Page 13 of Royal Agenda

“Sei molto bravo in questo,” she murmured appreciatively as his fingers gently worked the tender spots. You are very good at that. At some point in their conversation, she’d dropped into Italian. Probably early on because Ryker fell into it quickly. The language was softer, smoother, and—dare she say it—more intimate?

Not that she was trying to create a sense of intimacy with the Isoladian who had his hands in her hair and her knees in a bottle of jelly. Yes, he was all sorts of yummy.

Why hadn’t she visited Isola de la Famiglia yet?

This, this was the reason. Her reserves when it came to Italian-speaking men made to seduce women with their words, their lion-like-loyal hearts, and their muscular frames–did she mention Ryker had muscles? So many of them rippled as he worked. His biceps were like boulders–the kind she could fall asleep on, snuggle up next to, and kiss hello in the morning. So. Many. Muscles. Her resolve against the tidal wave of pure man would hold up as well as a Post-it note in a hurricane. To add whipped cream to the top–great, now she was thinking about Ryker and whipped cream, and her cheeks were a thousand degrees–he smelled like sage and sandalwood, a come-hither combination. If he added vanilla, she’d have to crawl out of here because there’s no way her legs would support her.

She was so lost in the fog Ryker created simply by caring for her that she contemplated living in this chair for the rest of her life. Who needed food?

“Your hair is like silk, sí?” he asked.

She didn’t have to answer. The “sí?” on the end of the sentence was rhetorical. Instead, she allowed him to tip her head from side to side as the muscles in her neck relaxed. More like they sighed into his ministrations like a wanton woman begging for more.

When she’d sat down, she’d promised to casually and naturally work all her questions about him into the conversation. However, she’d told Ryker more about growing up with two sisters and spending summers interning at Nancy’s Niceties than she’d learned about his past.

The scalp massage continued, and she bit her lip so she didn’t moan with pleasure. Okay, moan too loudly. She may have let one slip.

“Dinna remember getting that treatment,” teased the large Scot, who sat resting his foot on his knee as he leaned back in his chair, reading a magazine. He had this alertness about him that was hard to ignore. His accent was half-buried, though around here it would still sound thick. She suspected he’d come to America at a young age and wanted to ask him about it. She’d loved rambling through the emerald-green countryside and spending evenings in pubs, clinking glasses with locals. No one laughed as freely or as loudly, and the zeal for life was contagious.

“Is your mother or father Scottish?” she asked. “Or both?”

He jerked his chin back and pressed his lips together, indicating he wasn’t going to answer.

She pressed on. “My guess is both. I’d venture your mother is from Edinburgh, perhaps even the coast. Did she spend time in England before coming to America? That tends to soften up the accent as well.” A child’s first and longest caregiver usually shapes their diction.

“I dinnae know,” he ground out, his amused countenance falling away like a bug that’d just been swatted. If Mack’s generally happy state was attractive, his brooding one was even more so. His fair skin, red hair, square jaw, and straight, thin nose would send him right to the top of the hottest man in America list. Okay, second to the top because Ryker definitely had first place wrapped up and stamped with authority.

“Well, which parent do you share with the guy in the hall?” She pointed to the closed door where Bear whined for attention every three minutes or so. Sweetie refused to go with Aaron, even when he’d tried to bribe her with a roast. Her tail was the only thing visible from where Grace sat and it swirled back and forth with pleasure.

Ryker choked. “How do you know they are half-brothers and not brothers?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Easy. Liam is not quite a carbon copy of Mack. The genetic markers in everything from their hair color to the shape of their shoulders indicates a half-sibling relationship instead of a complete DNA match. Genetics don’t lie. Plus, Mack has a little bit of Scottish accent, and Liam doesn’t. Which suggests Mack grew up in Scotland and Liam grew up here.”

“A wee accent?” Mack shook his head in disbelief.

She smiled. “No offense. But I’ve heard much thicker.”

He scoffed.

Ryker scowled, though she wasn’t sure why her perceptions put distance between them. Perhaps it was the whole Italian-not-Isoladian misunderstanding they’d had earlier that put him on guard. She’d seen this reaction before. Clients were told one story all their lives–like this man is your father–only to find out that he was not. It was upsetting and tore at a person’s very foundation of existence. If that was a lie, what else was a lie? they would ask themselves.

The thing was, after a few days, they’d come back to her and say, “I always suspected,” or, “I think a part of me knew all along.” Intuition was strong, though people had the ability to ignore it or rationalize it away. What was right in front of them was easier to believe was truth; but truth was often found within not from without.

Ryker could be one of those people. Her innocent excitement about his country of origin could have him examining information his parents told him in a new light–one that could, and most likely would, change his identity.

A worm of guilt squirmed inside of her–which was a gross thought but she didn’t have another way to explain it. Ryker was not her client and had not asked, nor paid, her for information about who he really was and where he came from. Her assessment of Mack and Liam must have been pretty close to the truth or it wouldn’t have upset Ryker so much. As a professional, she should step back and let him come to her with questions.

Mack got to his feet, towering in the space. Seriously—her mother’s closet was bigger than the whole barbershop.Then again, her mother’s closet was bigger than most houses she’d visited while in Mexico, so that wasn’t saying much.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, waiting to see if he would confirm her suspicions or become defensive.

The Scot glared. “What’s your game?

Defensive it was.

She tucked her smile away because his reaction was textbook. Even as big as he was, and with his lethal aurora coming right at her, she wasn’t threatened. He’d already picked her up and carried her around, and his big heart was all over the tenderness he’d used to hold her.

Not that he was attracted to her in any way–there was zero chemistry between them. No. He’d carried her like an overprotective older brother. Which was nice because she’d never had a brother.

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