Romancing the Crown: Nina & Dominic: A Royal Murder. Lyn Stone

because he didn’t want to know. The less he knew about her, the better. But then again, he had to find out as much as he could to determine whether he was right about her being innocent. God, he hoped he hadn’t misjudged. The king would never trust him with another assignment if he screwed this up.

      Ryan shoved the car into Park and got out. By the time he had gone around and reached her door, she was already standing on the narrow cobbled sidewalk.

      “Where are we?” she asked, slamming her door and adjusting her shoulder bag. She raked her hair behind her ears, baring those model’s cheekbones and strong, square chin.

      “This way,” he ordered, taking her arm. He knew he shouldn’t touch her. Hell, just looking at her messed with his mind, and even through her sleeve, he felt the soft sweetness of her. The warmth. It made him remember how she felt without sleeves. Without clothes. This was not good. It was nonprofessional, and it was wrong.

      When she recoiled a little, he held on, knowing it wasn’t wise. Knowing he couldn’t help himself and would use any excuse for continued contact. “The walking’s hazardous in those shoes,” he muttered. Lame reason, but better than none. He tightened his grip and endured—no, enjoyed—the resulting heat that suffused him.

      “Oh,” she said, looking down at the rough paving, then back up at him with a bright little smile. “Thanks.”

      Chapter 6

      He led her two doors down to the hole-in-the-wall pub, identifiable only by a weathered wooden sign about the size of a car tag sticking out of the stones about ten feet up. Pete didn’t believe in advertising much. Word of mouth brought him about as much business as he wanted to handle.

      They entered the dark cavern lit only by candles on the occupied tables and a long fluorescent Bud sign over the bar.

      “Wow, this is some place,” she whispered, taking in all the details of the humble little pub’s interior. Some might call it picturesque with the beer signs, names carved into the walls with pocket knives and tables covered with mismatched tablecloths.

      Pete looked up from his task of wiping down the bar and grinned, showing a missing eyetooth and the wide, wicked scar on his neck. “Hey, Mac! What’s up?”

      “Not a lot, Pete. Bring us the usual and two iced teas, would you?”

      “I’ll have coffee,” Nina piped up.

      “No, trust me, you don’t want to do that,” Ryan advised. “Tea,” he reaffirmed, looking at Pete.

      “Gotcha, Mac,” the man said, then called their order through the door to the kitchen which lay directly behind the bar. “Grab that corner over there,” he told Ryan. “More romantic,” he added, wiggling his bushy gray eyebrows suggestively. “Who’s the babe?”

      Ryan winced, then made the introductions. “Nina Caruso, Pete Jones, a fellow Yank.”

      She smiled and gave a small wave. “Hi, Pete. Nice place.”

      And thereby won Pete’s heart, Ryan thought, unsurprised by it. Reckless as she could be at times, the woman did have class to spare.

      He guided her to the table Pete had indicated and pulled out the chair for her.

      Pete brought over two tall glasses of tea, floating three ice cubes each. On the tray with those sat a long-necked bottle of the off-the-wall brew Pete preferred. He dragged out a chair, sat down with them, pulled a matchbook out of his pocket and lit the candle on the table.

      The candlelight threw a soft glow over Nina’s features. Ryan realized he was staring at her and blinked to break the spell. “A singular honor when the proprietor joins you at table,” he told her.

      She grinned and nodded, racheting his respect for her up another notch and solidly cementing her new relationship with Pete. She didn’t look down that aristocratic nose at the humble surroundings the way he’d thought she might.

      Ryan wasn’t sure he was glad about that. It would have thrown up another obstacle between them, and God knows he needed a few of those after last night.

      Pete shifted his three hundred pounds around on the stout oak comb-backed chair to get comfortable, indicating he meant to stay awhile. So much for “romantic.”

      After another gap-toothed smile of appreciation accompanied by a closer check of Nina’s visible assets, he turned to Ryan. “The sister.”

      Desmond Caruso’s murder was headline news and Montebello a small island. No doubt most everyone knew who she was by now since the article in the paper yesterday.

      “Half sister,” Ryan clarified, reaching for his tea and taking a long swig. Sweet enough to pour on pancakes and only a shade above lukewarm, it tasted almost like home, as close to Savannah fare as he could get here.

      “Too bad, what happened,” Pete said to Nina, who merely nodded in reply.

      Ryan set his tea glass down and began to turn it round and round slowly in the puddle of condensation that was forming. “Any scuttlebutt I need to know about, Pete?”

      There was a massive clearing of throat and a marked hesitation.

      “Nina’s helping me on the case. You can talk.”

      “My girl Jonet says Desmond made a play for Princess Samira Kamal. Succeeded, too. You know about that?”

      “Pete’s stepdaughter Jonet works at the palace,” Ryan explained to Nina, then answered Pete. “Yeah, we know about Princess Samira. Anyone else?”

      Pete cast a wary eye at Nina. He took the time to down half his beer before answering. “He was seeing somebody else on the sly.”

      “Got a name or where she hangs out?” Ryan asked.

      “Nope. Could be somebody just saw him with a pros,” he added with a shrug.

      “A pros?” Nina questioned, then seemed to suddenly realize Pete was using street slang for prostitute. “Oh.” She blushed.

      “Thanks, Pete. You get anything else, you’ll call me?”

      “Natch. If I run across anybody knows who she was, I’ll give you a buzz.” He upended the bottle and chugalugged.

      Pete was upward of sixty and had come here straight from ’Nam back in the seventies. Ryan felt he had a lot in common with Pete despite totally different backgrounds and the generation gap. Both had run from dreaded reminders of the past and settled in a place that bore no resemblance to home.

      Neither had talked about it much, but they’d made enough oblique admissions in the past couple of years to establish they shared a motive for transplanting here.

      Pete was the only American in residence on the island that Ryan called friend. He had also proved to be a valuable source of information, since he had stepchildren and children by Sophia, his Montebellan wife, working in just about every occupation on the island. There were thirteen of them in all, not counting a slew of grandchildren. Quite a network.

      Pete excused himself, bowing slightly to Nina after he got up. “Pie’s on the house,” he declared, making the first offer of free food Ryan had heard in the two years he’d been frequenting the place.

      “You made quite an impression,” Ryan told her. “Free pie.”

      “I like him,” Nina said, watching Pete’s pillowy frame squeeze through the opening to the back of the bar. Then she dropped the smile. “This woman he mentioned that Desmond was seeing. You think she killed Desmond?”

      “Possibly. We’ll need to talk to Jonet and see if she can give us a description or tell us who might.”

      “I still want to see that statuette,” Nina said.

      Ryan smiled. “You want to check the angle of that projection against the wound, right?”

      Her mouth dropped open. Then she recovered, propping her elbow