Читать книгу Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira - Carla Cassidy, Eileen Wilks - Страница 14

Chapter 7

They made their way back to the café in silence. A light mist began to drift through the air, the droplets fine as dust motes. The dampness didn’t discourage the dancers in the piazza, but it had chased those at the sidewalk tables into the shelter. The little café was crowded, loud with cheery voices. Roberts was there. He looked relieved when he saw Drew. Drew was relieved, too, though for a different reason. Apparently his bodyguard had lost him in the crowd. He hadn’t seen Drew race off like a frightened rabbit.

They didn’t go in. There was a tiny bistro three doors down, away from the noise and curious faces. Music and mist floated in the open door, but the narrow room was dark and quiet, with lights over the bar and candles on the tables. A few customers were talking, their hands flying in occasional counterpoint or emphasis.

Drew went to the bar for their drinks, leaving Rose staring moodily at the fat, red candle on the table. Roberts found a spot at the end of the bar.

Drew wondered if the story of his flight from the dancing was making the rounds back at the café. So far, he’d bungled the evening badly. He wanted to get this next part right, but wasn’t sure how to proceed.

Rose was still studying the candle as if it held all sorts of secrets and solutions when he returned. She didn’t look up when he set her wine in front of her, sat down and spoke. ‘‘I mentioned my cousin Lorenzo earlier.’’

‘‘You said something about having a message from him.’’

‘‘He’d like you to work with him.’’

Her head jerked up. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘Police departments work with psychics sometimes. He needs leads. He’s willing to try this.’’

‘‘I’m not.’’

She sounded very definite. Drew studied her. Her lids were lowered, the lush eyelashes screening whatever was happening in those expressive eyes. She started digging little fissures in the softened rim of the candle with a fingernail, letting the melted wax escape in lavalike runnels. As the pool of wax went down, exposing the wick, the flame grew larger. ‘‘Why not?’’ he asked.

‘‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’’ Now her eyes lifted, meeting his. Her eyebrows were drawn in an uncompromising frown.

‘‘Explain it to me.’’

‘‘Just like that?’’ She gave a half laugh. ‘‘Drew, you don’t even believe in psychic phenomena.’’

‘‘My belief or lack of it doesn’t determine reality. People once believed, based on good evidence, that the world was flat.’’

‘‘That open mind of yours.’’ This time she didn’t laugh. She just looked tired. ‘‘Maybe you’re willing to change your mind if I can prove you wrong, but I’m not interested in proving anything.’’

‘‘I’m not asking you to. Listen.’’ Impatient, he claimed her hand. Her palm was very warm. ‘‘If Lorenzo is willing to give you a chance, why can’t you try? Don’t you want to see the bastards caught?’’

‘‘Oh, unfair. Of course I want them caught. But I’m not…’’ She sighed and pulled her hand back. ‘‘I’ll try to explain. I doubt you’ll accept what I say, but I’ll try. First, I use the word psychic because that’s the term you understand, but I was raised to think of myself as Gifted.’’

‘‘I see.’’

She chuckled. ‘‘No, you don’t. You’re trying not to let on that you think I’m a few bubbles shy of a full bath, and my family must be weird, too.’’

‘‘I can accept that what you say is fact to you.’’

‘‘Good enough.’’ She sipped her wine, her brows drawn slightly in thought. ‘‘I won’t begin at the beginning, because that goes back a little too far—more than twenty generations. The women in my family have always been Gifted, you see, some only slightly, some…quite strongly. Of course we aren’t the only ones. The Gifts—psychic abilities —appear in people all over the world, and I suspect that almost everyone has some trace of them. But because they have appeared so consistently and strongly in those of my blood, they have been studied. We know a great deal about how these abilities work, how to nurture and train them. And how to protect ourselves from them.’’

‘‘There is some danger in these, ah, Gifts?’’

‘‘The stronger the Gift, the greater the danger. Especially if the Gifted is unaware and untrained.’’ The delicate skin around her eyes tightened and she looked away. Once more she started playing with the softened candle wax, this time pushing the sides in toward the wick, forcing the melted wax higher on the wick. The flame retreated, diminished, until it was a small, stubborn bubble of fire, nearly drowned.

It was obvious she believed utterly in what she was saying. Drew thought of the fioreanno she hadn’t had, the father she’d never known and the way she’d smiled so brightly when she told him her mother had never been married. His throat ached with pity. There was a great deal she hadn’t said, a great deal he knew from Lorenzo that he had no business knowing. Such as how her mother died.

