Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage

If only we could dance like Americans do, she thought wistfully as she watched a line of professional performers of the traditional Tamari dances, faces veiled and torsos cleverly concealed, undulating their way down the length of the courtyard, weaving in and out among the tables to the rhythmic keening of native flutes and sitars. Jewels flashed from their ankles, wrists and hair as they performed the intricate hand movements and kept time to the music with tiny finger cymbals. Like most girls in her country, Leila had learned secretly as a child how to dance the traditional dances, though of course it would not have been proper for a princess to actually perform for anyone—except, perhaps, for her husband, in the privacy of their marriage chambers. If I ever have a husband, she thought moodily, as without her realizing it, her body began to move and sway in time to the music.

On her right, Samira nudged her and hissed, “Leila—stop that. Someone will see you.”

Leila rolled her eyes. So what? she wanted to say. It would not be the first time. Many people had seen her dance in Switzerland and England, and the world had not come to an end. When she was in boarding school she had learned to dance the western way, to rock and roll music, and in England she had even—and she was sure her father would have a heart attack if he knew—danced with boys the way westerners did. Touching one another. And nothing terrible had happened then, either. She was still, alas, very much a virgin. And likely to remain one for the foreseeable future.

“I am bored,” she whispered back. “I have eaten too much and I want to lie down. When is this going to be over?”

“Hush,” Samira scolded. “This is Hassan and Elena’s night. Remember your manners.”

“I wish we could at least mingle with the guests—talk to them,” Leila said, wistfully eyeing the golden-haired man across the reflecting pool. But his head was bowed as he listened, apparently with close attention, to the frizzy-haired woman seated next to him. Leila sighed. And before she could stop it, her mouth opened wide in a blatant, jaw-popping yawn.

“I’m sorry?” Cade politely lowered his head in order to hear what the woman at his side was saying above the discordant wailing these people called music.

Kitty repeated it in a loud, hoarse whisper. “I said, that girl across the way over there has been tryin’ her darndest all evenin’ long to catch your eye. I believe she’d like to flirt with you.”

Cade’s glance flicked upward reflexively. “Oh yeah? Which one?” Anything, he thought, to relieve the tedium. He wasn’t accustomed to spending three hours over dinner.

“That one—the real pretty one in the aqua blue dress…long black hair with gold thingies in it…looks like something out of The Arabian Nights. See her?”

Cade looked. He’d already noticed the girl, since she was drop-dead gorgeous and he was a man and only human. Now, though, he felt a shiver of silent laughter ripple through him. “You mean, the one who looks like she’s about to swallow herself?”

His amusement blossomed into an unabashed grin as the girl’s bright and restless glance collided suddenly with his. Her eyes went wide with horror and she slapped a long, graceful hand over her mouth in a belated and futile attempt to cover up the yawn. Next, he watched, fascinated, as a parade of expressions danced across her face like characters in a play: dismay, chagrin, vexation, arrogance, pride, irony…and finally, to his delight, a dimpled and utterly winsome smile.

Kitty gave a little crow of triumph. “There, you see? I told you she was flirtin’ with you.”

“Kind of young, don’t you think?” Cade drawled. “Not to mention,” he added, as the significance of that circlet of gold medallions on the girl’s head sank in, “if I’m not mistaken, she’s a princess.”

“Really?” Kitty gasped before she caught herself, then added with a lofty sniff, “Well, so what if she is? Hassan’s a prince. That didn’t stop Elena.” She gave an excited little squeal. “Oh—I just realized—that would make her Elena’s sister-in-law, wouldn’t it? I’ll bet she could introduce us—uh, you.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Cade said dryly. “Looks to me like they keep those princesses pretty tightly under wraps.”

