Eileen Wilks - Romancing The Crown - Drew and Samira

‘‘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.’’