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  “‘Sox ace kills Yanks,’” Feast read from another page. “Ace? Like in cards?”

  “Like in Pedro Martinez, a star pitcher formerly of the Red Sox of Boston.”

  “That’s baseball?”

  “That’s baseball.” Lucas reached forward to snatch his pages from Feast, who shuffled through them.

  “Some of these stories go back years. Why the sudden interest in American sports?” Feast asked, unable to suppress the tease in his voice. The answer dawned on him as Lucas snatched back the articles and gathered them close. “Those are her stories,” he said knowingly. “Miranda Penney’s.”

  “The storm is clearing. We’ll be taking off any minute now. You’d best strap yourself in.”

  Feast leisurely did so, a wry grin stuck between his nose and chin. “I don’t quite know what’s going on with you, Lucas, but you’ve not been yourself since we left Boston.”

  Lucas secured his documents in a pocket on the aisle side of his seat. “Your deductive powers rival those of the great Sherlock Holmes. Tell me, Feast, are all English as sharp as you?”

  “Do all Welsh fall in love as easily as you?” Feast countered.

  “Shut your head before you find yourself eating fist.” Lucas leaned into the aisle to check for signs of activity in the cockpit of the small craft. “The storm has all but ended,” he complained. “Why aren’t we leaving? I could fly this bucket myself in this spray.”

  “I’ve never seen you this anxious to return home. You usually dread it. Of course, I’d hate going back to a big, empty, rambling—”

  “Feast.” Lucas made the name the equivalent to “Shut up.”

  Feast boldly continued. “This is the most trouble I’ve ever seen you go through for a date.”

  “It’s not a date, and would you please, kindly, shut up?” Lucas rang for the flight attendant. She appeared before Feast could jab him with another pointed inquiry.

  “Hello, Isabella,” Lucas greeted. “Will we be taking off soon?”

  “The captain just received clearance and a runway assignment,” the beautiful Italian flight attendant said. “May I get anything for you?”

  “No, thank you,” Lucas said.

  Isabella, hand-picked by the band’s manager to serve aboard Karmic Echo’s private Channel hopper, stepped behind Lucas’s seat. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began massaging them. “Lucas, you are so hard,” she sang in her heavily accented English. “Such tension in these wonderful muscles.”

  He reached back and took her hand to gently pull her back into the aisle. “Please tell the pilot that I’m in a bit of a rush. I’m already quite late for a very important engagement.”

  “I’m sure we can make up some time in the air.” Isabella casually swept a fall of her dark blonde hair over her right shoulder. Her hands demurely on her knees, she bent over and spoke softly to Lucas. “The plane will be in Wales for the next three days. So will I. Perhaps we can meet for cocktails after your very important engagement?”

  Isabella’s tanned complexion was flawless, and her green eyes crackled with the raw sensuality she just barely managed to keep restrained in Lucas’s presence. Lucas and Feast were the only riders on the ten-passenger plane, so there was no one to sneak peeks of what Isabella’s short skirt surely revealed as she bent over Lucas’s lap to offer a view of the contents of her ivory blouse.

  For weeks, Lucas had engaged in a playful flirtation with Isabella, and with each flight, the game had become more provocative. A subtle caress here, a bold comment there…it seemed only a matter of time before the rising heat between them became all consuming. Isabella, understandably, was perplexed when Lucas responded to her invitation for cocktails with, “I’m sorry, but I just won’t have the time.”

  She stood, blinking comically in disbelief. Color flamed in her cheeks at the unexpected rejection.

  “Izzy, luv.” Feast decided to strike her at a weak moment, worsening the blow through the use of a nickname she violently detested. “I’m free for the weekend. Let’s say you and I have cocktails, ponytails, pigtails—any kind of tails you want, after the flight, and we’ll think of ways to occupy our time.”

  “Si,” Isabella said absently, her eyes still on Lucas. “Grazie, Len.”

  Feast, amazed at his freakishly good fortune, was too shocked to respond.

  Isabella probably would have remained in her fugue if the captain hadn’t directed all personnel to prepare for takeoff. The tension melted from Lucas’s shoulders once the plane began its slow crawl toward a runway.

