Читать книгу Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector - Carla Cassidy - Страница 7

Chapter 1

Flames. Orange-hot, sucking the air from her chest, shouting smoke at the sky. Flames, drawing her skin hot and tight over the rapture within, the coiled secret at the bottom of her soul. Flames, calling her.

She fought. Wordlessly she fought, for she was deeply asleep, dwelling in a part of herself sundered from language and reason. But even here she knew the danger. And the draw. Unwilling, afraid, she resisted—yet when fire called, she answered, pulled from safety and darkness into a scene from hell.

Fire crackled merrily over the bones of its prey, a tumbled wreck she saw as dark angles and masses. There were people, too—she saw them as movement, their outlines blurred by possibilities. And there were bodies. They were dark and still and horribly clear.

She shuddered. Along with horror came the stirring of thought, still wordless but gathering focus. What she saw hadn’t happened yet. When fire skipped her willy-nilly across time’s boundaries, the living always appeared only as blurred, mobiles shapes, each person a small tornado of decisions awhirl with possible fates.

The dead carried no such freight. They lay quiet and dark, their final shapes fixed.

So there was time still. Not much, not when the vision was this clear, the pull of the fire this strong. But it hadn’t happened yet, so there was a chance that it wouldn’t. She had to think, had to remember what was needed in that other world, the waking world where reality was an orderly march of place and time, cause and effect.

Place and time…where was she? What was the fire eating?

She struggled, fighting the draw of the fire, the great, terrible beauty that called her to dance—fighting the part of her that quivered and yearned and wept with need for the flames. The need to call the fire to her. This time she won the battle, pulling more of reason and the other world into the vision.

She was standing in a smoke-black oven. Air stank in her nostrils and burned her lungs, a poison bath brewed of burning plastic and other man-made materials. People were screaming, crying, though she couldn’t see them. A siren wailed in the distance, drawing nearer. And in front of her, the fire. She felt it, heard it, though she could see nothing.

She turned away. There would be no answers nearer the fire, and much danger. When she moved, the fire dragged at her, so that she moved slowly, feeling as if the air itself was reluctant to let her pass. Her movement wasn’t quite like walking. Though she saw the floor, she didn’t feel it beneath her feet.

The floor. Yes, she could see it now—the smoke wasn’t as thick. A tile floor, vaguely institutional.

Think, she commanded herself. A store? Or, dear God, a hospital?

A shape loomed up out of the darkness, gasping—a person, blurred by smoke and possibilities. He or she stumbled past, going the wrong way. Toward the fire. Instinctively she reached out, trying to grab the other. Her hand passed through a barely seen shoulder. A shock of feeling shuddered through her—his feelings. Terror, shrill and desperate. Pain. The sobbing need for air.

Then he was gone. Gone, heading for death, and she had no way of stopping him.

It hasn’t happened yet, she reminded herself, and pushed on.

Light ahead. Not the red glow of fire, but a thinning of smoke that allowed something like normal vision. A long, low shape with other shapes on it…she moved closer. Suitcases! Suitcases on a conveyor belt—baggage claim.

The airport. Dear God. Where had the fire started? Swiftly she aligned her knowledge of the airport’s layout with the other sense, the one that knew where the fire was—but in turning her attention to the fire, she opened to it again.

Flames, orange-glow-heat-life, loving, eating, devouring, freeing—flames dancing there, dancing here, inside her—Shaken, she pulled back, but the call was so strong. Like a lover, fire entranced, compelled—come, come dance, taste my richness, join. Join. A rhythmic compulsion, heat of blood and beat of heart matching the wild cadence of flames, drawing her closer, drawing—

Terrified, she yanked her attention away from the fire. And stood once more in swirling smoke, lungs straining, desperate for air, desperately tired. And bereft.

She was no longer near the baggage claim. She didn’t know where she was, but it was hot, so hot she thought her skin might split. She had to leave, had to summon the will to wake herself…

Coolness. In this hot, breathless place she felt cool air waft over her, and the novelty distracted her. She turned. A shape moved toward her out of the smoke. A human shape. Startled but not frightened, she watched the blurred form come closer. A man, she thought, recognizing something in the movement or the shape, something that was wholly male.

He stopped in front of her, almost as if he could see her. And reached out a hand. And she saw it. Saw it clearly—a man’s hand, large, with a broad palm and long fingers. Pale, northern skin, kissed to a light tan by the sun, nails short and well tended. There was a small white scar on the little finger just below the second knuckle.

Tendons stretched along the back of that shockingly visible hand as it reached for her. Fingers closed, cool and living, around the hot flesh of her upper arm.