Pretending disinterest, he watched out of the corner of his eye as an older woman flanked by a cadre of female servants suddenly appeared beside the princesses’ table across the way. This woman he knew. He’d been presented to Tamir’s first lady—Elena’s new mother-in-law—along with her husband, Sheik Ahmed, following the wedding ceremony last night. Alima Kamal—who, he’d been told, preferred not to use a royal title—was dressed in the same gracefully draped style of gown as were her daughters, this one deep royal blue liberally trimmed with gold. Like her daughters, she wore a circlet of gold medallions in her still-raven black hair. They glinted in the torchlight as she gracefully inclined her head. Without a word, all the occupants of the princesses’ table rose and were swallowed up by the royal entourage, which then moved away in the direction of the palace, veils fluttering, like a dense flock of brightly plumed birds.

“Wow,” breathed Kitty. “It really is like something out of The Arabian Nights. Do you think they keep them in a harem?”

Cade gave a snort of laughter. “I’m sure they don’t. For starters, the sheik only has one wife. And, if Hassan is any indication, they’re pretty westernized here. All this native costume stuff tonight—the turbans and veils—I’m sure is just for this occasion. Some kind of wedding tradition, probably.”

“Umm-hmm…” Kitty was thoughtfully chewing her lip. “Well, I’ll still bet Elena could introduce you to that cute little sister-in-law of hers, if you asked her to.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not? She’s very pretty, and she was definitely interested in you, Cade.”

“Not on your life.” Cade’s grin tilted with grim irony. A knockout she might be, but not really his type and way too young for him, anyway. Not to mention that the very last thing he needed was to get tangled up with some royal pain-in-the-ass princess, when what he was really hoping for was to close a nice, lucrative business deal with her father, the sheik.

Chapter 2

Eight horses thundered in close formation down a grassy plain on what appeared to be a collision course with disaster. Long-handled mallets flashed and winked in the bright morning sunlight to the accompaniment of guttural cries, grunts of effort, and shrill and imperious whistles, while on a sideline shaded by olive trees that looked as though they might easily have dated from biblical times, Cade watched the proceedings with an interest that could best be described as ambiguous.

He wasn’t a polo fan—in fact, he knew next to nothing about the game. He considered it a rich man’s sport. And while there were some who’d place Cade in that category, he certainly never thought of himself in those terms. As far as he was concerned he was just a hardworking businessman who happened to have made a lot of money, which put him in an altogether different class than those who had nothing better to do with their time than gallop around a field on horseback jostling one another for the chance to whack a little ball with a big mallet.

“Snob,” said Elena teasingly when he voiced that opinion to her. “I knew it. You, Cade, are a working-class snob. Come on—polo is the sport of kings.”

“I rest my case,” Cade said around the stem of his cheroot.

“And, it’s one of the oldest sports, maybe the first ever invented.” She shot him a mock-piercing look. “What’s this prejudice you have against royals? Seeing as how I’m now one.”

“Prejudiced? Me?” he countered in mock outrage. “I don’t even know any royals—except Hassan, I guess.”

“That’s what prejudice is,” Elena said smugly. “Forming an opinion without personal knowledge.” Her eyes went to the riders on the field, seeking and fastening on one in particular. “Anyway, you’ve met a few more in the past couple of days. Hassan’s parents…What did you think of them, by the way?” Her tone was carefully casual, but Cade heard the question she was really asking: Do you like him…my husband, Hassan? Please like him.

He glanced down at the woman he’d thought of as a sister for most of his life, arguably the only family he had left. He said gruffly, “I had my doubts about your husband for a while. You know that.” His voice softened. “But as long as he does right by you, that makes him okay in my book.” He paused. “So…are you? Happy?”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then smiled up at him, and he read her answer in her shining eyes before she spoke. “Yeah, Cade…I am.”

Cade took a quick sip of his cheroot, surprised again by that sudden fierce ache of envy. “Then that’s what counts.”

Elena shot him a searching look. “So…what did you think of them—Hassan’s family? The old sheik?”