  “All right, Lucas,” Feast demanded. “Give it up.”

  Lucas stared at him curiously.

  “One day you and Isabella are hotter than summer on the sun and the next, you’re as cold as North Sea sturgeon. What gives?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.” Lucas settled into the plush, buttery leather of his seat and closed his eyes. I am tired, he admitted again, to himself. I’m tired of waiting to go home. And I’m tired of Miranda Penney.

  He was exhausted from recalling the shiver in her lithe body as he had cradled her to his chest, and weary of picturing the moment when she first opened her eyes and dazzled him with their beauty. He had fallen into their depths and still hadn’t climbed his way out. The vulnerability in her gaze had claimed a vital part of him, and he feared he could take it back only by hearing her voice, feeling her touch and gazing once more into her eyes.

  He shifted in his seat, slightly turning from Feast. The plane picked up speed as it taxied down the rain-glossed runway. This was his favorite part of flying, his exhilaration building as the plane’s speed increased, followed by its climax in that moment of weightlessness when the plane left the ground. His ears would pop, his heart pumped faster, he’d even go a bit lightheaded. It was a similar sensation to that he got every time he walked onstage to the cheers of thousands of fans.

  It was the feeling he’d had since rescuing Miranda Penney from the crush.

  And it was tiresome.

  He reclined his seat, glad that he was finally on his way home. The sooner he saw Miranda, the sooner he could exorcise her from his thoughts. Over the past few days his imagination and affection-starved heart had crafted her into a most exquisite phantom.

  The sensible part of his mind insisted that his emotional attachment to her was borne of the crisis that had thrown them together. As the plane climbed to its cruising altitude, Lucas found it easier to ignore logic. If all had gone as planned, Miranda would soon be comfortably settled in Conwy. His house staff had standing orders to see to her every request. If she asked to go home, Karmic Echo’s jet was obliged to return her to Boston, but Lucas’s neck and shoulders tightened at the thought of Miranda not being at Conwy when he arrived. He needed her to be there, to see her again. That was his only hope of ridding her from his heart and mind.

  * * *

  “Wake up, sweetie.”

  Miranda stirred and opened her eyes. She didn’t remember falling asleep, or Bernie covering her with his tuxedo jacket. He leaned into the opened door of the limo and she handed his jacket to him.

  “You’re awake, Miranda.” Bernie smiled with his whole head and offered his hand to help her from the car. “But you won’t think so when you see this place.”

  Miranda exited the limo. The driver stood before her, his hat in his hand. “I trust you had a pleasant ride, Miss Penney. Welcome to Conwy.”

  The driver stepped aside. At the sight before her, Miranda staggered back a step.

  Looming before her was an honest-to-goodness, genuine castle. Like something from a movie, the magnificent, earth-toned stone structure filled her entire view. Complete with a curtain wall that meandered beyond her line of sight in two directions, Conwy’s keep and turrets rose splendidly toward the sky.

  “Close your mouth, honey,” Bernie whispered. “And work your walk.”

  Miranda finally noticed the wide red carpet that began at her feet and ended somewhere beyond the portcullis.
Like sentries, dozens of uniformed people lined each side of the carpet. One of them, a stately gentleman in black and white livery, stepped out of place and bowed neatly before Miranda. “Mr. Fletcher regrets that he is unable to receive you personally,” he said. “His flight home from Italy was delayed by weather. As you’ll notice, the entire staff at Conwy is at your disposal. I am Kenneth Morgan, Conwy’s Master Steward, and you need only ask, should you require anything.”

  I should have worn a dress, Miranda thought as she took her first hesitant step upon the red carpet.

  “Afta’noon, Miss Penney,” a woman on her left greeted warmly as Miranda took another step.

  “Hello.” Miranda was only mildly surprised that the stranger knew her name.

  “G’day, Miss Penney,” said a man on her right as he tipped his cap and gave her a friendly smile.

  On and on it went, until Miranda, with Bernie on her heels, was safely inside the keep. The Great Hall was the biggest room Miranda had ever been in. She estimated that her entire condo complex, which had once been a working church, would fit within the space.