Her eyes flew open on darkness. Cool night air moved over skin still hot and tight. Her chest heaved as she sucked in air. Intimate muscles clenched around a throbbing pulse. And her heart was pounding, pounding.

Her hand shook as she reached for the phone beside her bed.

Heat rolled off the tarmac in waves. Much of it, though, was the trapped heat of the sun, released now into a soft June night, rather than the heat of fire. Emergency lights had been rigged to help the eighteen men who labored under the direction of a construction engineer, working to dig out the rubble at the west end of the Montebello International Airport. The fire hadn’t reached far—firefighters, mobilized and ready, had put the blaze out quickly. But the blast itself had brought down part of the second floor.

No one knew for sure if there had been anyone left in that section when the bomb went off.

Sweat trickled down Drew’s forehead, making the cut on his temple sting. His shirt clung to him, damp and clammy. His shoulder muscles strained as he heaved yet another ragged chunk of concrete off the pile of debris that was all that remained of Gate 22.

A little over an hour ago, he’d been one of the passengers who had deplaned at this gate.

‘‘Watch where you’re throwing your toys. I’d hate to have to arrest you for assault.’’

‘‘Lorenzo.’’ Drew straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead as he turned. ‘‘I rather thought you’d show up. I didn’t muss your pretty shoes, did I?’’

‘‘I’m nowhere near as mussed as you are,’’ his cousin retorted. Lorenzo was one year younger than Drew, one inch taller and twenty pounds lighter. He had a tricky right, a fondness for good wine, secrets and handmade Italian shoes. He also had a new wife.

Lorenzo shook his head. ‘‘You look like hell.’’

‘‘Explosions will do that to a man.’’

‘‘Especially if he insists on playing hero.’’

Drew turned and snagged his jacket from the ground. He was far from being any sort of hero. ‘‘I’m glad you’re here. There’s a little wart of a police captain scurrying around, acting official. Please have him flogged.’’

‘‘Captain Mylonas.’’ A smile played over Lorenzo’s thin, clever mouth. ‘‘He’s not happy with you.’’

‘‘I’m not too bloody happy with him. He’s detaining fifty people who have already been through hell. He wants to question them. Some of them have small children.’’ He wiped his forehead again. The cut was smarting. ‘‘The man’s a toad.’’

‘‘You’re smearing the blood around. Here.’’ Lorenzo handed him a folded handkerchief. ‘‘He did give you permission to leave, I understand.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ Drew’s lip curled. ‘‘Toads don’t like to offend the queen’s nephew.’’

‘‘You put him in a difficult position when you refused to leave until he released the other passengers.’’

‘‘That was the idea.’’ Smoke drifted over from the area that had been hit by fire, irritating Drew’s raw throat. He cleared it. ‘‘The captain isn’t one of your men, but this is your investigation.’’ Lorenzo was head of the Royal Montebellan Intelligence team. ‘‘You could release the passengers.’’

‘‘I will, just as soon as we’re sure none of them is aware of anyone still missing.’’

Drew glanced at the pile of debris and wondered if some poor soul’s body was trapped beneath it. ‘‘But Mylonas isn’t questioning them about who might be missing. He’s hunting for his blasted terrorist among the victims. He’d like to show you up.’’

‘‘The captain was confused about his priorities. I clarified them for him.’’

Ah. Drew nodded, satisfied.

‘‘Aunt Gwendolyn’s worried about you.’’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘‘She knows I’m all right. I—’’ Annoyingly, a cough chose that moment to rattle its way loose.

‘‘Refused medical assistance, from what I hear.’’

Drew mastered the coughing fit and straightened. ‘‘Medical assistance—for a small cut and a sore throat? Don’t be ridiculous.’’

‘‘The cut’s still bleeding. And you swallowed a fair amount of smoke when you went back in to drag that old man out after the blast.’’

‘‘I’ve always disliked your habit of knowing everything.’’

Lorenzo chuckled. ‘‘But it pays off, in my line of work. Now, if you’re finished flexing your muscles, I’m under orders to tuck you into a limo and send you to the palace. The king’s orders,’’ he added. ‘‘Uncle Marcus doesn’t want Aunt Gwen worrying. I think they can find another unskilled laborer to take over for you.’’

Since he’d gotten what he wanted—the other passengers would be allowed to leave, too—Drew didn’t object. ‘‘Give me a moment to let the crew boss know I’m leaving.’’