He took a moment to consider, though he didn’t need to. “Ahmed’s a sharp old fox,” he said finally. “Knows what he wants for his country, and won’t give an inch until he gets it. He’ll drive a hard bargain, but he’ll be fair.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I’m looking forward to doing business with him.” “What about his wife—Alima?” Elena smiled ruefully. “My mother-in-law.” She paused, shaking her head. “Boy, I never thought I’d say those words.”

“She seems very nice—warm.” He didn’t tell her that for some reason the sheik’s wife had reminded him, in ways that had nothing to do with physical resemblance, of his own mother. What he remembered of her, anyway.

“And Rashid?” Elena’s eyes were once more on the field of play, watching the swirling mélange of men and horses. Sunlight glinted off helmets and goggles and sweat-damp horsehide, while brightly colored jerseys tangled together like ribbons. Eyes sparkling, she answered herself before he could. “He does raise some fine ponies, you’ve gotta admit.”

Cade grinned. “He does that.” He’d been admiring Rashid’s own mount in particular, a dapple gray stallion with the Arabian’s classic dish face and high-arched neck, graceful, delicate lines and, it appeared, the courage of a lion. He was hoping to find an opportunity to talk horse breeding with the prince…maybe discuss an exchange of bloodlines—

His thoughts scattered like dry leaves as several ponies thundered down the field in tight formation, close to the sideline and only a few yards from where he and Elena were standing, shaking the ground beneath their feet. A gasp went up from the spectators, followed by shouts—mostly of triumph, intermingled with a few moans of dismay. Apparently the Tamiri team, jubilant and easily distinguishable in bright gold and black, had just scored on the scarlet-clad Montebellans.

Distracted by the celebration on the playing field, it was a few seconds before Cade noticed the woman running—no, dancing—along the sideline, keeping pace with the ponies galloping barely an arm’s length away beyond the low board barrier. He had an impression of slenderness and grace as unselfconscious as a child’s, of vitality as voluptuous and lush as Mother Earth herself. The unlikely combination tugged at his senses—and something else, some cache of emotions hidden away, until that moment, deep inside him. His breath caught. Protective instincts produced electrical impulses in all his muscles.

She’s too close. She’ll be trampled!

The alarm flashed across his consciousness, there one second, gone the next. Cynically, he thought, She’s a grown woman, she’s got sense enough to stay out of harm’s way. His heart was beating fast as he settled back to watch her. He realized that, incongruously, he was smiling.

She was dressed all in earth tones—shiny brown leather boots to the knee, a divided skirt in soft-colored camel suede that hugged her rounded hips like kid gloves, and a cream-colored blouse made of something that looked like—and undoubtedly was—silk, with long flowing sleeves cuffed tightly at the wrist. The skirt was belted at her waist with a silk scarf patterned in the Tamari team colors—yellow and black. She wore a hat to shade her face from the blistering Mediterranean sun, the same soft suede as her skirt with a wide brim and flat crown, like those Cade associated with Argentinean cowboys. A hatstring hung loosely under her delicate chin to keep the hat from blowing off in the unpredictable sea breeze. Beneath the hat, raven-black hair swept cleanly back from a highcheekboned face to a casually wound coil at the nape of a long, graceful neck.

Entranced, Cade thought, I wonder who she is. And following that, clearly, distinctly, I want her.

He acknowledged the thought unashamedly but with a wry inner smile. He was fully grown-up, no longer a child, and years ago had learned that wanting did not necessarily mean having.

Shouts of outrage and a shrill whistle interrupted his appraisal of the woman. He almost chuckled aloud as he watched her express her own dissatisfaction with what was happening on the field, whirling in fury and stamping her foot like an angry child. Moments later she was in motion again as the horses and riders careened back down the field, once more dancing along the sideline, completely caught up in the action, her body bobbing, jerking and weaving in unconscious imitation of the players. As if, Cade thought, she longed to be one of them, rather than just a spectator.