Yet she understood and applauded the strengths of the society that had made her an outsider. Was it surprising, then, that she would cling so fiercely to a set of beliefs, however bizarre, that gave her a heritage? That sense of belonging may have been what gave her the strength to reject bitterness.

‘‘You’re trained, though, I take it?’’ he said carefully. ‘‘And certainly not unaware. Wouldn’t that lessen the danger?’’

‘‘Yes, but…the nature of the danger varies according to the nature of the Gift, which is fourfold—what you would call telepathy, empathy, healing and prophecy. We name them Air, Water, Earth and Fire. My Gift is Fire. I see visions.’’

He didn’t want to know any more. The tally of her delusions was already troubling. But she posed a threat to people who liked to deal with their problems by killing. He had to persuade her to cooperate with Lorenzo. ‘‘And what is the nature of your danger?’’

She raised her eyes to his. Some trick of the light reflected the tiny candle flame there, twinned. ‘‘Burning, of course,’’ she said. Suddenly she breached the candle wall with one finger, spilling the liquid wax. The flame leaped high, higher. And she set her hand, flat-palmed, atop that flame.

He seized her wrist and yanked her hand away.

The wick smoked, dead and black, filling the air with the pungent scent of a just-snuffed candle. He turned her hand over.

Her palm was unmarked. There was no reddened spot, no sooty residue. Nothing.

His gaze flew to her face. Her expression was clear, remote, smiling. ‘‘A little fire like that can’t hurt me. It’s the big ones I fear.’’

It had been a trick, of course. The candle must have been extinguished before her palm touched it. ‘‘That’s why you won’t help?’’

She pulled her hand away. ‘‘I can’t help. From what I can tell, psychics who work with the police—the ones who aren’t charlatans, that is—are empaths or telepaths. I’m not. I can’t slide inside a terrorist’s mind that way.’’

She was too calm. He didn’t think she was lying, exactly, but she was holding something back. ‘‘What aren’t you telling me?’’

‘‘All sorts of things. It would take rather longer than you and I have to pass on the accumulated lore of the last thousand years.’’ She stood. ‘‘I think, for me, the party’s over. It’s time I went home.’’

He shoved his chair back and stood, too, reaching across the table to grab her wrist—as if he had to anchor her to keep her from vanishing as suddenly as the snuffed candle flame. ‘‘A thousand years?’’

When she lifted her eyebrows that way, she reminded him of his grandmother, who was capable of depressing pretension at twenty paces with just such an expression. ‘‘Roughly that. Twenty-seven generations, to be precise, traced through the female line. I could recite my begats for you.’’

‘‘Twenty-seven generations’ worth?’’

‘‘I had to memorize them as a child. Look, Drew, this evening hasn’t gone as either of us intended. I think it’s best I saw myself home.’’

‘‘That isn’t happening.’’ He moved around the table, transferring his grip from her wrist to her hand. ‘‘Does your aunt believe all this, too?’’

‘‘Of course. She taught me a good deal of the lore.’’ Rose didn’t protest his hold on her hand as they left the bistro. She ignored it.

The mist had deepened, thick enough now to dampen his face when he stepped outside. Overhead, the sky was lost in the drizzling darkness; on the street, lights from shops, cafés, the piazza and lampposts were draped in gauzy drifts. It was still early, barely ten o’clock, and the weather didn’t seem to have discouraged anyone. The sidewalk held plenty of others with their own goals for the night.

Drew wondered at himself. Why did he keep seizing her hand? It would have been reassuring to put the urge down to desire, but it wasn’t a woman’s hand he usually wanted to hold. ‘‘Does your aunt have one of these Gifts?’’

‘‘Yes, though hers isn’t strong. She’s Earth-Gifted—a healer, among other things.’’

‘‘What other things?’’

‘‘Oh, children and puppies adore her, plants grow for her and she loves to cook. She can take a headache away, ease a fever or speed the healing of cuts, breaks, burns, scrapes or scratches. She also acts as my…but that wouldn’t be of interest to a confirmed skeptic like you.’’

The way she cut off whatever she’d been about to say left Drew a bread-crumb trail he intended to follow. When they reached the street corner, though, where an awning kept the mist out, he stopped. ‘‘The car’s about four blocks away. Why don’t you wait here while I get it?’’ She’d be safe. He’d glimpsed Roberts in the crowd, hanging back in an effort to be unobtrusive. He’d tell the man to stay with her.

