Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector

‘‘Causes worse things than wrinkles.’’ Not that there was much worse than wrinkles in Ursula’s world. Maybe cellulite. She flicked the lighter and held the flame to the tip of her cigarette, inhaling deeply. ‘‘All right. I’ll do it.’’

‘‘Oh, I knew I could count on you!’’ Ursula was all but quivering with excitement. ‘‘I’ll get Jessie out to the ranch, but then I’ll have to leave. I’ll have to go to Montebello to set things up.’’

‘‘Fine. I’ll need some money up front.’’

‘‘You don’t trust me?’’

Not for a minute. ‘‘I won’t be able to work for a while, will I? I’ll have to lie low with the baby until you call me.’’ With the baby. That sounded good.

It sounded wonderful.

Ursula leaned back in her chair. ‘‘You know how strapped for cash I am right now. I wouldn’t be in this stupid town if I weren’t so broke.’’

‘‘Broke. Huh! You don’t know the meaning of the word. Sell some of the jewelry your back-stabbing ex-manager gave you. If there’s as much money in this deal as you say, you can buy more and better.’’

‘‘I already sold the diamonds Derek gave me.’’ Her mouth drooped. ‘‘I hated that, but the ticket to Montebello will be expensive.’’

‘‘Those diamonds were worth a lot more than the price of a plane ticket. And if you need more…’’ She grabbed Ursula’s hand and held it up. ‘‘This ring you’ve been flashing around has to be worth—Hey, isn’t this your sister’s ring? The one you’re always bitching about because your grandma left it to her, instead of you?’’

‘‘Oh, you noticed.’’ Ursula’s giggle was light and girlish. She wiggled her fingers. The ring was unusual, possibly unique, with a ruby and a pearl nestled together in an ornate golden bed. ‘‘I don’t think my dear sister Jessie will miss it, do you? Not where she’s going.’’

Chapter 1

Flames. Orange-hot, sucking the air from her chest, shouting smoke at the sky. Flames, drawing her skin hot and tight over the rapture within, the coiled secret at the bottom of her soul. Flames, calling her.

She fought. Wordlessly she fought, for she was deeply asleep, dwelling in a part of herself sundered from language and reason. But even here she knew the danger. And the draw. Unwilling, afraid, she resisted—yet when fire called, she answered, pulled from safety and darkness into a scene from hell.

Fire crackled merrily over the bones of its prey, a tumbled wreck she saw as dark angles and masses. There were people, too—she saw them as movement, their outlines blurred by possibilities. And there were bodies. They were dark and still and horribly clear.

She shuddered. Along with horror came the stirring of thought, still wordless but gathering focus. What she saw hadn’t happened yet. When fire skipped her willy-nilly across time’s boundaries, the living always appeared only as blurred, mobiles shapes, each person a small tornado of decisions awhirl with possible fates.

The dead carried no such freight. They lay quiet and dark, their final shapes fixed.

So there was time still. Not much, not when the vision was this clear, the pull of the fire this strong. But it hadn’t happened yet, so there was a chance that it wouldn’t. She had to think, had to remember what was needed in that other world, the waking world where reality was an orderly march of place and time, cause and effect.

Place and time…where was she? What was the fire eating?

She struggled, fighting the draw of the fire, the great, terrible beauty that called her to dance—fighting the part of her that quivered and yearned and wept with need for the flames. The need to call the fire to her. This time she won the battle, pulling more of reason and the other world into the vision.

She was standing in a smoke-black oven. Air stank in her nostrils and burned her lungs, a poison bath brewed of burning plastic and other man-made materials. People were screaming, crying, though she couldn’t see them. A siren wailed in the distance, drawing nearer. And in front of her, the fire. She felt it, heard it, though she could see nothing.

She turned away. There would be no answers nearer the fire, and much danger. When she moved, the fire dragged at her, so that she moved slowly, feeling as if the air itself was reluctant to let her pass. Her movement wasn’t quite like walking. Though she saw the floor, she didn’t feel it beneath her feet.

The floor. Yes, she could see it now—the smoke wasn’t as thick. A tile floor, vaguely institutional.

Think, she commanded herself. A store? Or, dear God, a hospital?