  “This is what I call living.” Bernie breathed deeply of the air of the keep. “I’d bet your life that those tapestries came with the place.”

  Miranda followed Bernie to a vast wall, where a gigantic tapestry in subdued shades of red, gold, black and umber vividly depicted a battle scene.

  “This is indeed an authentic work by Auryn Fitzharrold,” said Morgan, who appeared behind them. “He was a master weaver for the British court. Edward I’s master builder, James of St. George, designed Conwy. It was completed in 1287. Mr. Fletcher has gone to great lengths to maintain the history and integrity of Conwy. You’ll find that many of the items here are authentic, registered historical artifacts.”

  “Is he royalty?” Bernie asked, knowing that Miranda wouldn’t.

  “On the contrary. Mr. Fletcher is a commoner, despite his nobility.”

  Bernie narrowed his eyes at Morgan and scanned the shorter man from head to toe. “You’re Irish, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Morgan responded, raising his strawberry-blonde eyebrows. “How could you tell?”

  “I’m Irish, too,” Bernie winked. “I know a brother when I see one.”

  Miranda listened intently to the exchange between the two men. Morgan’s accent was far different from Bernie’s, whose had a distinct island twist.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Reilly, but you’re not exactly what one envisions when one speaks of Black Irish,” Morgan said.

  “I was born and raised on the island of Montserrat,” Bernie explained. “Most of the people there are as black as me and as Irish as you.”

  Morgan finally cracked a big smile. “Then may I say welcome to Conwy, my brother. I’d love to spend some time talking with you about your home, and perhaps in the course of your visit, you’ll find a moment to speak with Mr. Fletcher as well. He’s made several visits to Montserrat and thoroughly enjoys the island. In fact, he recently sponsored a music program at several elementary schools there.”

  Miranda studied Morgan’s face. He clearly respected and admired the man who paid his salary. The staff assembled outside to welcome her seemed quite happy to do so, which testified further to Lucas Fletcher as a boss. After coming this far, Miranda’s reporting instincts kicked in. She wanted to know more about the “Mr. Fletcher” who would fly her to Wales on a moment’s notice and have two hundred people waiting at a castle to treat her as though she were the Queen of the World. She wanted to know more about the man who had saved her life.

  She took a step toward the wide stone staircase that accessed the upper regions of the keep. “Mr. Morgan, perhaps after you show Mr. Reilly to his suite, you and I could speak further about Mr. Fletcher?”

  * * *

  Morgan successfully diverted Miranda from her request for a sit-down by suggesting that she first settle into her own chamber, the Emberley Suite. She was so taken by the amenities Lucas had provided that she temporarily forgot about her plan to ferret into his private life. Lucas had arranged for in-house—rather, in-castle—spa treatments for her and her Herald-Star reporter. Bernie reveled in the hedonistic pleasure of kelp and avocado full-body wraps, and a manicure and pedicure. A hot stone massage eased much of Miranda’s tension, but she couldn’t help feeling as though she were being clipped, buffed, waxed and perfumed as an offering for the king of the castle.

  She enjoyed another short nap, this time in the decadent comfort of a massive four-poster bed draped with ivory linen and silk. Soon after she awakened, stylists imported from London came to her suite to do her hair, makeup and wardrobe. She allowed them to wash and condition her hair but passed on a cut and style, opting to keep her hair subdued by a simple bandanna. The first hair plucked from her right eyebrow made her scream, so she passed on the makeover. And she insisted on wearing her own clothes: blue jeans and a formless sea-green sweater.

  When Bernie came to her suite to escort her to dinner, his eager smile became a fright mask of disappointment. “This is the best you could do?” he squawked. He plucked at her sweater and flipped a hand through her hair. “They came to my room with a dozen or more designer gowns…all in Meg’s size, of course, since they thought she would be the one coming here with you. I can’t imagine that Fletcher’s people didn’t do the same for you.” He turned to ring for Morgan.

  Miranda grabbed him by his arm and stopped him. “I didn’t want to wear any of those dresses. That runway stuff just isn’t me. And I’m not some Barbie doll to be dressed up.”

