Page 7 of Royal Agenda

“Do I need to lock up my jewelry, or will your guest be out for the rest of the day?” Grandma asked.

“I think you’ll be fine.” Grace dried her hands. She didn’t actually know when Stephán would be back, but he’d never stolen from her—and he’d had plenty of opportunities.

The walk to The Palm’s main building didn’t take long. Behind the front desk, a receptionist with streaks of purple and pink in her bob spoke on the phone. Above them, a skylight let sunlight fall on a stunning fountain where a muzzled real-life alligator lounged in the water. The fountain was lined with aqua-blue, white, and light blue tiles. On the far side was a ramp where the alligator could slide in with ease.

“Who is this?” Leaning over the edge, she ran her hand down the alligator’s side.

“That’s Sweetie. She lives here most of the time.” Grandma shifted her weight from foot to foot and checked her watch.

“You can go ahead. I’ll be up in just a second,” she promised, enamored with the reptile and how calm she seemed with traffic in the lobby.

“You’ll be late.”

“How many times in my life will I get to pet an alligator? Totally worth it.” The skin was smooth and yet rigid. Not soft like the large snakes the men brought out of the jungle and cooked up for the village of Todos Santos.

Grandma smiled softly. “Seize the day.” She told her which room to meet her in and to hurry before bustling off to the elevators by herself.

The alligator was a darling with scars over her eyes that spoke to the cruelty in the world. She allowed Grace to run her hands up and down her bumpy tail and along her smooth sides—even making appreciative noises now and again.

A white lab pushed under Grace’s elbow, demanding his share of attention. One end of a leash was attached to his harness, and the other end hung free. She laughed, “Where did you come from?”

“They are friends, sí?” said a deep, sexy voice. “Thick as thieves who enjoy the administration of a beautiful woman. But what man could resist one such as you?”

Grace turned around while leaning over, only to stare at a man’s knees. She tipped her head up to a trim middle section, a chest rivaling any pictures Elizabeth sent of her surfer and shoulders that looked like they could hold up the world. Her gaze traveled to a square jaw covered in expertly trimmed stubble that called out to her to run her fingers over it and sigh gustily. Oh my! He had olive-toned skin, the perfect shade of brown hair, and green eyes. Not just any green eyes, but the most coveted green eyes on the planet. The combination of genes could only mean one thing, and her heart jumped and spun in a circle. “You’re from Isola de la Famiglia.” Excitedly, she surged to her feet, and the overly handsome man stepped back.

The bloodlines from the small island off the coast of Italy rarely made it out of Europe, although a few families migrated to America in the early 1900s. Over time, they married Americans, and their distinct genes spread and mingled until they were no longer recognizable as Isoladorians$.

There was no mud in this man’s bloodlines. He was a thoroughbred through and through. His genetics ran back thousands of years, and he was the perfect specimen. Her eyes ran over him again, and she practically purred with pleasure at the sight. So. Darn. Perfect.

She wiggled her fingers, eager to get her hands on a DNA test. Her eyes fell to his mouth; just one swipe and she’d have so much information. His lower lip was slightly bigger than the top lip, and they were—as the legends said—kissable.

Was it hot in here?

“No. No. I am Italian,” he insisted. He bent down and clipped the dog’s leash to the alligator’s harness. The system was ingenious. The lab wore a special vest that designated him as a service animal for the blind alligator. Although how that worked, she had no idea.

She shook her head and touched his arm–a buzz lighting her up on contact. “There’s no way you’re Italian.” She drew her eyebrows together. “You enunciate like an Isaladorian.”

“How did you know that?” he asked, his eyes guarded.

She yanked her gaze away from his mouth and her hand from his arm in an effort to clear her brain. “I’m a genealogist. Your genetic markers, coupled with your wonderful accent,” did she mention she had a thing for accents? Like, a double-decker-sweet-as-gelato thing that could potentially incapacitate her? “and incredibly proper English—were a dead giveaway.”

He moved further away from her. “A genealogist? What is this?”

“Si, studio le famiglie.” I study families, she told him, dropping into Italian. “I connect generations.”

He half turned away from her. “É buono per te. Buona giornata.” It is good for you. Good day. He strode purposely away, leaving behind a wonderful scent made from many manly things she couldn’t name but wished she could get her hands on.

“I’d like to get my hands on him,” she mumbled.

He looked good going, too. He had muscles, broad shoulders, and a trim waist. With his short-cropped, slightly wavy hair, he was most definitely Islandorian$. The man was a specimen Michelangelo would beg to carve. So strange that he wouldn’t claim his unique heritage.

The lab bumped her. “What? I meant so I could study him, dog. Geeze, get your mind out of the swamp.” She bumped him back.

He barked once.

“What?” she lifted both her palms. “He’s interesting.” Like getting a taste of Swiss chocolate for the first time—her appetite was wet, and she wanted more. She wanted to know why he thought he was Italian. Who were his parents? Grandparents? How did he end up in a small town in Florida? Yes, they lived in a global world where people traveled just about anywhere and settled far from their birthplace, but he truly seemed confused about his past.

And she loved to sort through history.

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