Merline Lovelace - Her Unforgettable Royal Lover

He didn’t bother to stop at the front desk. His phone call had confirmed that Ms. Clark had checked into room 1304 two days ago. And a tracking program developed for the military and now in use by a number of intelligence agencies confirmed her cell phone was currently emitting signals from this location.

Two minutes later Dom rapped on her door. The darkening of the peephole told him she was as careful in her personal life as she no doubt was in her work. He smiled his approval, then waited for the door to open.

When neither of those events happened, he rapped again. Still no response.

“It’s Dominic St. Sebastian, Ms. Clark. I know you’re in there. You may as well open the door.”

She complied but wasn’t happy about it. “It’s generally considered polite to call ahead for an appointment instead of just showing up at someone’s hotel room.”

The August humidity had turned her shapeless linen dress into a roadmap of wrinkles, and her sensible pumps had been traded for hotel flip-flops. She’d freed her hair from the clip, though, and it framed her face in surprisingly thick, soft waves as she tipped Dom a cool look through her glasses.

“May I ask why you felt compelled to come all the way downtown to speak with me?”

Dom had been asking himself the same thing. He’d confirmed this woman was who she said she was and verified her credentials. The truth was he probably wouldn’t have given Natalie Clark a second thought if not for those little nose quivers.

He’d told himself the disdain she’d wiped off her face so quickly had triggered his cop’s instinct. Most of the scum he’d dealt with over the years expressed varying degrees of contempt for the police, right up until they were cuffed and led away. His sister, however, would probably insist those small hints of derision had pricked his male ego. It was true that Dom could never resist a challenge. But despite Zia’s frequent assertions to the contrary, he didn’t try to finesse every female who snagged his attention into bed.

Still, he was here and here he intended to remain until he satisfied his curiosity about this particular female. “I’d like more information on this codicil you’ve uncovered, Ms. Clark.”

“I’m sure you would. I’ll be happy to email you the documentation I’ve…”

“I prefer to see what you have now. May I come in, or do we continue our discussion in the hall?”

Her mouth pursing, she stood aside. Her obvious reluctance intrigued Dom. And, all right, stirred his hunting instincts. Too bad he had that meeting at the National Central Bureau—the US branch of Interpol—in Washington tomorrow. It might have been interesting to see what it would take to get those prim, disapproving lips to unpurse and sigh his name.

He skimmed a glance around the room. Two queen beds, one with her open briefcase and neat stacks of files on it. An easy chair angled to get the full benefit of the high-definition flat-screen. A desk with a black ergonomic chair, another stack of files and a seventeen-inch laptop open to a webpage displaying a close-up of an elaborately jeweled egg.

“One of the Fabergé eggs?” he asked, moving closer to admire the sketch of a gem-encrusted egg nested in a two-wheeled gold cart.

“Yes.”

“The Cherub with a Chariot,” Dom read, “a gift from Tsar Alexander III to his wife, Maria Fyodorovna for Easter, 1888. One of eight Fabergé eggs currently lost.”

He glanced at the researcher hovering protectively close to her work, as if to protect it from prying eyes.

“And you’re on the hunt for it?”

“I’m documenting its history.”

Her hand crept toward the laptop’s lid, as if itching to slam it down.

“What have you found so far?”

The lips went tight again, but Dom was too skilled at interrogations to let her off the hook. He merely waited until she gave a grudging nod.

“Documents show it was at Gatchina Palace in 1891, and was one of forty or so eggs sent to the armory at the Kremlin after the 1917 Revolution. Some experts believe it was purchased in the 1930s by Victor and Armand Hammer. But…”

He could see when her fascination with her work overcame her reluctance to discuss it. Excitement snuck into her voice and added a spark to her brown eyes. Her very velvety, very enticing brown eyes, he thought as she tugged off her glasses and twirled them by one stem.

“I found a reference to a similar egg sold at an antiques shop in Paris in 1930. A shop started by a Russian émigré. No one knows how the piece came into his possession, but I’ve found a source I want to check when I’m in Paris next week. It may…”

She caught herself and brought the commentary to an abrupt halt. The twirling ceased. The glasses whipped up, and wariness replaced the excitement in the doe-brown eyes.

“I’m not trying to pump you for information,” Dom assured her. “Interpol has a whole division devoted to lost, stolen or looted cultural treasures, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Since you’re heading over to Paris, I can set up a meeting for you with the division chief, if you like.”

The casual offer seemed to throw her off balance. “I… Uh… I have access to their database but…” Her glance went to the screen, then came back to Dom. “I would appreciate that,” she said stiffly. “Thank you.”

A grin sketched across his face. “There now. That didn’t taste so bad going down, did it?”

Instant alarms went off in Natalie’s head. She could almost hear their raucous clanging as she fought to keep her chin high and her expression politely remote. She would not let a lazy grin and a pair of glinting, bedroom eyes seduce her. Not again. Never again.

“I’ll give you my business card,” she said stiffly. “Your associate can reach me anytime at my mobile number or by email.”

“So cool, so polite.” He didn’t look at the embossed card she retrieved from her briefcase, merely slipped it into the pocket of his slacks. “What is it about me you don’t like?”

How about everything!

“ I don’t know you well enough to dislike you.” She should have left it there. Would have, if he hadn’t been standing so close. “Nor,” she added with a shrug, “do I wish to.”

She recognized her error at once. Men like Dominic St. Sebastian would take that as a challenge. Hiding a grimace, Natalie attempted some quick damage control.

“You said you wanted more information on the codicil. I have a scanned copy on my computer. I’ll pull it up and print out a copy for you.”

She pulled out the desk chair. He was forced to step back so she could sit, but any relief she might have gained from the small separation dissipated when he leaned a hand on the desk and bent to peer over her shoulder. His breath stirred the loose tendrils at her temple, moved lower, washed warm and hot against her ear. She managed to keep from hunching her shoulder but it took an iron effort of will.

“So that’s it,” he said as the scanned image appeared, “the document the duchess thinks makes me a duke?”

“Grand Duke,” Natalie corrected. “Excuse me, I need to check the paper feed in the printer.”

There was nothing wrong with the paper feed. Her little portable printer had been cheerfully spitting out copies before St. Sebastian so rudely interrupted her work. But it was the best excuse she could devise to get him to stop breathing down her neck!

He took the copy and made himself comfortable in the armchair while he tried to decipher the spidery script. Natalie was tempted to let him suffer through the embellished High German, but relented and printed out a translation.

“I stumbled across the codicil while researching the Canaletto that once hung in the castle at Karlenburgh,” she told him. “I’d found an obscure reference to the painting in the Austrian State Archives in Vienna.”