Eileen Wilks - Romancing The Crown - Drew and Samira

‘‘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.

Chapter 4

Rose wasn’t surprised when her aunt joined her that evening while she was getting ready. ‘‘I had hoped you would take another look at that ring,’’ said Gemma, settling on the edge of the tub.

‘‘I haven’t decided yet.’’ Rose leaned over the sink, shut one eye and stroked color on the closed lid.

‘‘You didn’t pick up any feeling of urgency when you held it?’’

The hopeful note in Gemma’s voice made Rose smile. ‘‘No. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself, wishing danger on some poor woman so you can coerce me into working with my Gift.’’

‘‘I never would! But there must be some reason the ring came to you. You need to find out what that is.’’ She cocked her head like a curious parrot. ‘‘You aren’t wearing that to go out with Lord Andrew, are you?’’

Rose grinned, studied the smoky color on one eyelid and applied herself to making the other match it. She was wearing black, as Drew had suggested—a skinny silk swish of a dress with straps thin as spider silk. ‘‘Don’t you like it?’’

‘‘What there is of it. I hope you know what you’re doing.’’

‘‘Where would be the fun in that?’’ She dropped the eye shadow in the caddy that held her play-pretties and dug through the brushes, boxes, tubes, crayons and pencils. Rose didn’t always bother with makeup, but when in the mood to indulge, she did enjoy her paints.

Red lipstick, she thought, but not siren red. More of a mauve, maybe…then she saw her aunt’s face and paused, creamy color dialed but unapplied. ‘‘Zia? What’s wrong? This isn’t exactly the first time I’ve gone out with a man.’’

‘‘This one is different.’’

Rose couldn’t deny that, since it was his difference that intrigued her. Quickly she smoothed color over her lips. ‘‘I like him.’’

Suddenly vehement, Gemma stood. ‘‘It isn’t him you like, it’s his silence. You thought I hadn’t noticed? My Gift may be small, but I’d have to be spirit-blind not to notice that nothing at all comes from Lord Andrew Harrington. If you were to close your eyes when he kissed you, you wouldn’t know he was there. And that’s why you’re going out with him.’’