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

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.

Chapter 8

Rose knew her aunt had waited up for her before she reached the top step. Strains of an aria from Carmen drifted out through the walls and door, and the window nearest the door glowed.

Damn. Rose wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about what had happened tonight. Not yet. She jabbed her key in the lock and twisted.

‘‘Couldn’t sleep?’’ she asked dryly as she closed the door behind her.

Gemma was curled up in the big green recliner reading a magazine. Her hair was braided for the night, as usual. The long braid hung over one shoulder of her powder-blue robe. She looked absurdly young. ‘‘I’m thinking of diversifying a little more,’’ she said placidly. ‘‘There’s an interesting article in the Economist about utility bonds.’’

Rose shook her head. Gemma sometimes had trouble with simple addition. She had no problem with esoteric economic principles, however, or investment strategy. Her portfolio wasn’t large, but it was as healthy as her herb garden. ‘‘Well, you can stay up and read if you like,’’ she said lightly. ‘‘I’m for bed.’’

‘‘That’s fine, dear,’’ Gemma said, putting the magazine down and uncoiling her legs. ‘‘I’ll make you some tea. Chamomile, I think. You’ll need a little help sleeping tonight.’’

Rose’s breath huffed out in exasperation. ‘‘How do you do that? I know darned good and well you aren’t reading my mind.’’

Gemma padded up to Rose and patted her cheek softly. ‘‘ Cara mia , I know you. I don’t need telepathy to know when you’re hurting. Maybe valerian would be better than chamomile?’’

Abruptly Rose’s eyes stung. ‘‘Aunt Gemma, he’s an empath. A very strong, completely blocked empath.’’

‘‘Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry.’’ She blinked as her eyes, too, filled. ‘‘That poor boy. But he can’t be completely blocked, can he? I really don’t think he’s homicidal.’’

Her laugh was ragged. ‘‘No. No, Drew isn’t a sociopath. I exaggerated. His shields are thick and strong and utterly involuntary, but there must be some leakage I can’t detect. Maybe another empath could, if we could find a strong Water-Gifted who isn’t nutty.’’

‘‘There’s my cousin Pia…well, no, I suppose not. She’s strong, but…’’

‘‘Nutty,’’ Rose said wryly. ‘‘She’s blocked, too.’’

‘‘Her shields are voluntary,’’ Gemma said chidingly. ‘‘But I suppose she wouldn’t be very helpful. She doesn’t process what she receives well. There’s Cousin Gerald, too, but he only has a thimbleful of the Gift…and Gerald’s daughter is only seven, so I don’t think she…’’ Gemma sighed. ‘‘I’m not sure how much it would help to have another empath try to read Drew, anyway. He isn’t likely to cooperate. Unless he’s had some training?’’ she ended hopefully.

‘‘He’s completely unaware, from what I could tell. He doesn’t believe in psychic nonsense.’’