Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira: Her Lord Protector. Carla Cassidy

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      ‘‘Ah…no, I don’t believe they do.’’

      Rose grinned. ‘‘Aunt Gemma has a fondness for American slang, but she doesn’t always get the nuances right. She enjoys American tabloids, too. And Italian tabloids. And—’’

      ‘‘Really, Rose,’’ Gemma interrupted, flustered. ‘‘His lordship can’t possibly be interested in my reading habits.’’

      ‘‘No?’’ Rose’s smile widened as she remembered a picture of Lord Andrew Harrington she’d seen in one of her aunt’s tabloids a few years ago. Quite a memorable photograph —but it hadn’t been Lord Andrew’s face that had made it so. His face hadn’t shown at all, in fact. ‘‘I’m afraid we don’t sell sunscreen. If you’re planning to expose any, ah, untanned portions of your body to the Mediterranean sun, you’d do better to shop at Serminio’s Pharmacy. They have a good selection.’’

      ‘‘Rose!’’ Gemma exclaimed. ‘‘I’m sorry, my lord, she didn’t…that is, she probably did mean…but she shouldn’t have.’’

      The creases deepened. ‘‘I’m often amazed at how many people remember that excessively candid photograph. Perhaps my sister is right. She claims the photographer caught my best side.’’

      His best side being his backside? Rose laughed. ‘‘Maybe I do like you, after all.’’

      The door chime sounded again. Tourists, she saw at a glance—a Greek couple with a small child. She delegated them to her aunt with a quick smile. To her surprise, Gemma frowned and didn’t step forward to welcome their customers.

      Her zia didn’t approve of Lord Andrew Harrington? Or possibly it was Rose’s flirting she didn’t like. Ah, well. She and Gemma had different ideas about what risks were worth taking. She answered her aunt’s silent misgivings with a grin, and reluctantly Gemma moved toward the front of the shop.

      Lord Andrew came up to the counter. ‘‘Perhaps you could show me your shop.’’

      How odd. She couldn’t feel him. She felt something, all right—a delightful fizzing, the champagne pleasure of attraction. But she couldn’t feel him. The counter was only two feet wide, which normally let a customer’s energy brush up against hers. Curious, she tipped her head. ‘‘Maybe I will. But I’ll have to repeat my aunt’s question. Are you looking for something in particular?’’

      ‘‘Nothing that would be for sale. But something special, yes.’’

      Oh, he was good. Rose had to smile. ‘‘We have some very special things for sale, though, all handmade. Necklaces, earrings…’’

      He shook his head chidingly. ‘‘I’m far too conventional a fellow for earrings—except, of course, for pearls. Pearls must always be acceptable, don’t you think?’’

      ‘‘Certainly, on formal occasions,’’ she agreed solemnly. ‘‘I’m afraid we don’t have any pearls, however.’’

      He looked thoughtful. ‘‘I believe I have a sister.’’

      She was enjoying him more and more. ‘‘How pleasant for you.’’

      ‘‘No doubt she will have a birthday at some point. I could buy her a present. In fact, I had better buy her a present. You must help me.’’

      ‘‘Jewelry, or something decorative?’’

      ‘‘Oh…’’ His gaze flickered over her, then lifted so his eyes could smile at her in that way they had that didn’t involve his mouth at all. ‘‘Something decorative, I think.’’

      ‘‘For your sister,’’ she reminded him, and left the safety of the counter. Quite deliberately she let her arm brush his as she walked past, and received an answer to the question she couldn’t ask any other way.

      Nothing. Even this close, he gave away nothing at all.

      Rose’s skin felt freshly scrubbed—tender, alert. Her mind began to fizz like a thoroughly shaken can of soda, but she didn’t let her step falter as she led the way to the other side of the store, away from her aunt and the Greek tourists.

      Here the elegantly swirled colors of Murano glass glowed on shelves beside bowls bright with painted designs. Colors giggled and flowed over lead crystal vases, majolica earthenware, millefiori paperweights, ceramic figures and crackle-finish urns. Here, surrounded by beauty forged in fire, she felt relaxed and easy.

      A purely physical reaction. That was all she felt with this man. That and curiosity, a ready appreciation for a quick mind. She turned to face him and she was smiling. But not like a shopkeeper in pursuit of a sale. ‘‘What is your sister like? Feminine, rowdy, sophisticated, shy?’’

      ‘‘Convinced she could do a better job of running my life than I do.’’ He wasn’t looking at Rose now, but at a shiny black statue by Gilmarie—a nymph, nude, seated on a stone and casting a roguish glance over one bare shoulder. He traced a finger along a ceramic thigh. ‘‘I like this.’’

      The nymph was explicitly sensual. Rose’s eyebrows shot up. ‘‘For your sister?’’

      ‘‘I have a brother, too.’’

      ‘‘No doubt he comes equipped with a birthday, as well.’’

      ‘‘I’m fairly sure of it. I’m not sure I want this for him, though. I like the look on her face. The invitation.’’ His eyes met Rose’s then. There was no hint of a smile now. ‘‘Any man would.’’

      What an odd thing a heart was, pumping along unnoticed most of the time, then suddenly bouncing in great, uneven leaps like a ball tumbling downhill. ‘‘She’s flirting, not inviting.’’

      ‘‘Is there a difference?’’

      ‘‘To a woman, yes. I think of flirting as a performance art. Something to be enjoyed in the moment, like dancing. Men are more likely to think of it as akin to cooking—still an art in the right hands, but carried out with a particular СКАЧАТЬ