Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector

‘‘I had a big breakfast. Do you by any chance remember how much you paid for this ring?’’

‘‘I’m sure I wrote it down. I know you like everything to be accounted for…the receipt book?’’ Her forehead, smoother than a woman her age had any right to have, puckered now as she considered the matter. ‘‘Yes, that’s it. I asked her to give me a receipt for the money, and she did. She signed it and—’’ Gemma finished with triumph ‘‘—I had her put her address below her signature.’’

‘‘That will help—if it’s her real name and address.’’

That brought a moment’s silence. ‘‘I suppose I should have asked to see identification. A passport or something.’’

‘‘It might have been a good idea.’’ Rose stood and stretched, unkinking stiff muscles. How long had she been bent over her newest design? A glance at the clock informed her that Gemma was right. She had forgotten lunch. ‘‘Just think how happy it would make Captain Mylonas if we bought stolen goods and he found out.’’

‘‘Bah. He’s a worm.’’

‘‘A worm with a badge.’’ Gemma had been right about something else, too. She had a headache. Nothing vicious, more like a tired child whining for attention. Rose reached up to loosen her hair and rub her temples. ‘‘I’ll need to give the police a description of the ring so they can check their list of stolen property, just in case. Is it in the stockroom?’’

‘‘I put it with the receipt book, I think. In the cash drawer.’’

‘‘The cash drawer? No, don’t tell me. I’m sure it made perfect sense at the time.’’ She untied her apron as she walked briskly to the door. ‘‘What does the ring look like?’’

‘‘Not terribly old, but unusual. A ruby and a pearl set in a thick band. I’m sure you’ll like it. After all, the pattern is the same as the one you’re making now, so that proves it, doesn’t it?’’

Her apron went on a hook on the back of the door. Her hands went to her hair, finger-combing it quickly. Fruit, she thought. Or maybe some nuts. A little food would cure the ache in her head. She pushed open the door to the shop.

Her spirits lifted. The shining counters, the shelves and display cases full of the beautiful, the fanciful, the unique—this was hers. Her aunt helped, certainly. So had the bank. But persuading a banker to take a chance on a young, unmarried woman—one who lacked the convenience of a father —had been as much of an accomplishment as finding the stock, teaching herself bookkeeping and building a clientele and a reputation.

A different reputation, that is. The one she’d been born with had its drawbacks.

She turned the key in the cash drawer. First the receipt book… The figure she saw entered in Gemma’s rounded handwriting made her mutter something in German. Rose considered German the best language for cursing, partly because of all those clacking consonants. Partly, too, because her aunt didn’t understand it.

‘‘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.