Читать книгу Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector - Carla Cassidy - Страница 12

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.

‘‘You should try the souvlakia,’’ Rose said, indicating the spicy shish kebab, one of many offerings on the groaning buffet table. ‘‘Emil—he’s the cook here—has a wonderful way with lamb.’’

Obediently Drew placed one on his plate, but slid her a wry glance. ‘‘I think you just want to see me dribble sauce on my shirt.’’

She grinned. ‘‘No, I wanted to see if you’d eat it with your fingers or struggle with a knife and fork.’’

Rose had brought Drew to the fioreanno after giving him the same amount of notice as he’d given her last night. None. She’d told him something of what to expect on the way here, assuming that, while he might have heard of the fioreanni, he wouldn’t have attended one. The upper classes didn’t. A fioreanno was like the quinzeñero celebrated by young Mexican girls, or the coming-out ball given young ladies of his class in England. His sister, she supposed, would have been presented to society. This was much the same thing.

She’d also given him a hint of how to dress, since he’d done that much for her. Casual, she’d said, and for herself she’d chosen a sleeveless sundress, full-skirted for dancing, baticked in the deep colors of a dying sunset. She wore one of her favorite necklaces with it, a copper-and-brass design of her own.

Of course, what passed for casual with Drew stood out in this company every bit as much as she’d failed to blend with royalty at the palace last night. He looked every inch the relaxed aristocrat in khaki chinos and a shirt of unbleached linen that had probably cost more than her favorite little black dress.

They carried their laden plates to one of the tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk. A short, middle-aged man sat alone at a nearby table—Drew’s bodyguard. He’d followed them here in a tiny Fiat and was looking everywhere except at them.

He was the only one who wasn’t watching them. Amused, Rose sat at the little table. ‘‘Will you dribble sauce on yourself, do you think?’’

‘‘Undoubtedly, if there’s a photographer from the Tattler or Le Stelle within flashbulb range. Otherwise I may manage to muddle through. Which brings up a question,’’ he said, putting down his plate so he could draw out her chair. ‘‘Why did you introduce me to our host and hostess as Drew, no last name? You said your neighbors all know who I am.’’

‘‘This way they can pretend they don’t. More comfortable for everyone that way. Rather like the way your aunt, uncle and cousins pretended last night that they didn’t know that I am, at best, that crazy woman who claims to be psychic. Or at worst…’’ She lifted her eyes to his as he sat across from her at the tiny table. ‘‘The worst would make me something unspeakable.’’

‘‘I don’t believe the worst,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘As for what my family believes, Lorenzo asked me to—’’

‘‘Please.’’ She put her hand on his wrist. ‘‘I shouldn’t have said anything before we’ve had a chance to taste Emil’s souvlakia. I didn’t intend to. If His Grace asked you to convey some message to me, you can tell me after the party, all right? For now, let’s eat too much and talk about our neighbors and enjoy ourselves. That’s what a fioreanno is for.’’

He didn’t respond right away. She wouldn’t have known what he was thinking, what he was feeling, if her fingers hadn’t been resting on his wrist, where his pulse beat. It had picked up when she touched him.

As had hers.

‘‘All right,’’ he said, but it was his mouth that carried his smile this time, not his eyes. ‘‘Tell me about your neighbors, since none of mine are nearby to gossip about.’’

So she did. While they ate souvlakia—he did use his fingers and didn’t get any spots on his shirt—she told him brief, amusing stories about some of the people she knew in the crowd. And insisted he uphold his end by talking about people he knew back in England. You could learn a lot, she knew, about a person by the way he spoke of others.

At first he resisted. ‘‘I’m not asking for secrets,’’ she told him severely, spreading melitzana on a slice of crusty bread and handing it to him. ‘‘Or anything hurtful. Just the sort of thing that everyone knows already. You know…who’s been married five times, who is getting married—and why, if possible. That makes it more interesting. Who collects Elvis memorabilia, or better yet, thinks she’s spoken to Elvis recently.’’

Amusement softened his face and made his green eyes bright. ‘‘The sort of thing they’d put in the Tattler, if the Tattler were ever to do an edition about normal people?’’

