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“You’ll find the blackmailer.” Certainty rang in his voice. “And when you do, I will spit in his face.”
Chapter 25
“Why do you have to be a royal duke?” Quinn asked, glaring at Gabriel across the remains of their Sunday breakfast frittata. His hair was still rumpled from sleep, and the muscles of his bare chest flexed under his olive skin. She wanted to forget the stupid dinner with his family and spend the whole day in bed with him.
“Because you wouldn’t have met me if I weren’t.” Gabriel sighed. “Even if I gave up my title, my family would still be my family.”
“I know.” She set her mug down and reached across the table to take his hand. “I’m just terrified.”
He lifted her hand to kiss it. “You track down far more frightening people in your job.”
“I understand criminals.” All too well. “I’m out of my depth with royalty.” That was why she knew their relationship would eventually end. But she wouldn’t think about it today.
“When you’re nervous about giving a speech, don’t they tell you to imagine the audience in their underwear? Just do the same with my family.”
“Are you kidding? I’m sure they wear gorgeous silk lingerie, and they’re all in better shape than I am, so that would be more intimidating.”
Gabriel laughed. “Okay, here’s the drill. You’ll be picked up in a plain sedan twenty minutes before you’re due at the palace. Once you’re through the gates, you’ll be driven to a private courtyard, where I will meet you. As you know, Mikel felt it would be better if we didn’t arrive together, just in case there are any overeager paparazzi hanging around with drones. Then I’ll take you in through the family entrance.”
“This isn’t dinner. This is a military campaign.” Quinn groaned. “Okay, what the heck do you talk about at dinner?”
“Sunday is family night, so we don’t discuss business, only personal topics. It’s my uncle’s—and Raul’s—night off.”
“So no Calevan politics and nothing about the case. What else is off-limits?” She would still manage to put her foot in her mouth at some point.
“Nothing specific that I can think of. What does your family talk about at dinner?” Gabriel propped his chin on his free hand.
What had she and her father talked about over meals? Brendan had entertained her with stories of people he’d met, many of whom he’d scammed, of course. He had the con man’s gift of gab, so he’d kept her rapt and often laughing. He’d always asked about her day, what she did in school, how she was settling in since they moved so often, what the other kids were like. He’d paid attention, too, remembering names and incidents.
“We talked about the usual stuff. Dad asked about school and told me about the people he met in his work.” Of course, many of them had been his marks. “He was funny. Sometimes Uncle Pete joined us. When the two of them got going after a glass or two of whiskey, I practically had to bandage my ribs, they made me laugh so hard.”
Interest lit Gabriel’s eyes. “Uncle Pete?”
“A close family friend, not really my uncle.” She had to shut down this conversation before she slipped up in her lies.
The dark green sedan turned in through the iron gates of Castillo Draconago.
Quinn gave the collar of her rose silk blouse one last tug before she dropped her hand and rubbed her palm over the light gray wool of her trousers. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” she muttered when the car halted in the middle of the walled courtyard.
A sigh of relief whispered from her throat when Gabriel strode around the corner. Normally, he would have worn his standard attire of jeans and T-shirt, because this was a “family dinner,” but she’d told him there was no way she would wear jeans to dine with the king. Without saying a word, he had calibrated his outfit to hers, wearing charcoal-gray trousers and a dark blue Egyptian cotton shirt.
Her car door swung open, and Gabriel held out his hand as she swung her legs around to set her high-heeled black pumps on the ancient paving stones.
Just as she stood, a silver Maserati swept up behind the sedan, and Gabriel’s mother emerged.
It was showtime.
The waft of Hélène’s subtle perfume as she bent to touch cheeks with Quinn was a surprising pleasure.
“So lovely to see you again,” the duchess said with a warm look as she tucked Quinn’s hand in the crook of her arm and led her away from the cars.
“And you, Doña Hélène,” Quinn lied.
Quinn had consulted with Mikel about how to address Gabriel’s family. She figured her boss was a commoner like Quinn, which would give him a better handle on the gradations of respect than an insider like Gabriel would have. Mikel had suggested first names for anyone of Quinn’s generation, Doña and Don for the older generation, and Su Majestad or Señor for the king. Quinn could not imagine calling him anything else. It still gave her a little shock when Gabriel referred to him as Tío Luis.
Hélène led them into a foyer furnished with a glorious Oriental rug and six suits of armor lining the walls. All of them held weapons—swords, battle-axes, and pikes.
Gabriel must have noticed Quinn’s startled scan of the room. “Tío Luis’s little joke. He calls them his armored guards.”
