Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira. Eileen Wilks

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      ‘‘The cut’s still bleeding. And you swallowed a fair amount of smoke when you went back in to drag that old man out after the blast.’’

      ‘‘I’ve always disliked your habit of knowing everything.’’

      Lorenzo chuckled. ‘‘But it pays off, in my line of work. Now, if you’re finished flexing your muscles, I’m under orders to tuck you into a limo and send you to the palace. The king’s orders,’’ he added. ‘‘Uncle Marcus doesn’t want Aunt Gwen worrying. I think they can find another unskilled laborer to take over for you.’’

      Since he’d gotten what he wanted—the other passengers would be allowed to leave, too—Drew didn’t object. ‘‘Give me a moment to let the crew boss know I’m leaving.’’

      When he returned, he and his cousin fell into step together. They skirted the firefighters still watching the smoldering wreckage of the gate and entered the main terminal through a service door on the ground floor. The interior was eerie, with the west end of the concourse tinted the smoldering red of emergency lighting and the east end normally lit. The hot air stank of smoke.

      Uniformed men were stationed at every entrance, most of them in the colorful blue-and-gold uniforms of the capital’s police force, some in the crisp khakis of the army. The uninjured civilians had been herded to the far eastern end of the terminal, where more police officers were stationed. Most of them were quiet, although a few voices drifted down the empty concourse. A child was crying.

      Drew didn’t see as many children as there had been earlier. Good. A few of the families must have been released. ‘‘I did make sure word was sent to the palace that I wasn’t hurt. It’s not like Aunt Gwen to fret without cause.’’

      ‘‘The past year has been rough on her.’’

      So it had. Several months ago his aunt’s oldest son, Lucas Sebastiani, prince and heir to the throne of Montebello, had disappeared when his plane went down over the Colorado Rockies in the United States. Searchers had turned up no sign of him, and eventually the royal family had been forced to accept that he was dead. There had been little Drew had been able to do to help, either with the search or with the family’s grief. Still, he’d come here often in the past months. He might not have known what to do for them, but he could at least be here.

      Of course, he hadn’t been the only one to offer the support of his company. Lorenzo’s half brother, Desmond Caruso, had practically haunted the palace. Drew had never been able to tolerate much of Desmond’s company or understand why others didn’t pick up on the stink of jealousy and ambition Desmond gave off.

      Last month, Lucas had found his way out of the darkness of trauma-induced amnesia and returned home. ‘‘How is Lucas?’’ Drew asked quietly. ‘‘I’ve spoken to him on the phone. He insists he’s all right, but…’’ Drew shrugged, unable to put his worries into words.

      ‘‘I don’t know. He’s quieter. Broody.’’

      Drew chewed on that a moment. God knew Lucas had been through enough to justify a little brooding, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that more had happened during Lucas’s missing months than his family knew. Or maybe his past was making him paint the other man with his own troubled colors. ‘‘The king is proceeding with his plans for the ceremony, I understand.’’

      ‘‘Yes. The country needs to see Lucas officially installed as heir.’’

      ‘‘Do you think the bombing is connected to the uncertainty about the succession? Tamir—’’

      ‘‘Good Lord, Drew, the last thing we need is to sling a fresh batch of accusations at Tamir! We barely made it through the last few months without a war.’’

      ‘‘Yes,’’ Drew said shortly. ‘‘I know.’’

      ‘‘Sorry.’’ He rubbed a hand over his head. ‘‘It’s been…difficult.’’

      ‘‘I was about to say that Tamir, however unwittingly, did play host to a number of those Brothers of Darkness fellows. Nasty bunch. They aren’t what they once were, thank God, with their leaders either dead or in prison, but there must still be some isolated cells operating. I heard they’re taking credit for today’s fireworks.’’

      ‘‘And just where did you hear that? We don’t know who called in the—yes?’’ Lorenzo’s attention swerved to the uniformed officer who approached.

      ‘‘Pardon me, Your Grace.’’ The young policeman looked nervous and excited. ‘‘Captain Mylonas would like to see you. He’s detained a suspect.’’

      Drew’s eyebrows rose. Either Mylonas had gotten very lucky, or he was hassling some poor Tamiri visitor who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. After Drew’s encounter with the captain, he was betting on the second possibility.

      ‘‘Where?’’ Lorenzo said tersely.

      ‘‘In the security office off the atrium.’’

      Lorenzo started moving. ‘‘Your limo’s out front, Drew.’’

      ‘‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go with you. If there’s anything to this, His Highness will want to know. I can brief him when I reach the palace.’’

      Lorenzo acknowledged the sense of that with a nod.

      Montebello’s airport was no Heathrow, but it was a fair stretch of the legs to reach the security offices, located slightly west of the center but not in the bombed section. Drew was tired. His head had started to pound and his lungs were issuing warnings of another coughing fit by the time they reached the office where Captain Mylonas had sequestered his suspect.

      Who was not at all what Drew had been expecting. He stopped in the doorway.

      ‘‘Your Grace.’’ The captain practically clicked his heels together when Lorenzo entered. Mylonas was a small man with a small, round paunch. His mustache was so black and precise it looked inked on—a forlorn attempt to add distinction to a bland face. ‘‘I am pleased you could come so promptly.’’

      ‘‘You have a suspect, I understand.’’

      ‘‘He has heatstroke,’’ the suspect muttered. ‘‘Or maybe his mother dropped him on the head as a baby. That would explain it.’’

      Good Lord, Drew thought. Her voice was as perfect as the rest of her.

      Mylonas’s suspect had skin the dusky olive of the Mediterranean. Her face was oval, the features imbued with that fluid sensuality some Italian women possess. Black hair rippled down her back like wind-rumpled water. She was dressed plainly enough in a red T-shirt and khaki shorts, but the T-shirt was tucked in at an absurdly small waist, the shorts revealed legs that made him clench his teeth, and that soft red cotton clung with intimate favor to what might be the finest pair of breasts he’d ever seen.

      Or mostly seen. The T-shirt wasn’t as tight as he might have wished.

      ‘‘Your name?’’ Lorenzo asked crisply.

      ‘‘Rosalinda Cira Giaberti. Call me Rose. And you are?’’

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