A shape loomed up out of the darkness, gasping—a person, blurred by smoke and possibilities. He or she stumbled past, going the wrong way. Toward the fire. Instinctively she reached out, trying to grab the other. Her hand passed through a barely seen shoulder. A shock of feeling shuddered through her—his feelings. Terror, shrill and desperate. Pain. The sobbing need for air.

Then he was gone. Gone, heading for death, and she had no way of stopping him.

It hasn’t happened yet, she reminded herself, and pushed on.

Light ahead. Not the red glow of fire, but a thinning of smoke that allowed something like normal vision. A long, low shape with other shapes on it…she moved closer. Suitcases! Suitcases on a conveyor belt—baggage claim.

The airport. Dear God. Where had the fire started? Swiftly she aligned her knowledge of the airport’s layout with the other sense, the one that knew where the fire was—but in turning her attention to the fire, she opened to it again.

Flames, orange-glow-heat-life, loving, eating, devouring, freeing—flames dancing there, dancing here, inside her—Shaken, she pulled back, but the call was so strong. Like a lover, fire entranced, compelled—come, come dance, taste my richness, join. Join. A rhythmic compulsion, heat of blood and beat of heart matching the wild cadence of flames, drawing her closer, drawing—

Terrified, she yanked her attention away from the fire. And stood once more in swirling smoke, lungs straining, desperate for air, desperately tired. And bereft.

She was no longer near the baggage claim. She didn’t know where she was, but it was hot, so hot she thought her skin might split. She had to leave, had to summon the will to wake herself…

Coolness. In this hot, breathless place she felt cool air waft over her, and the novelty distracted her. She turned. A shape moved toward her out of the smoke. A human shape. Startled but not frightened, she watched the blurred form come closer. A man, she thought, recognizing something in the movement or the shape, something that was wholly male.

He stopped in front of her, almost as if he could see her. And reached out a hand. And she saw it. Saw it clearly—a man’s hand, large, with a broad palm and long fingers. Pale, northern skin, kissed to a light tan by the sun, nails short and well tended. There was a small white scar on the little finger just below the second knuckle.

Tendons stretched along the back of that shockingly visible hand as it reached for her. Fingers closed, cool and living, around the hot flesh of her upper arm.

Her eyes flew open on darkness. Cool night air moved over skin still hot and tight. Her chest heaved as she sucked in air. Intimate muscles clenched around a throbbing pulse. And her heart was pounding, pounding.

Her hand shook as she reached for the phone beside her bed.

Heat rolled off the tarmac in waves. Much of it, though, was the trapped heat of the sun, released now into a soft June night, rather than the heat of fire. Emergency lights had been rigged to help the eighteen men who labored under the direction of a construction engineer, working to dig out the rubble at the west end of the Montebello International Airport. The fire hadn’t reached far—firefighters, mobilized and ready, had put the blaze out quickly. But the blast itself had brought down part of the second floor.

No one knew for sure if there had been anyone left in that section when the bomb went off.

Sweat trickled down Drew’s forehead, making the cut on his temple sting. His shirt clung to him, damp and clammy. His shoulder muscles strained as he heaved yet another ragged chunk of concrete off the pile of debris that was all that remained of Gate 22.

A little over an hour ago, he’d been one of the passengers who had deplaned at this gate.

‘‘Watch where you’re throwing your toys. I’d hate to have to arrest you for assault.’’

‘‘Lorenzo.’’ Drew straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead as he turned. ‘‘I rather thought you’d show up. I didn’t muss your pretty shoes, did I?’’

‘‘I’m nowhere near as mussed as you are,’’ his cousin retorted. Lorenzo was one year younger than Drew, one inch taller and twenty pounds lighter. He had a tricky right, a fondness for good wine, secrets and handmade Italian shoes. He also had a new wife.

Lorenzo shook his head. ‘‘You look like hell.’’

‘‘Explosions will do that to a man.’’

‘‘Especially if he insists on playing hero.’’

Drew turned and snagged his jacket from the ground. He was far from being any sort of hero. ‘‘I’m glad you’re here. There’s a little wart of a police captain scurrying around, acting official. Please have him flogged.’’

‘‘Captain Mylonas.’’ A smile played over Lorenzo’s thin, clever mouth. ‘‘He’s not happy with you.’’

‘‘I’m not too bloody happy with him. He’s detaining fifty people who have already been through hell. He wants to question them. Some of them have small children.’’ He wiped his forehead again. The cut was smarting. ‘‘The man’s a toad.’’