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Keira batted her eyelashes. “As always.” A tingle lifted the hair on the back of her neck. She glanced around and saw Brock staring at her from across the expanse of the sun-warmed garden.
The memory of their kiss—of him bending her back and sealing his lips to hers—flitted through her. They hadn’t said two words to each other in five years, but with one kiss, he’d gotten under her skin. This wasn’t good. The guy was too big, too masculine, and way too good of a kisser. She laid a hand on Trent’s arm. She had to get Brock out of her head, out of her senses, and her mind on the job. She leaned close to Trent.
He smelled of something lime scented—not unpleasant, but not exciting either. His shaggy hair brushed her cheek. She asked, “Seen anything good?”
“Nothing exciting.” His blue eyes seemed as innocent as an angel’s, and Keira nodded. So far, all was staying quiet. She smiled. Now if only it would stay that way.
“Keep looking. You never know what’s around the next corner.” Patting his arm, she smiled, and drifted back into the crowd. But she couldn’t lose that awareness of Brock.
He was working the crowd, too, mingling, brushing up against men in robes—and women, too. At least the ones in western dress. That left the women in traditional garb for her.
They clustered together, and she headed over to them, figuring fashion could serve as the universal language. She was right. It seemed like they all wanted to touch her dress and finger the silk chiffon. She took the opportunity to sneak peeks under their robes when they showed off the designer gowns they had on underneath.
She did a count of forty-three women in traditional dress—but when she glanced around again, one of the women had left the party. Keira frowned at that. Had the woman not been feeling well? Did she disapprove of the modern music? Or had she been hiding something underneath her veils?
Keira headed back to Trent. She put a hand on his muscular arm and let her finger trail down the sleeve of his suit as she gave him her best dazzling smile. “Any chance you’ve managed to take pics of all the guests already?”
Trent stepped back, raising his camera to take her pic as she tilted her chin up to pose. “Most. Some of the older guests have indicated that they’re camera shy, and Slade said to make sure we didn’t offend anyone. Now, you on the other hand—” Trent lifted his finger indicating that she should turn for him, and she did, twisting to look over her shoulder at the camera. “The camera loves you, Ms. Clausen.”
Keira looked around for Brock, but he appeared to be deep in discussion with a couple of older men in traditional dress, and she didn’t want to disturb him. She wanted to see if that woman in the head-to-toe hijab who’d disappeared was still somewhere inside, but she’d yet to explore the palace.
Feigning a covered yawn, she gave Trent an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. It seems that my jet lag has started to hit.” Her next yawn was real, and she tried to get it under control. “Maybe I need to find my room and try to catch a thirty-minute nap.”
Trent looked over his shoulder toward Brock, who was still in the middle of a conversation. Reaching for his camera bag he said, “Well, as it happens, I need another battery. I can show you where you’ll be sleeping and grab a fresh battery.” He looked at Travis. “That okay with you?”
Travis shrugged. “Your funeral, bro.” He glanced at Trent and then gave a long, meaningful look at Brock. “Don’t be too long; you’re needed out here.”
Trent gave his brother a thumbs-up and a grin that made him look about seventeen. He took Keira by the elbow to escort her into the palace.
Behind them, Keira heard Travis’ voice rise, and she guessed that Brock saw her leave and had come over to ask why. Pretend dating or real, they didn’t need to be attached at the hip, and Keira knew they would cover more ground this way.
In a perfect world, she’d find that mysterious woman and there would be a simple explanation for her behavior. In a perfect world, Erin never would have been grabbed to begin with, and everyone could love who they want without risk of some sort of retribution.
This wasn’t a perfect world.
6
Holding her by the elbow, Trent led her back inside the palace. The place was huge, she’d decided. It had two wings off the main building and three floors. She’d seen more marble in the last half hour than in the whole rest of her life. Most of the rooms had French doors that opened onto a stone terrace overlooking the gardens.
She figured the entire area had to be fenced, and she’d glimpsed guards on the perimeter. This room was like all of the others she’d seen so far—big, high ceilings, colorful drapery, beautiful art, and furniture that invited you to sit and stay a spell.
Trent steered her behind a half wall. He pushed on a wall panel and a door opened. She leaned in and looked up a narrow stairway.
“I’ll show you where you’ll be staying. That should slow Brock down long enough for you to tell me what the hell is going on between you two,” Trent said.
Keira looked at him and widened her eyes. “What makes you think there’s anything going on?”
Rolling his eyes, Trent let out a breath. He started up the stairs. “I’ve known Brock a long time, as in, really long. I’ve never seen him go into that kind of protective mode with anyone except a client. Why is that?”
Keira followed him and ignored the question. She didn’t have an answer. She also didn’t want to think about it. Brock’s attitude toward her was his problem. He was probably just being a typical guy, wanting to run the show just because he thought he knew better. The real problem was that he’d been doing this a lot longer than she had—he probably did know better. But Slade had put her in charge, and she had no intention of disappointing him.
She stepped through the doorway at the top of the staircase and looked around. She’d never seen anything that captured her senses as much as this place. She stood in a wide corridor now. Vibrant colors dusted the walls and tropical-looking plants graced tall vases on low tables.
Slanting sunlight caught dust motes in the air, leaving the world soft and golden. Patterned tiles outlined the hard surface of the floors, and the light fixtures—dazzling in the sunset—looked to be gold or brass. Carved, dark furniture—a chair and settee—held splashes of textured pillows and brightly colored coverings. She ran a hand over a pillow—silk and soft.
“I could get used to living here.”
Keira wandered down the hallway. Low brass tables set beside the chairs invited anyone to linger. Paintings—of what looked like local markets—hung on the wall. She stopped beside one.
