Читать книгу Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira - Carla Cassidy, Eileen Wilks - Страница 10

Chapter 3

The flame was blue-white with heat—but tiny. Small enough to be safe. The woman guiding that flame wore a canvas apron over pink chinos and tinted safety glasses. No jewelry, no makeup. Her black hair was tied in a rough knot at her nape, though curly bits escaped to frisk around her face.

The worktable she was bent over was cluttered. Tongs, tweezers, wire cutters, a two-inch nail and a tiny hammer, spools of silver wire and several thin golden squares crowded the surface directly in front of her. Small wooden and plastic boxes lined the back of the table, and more tools hung on the pegboard on the wall behind it. A draftsman’s adjustable light was clamped to the table’s edge. A vise gripped a silver arm cuff, three inches wide and partially worked, at the front of the table.

The little soldering iron kissed the air beneath the bit of wire Rose held, kissed and retreated in a butterfly’s insubstantial salute. Silver beaded and fell, directed by a subtle flick of her wrist.

‘‘Natala Baldovino is at the market,’’ Rose’s aunt Gemma announced gloomily from the doorway.

‘‘I thought you were watching the shop.’’ Rose released the button on the little soldering iron. The flame died.

‘‘I needed pancetta for the carbonara sauce, and some olives. Pietra offered to go. I think she has her eye on the youngest Christofides boy.’’

‘‘Pietra has her eye on both Christofides boys, along with any other male who crosses her path. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Nothing serious, at least.’’

‘‘I’m not sure the young men realize that. She said Natala Baldovino had already made the rounds.’’

Rose studied the way silver swirled over gold in a stylized, intricate yin-yang design on the arm cuff and nodded, satisfied. ‘‘I suppose Signora Baldovino is allowed to buy olives.’’

‘‘If that had been her purpose, I’d have no objections,’’ her aunt observed in a fair-minded way. ‘‘But you know it isn’t. You know what she’s saying.’’

Rose had a pretty good idea. She also cherished some hope of finishing the cuff—and avoiding the lecture Gemma had been trying to deliver ever since the police released her yesterday. She loosened the vise, turned the cuff and tightened it again. ‘‘I’m thinking of using mother-of-pearl here, for the moon.’’

‘‘Very pretty, dear. It reminds me of that new ring.’’

‘‘What new ring?’’

‘‘Didn’t I tell you? A rather flashy young woman brought it in yesterday morning. An American.’’

‘‘You bought a ring for the shop.’’ Rose inhaled a slow breath for patience as anxiety bit. The shop did well normally, but this summer hadn’t been normal. The possibility of war with Tamir had discouraged tourists, sales were half what they’d been last year at this time, and her bank balance hadn’t been this low since she’d first opened the shop.

Now it might be in the red. ‘‘You didn’t check with me. You know you have to check with me before you buy anything.’’

‘‘How could I? You were in jail.’’

Defeated, Rose swiveled on her stool.

Her aunt stood in front of the desk Rose used when she couldn’t avoid paperwork any longer. Gemma Giaberti was a small woman, plump and firm as a pear, with black hair coiled high on her round head. She had cow’s eyes—big, brown and placid, with extravagant eyelashes. Her skirt was long and full, the color of moss. Her blouse was white and embroidered. Today she wore only two necklaces, a baroque locket of about the same age as her house, and an intricately worked chain her niece had made for her two years ago.

‘‘I wasn’t in jail,’’ Rose said, studying those placid eyes with suspicion. ‘‘I spent hours at the police station because Mylonas is an idiot, but they didn’t put me behind bars. How could they? They have no evidence of any wrongdoing.’’

‘‘Of course not, but that isn’t stopping Natala Baldovino from passing around her version of events.’’

‘‘Maybe the gossip will bring people into the shop.’’ When her aunt just blinked at her in polite skepticism, Rose grimaced. ‘‘I know, I know. They’re more likely to put a rock through the window.’’

‘‘Oh, surely not. No one’s done that in years, have they? Except for the Peterson boy, and really, I don’t think he counts. He threw rocks through everyone’s windows until he went into the army.’’ Gemma clucked her tongue. ‘‘Rose, your head is hurting. You forgot to eat lunch again, didn’t you?’’

‘‘I had a big breakfast. Do you by any chance remember how much you paid for this ring?’’

‘‘I’m sure I wrote it down. I know you like everything to be accounted for…the receipt book?’’ Her forehead, smoother than a woman her age had any right to have, puckered now as she considered the matter. ‘‘Yes, that’s it. I asked her to give me a receipt for the money, and she did. She signed it and—’’ Gemma finished with triumph ‘‘—I had her put her address below her signature.’’

‘‘That will help—if it’s her real name and address.’’

That brought a moment’s silence. ‘‘I suppose I should have asked to see identification. A passport or something.’’

