Sweat stood in suspended drops on Drew’s forehead as he released the muscles he’d held mercilessly taut in his left calf, then clenched those of his thigh. And began counting again.
Movement helped stave off collapse. Concentration helped, especially when turned to the cool realm of business. But he couldn’t move in the confines of the limo, and his laptop and briefcase had been left behind, with his luggage, at the airport. So he substituted a slow counting while isolating and tightening the muscles of his body. Holding each clenched set of muscles to the point of pain before he released it and moved on to the next.
Pain, too, helped.
At last the elongated luxury of the limo was climbing the cobblestone road to where the palace waited, pale and pristine in the moonlight, at the top of the cliffs capping the northeastern tip of the island. When Drew stepped out of the limo, the night air covered him, freshened by the ocean and the distinctive smell of northern Montebello, where oregano and thyme grew wild. The spicy scent mingled with the headiness of his aunt’s roses.
He wished he could pass through the gardens instead of the palace, take the rocky path down the cliff and walk along the beach, alone with the sea and the night. He wished, in fact, he could go anywhere but through the ornate doors at the top of the stairs. Once inside, he would have to deal with the people he loved. His inadequacies in that area were always painfully obvious. But even if he’d been willing to play the coward, the tide that waited to drag him under made that a foolish choice. Drew didn’t care to delight the paparazzi by passing out on the beach. He’d sold enough copies of their rags for them in his younger, wilder days.
Grimly he started up the steps. There were thirty-two of them.
Rudolpho, of course, waited at the door to admit him. ‘‘If you are not too tired, my lord,’’ the old man said in his excellent English, ‘‘the king wishes to see you before you retire. He and the queen are in their quarters. Shall I send up some refreshments?’’
‘‘Coffee would be welcome, thank you.’’ Drew preferred tea, but an extra jolt of caffeine might help. ‘‘And if you could locate a clean shirt, I’d appreciate it. My luggage is still at the airport and I’d rather not present myself to the king stinking of smoke.’’
‘‘You can have one of my shirts,’’ a voice said from the grand staircase. ‘‘We’re nearly of a size. A clean pair of pants wouldn’t hurt, either, from the look of you. But why is your luggage held up? I trust no one became so carried away by some notion of duty that he refused to release it to you.’’
The unconscious hauteur of that last statement pulled a small smile from Drew as he turned to face his cousin. Lucas was a very approachable prince—but he was still a prince. ‘‘I didn’t want to take the time to dig through the piles to locate my bags tonight. Things are rather a mess still.’’
Lucas’s face hardened. ‘‘No doubt.’’ He glanced at the majordomo. ‘‘I’ll see Lord Andrew upstairs. You may send his coffee to my father’s rooms.’’
Lucas looked much the same, Drew thought as he joined his cousin on the stairs. Thinner, perhaps, but fit. No shadows of illness, no obvious marks from his ordeal showed…yet there was a change. A certain guardedness about the dark blue eyes and around the fine, wide mouth. It reminded Drew of what he saw in the mirror every day.
Something had closed that used to be open. Silently, privately, he mourned the loss.
‘‘You can stop searching my face for signs of imminent collapse,’’ Lucas said dryly.
‘‘Sorry. I didn’t realize I was being obvious.’’
‘‘You’re never that.’’ Lucas started back up the steps.
Drew followed. What did you say to a cousin you’d grieved as dead? How did you tell him what it meant to have him back? Drew counted stairs, hunted for words and came up dry. ‘‘It’s good to see you, Lucas. Good to have you back.’’
Lucas glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment the tightness around his eyes eased. ‘‘I hear you’ve been a frequent visitor in my absence.’’
Drew shrugged. ‘‘For whatever good it did, yes.’’
Lucas didn’t reply. Drew struggled to find a pleasant topic. ‘‘How are your sisters?’’
‘‘Fat and happy. At least they’re all happy and two out of three are on their way to fat, though they aren’t showing yet.’’
‘‘Two?’’ Drew stopped near the stop of the stair. His legs seemed to weigh at least ten stone apiece. ‘‘I knew Anna was expecting. Christina—?’’
‘‘Yes, she’s a finalist in the baby sweepstakes, too, and so delighted we keep having to yank her back down off the ceiling. Her husband, Jack, too. She’s due to reach the finish line a month after Anna.’’ Lucas’s hesitation was brief. ‘‘It’s wonderful news, of course.’’
‘‘Of course.’’ But not, Drew thought as he started walking again, a completely happy subject for Lucas. In the months the prince had been missing, one of his sisters had become engaged and two had married, and Lucas didn’t know any of the men. In some ways, his family had moved on without him. Though he gave a decent impression of his usual upbeat manner, his heart wasn’t in it.
By the time they reached Lucas’s room on the second floor, Drew had had enough. ‘‘For God’s sake,’’ he said as he shut the door behind him, ‘‘would you quit working so hard at being cheerful? It isn’t necessary, you know.’’
Luke swung around to face him. ‘‘I suppose it interferes with your plans to pry the lid off my skull and lap up the contents.’’
‘‘Quite a gruesome turn of phrase you’ve developed.’’ Drew observed, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘‘No doubt your recent trauma has given you a fascination with cracked skulls and addled brains. Didn’t you promise me a clean shirt?’’
Lucas’s mouth twitched. ‘‘Good old Drew. Same chilly bastard you’ve always been. It’s nice to know some things didn’t change while I was gone. I’ll see what I can find.’’ He opened the door that led to his dressing room.
‘‘I suppose the rest of the family has been tiptoeing around you.’’ Drew followed, tossing his filthy shirt into the hamper just inside the dressing room. ‘‘When they aren’t hugging you.’’
‘‘Lord, yes. Everyone’s so blasted careful with me…you won’t bother with that, at least. You’ll just stand around not saying much until I spill my guts.’’ Lucas handed him a pale-blue shirt. ‘‘It’s quite a trick. I’ve often wondered how you do it.’’
‘‘So have I.’’ Drew had never understood what about him prompted confidences. Lord knew he didn’t have any special wisdom to offer, nor any great warmth. Yet people told him things. Private things. Griefs and guilts and choices made or unmade, all the aching questions that can trouble a soul when the night is dark and lonely. This compulsion to confide, to confess, was alien to Drew. He couldn’t imagine willfully violating his own privacy that way. Yet often those who breached their privacy with him seemed to feel better for it afterward, the way one does after a splinter is removed or a bad tooth has been pulled.
And sometimes, afterward, they avoided
