Carla Cassidy - Romancing The Crown - Drew and Samira - Her Lord Protector

No headache, not yet. But it would come. The sliding disorientation, the loss of reality—there was no mistaking that. It had hit while he was kissing her, dear God, while she was in his arms….

But the rest of it hadn’t hit. His steps slowed, stopped. For the first time the spell, once begun, hadn’t taken its terrible course. He was in control, body and mind. In control, and standing in a dark, dead-end alley beside a garbage can. Somewhere behind him, the band swung into a cheerful rendition of ‘‘Tequila.’’

The world hadn’t left him.

Neither, he realized as footsteps approached and stopped, had she.

‘‘Drew?’’

What the hell did he say? Excuse me, didn’t mean to run off, but I just remembered I left the water running somewhere?

God. He ran a hand over his head, front to back, ending with his fingers squeezing the base of his skull as if he could press out an answer.

His head didn’t hurt. The terrible exhaustion wasn’t hovering, waiting to drag him down. He was pathetically grateful to be spared that, along with the rest of it, even if he had no idea why he’d been spared. But he couldn’t try to figure it out now. Now, he thought, bitterly aware of the irony, he had to persuade Rose he wasn’t crazy.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said without turning. ‘‘I don’t have a good explanation.’’

‘‘You don’t have to explain. I’ve never… It scared me, too.’’

Relief poured in. She thought he’d been frightened by—what? Passion? Excessive emotion? It didn’t… No, he realized, shamed. It did matter. If she’d been frightened by what she felt when they kissed, he couldn’t let her go on thinking he felt…whatever she thought he felt. ‘‘Rose,’’ he said, turning, unsure how to make himself clear without hurting her.

She stood three feet away. Worry or strain wrinkled her forehead. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me you’re an empath?’’

He stared. She was as crazy as he was.

‘‘Oh. Oh, Lord.’’ The hand that pushed her hair back was shaky, but her mouth shaped a rueful smile. ‘‘You haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m talking about, do you? I don’t suppose you believe in all that psychic crap.’’

Carefully he said, ‘‘I try to keep an open mind.’’

For some reason that set her off. She laughed so hard it doubled her over. He was about to grab her, thinking she was hysterical, when she straightened, gasping. ‘‘An open mind. Yes, I’m sure you think so.’’ One last chuckle escaped, then, when he reached for her, she stepped back. ‘‘Hands off, I think, for now. Things have changed.’’

He took a deep breath. Still no headache. Otherwise, things were pretty much all mucked up. ‘‘All right. If that’s how you want it.’’

‘‘If I knew what…’’ She sighed. ‘‘Never mind. I’m sure you think I’m a nutcase. Maybe it’s time we talked about it—about my claim to be psychic, I mean.’’

He wouldn’t have a better opening. ‘‘Maybe we should. But not here. Let’s go back to the party.’’ Where they’d be surrounded by plenty of nosy people.

His head might not hurt, but he damned sure ached elsewhere. He would need all the help he could get to follow her blasted hands-off policy.

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.