‘‘It might have been a good idea.’’ Rose stood and stretched, unkinking stiff muscles. How long had she been bent over her newest design? A glance at the clock informed her that Gemma was right. She had forgotten lunch. ‘‘Just think how happy it would make Captain Mylonas if we bought stolen goods and he found out.’’

‘‘Bah. He’s a worm.’’

‘‘A worm with a badge.’’ Gemma had been right about something else, too. She had a headache. Nothing vicious, more like a tired child whining for attention. Rose reached up to loosen her hair and rub her temples. ‘‘I’ll need to give the police a description of the ring so they can check their list of stolen property, just in case. Is it in the stockroom?’’

‘‘I put it with the receipt book, I think. In the cash drawer.’’

‘‘The cash drawer? No, don’t tell me. I’m sure it made perfect sense at the time.’’ She untied her apron as she walked briskly to the door. ‘‘What does the ring look like?’’

‘‘Not terribly old, but unusual. A ruby and a pearl set in a thick band. I’m sure you’ll like it. After all, the pattern is the same as the one you’re making now, so that proves it, doesn’t it?’’

Her apron went on a hook on the back of the door. Her hands went to her hair, finger-combing it quickly. Fruit, she thought. Or maybe some nuts. A little food would cure the ache in her head. She pushed open the door to the shop.

Her spirits lifted. The shining counters, the shelves and display cases full of the beautiful, the fanciful, the unique—this was hers. Her aunt helped, certainly. So had the bank. But persuading a banker to take a chance on a young, unmarried woman—one who lacked the convenience of a father —had been as much of an accomplishment as finding the stock, teaching herself bookkeeping and building a clientele and a reputation.

A different reputation, that is. The one she’d been born with had its drawbacks.

She turned the key in the cash drawer. First the receipt book… The figure she saw entered in Gemma’s rounded handwriting made her mutter something in German. Rose considered German the best language for cursing, partly because of all those clacking consonants. Partly, too, because her aunt didn’t understand it.

‘‘Where’s the ring?’’ she demanded. ‘‘Is this it?’’ She held up a small glass box, her eyebrows raised. ‘‘Glass, Zia?’’

Gemma smiled vaguely. ‘‘It seemed best.’’

Wonderful. She was going to have to use almost all of her savings to cover a check written because her aunt refused to stop meddling. Rose scowled and snatched off the lid. ‘‘This had better be…’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Gemma said softly from Rose’s shoulder. ‘‘I thought it was the same, and it is.’’

Executed in miniature on the band of the ring was her own yin-yang design—a design that had come to her in a dream. She gave one quick, irritated shake of her head. ‘‘Damn. I’d better see why it showed up, then.’’ She reached for the ring.

‘‘Rose, wait until—’’

Too late. She’d closed her hand around the ring.

Seconds later her knees went soft. She swayed.

A plump arm closed around her shoulders, steadying her. The ring left her hand, breaking the connection. Her eyelids lifted. ‘‘My God.’’

‘‘Are you all right?’’

She blinked. Gemma had put the ring back in its glass box, shielded once more. ‘‘You might have warned me.’’

‘‘I tried to,’’ Gemma said tartly. ‘‘Though I had no idea it would hit you so hard.’’

‘‘You put it in glass. You knew it needed warding.’’

‘‘I knew it was for you to see, that’s all. Psychometry isn’t my Gift.’’ She released Rose’s shoulders. ‘‘What did you feel?’’

Her aunt’s voice held all the crispness it usually lacked. Rose responded automatically. ‘‘Grief. Wild and deep…whoever she is, she’s hurting.’’

‘‘You’re rubbing your stomach. Is she in physical pain?’’

Oh. So she was. Rose stopped rubbing but kept her hand on her stomach, turning her attention to the echoes of feeling still trembling inside her. ‘‘Not physical pain. Emotional. An empty womb.’’ Her voice went flat and bleak. ‘‘Whoever she is, she’s lost a child. Miscarriage, maybe…’’ Rose shook her head, throwing off the traces of someone else’s heartache. ‘‘I don’t understand why the connection was so strong. Aside from the ring being made of metal, there’s no link to fire—’’

‘‘Are you sure?’’

She glanced at her aunt, impatient. She knew what Gemma wanted. The same thing she always wanted—for Rose to explore her Gift, to learn it, use it. That was why she’d bought the ring. ‘‘I couldn’t very well miss that. I didn’t recognize her.’’

Gemma patted her arm. ‘‘You will next time, dear.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘The ring came to you. There’s a reason for that, even if—’’

The chimes above the door rang. ‘‘Later, Zia.’’ Rose tucked her hair behind her ear, turned to the door—and froze.

