Page 70 of Modern Romance Collection May 2024 Books 1-4

Prince’s Forgotten Diamond

Emmy Grayson

CHAPTER ONE

HECAMETOwith a gasp, the act of inhaling sending a hundred sharp knives stabbing into his chest. He uttered an oath and froze. Gradually the pain subsided. Each breath still burned like the devil, but at least he could sit up.

The room spun. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, waited, then slowly opened them again. The world slowed enough that he was able to evaluate his surroundings, from the plush rug laid atop gleaming mahogany floors to the glittering chandelier hanging above his head. Cautiously, he turned his head. He was sitting on a tufted leather couch. A marble fireplace dominated the wall to his left, the space above the mantel decorated with a painting of Westminster Abbey’s Gothic towers. To the right lay a massive bed on a raised dais, the mattress draped in a luxurious midnight comforter and a mound of artfully arranged pillows.

A distant honk made him wince. Whatever he’d been through had left him not only with an aching chest but a monstrous headache. He slid his fingers through his hair, pausing when he located a lump at the base of his skull.

What the hell happened?

He stood and made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, cupped his hands to catch the blessedly cool water and splashed it over his skin.

He raised his head, his eyes flickering to the mirror, then back again as confusion tugged at him. Confusion that quickly morphed into shock.

The face staring back at him was that of a stranger.

His hand came up, his fingertips tracing a long cut that ran from the slight hollow beneath his cheek down into the light beard following the lines of his jaw. The man in the glass mirrored his actions. Brown eyes stared back at him, fatigued and ringed by shadows.

Unfamiliar.

Who am I?

The question skittered through his mind, but encountered only silence. Silence and a gaping void that seemed to stretch on with no end in sight. No memories existed beyond this moment.

Dread pulled at him, fingers tugging, grasping at his consciousness. With a resolve that came to him as naturally as breathing, he stopped it. Panic had no place here.

He filled his lungs with a deep, cleansing breath before walking back into the bedroom. A quick search yielded no wallet or cell phone. The only luggage was a canvas duffel bag with leather straps. The clothes inside were simple yet well made, the tags featuring luxury labels he somehow recognized even though he couldn’t even recall his own name. A thick white envelope, concealed in an interior side pocket, yielded nearly ten thousand euros. Whoever he was, it appeared he had money.

Or had taken it from someone who did.

Uncomfortable with the thought, his hand went back up to that cut, his fingers pressing against the wound. The sharp prick of pain centered him, pulled him back from the edge of diving too far into speculation that would get him nowhere.

A glance out the window revealed elegant buildings of brick and white stone stacked side by side. Some were storefronts, while others appeared to be office buildings. But they all carried the unmistakable mark of wealth. Taxis, red double-decker buses and pedestrians hurried to and fro beneath a darkening sky.

London.

He was in London. Something else flitted through his mind, but it darted away before he could grasp it.

One step at a time, he told himself.See if anyone else is here.

He moved away from the window to the double doors of the room. He listened for a full minute before carefully opening the door to a large, airy hallway with several expensive-looking paintings hung on the ivory walls between doors marked with room numbers.

A hotel then. Had he been attacked in the room? No, that didn’t make sense. Surely if he had been attacked in here his assailant would have grabbed the duffel or at least searched it.

The headache returned with a vengeance. Twenty minutes later, after taking some pain medication he’d found in the bathroom and resting on the couch, he felt well enough to conduct another search of the room. He surveyed the lavish furnishings with a sharpened gaze. A flash of black caught his eye. On the floor underneath the couch lay an onyx business card. As he knelt, something shifted in his chest. He knew the card, knew the elegant cursive would have a delicate silver filigree style. Threads of apprehension and excitement drifted through him as his fingers closed around it.

The card was heavy, the edges rounded. On one side the card simply readSmythe’s. On the other was a street address with a series of numbers in the bottom left corner. Someone had writtenSaturday, 7:30in silver ink in the right corner.

A sense of urgency suddenly took him. This card, and the appointment, were important. He glanced at his wrist, only to find the skin pale where a watch should have been. He picked up the phone by the bed.

“Good evening, thank you for calling The Bancroft, Anthony speaking.”

He mentally noted the name of the hotel.

“Hello, Anthony. Could you please provide me with the date and time?”

---