‘‘Exactly. Though you can omit the candid photos.’’

Though his stories were short, they revealed a dry wit and tolerant acceptance blended with a good deal of perception. She listened, she chuckled at times, and she watched the strong bones of his wrists and the way the candlelight gilded the messy curls of his hair.

Impulsively she asked, ‘‘Why do you wear your hair long? I like it, but it doesn’t seem to fit.’’

If her question surprised him, it didn’t show. But for a second, she thought he looked uneasy. ‘‘I don’t like getting it cut. It’s childish, of course. As soon as I’m told to sit still and behave, I get restless.’’

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t a handsome man or a charming one. He was too self-contained for charm, and his face was too long, his shoulders broad but too bony for true masculine beauty. But there was something in the way he moved that drew the eye, something compelling in the way those uneven features were knit together, something in even his silences that fascinated…and then he smiled. He smiled, and you forgot whatever silly ideas you’d once held about what was and wasn’t beautiful.

They were interrupted a few times. Drew watched their latest visitor—an old woman with a mustache and a black cane—hobble off. ‘‘Amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so thoroughly interrogated without being asked a single question.’’

Rose chuckled. ‘‘It would be rude to question you, since everyone knows you’re here incognito.’’

His gaze flicked back to her, the creases beneath his eyes deepening. ‘‘Everyone knows? As in, one of those things everyone already knows and part of the stories making the rounds tonight?’’

She grinned. ‘‘You and I are being discussed and speculated about with almost as much interest as is given to what all this cost. And that, you know, is a matter of great importance. You noticed the compliment Signora Lorenzi paid just now to the florist who provided the flowers?’’

‘‘You told her you would pass it on to someone named Adrian.’’

‘‘That was to let her know that Signora Serminio probably got her floral arrangements wholesale. Adrian is a florist. He is also a second cousin of Signor Anaghnostopoulus, our host. I’m expected to pass on some of these details, since my shop is across the street from Serminio’s.’’

‘‘Who sells sunscreen.’’ A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘‘You didn’t share these important financial details about your neighbors with me.’’

‘‘Somehow I didn’t think you’d be interested.’’ She smiled, shrugged. ‘‘We’re a nation of merchants. It’s how we’ve survived all these years in spite of conquerors, imperialists, Nazis—and now, terrorists. We bend, we accommodate, we compete with each other and we help each other. It’s why we’ve been content to remain a monarchy. Let the Sebastianis do most of the hard work of government and leave the rest of us free to pay attention to important matters.’’

‘‘Such as how much Signora Serminio paid for her goddaughter’s fioreanno?’’

‘‘Exactly. Oh, look—we have to be quiet now. Speech time.’’

The father spoke first. He had a long list of people to thank, rather like an actor at the Oscars who feels obliged to mention every member of his family, every friend and friendly influence—including, but far from limited to, his third-grade teacher—as well as the Almighty and various business acquaintances. Then the priest blessed the young girl, her family and all those attending, closing with a special prayer for the guidance of the king in ‘‘these difficult times.’’ At last, to everyone’s relief, the talking was over and the band started playing once more. Some of the guests began drifting across the street for the dancing, while others headed for the bar.

Drew commented, ‘‘The priest is Orthodox.’’

‘‘Of course. The family is Greek.’’

‘‘But many of the guests are Catholic. That’s typical of Montebello, though, isn’t it? There isn’t much religious friction here, though you have Orthodox, Catholic and Protestant churches. Not to mention the mosques.’’

‘‘And if we could get our Muslim neighbors to come to more fioreanni, there would be even less strife. They’re wary of the dancing and the naked faces and opinions of the women at these affairs, but I have been to fioreanni that had Muslim guests. This is how we make it work, you see. We remind ourselves how much we have in common, how much we need each other.’’

Drew was frowning, but not in skepticism. More as if he was trying to understand. ‘‘By giving coming-out parties for your young women?’’