When he returned, he and his cousin fell into step together. They skirted the firefighters still watching the smoldering wreckage of the gate and entered the main terminal through a service door on the ground floor. The interior was eerie, with the west end of the concourse tinted the smoldering red of emergency lighting and the east end normally lit. The hot air stank of smoke.

Uniformed men were stationed at every entrance, most of them in the colorful blue-and-gold uniforms of the capital’s police force, some in the crisp khakis of the army. The uninjured civilians had been herded to the far eastern end of the terminal, where more police officers were stationed. Most of them were quiet, although a few voices drifted down the empty concourse. A child was crying.

Drew didn’t see as many children as there had been earlier. Good. A few of the families must have been released. ‘‘I did make sure word was sent to the palace that I wasn’t hurt. It’s not like Aunt Gwen to fret without cause.’’

‘‘The past year has been rough on her.’’

So it had. Several months ago his aunt’s oldest son, Lucas Sebastiani, prince and heir to the throne of Montebello, had disappeared when his plane went down over the Colorado Rockies in the United States. Searchers had turned up no sign of him, and eventually the royal family had been forced to accept that he was dead. There had been little Drew had been able to do to help, either with the search or with the family’s grief. Still, he’d come here often in the past months. He might not have known what to do for them, but he could at least be here.

Of course, he hadn’t been the only one to offer the support of his company. Lorenzo’s half brother, Desmond Caruso, had practically haunted the palace. Drew had never been able to tolerate much of Desmond’s company or understand why others didn’t pick up on the stink of jealousy and ambition Desmond gave off.

Last month, Lucas had found his way out of the darkness of trauma-induced amnesia and returned home. ‘‘How is Lucas?’’ Drew asked quietly. ‘‘I’ve spoken to him on the phone. He insists he’s all right, but…’’ Drew shrugged, unable to put his worries into words.

‘‘I don’t know. He’s quieter. Broody.’’

Drew chewed on that a moment. God knew Lucas had been through enough to justify a little brooding, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that more had happened during Lucas’s missing months than his family knew. Or maybe his past was making him paint the other man with his own troubled colors. ‘‘The king is proceeding with his plans for the ceremony, I understand.’’

‘‘Yes. The country needs to see Lucas officially installed as heir.’’

‘‘Do you think the bombing is connected to the uncertainty about the succession? Tamir—’’

‘‘Good Lord, Drew, the last thing we need is to sling a fresh batch of accusations at Tamir! We barely made it through the last few months without a war.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Drew said shortly. ‘‘I know.’’

‘‘Sorry.’’ He rubbed a hand over his head. ‘‘It’s been…difficult.’’

‘‘I was about to say that Tamir, however unwittingly, did play host to a number of those Brothers of Darkness fellows. Nasty bunch. They aren’t what they once were, thank God, with their leaders either dead or in prison, but there must still be some isolated cells operating. I heard they’re taking credit for today’s fireworks.’’

‘‘And just where did you hear that? We don’t know who called in the—yes?’’ Lorenzo’s attention swerved to the uniformed officer who approached.

‘‘Pardon me, Your Grace.’’ The young policeman looked nervous and excited. ‘‘Captain Mylonas would like to see you. He’s detained a suspect.’’

Drew’s eyebrows rose. Either Mylonas had gotten very lucky, or he was hassling some poor Tamiri visitor who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. After Drew’s encounter with the captain, he was betting on the second possibility.

‘‘Where?’’ Lorenzo said tersely.

‘‘In the security office off the atrium.’’

Lorenzo started moving. ‘‘Your limo’s out front, Drew.’’

‘‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go with you. If there’s anything to this, His Highness will want to know. I can brief him when I reach the palace.’’

Lorenzo acknowledged the sense of that with a nod.

Montebello’s airport was no Heathrow, but it was a fair stretch of the legs to reach the security offices, located slightly west of the center but not in the bombed section. Drew was tired. His head had started to pound and his lungs were issuing warnings of another coughing fit by the time they reached the office where Captain Mylonas had sequestered his suspect.

Who was not at all what Drew had been expecting. He stopped in the doorway.

‘‘Your Grace.’’ The captain practically clicked his heels together when Lorenzo entered. Mylonas was a small man with a small, round paunch. His mustache was so black and precise it looked inked on—a forlorn attempt to add distinction to a bland face. ‘‘I am pleased you could come so promptly.’’

‘‘You have a suspect, I understand.’’

‘‘He has heatstroke,’’ the suspect muttered. ‘‘Or maybe his mother dropped him on the head as a baby. That would explain it.’’

Good Lord, Drew thought. Her voice was as perfect as the rest of her.