  “Well, I am.” Bernie clutched the satin lapel of his tux with one hand and passed the other over his recently styled hair. “‘007 Ken,’ Caribbean style. You likey likey?”

  Miranda smiled in spite of herself. “You look great.”

  He took her hand and set it over his arm. “And you look like a farmhand,” he said tenderly.

  “I’m sorry if I’m ruining your fun, Bernie,” she said as they left her suite and began the long, convoluted route to the Banquet Hall.

  “It’ll take more than your bandanna and blue jeans to ruin this trip for me. I just wish that you would loosen up and enjoy this.”

  Miranda looked up at the colorful banners hanging from the high ceiling of the corridor and she passed her hand along the huge stones that had been laid to form Conwy’s walls centuries ago. “I do appreciate this. Parts of it. I didn’t like being forced into it by Rex, and I don’t like the pampered poodle aspect on this end. I don’t know if Lucas Fletcher is trying to be nice, or if he’s…”

  “Preparing you for the slaughter,” Bernie finished.

  “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

  “That’s exactly why you should give the nerves and suspicion a rest and lap up every morsel of this experience. I’m being treated like a queen—no pun intended—and you know what? I deserve it. So do you.”

  “But you want it, Bernie. That’s the difference.”

  He patted her hand and began leading her down a wide, steep stone staircase. Morgan was at the bottom of it, waiting for them. “You want this, Miranda,” Bernie said. “You just don’t know it yet.”

  * * *

  Told to wait in the solar while Bernie was taken, presumably, to the Banquet Room in the Great Hall, Miranda’s curiosity became impatience, then anger, as she wore a path in the floor. The solar was on the third level of the keep. The windows set in the rounded walls were modernized and as large and deep as the ones in her suite. They were polarized, most likely to cool the glare of the sunrise off the waters of the Irish Sea. The room was luxuriously furnished in subdued leathers and velvet, yet still maintained an inviting coziness. Thick carpeting in muted shades of rust and umber muffled her footsteps and warmed the stone floor. Under different circumstances, she might have taken a leather-bound volume from one of the ceiling-high oak bookcases and snuggled up for a quiet read.

  But Miranda was too mad to read. She placed her palms flat against t
he wall, and the cool stone made a great sound barrier as she spat out a furious strand of Portuguese curse words.

  “Who does Lucas Fletcher think he is?” she asked the empty room. Just because he has money and celebrity and a frickin’ kingdom, he thinks he can manipulate people! she raged inwardly. She wanted to kick something, but she was afraid of breaking her toe—or worse, damaging Lucas’s furniture, which looked plenty expensive.

  She seethed. On both sides of the ocean, powerful men trapped her, and she resented it. Deeply.

  And Bernie. Her friend, her confidante, her fellow Double D…he was already in the Banquet hall, socializing in the enemy camp. It’s my date, she thought bitterly. Why is Bernie having more fun than I am?

  The answer came to her quickly. He was having fun because no one had forced him to be there.

  “That’s it.” She tossed up her hands. “I’m going home.”

  She marched to the wooden double doors. She would have dramatically thrown them open if they hadn’t been fifteen feet tall and two hundred pounds apiece. She shoved the left door open just enough to slip into the wide stairwell. Careful to keep her feet on the wool runner to mute her footsteps, she made her way down a spiraling stone staircase. She walked for at least a mile it seemed, before she came to the Great Hall, where a few people hung about, talking. No one attempted to intercept her as she headed for Morgan’s office. The Master Steward was supposed to be at her disposal at all times, and she was determined to turn him into her impromptu travel agent.

  She wore sneakers, but her feet were killing her by the time she’d completed the hike from the solar to Morgan’s office, a room just off the Banquet Hall where he managed the castle’s daily business. Miranda stood in the low, narrow corridor leading to Morgan’s office, her hands on her knees, catching her breath and steeling her nerves before confronting him.

  The cheerful music of lively conversation drifted from the Banquet Hall. Bernie’s distinctive voice and island dialect rose above all the others. “Tell me,” he began, “how often does your lord and master entertain his paramours and their chaperones in such grand fashion?”