That would probably be the smart thing to do.’’ Her hair turned frisky when it was damp, he noticed, losing its sleek gloss to curls. He pushed it back with one hand, tucking those wayward curls behind her ear so he could see her face better. Neon light, filtered by mist, fell rosy and soft on the curve of her cheek and jaw.

He really should back off. She’d asked him to. But maybe it would be best to find out if he was going to lose more than his control every time he kissed her.

Bending, he claimed her mouth.

Her lips were warmer than the skin he’d caressed. Her hands flew to his shoulders—maybe to push him away, but she didn’t. Instead, her fingers dug into his skin. Held on. Hunger twisted through him, smoky and treacherous.

He wouldn’t lose control this time. If he took it slow, held back, maybe he’d be safe. Maybe he could go on kissing her, holding her.

He fitted her into the curve of his body. She felt perfect there, held tight against him. She made a small sound. His arms tightened, and his mouth took. But the hands that had been kneading his shoulders were pushing against him. She was trying to end the kiss, to stop him—and he didn’t want to stop. Instead of letting her go, he held on more tightly. I can make her accept my kiss, accept me…

The thought echoed in a suddenly empty mind. He was thinking of forcing her? Shaken, he loosened his arms.

She tore herself free. Her chest was heaving. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. But it wasn’t anger he saw in her eyes. It was fear.

Appalled, he could only say he was sorry, that he had never meant to frighten her. Then he thought he should have kept his fool mouth shut, because a woman with her pride wouldn’t like being accused of fear.

She took a steadying breath, met his eyes and said something that made no sense. ‘‘I know. But you can hardly help scaring me.’’ And she turned and walked away.

He stayed with her, of course. In silence. In silence they climbed into his car, and neither of them spoke for several blocks. He told himself he was being ridiculous—he’d grown up knowing how to make social small talk. This silence shouldn’t be hard to fill. But she was the one who spoke first.

‘‘I suppose you’ll tell His Grace that I’ve agreed to help, if I can.’’

‘‘I’ll let him know.’’ They’d left the busy streets behind. Here, near her shop, the street was almost empty. He could see Roberts’s little Fiat in the rearview mirror. ‘‘I’ve screwed things up, haven’t I?’’

‘‘It’s not you. Or rather, it is you, but it’s me, too.’’ Her laugh was shaky and short, but genuine. ‘‘And if you understood that, please explain it to me.’’

‘‘You’re confused about what you want. There’s a hell of a lot I’m not too sure of myself, but I know what I want.’’ He double-parked in front of her shop. ‘‘I’ll walk you upstairs.’’

‘‘There’s no need. Truly.’’ She turned in her seat to face him. ‘‘Once you’ve had time to think it over, you’ll probably be relieved things ended between us when they did.’’