It was him. The man from the airport. The one who’d been with His Grace, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani, nephew of the king and head of Montebello’s intelligence service. His clothes were cleaner and more casual today, but just as expensive. His face was hard, lean. Not a lovely face, but the sort a woman remembered. And the eyes—oh, they were the same, the clearest, coldest green she’d ever seen.

So was the quick clutch of pleasure in her stomach. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’

‘‘Rose.’’ Gemma’s tone was repressive.

‘‘Your store is open, isn’t it?’’ He had a delicious voice, like melted chocolate dripped over the crisp consonants and rounded vowels of upper-class English.

Gemma moved out from behind the counter. ‘‘Pay no attention to my niece. Missing a meal makes her growl. Did you have something specific in mind, my lord, or would you like to look around awhile?’’

My lord? Well, Rose thought, that was no more than she’d suspected, and explained why he seemed familiar. She must have seen his picture sometime. This man wasn’t just rich, he was frosting—the creamy top level of the society cake.

She, of course, wasn’t part of the cake at all.

‘‘Quite specific,’’ he said. ‘‘About five foot seven, I’d say, with eyes the color of the ocean at twilight and a sad lack of respect for the local police.’’

Rose lifted one eyebrow. ‘‘Are you here on Captain Mylonas’s behalf, then…my lord?’’

‘‘I never visit a beautiful woman on behalf of another man. Certainly not on behalf of a fool. I asked you to call me Drew.’’

Ah. Now she knew who he was. ‘‘So you did, Lord Andrew.’’

His mouth didn’t smile, but the creases cupping his lower eyelids deepened and the cool eyes warmed slightly. ‘‘Stubborn, aren’t you.’’

‘‘Do pigs fly?’’ Gemma asked.

‘‘Ah…no, I don’t believe they do.’’

Rose grinned. ‘‘Aunt Gemma has a fondness for American slang, but she doesn’t always get the nuances right. She enjoys American tabloids, too. And Italian tabloids. And—’’

‘‘Really, Rose,’’ Gemma interrupted, flustered. ‘‘His lordship can’t possibly be interested in my reading habits.’’

‘‘No?’’ Rose’s smile widened as she remembered a picture of Lord Andrew Harrington she’d seen in one of her aunt’s tabloids a few years ago. Quite a memorable photograph —but it hadn’t been Lord Andrew’s face that had made it so. His face hadn’t shown at all, in fact. ‘‘I’m afraid we don’t sell sunscreen. If you’re planning to expose any, ah, untanned portions of your body to the Mediterranean sun, you’d do better to shop at Serminio’s Pharmacy. They have a good selection.’’

‘‘Rose!’’ Gemma exclaimed. ‘‘I’m sorry, my lord, she didn’t…that is, she probably did mean…but she shouldn’t have.’’

The creases deepened. ‘‘I’m often amazed at how many people remember that excessively candid photograph. Perhaps my sister is right. She claims the photographer caught my best side.’’

His best side being his backside? Rose laughed. ‘‘Maybe I do like you, after all.’’

The door chime sounded again. Tourists, she saw at a glance—a Greek couple with a small child. She delegated them to her aunt with a quick smile. To her surprise, Gemma frowned and didn’t step forward to welcome their customers.

Her zia didn’t approve of Lord Andrew Harrington? Or possibly it was Rose’s flirting she didn’t like. Ah, well. She and Gemma had different ideas about what risks were worth taking. She answered her aunt’s silent misgivings with a grin, and reluctantly Gemma moved toward the front of the shop.

Lord Andrew came up to the counter. ‘‘Perhaps you could show me your shop.’’

How odd. She couldn’t feel him. She felt something, all right—a delightful fizzing, the champagne pleasure of attraction. But she couldn’t feel him. The counter was only two feet wide, which normally let a customer’s energy brush up against hers. Curious, she tipped her head. ‘‘Maybe I will. But I’ll have to repeat my aunt’s question. Are you looking for something in particular?’’

‘‘Nothing that would be for sale. But something special, yes.’’

Oh, he was good. Rose had to smile. ‘‘We have some very special things for sale, though, all handmade. Necklaces, earrings…’’

He shook his head chidingly. ‘‘I’m far too conventional a fellow for earrings—except, of course, for pearls. Pearls must always be acceptable, don’t you think?’’

‘‘Certainly, on formal occasions,’’ she agreed solemnly. ‘‘I’m afraid we don’t have any pearls, however.’’

He looked thoughtful. ‘‘I believe I have a sister.’’

She was enjoying him more and more. ‘‘How pleasant for you.’’

‘‘No doubt she will have a birthday at some point. I could buy her a present. In fact, I had better buy her a present. You must help me.’’

‘‘Jewelry, or something decorative?’’

‘‘Oh…’’ His gaze flickered over her, then lifted so his eyes could smile at her in that way they had that didn’t involve his mouth at all. ‘‘Something decorative, I think.’’

