Page 46 of Royal Caleva: Luis

Grace linked her arm with her father’s. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Eve tracked them across the room. Grace had fallen for her father, hook, line, and sinker. To be fair, Luis was equally enamored of his daughter, but he had been inclined that way before he met her.

A pang of jealousy intertwined itself with the happiness in Eve’s heart. She would be sharing Grace from now on, and not with just any father, but with one who commanded the resources of an entire country. She would have to stand strong to balance Luis’s influence. She might even have to fight to have a significant role in Grace’s life going forward.

She would also have to fight her insane attraction to Grace’s father.

The secret panel closed Luis into the dimly lit corridor with its bare stone walls. He could hear Grace’s voice through the wood, but he could not distinguish her words. She sounded happy, though. Almost as happy as he was to have her here. For a moment, he stood with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, basking in the knowledge that his daughter was here in Caleva. It felt as though his family was complete at last.

As soon as Grace and Eve moved to his cliff house, he would bring Raul to meet his half sister. They would have the time and privacy to get to know each other there. He was certain they would like each other because they were alike in so many ways. Responsible, hardworking, perhaps even driven, intelligent, and occasionally snarky. He smiled at the last, imagining them one-upping each other at the dinner table.

Now he had to persuade Grace and Eve to move from Iowa to Caleva. He did not fool himself that Grace would come to a distant country without her mother. They were a cohesive team, bound by a palpable love. He envied Eve that but hoped he could achieve almost as strong a relationship—albeit of a different quality—with Grace over time.

Which meant that he needed to control his problematic attraction to Eve. When she had curled up in the wing chair, with a sleepy smile and her head tilted against the side, he had been struck by a nearly overwhelming desire to kiss the exposed side of her neck, where the skin had been painted gold by the firelight. Even worse, he had wanted to scoop her out of the chair and carry her into the all-too-nearby bedroom to undress her and emulate his randy ancestors. Instead, he had limited himself to a single chaste air-kiss, although he had savored the warmth radiating from her skin and the delicious scent of woman combined with the citrus aroma wafting from her hair.

His history with women—other than the carefully vetted and very discreet liaisons he occasionally indulged in—was terrible, so he needed to stay away from Eve. He could not afford to alienate his daughter’s adoptive mother. Grace would be upset and might feel the need to choose sides. Luis had no illusions about whom she would choose.

Yet he found himself imagining what Eve’s glossy red hair would feel like if he buried his fingers in its curling mass. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he forced himself to turn away from the suite that held so much that he wanted.

CHAPTER 12

Luis stopped himself from drumming his fingertips on the conference table as the Marqués de Huarte insisted yet again that the United States was underpaying them for having its military base in Caleva. Luis wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting at all except that Francisco was concerned that they had come up with some new threat to upset the Americans.

“I thought we laid this matter to rest at our meeting last week when we averted the protest,” Luis said. “You were promised a seat at the table when we renegotiate the lease with the Americans. Until then, I see no point to discussing this matter further.”

The marqués looked as though Luis had slapped him, so perhaps his phrasing could have been more diplomatic. However, Luis was still irritated that their threat of a protest had forced him to leave Iowa early the week before. Furthermore, it was late, and he was impatient to finish so he could go see Grace and Eve.

“As you know from the report I submitted,” Felipe Camacho said into the silence, “we feel that there are some nonmonetary issues with the base being on our land. Those still worry us.”

“We continue to follow up on your report,” Luis said, “although so far we have not been able to substantiate your claim that crimes committed by U.S. military personnel are underreported.” He held up his hand as Camacho started to speak again. “We are researching the cases you included. What I do not see is how wringing more money from the Americans will fix that issue. Can you explain the connection to me?”

The marqués opened his mouth and closed it before he looked around at his fellow consejeros for support. There was none.

“Very well. We will consider the matter of increasing the annual lease fee closed. Yet again.” He let his gaze rest on Camacho. “We will inform you of our conclusions about your issue as soon as they are available.”

“Gracias, Su Majestad.” Camacho gave him a respectful nod, but his posture was stiff.

Luis stood, forcing everyone else to rise. He was headed for the door with a sense of release, two of his aides trailing behind him, when Camacho stepped away from the table, a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper in his hand.

“Señor, I hope you will accept this gift in gratitude for your attention to my district’s matter. It is a newly published history of fencing strategies, autographed by the author. I know that you enjoy the sport.” The man bowed slightly as he offered the package.

Despite his impatience, Luis felt a spurt of interest. Knowing that security would have vetted the package before allowing Camacho to bring it into the palace, Luis had no fear of its proximity. “I am grateful for your generosity, but it is my job to attend to my countrymen’s problems.”

“And you never shirk your responsibilities,” Camacho said in an obviously flattering tone. “I beg that you will accept this small token with my humble thanks.”

“Do you fence yourself?” Luis asked. Establishing a personal connection could sometimes calm turbulent waters.

“No, I am not an athlete like you,” Camacho said with an obsequious smile. “But I find the old ways worthy of preserving. We have lost much of morality and decency in the modern world. Fencing is a sport of honor.” His voice had taken on a crusading tone. “It reminds us that order and respect are important to society.”

Luis had heard the refrain before. How they should return to the glory days of yore when men were high-minded and noble, conveniently forgetting that Caleva had been founded by vicious, murderous pirates. He would be able to leave more quickly if he took the book, so he plucked it from Camacho’s hand with a nod of acknowledgment before he started toward the door again.

“Señor, I believe you will find chapter eleven particularly interesting in its discussion of historical Egyptian dueling strategies.” Camacho trotted alongside him, not taking the hint that the conversation was over. “Also, chapter fifteen, which traces the development of Greek fencing schools.”

“Gracias,” Luis said, continuing to walk. “I will make special note of those chapters.”

“I am honored, Señor.” Camacho finally stopped when they reached the doorway. “I hope you will find the book most enlightening.”

As soon as he was outside the room, Luis handed the book to an aide. “After you record this gift, take that to my habitación. I would like to read it.” In spite of Camacho’s annoying persistence.

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