Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira. Eileen Wilks

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.’’

      ‘‘You’re smearing the blood around. Here.’’ Lorenzo handed him a folded handkerchief. ‘‘He did give you permission to leave, I understand.’’

      ‘‘Of course.’’ Drew’s lip curled. ‘‘Toads don’t like to offend the queen’s nephew.’’

      ‘‘You put him in a difficult position when you refused to leave until he released the other passengers.’’

      ‘‘That was the idea.’’ Smoke drifted over from the area that had been hit by fire, irritating Drew’s raw throat. He cleared it. ‘‘The captain isn’t one of your men, but this is your investigation.’’ Lorenzo was head of the Royal Montebellan Intelligence team. ‘‘You could release the passengers.’’

      ‘‘I will, just as soon as we’re sure none of them is aware of anyone still missing.’’

      Drew glanced at the pile of debris and wondered if some poor soul’s body was trapped beneath it. ‘‘But Mylonas isn’t questioning them about who might be missing. He’s hunting for his blasted terrorist among the victims. He’d like to show you up.’’

      ‘‘The captain was confused about his priorities. I clarified them for him.’’

      Ah. Drew nodded, satisfied.

      ‘‘Aunt Gwendolyn’s worried about you.’’

      His eyebrows lifted. ‘‘She knows I’m all right. I—’’ Annoyingly, a cough chose that moment to rattle its way loose.

      ‘‘Refused medical assistance, from what I hear.’’

      Drew mastered the coughing fit and straightened. ‘‘Medical assistance—for a small cut and a sore throat? Don’t be ridiculous.’’

      ‘‘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