Mylonas’s suspect had skin the dusky olive of the Mediterranean. Her face was oval, the features imbued with that fluid sensuality some Italian women possess. Black hair rippled down her back like wind-rumpled water. She was dressed plainly enough in a red T-shirt and khaki shorts, but the T-shirt was tucked in at an absurdly small waist, the shorts revealed legs that made him clench his teeth, and that soft red cotton clung with intimate favor to what might be the finest pair of breasts he’d ever seen.

Or mostly seen. The T-shirt wasn’t as tight as he might have wished.

‘‘Your name?’’ Lorenzo asked crisply.

‘‘Rosalinda Cira Giaberti. Call me Rose. And you are?’’

The sweet insolence of her tone had Drew smiling. This was a terrorist?

‘‘Lorenzo Sebastiani.’’

A blink cleared some of the boredom from those fine, dark eyes. ‘‘Pardon me, Your Grace, for failing to recognize you. You seem to have left your coronet at home.’’ When she glanced at Drew her brows lifted in haughty inquiry. ‘‘You aren’t a Sebastiani.’’

‘‘No. Call me Drew, Signorina Giaberti.’’ His smile suggested that if she didn’t call, he would. Soon. ‘‘It is signorina, isn’t it?’’ There was no ring on her left hand.

Her mouth twitched in amusement. ‘‘And if it isn’t?’’

‘‘Life is seldom fair, but rarely is it that absurdly malignant.’’ For some reason his bantering tone slipped, as if he’d spoken nothing more than the truth.

She tipped her head, curious, and met his eyes.

The hairs on his forearms stood on end. He looked into those dark eyes and he knew—he was going to have her. When and where didn’t matter. He would have this woman naked and damp and crying out for him.

Her eyes widened. A small, alarmed jerk of her head snapped the contact.

‘‘Signorina Giaberti called in the bomb threat,’’ Captain Mylonas announced with relish.

It took a second for Drew to throw off the odd spell and understand what the man had said. When he did, his stomach contracted in quick, hard denial. But however his body rejected the implications, his mind knew very well that lovely packages could hold ugly surprises. Yet he still wanted her.

How far had he sunk?

The woman was unimpressed by the implicit accusation. Her glance at the captain was annoyed, no more. ‘‘Madre di Dio. It was a warning, not a threat. You might consider thanking me.’’

‘‘Thanking you? For attempting to kill hundreds of innocent people?’’

‘‘I tried to kill no one. If I hadn’t called, the building wouldn’t have been evacuated and the fire—’’ She broke off suddenly. ‘‘I warned you about the bomb. I didn’t threaten you with one. The distinction may be subtle to one of your intelligence, so I will give an example. If I say that looking at your smug, shiny face might cause me to lose my supper, that is a warning. If I say I’m going to vomit all over your pretty uniform unless you go away, that is a threat.’’

Drew choked on a laugh, then doubled over as another coughing fit hit.

Lorenzo took a step towards him. He waved his cousin back, stepping out into the hall so he wouldn’t interfere with the interrogation while his body tried to eject the lining of his lungs. He ended up leaning weakly against the wall, eyes watering as he dragged deep breaths through his raw throat. His head pounded, a hard, hot throb of pain. He blinked the moisture back.

One of the police officers was staring at him. Bloody hell. In another minute he’d have the fool over here asking if he needed medical attention. He made the effort to straighten, glancing down at the scuffed white tiles of the floor…

And the world slipped behind a wall.

Sounds, color, vision—all were still there, but removed. Distant, as if everything had slid behind glass. The pain in his head went from a throb to a long slice of agony.

Not again—please, not now. Not again.

But his plea was as trapped as the rest of him. As if someone had taken a grip on two corners of the world and pulled, the square tiles of the floor stretched into parallelograms. Pain became pressure, livid, explosive, almost living, as if it could burst out of his skull and splatter his brains on the white, elongated tiles. He tried to move, to at least close his eyes. And couldn’t. He could only stand frozen while the tiles melted and the beast behind his eyes rose in a huge wave—

As suddenly as it had come, it was gone. The tiles dragged themselves back into their proper shapes, the pressure receded, tidelike, leaving him cold and clammy and weak. Last to go was the wall, the glassy barrier that muffled everything…

‘‘…all right, sir?’’

He looked up. The officer he’d seen earlier was standing in front of him, looking very young in a soot-smudged uniform. Those spaniel eyes hadn’t yet learned a cop’s detachment.

Drew dredged up a reassuring smile. ‘‘Afraid I inhaled too much smoke earlier. I’ll be fine.’’

As fine as a man could be, that is, when he was losing his mind.