‘‘All this—’’ she spread her arm, indicating the café, the piazza, the people ‘‘—it’s really about connections. I’ve made you think the money is what counts, but by itself the cost of a fioreanno means nothing. Anyone who spends enough could give a good party, but that alone wouldn’t make them an important family, one that other families want their sons or daughters to marry into. It’s the connections that matter.’’

‘‘So while the cost of the flowers is interesting, the second cousin who’s a florist is more important?’’

She smiled, pleased with him. ‘‘Exactly. This, tonight, is how Signor Anaghnostopoulus says, ‘Look at my family. We are stable, settled. We know how things work. We know these people in the merchant community, these in government, these in the Church. And maybe, if you are lucky, your family can join with mine through this, my beautiful daughter, and our connections will grow and we will all prosper.’’’

For the first time that evening he touched her deliberately, taking her hand. He played idly with her fingers and looked at her, and she wondered if he could feel what happened to her pulse the way she’d felt his change earlier. ‘‘Did you have a grand fioreanno when you were sixteen, with fresh flowers on every table?’’

She didn’t let her smile slip. ‘‘I’m afraid not. A father is necessary for the occasion, you see, even though it’s the godmother who gives the party.’’

He still held her hand. ‘‘You are an orphan?’’

What she saw in his face wasn’t as trite as sympathy—more like a vast, incurious acceptance, as if he couldn’t be moved to shock, pity or any intrusive emotion, no matter what she said. As if it was safe to tell him anything. ‘‘My mother never married. I don’t know who my father was. And that,’’ she said, smiling brightly, ‘‘is one of those things that everyone knows, but such old history it won’t have been part of many of the stories told tonight.’’

‘‘I think we’ve exchanged enough stories for now.’’ He stood and drew her to her feet. ‘‘I’d very much like to dance with you.’’

* * *

The moon was mostly full, a child’s lopsided white circle painted on a charcoal sky. Cyprus and oak filtered the lights and sounds of the street on three sides of the piazza. On the fourth side the band stood on its modest platform with the curved wall at the back, designed to catch and reflect the music outward. Later, when mostly young people remained, they would probably try out more modern music; now they played the old songs. So far, the trumpet player was behaving himself.

The dancers were all ages, from nine to ninety. Drew led Rose to the edge of the square, where she slipped into his arms as easily as if they had danced together a hundred times before. A waltz was playing…and oh, the man knew how to waltz.

He held her correctly, one hand warm at her waist, the other clasping hers lightly, with the prescribed distance between their bodies. And he looked into her eyes as they moved in smooth, swooping circles, their bodies joined by movement rather than touch, the lilt of the music riffed now and then by laughter.

Did he know how seductive this graceful courting was, when her body learned to follow his while still separate and sovereign, so that each turn became an act of surrender?

She smiled up into his eyes. He knew.

After the waltz came a lively country tune that invited the dancers to romp. To her surprise and delight, after watching the others for a moment he abandoned formality and spun her around the crowded square as if he’d been dancing like this since childhood. There followed another quick country dance, which left her breathless and happy.

Then they played ‘‘Moon River,’’ and he pulled her close.

Her head fitted his shoulder perfectly. His shirt smelled faintly of starch. His skin had its own perfume, which passed like a secret through her senses, and her heart beat fast and hard.

So did his.

They circled slowly now, gliding together in a dark, closed space bounded by music. She felt the movement of his legs and the way the linen moved over his body as she stroked her hands from his shoulders to his waist. The skin beneath the thin cloth was heated, slightly damp. Already, an ache had begun, growing larger as they drifted—easy, langorous, important.

It didn’t occur to Rose to hide what she felt from him. She was sweetly, dreamily aroused. She wanted him to know. She lifted her head so she could look in his eyes and let him see hers.

What she saw on his face wasn’t sweet or dreamy. His jaw was taut. His focus on her was so intense, so complete, her breath caught in her throat. He lifted a hand and traced the side of her face with his fingers carefully, as if all he knew of the world must be drawn to him through his fingertips. She shivered. He bent his head, and she glimpsed his eyes before her own closed—the lids heavy, the pupils dark but gleaming from some fugitive reflection.

His lips touched hers, a quick shock of feeling, then retreated. His fingers tightened along the side of her face and his mouth came back, firmly this time, to join hers.