‘‘But there’s no need for that!’’ Rose tipped her face up into the dampness, letting it dew her cheeks. ‘‘This feels good.’’

‘‘Your affinity for fire doesn’t make you dislike getting wet, then.’’

‘‘It doesn’t work that way. I enjoy the ocean.’’ She started walking again, so he kept pace with her.

The street beside them was busy with buses, bicycles, cars and taxicabs, but traffic in Montebello was leisurely compared to the frenzied battle of Italian streets. For the most part the people, too, ambled along with a lack of haste typical of this city, an easy flow of workers in wrinkled cotton, young men in neatly pressed shirts with their arms around women in bright dresses, teens of both sexes in jeans and Reeboks, old men in stiff shoes and black pants, and old women with shawls and full skirts. Here and there he saw a uniform—police or army. Most of the faces held the sun-kissed duskiness of the Mediterranean peoples, though a few were tourist-pale or African-dark. He didn’t see a single umbrella.

‘‘So you like the water?’’ he asked after a moment.

‘‘My family’s lore says that a Fire-Gifted who fears or dislikes water is out of balance. It’s rather like the Chinese system of feng shui, in which the elements have a constructive and a destructive or balancing cycle. Fire without water to cool it becomes purely destructive.’’

‘‘I’ve heard of feng shui,’’ he said neutrally. He wasn’t interested in it, any more than he was in fortune-telling or numerology. But people told him things. ‘‘The astrological signs are divided along similar lines, too, aren’t they? And, ah, what’s it called—the witchcraft religion. It refers to earth, air, fire and water, too, doesn’t it?’’

‘‘Wicca, you mean? There are similarities in most of the mystical or magical systems, probably for the same reason religions all over the world value the same qualities—like love, kindness, courage, loyalty, honesty. Some things are universal. As for astrology… Drew, you don’t believe that nonsense, do you?’’

He delivered his line with appropriate shock. ‘‘You mean you don’t?’’

‘‘I don’t mean to criticize anyone who does believe in it, but it seems silly. Though I suppose a half-awake seer might be able to use horoscopes to tap into her abilities,’’ she conceded. ‘‘It can’t be worse than using a crystal ball.’’

‘‘You don’t believe in astrology or use a crystal ball. My illusions are shattered.’’

‘‘You’re teasing me,’’ she said resignedly.

‘‘So why don’t you use a crystal ball?’’

‘‘Real crystal can be useful, but those glass globes people call crystal balls aren’t of much use, except as a neutral focus. Glass is a psychic insulator. Drew, do you really want to hear all this? I feel as if I’m delivering a lecture in Psychic Studies 101.’’

‘‘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.’’

The muscles along his shoulders tensed. ‘‘You said you needed time to think, not that you were refusing to see me again.’’

‘‘Drew.’’ She shook her head slightly. ‘‘I’m confused, yes, for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I had a psychic moment.’’

He smiled, relieved. If that was her main objection, he could find a way to reassure her. ‘‘Is that what happened?’’

‘‘Can you honestly say you’re still interested in me? A woman who thinks she has visions?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. I want to see a great deal more of you. And I mean that in every way, including the one that worries you.’’

Her expression was calm, but her fretful fingers told another story as they slid the pendant back and forth on its chain. ‘‘That’s honest, at least. I’m not sure it’s flattering, since you think I’m nuts.’’

‘‘I think you’re brave and smart and lovely. Will you go to the ocean with me as soon as you can take some time off?’’

‘‘I…no, I don’t think so.’’

‘‘You pick the place, then.’’

She grimaced. ‘‘Pushing me to make a decision won’t get you the answer you’re looking for.’’

He wanted to push her, to make her agree, but some sliver of conscience or common sense held him back. ‘‘Just a minute,’’ he said, and got a business card from his wallet. He scribbled a number on the back of it and handed it to her. ‘‘That’s my cell-phone number, so you won’t have to go through the palace switchboard. Call me. Day or night, whenever you decide, call.’’

She turned the card over, studying it as if it held a mystery more significant than a private number. ‘‘All right.’’

When she got out, he didn’t stop her. He watched as she climbed the stairs, forcing himself to sit in the car instead of seeing her to her door. The drizzle had stopped, leaving the air clear, the shadows stark. A car moved slowly around him.

No doubt he was blocking traffic. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He watched as she opened the door, watched as it closed behind her. And still he sat there like a fool with nowhere to go, feeling as alone as he ever had in his life.