Her Unforgettable Royal Lover(28)
He kept it light, playful. But when he raised his head confusion and a hint of wariness had replaced the excitement. Kicking himself, he tried to coax it back.
“Charlotte said the painting hung in the Red Salon at Karlenburgh Castle. Is there reference to that?”
“I, uh… Let me look.”
She ducked her head and hit the keys again. Her hair feathered against her cheek like a sparrow’s wing, shielding her face. He knew he’d lost serious ground when she shook her head and refused to look at him.
“No mention here. All it says is that the painting was lost again in the chaos following the Soviet suppression of the 1956 Hungarian Uprising.”
“The same uprising that cost the Grand Duke his life and forced his wife to flee her homeland.”
“How sad.” With a small sigh, Natalie slumped against the chair back. “Charlotte’s husband purchased the painting to celebrate one of the most joyous moments of their lives. And just a little more than a year later, both he and the painting were lost.”
Her voice had gone small and quiet. She was drawing parallels, Dom guessed. Empathizing with the duchess’s tragic losses. Feeling the emptiness of her own life.
The thought of her being a forgotten, helpless cog in a vast social welfare bureaucracy pulled at something deep inside him. He’d known her for such a short time. Had spoken to her twice in New York. Spent less than twenty-four hours with her here in Budapest. Yet he found himself wanting to erase the empty spaces in her heart. To pull her into his arms and fill the gaps in her mind with new, happy and extremely erotic memories. The urge was so powerful it yanked him up like a puppet on a twisted string.
Christ! He was a cop. Like all cops, he knew that trust could—and too often did—shift like the sand on a wave-swept shore. Identities had to be validated, backgrounds scrubbed with a wire brush. Until he heard back from his contact at Interpol, he’d damned well better keep his hands to himself.
“The duke was executed,” he said briskly, “but Charlotte survived. She made a new life for herself and her baby in New York. Now she has her granddaughters, her great-grandchildren. And you, Ms. Clark, have the finest goulash in all of Budapest to sample.”
The abrupt change in direction accomplished precisely what he’d intended. Natalie raised her head. The curtain of soft, shiny hair fell back, and a tentative smile etched across her face.
“I’m ready.”
More than ready, she realized. They hadn’t eaten since their hurried breakfast and it was now almost seven. The aroma filling the loft had her taste buds dancing in eagerness.
“Ha!” Dom said with a grin. “You may think you’re prepared, but Frau Kemper’s stew is in a class by itself. Prepare for a culinary tsunami.”
While he sniffed and stirred the goulash, Natalie set the counter with the mismatched crockery and cutlery she’d found during her earlier explorations of the kitchen cupboards.
Doing the homey little task made her feel strange. Strange and confused and nervous. Especially when her hip bumped Dominic’s in the narrow kitchen area. And when he reached for a paper towel the same time she did. And…
Oh, for pity’s sake! Who was she kidding? It wasn’t the act of laying out bowls and spoons that had her mind and nerves jumping. It was Dominic. She couldn’t look at him without remembering the feel of his mouth on hers. Couldn’t listen to him warning the dog—Duke!—to take himself out of the kitchen without thinking about how he’d called her sweetheart in Hungarian. And not just in Hungarian. In a husky, teasing voice that seemed so intimate, so seductive.
She didn’t really know him. Hell, she didn’t even know herself! Yet when he went to refill her glass with water she stopped him.
“I’d like to try that wine you brought home.”
He looked up from the spigot in surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She was. She really was. Natalie had no idea what lay at the root of her aversion to alcohol. A secretive, guilt-ridden tasting as a kid? An ugly drunk as a teen? A degrading experience in college? Whatever had caused it remained shrouded in her past. Right here, though, right now, she felt safe enough enjoy a glass of wine.
Safe?
The word echoed in her mind as Dom worked the cork on the chilled bottle and raised his glass to eye level. “Egészségére!”
“I’ll drink to that, whatever it means.”
“It means ‘to your health.’ Unless you mispronounce it,” he added with a waggle of his brows. “Then it means ‘to your arse.’”
She didn’t bother to ask which pronunciation he’d used, just took a sip and waited for some unseen ax to fall. When the cool, refreshing white went down smoothly, she started to relax.