Heat. A rushing—in her head as her blood answered a new tide, making her ears echo the ocean like shells. In her body, as if her center were suddenly lost and, dizzy, she spun without moving. His tongue painted promises on her lips, her hands dug into his waist…a sudden tremor in his left hand, the feel of her skin beneath the fingertips of his right hand, need growing, loins aching, flesh rising to press against cloth, her heart pounding, his heart pounding, our hearts—

Hands dug into her shoulders, thrusting her back. Air moved, cool, along her heated body. And she stood alone in the small space left them by the shifting bodies of the other dancers. Alone, body and mind and heart, staring at his face, where there was no expression at all. And at his eyes, where she saw a deep and consuming horror.

Drew turned and started walking. It wasn’t a conscious decision. There was nothing in him capable of reasoning or deciding at that moment. He walked, that was all. Away. Quickly.

There were too many people. People everywhere, their voices and faces blurring into a crowd—pressure he couldn’t tolerate. Instinctively he sought darkness, privacy. A moment later trees loomed around him, and as the press of people grew less, thought began to return. He remembered to watch for traffic when he crossed the street, almost running now.

No headache, not yet. But it would come. The sliding disorientation, the loss of reality—there was no mistaking that. It had hit while he was kissing her, dear God, while she was in his arms….

But the rest of it hadn’t hit. His steps slowed, stopped. For the first time the spell, once begun, hadn’t taken its terrible course. He was in control, body and mind. In control, and standing in a dark, dead-end alley beside a garbage can. Somewhere behind him, the band swung into a cheerful rendition of ‘‘Tequila.’’

The world hadn’t left him.

Neither, he realized as footsteps approached and stopped, had she.

‘‘Drew?’’

What the hell did he say? Excuse me, didn’t mean to run off, but I just remembered I left the water running somewhere?

God. He ran a hand over his head, front to back, ending with his fingers squeezing the base of his skull as if he could press out an answer.

His head didn’t hurt. The terrible exhaustion wasn’t hovering, waiting to drag him down. He was pathetically grateful to be spared that, along with the rest of it, even if he had no idea why he’d been spared. But he couldn’t try to figure it out now. Now, he thought, bitterly aware of the irony, he had to persuade Rose he wasn’t crazy.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said without turning. ‘‘I don’t have a good explanation.’’

‘‘You don’t have to explain. I’ve never… It scared me, too.’’

Relief poured in. She thought he’d been frightened by—what? Passion? Excessive emotion? It didn’t… No, he realized, shamed. It did matter. If she’d been frightened by what she felt when they kissed, he couldn’t let her go on thinking he felt…whatever she thought he felt. ‘‘Rose,’’ he said, turning, unsure how to make himself clear without hurting her.

She stood three feet away. Worry or strain wrinkled her forehead. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me you’re an empath?’’

He stared. She was as crazy as he was.

‘‘Oh. Oh, Lord.’’ The hand that pushed her hair back was shaky, but her mouth shaped a rueful smile. ‘‘You haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m talking about, do you? I don’t suppose you believe in all that psychic crap.’’

Carefully he said, ‘‘I try to keep an open mind.’’

For some reason that set her off. She laughed so hard it doubled her over. He was about to grab her, thinking she was hysterical, when she straightened, gasping. ‘‘An open mind. Yes, I’m sure you think so.’’ One last chuckle escaped, then, when he reached for her, she stepped back. ‘‘Hands off, I think, for now. Things have changed.’’

He took a deep breath. Still no headache. Otherwise, things were pretty much all mucked up. ‘‘All right. If that’s how you want it.’’

‘‘If I knew what…’’ She sighed. ‘‘Never mind. I’m sure you think I’m a nutcase. Maybe it’s time we talked about it—about my claim to be psychic, I mean.’’

He wouldn’t have a better opening. ‘‘Maybe we should. But not here. Let’s go back to the party.’’ Where they’d be surrounded by plenty of nosy people.

His head might not hurt, but he damned sure ached elsewhere. He would need all the help he could get to follow her blasted hands-off policy.