‘‘For your sister,’’ she reminded him, and left the safety of the counter. Quite deliberately she let her arm brush his as she walked past, and received an answer to the question she couldn’t ask any other way.

Nothing. Even this close, he gave away nothing at all.

Rose’s skin felt freshly scrubbed—tender, alert. Her mind began to fizz like a thoroughly shaken can of soda, but she didn’t let her step falter as she led the way to the other side of the store, away from her aunt and the Greek tourists.

Here the elegantly swirled colors of Murano glass glowed on shelves beside bowls bright with painted designs. Colors giggled and flowed over lead crystal vases, majolica earthenware, millefiori paperweights, ceramic figures and crackle-finish urns. Here, surrounded by beauty forged in fire, she felt relaxed and easy.

A purely physical reaction. That was all she felt with this man. That and curiosity, a ready appreciation for a quick mind. She turned to face him and she was smiling. But not like a shopkeeper in pursuit of a sale. ‘‘What is your sister like? Feminine, rowdy, sophisticated, shy?’’

‘‘Convinced she could do a better job of running my life than I do.’’ He wasn’t looking at Rose now, but at a shiny black statue by Gilmarie—a nymph, nude, seated on a stone and casting a roguish glance over one bare shoulder. He traced a finger along a ceramic thigh. ‘‘I like this.’’

The nymph was explicitly sensual. Rose’s eyebrows shot up. ‘‘For your sister?’’

‘‘I have a brother, too.’’

‘‘No doubt he comes equipped with a birthday, as well.’’

‘‘I’m fairly sure of it. I’m not sure I want this for him, though. I like the look on her face. The invitation.’’ His eyes met Rose’s then. There was no hint of a smile now. ‘‘Any man would.’’

What an odd thing a heart was, pumping along unnoticed most of the time, then suddenly bouncing in great, uneven leaps like a ball tumbling downhill. ‘‘She’s flirting, not inviting.’’

‘‘Is there a difference?’’

‘‘To a woman, yes. I think of flirting as a performance art. Something to be enjoyed in the moment, like dancing. Men are more likely to think of it as akin to cooking—still an art in the right hands, but carried out with a particular goal in mind.’’

The creases came back, and one corner of his mouth helped them build his smile this time. ‘‘I am a goal-oriented bastard at times.’’

So they knew where they stood. He wanted to get her into bed. Rose hadn’t decided yet what she wanted, but thought she would enjoy finding out. She didn’t doubt for a moment that the decision would be hers. She smiled back. ‘‘Are you a patient bastard, too? Even when you don’t get what you want?’’

‘‘I can be. Have dinner with me tonight.’’

She tipped her head to one side. ‘‘Where?’’

‘‘Why don’t I surprise you?’’

‘‘I like surprises. But somewhere with people around, I think.’’

‘‘A reasonable precaution. Perhaps I should mention that while I may be goal-oriented, I play by the rules.’’

‘‘You did say something about being conventional. But then, there’s your hair.’’ It was too long, too curly. It contradicted the hard face and remote expression, hinting at sensuality, even exuberance. The color was a pure, pale ash-brown. She wanted to touch it.

Impulsively she did. ‘‘Soft…and hardly businessman-short. It doesn’t fit the rest of your image, does it?’’

His face tightened. ‘‘I’m not a soft man. Just a busy one. I’ve been forgetting to get it cut.’’ He caught her hand and drew it between them, toying with her fingers. ‘‘You’re rough on your hands.’’ He ran a finger along a scabbed scratch on her thumb.

‘‘I—’’ She glanced to where he held her hand in his. And stopped breathing.

After a moment, unsteady, she said, ‘‘I make jewelry. Little nicks are inevitable.’’

‘‘Is some of the jewelry here yours?’’

‘‘Most of it.’’

‘‘You have talent.’’ He carried her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss, almost chaste, on the tips of her fingers. ‘‘Be ready at seven. Where should I pick you up?’’

‘‘Here. We…my aunt and I live above the shop. Use the stairs at the side of the house. Will you be wearing your pearls?’’

‘‘It will be a dressy sort of surprise, but not formal enough for pearls. You would be lovely in black.’’

She said something and he didn’t stare at her as if she were crazy, so she must have sounded reasonable. Then he left. She managed to respond appropriately when two more tourists, both female, wandered in while her aunt was ringing up a purchase for the Greek family. Rose sold her tourists a bracelet, three postcards and a beautiful ivory vase.

But all the while her mind was whirling. She’d recognized his hand. She’d seen it quite recently. For the first time, the only time, she had been touched while walking a fire dream. Touched by his hand. While around them the airport burned in a vision that now—thank God—would never come true.

Rose had no idea what it meant. But the slamming of her heart against the walls of her chest felt very much like fear.