And then…he caught his breath. As she moved directly in front of him, a gust of wind caught her hat from behind and tipped it neatly forward off her head. She gave a little shriek of dismay and grabbed for it, but it was already tumbling across the trampled grass, directly into the path of the oncoming horses. Cade felt his body lurch involuntarily, before the thought had even formed in his mind. She’s so damned impulsive! My God, is she crazy enough to go for it?

As if she’d heard his thought or maybe sensed his forward lunge, she stopped herself abruptly and spun toward him, delightfully abashed, like a little girl teetering on the edge of the curb, preparing to earnestly swear, “I wasn’t really going to run out in the street, honest.”

Perhaps loosened by that movement, her hair came out of its sedate coil, unwinding like a living creature, something sleek and sinuous awakening to vibrant life. As it tumbled down her back in a glorious black cascade, at that precise moment she locked eyes with Cade. Catching her lower lip between white teeth, she gave him a winsomely dimpled smile.

Recognition exploded in his brain even as desire thumped him in the groin. The double whammy caught him off guard. Breath gusted from his lungs as if he’d taken an actual blow.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Cade jerked toward the quiet voice, mouth open in automatic denial. One look at Elena’s face told him protest was pointless, so instead he laughed and wryly shook his head. “Let me guess—one of the princesses, right?”

She nodded. She was smiling, but her eyes were grave. “Leila—the youngest. I’m serious, Cade. If the sheik catches you laying so much as a finger on that girl, all bets are off. He watches her like a hawk.”

“Evidently not today,” he murmured out the side of his mouth as the princess approached them, stepping gracefully up the slight incline into the shade of the ancient olive trees.

Holding out her hand to Elena and, for the moment, ignoring Cade completely, she cried out in obvious delight, “Elena—hello!” And then, her expressive face scrunching with chagrin, “You saw what happened?” She had a charming accent, more pronounced than Hassan’s—the result, Cade surmised, of having had much less contact with westerners. The quality of her voice was low and musical but with a huskiness that caressed his auditory nerves like coarse-textured fur.

“Oh, I did,” Elena said with a moan of feminine commiseration. “I’m so sorry. It was such a beautiful hat.”

The princess pursed her lips in a brief but charming pout, then smiled and gave a little shrug. C’est la vie.

She turned to Cade, finally, her eyes emerging from under thick sooty lashes like mischievous children peeking out from behind a curtain. “Hello. I am Leila Kamal.” The way she held her hand out made him wonder if she expected him to kiss it.

Which was probably why, out of pure contrariness, he did nothing of the sort, but instead took her hand in a good old Texas American-style handshake. A moment later he wondered if that had been a mistake as well. Her hand was smaller and at the same time firmer than he’d expected. It left an impression on his senses of both strength and vulnerability, and he found himself holding on to it for a lot longer than was probably sane, while his mind filled with images and urges that had nothing whatsoever to do with sanity.

“This is Cade,” said Elena. “Cade Gallagher—my friend and, uh, guardian.”

“Of course.” Lashes lifted; eyes gazed at him, somehow both dark and bright, mysterious as moonlit pools. He had a sudden sensation of leaning slightly off balance, as if his internal gyrocompass had been knocked out of kilter. “And also your brother—but not really.” The dimples flashed. “For that I am glad, because if you were truly Elena’s brother, and she is now my sister, then you would be my brother, as well.” Her laugh was low, a delightful ripple, like water tumbling over pebbles. “And I most certainly do not need any more brothers. Two is quite enough!”

Cade found himself floundering in unfamiliar territory, at least when dealing with a beautiful woman. Not that he considered himself suave—far from it—but he’d never found himself utterly at a loss for words before, either. At least, not since about seventh grade. He was muttering something unintelligible when a discreet cough from Elena reminded him that he was still holding the princess’s hand. He released it…laughed…and felt as awkward and abashed as the twelve-year-old Cade he painfully remembered.

“Are you enjoying the game, Mr. Gallagher? Exciting, is it not? Especially since Tamir is winning.” Her eyes held a gleeful sparkle.

He wondered suddenly if the reason he felt so young was simply because she was, and the thought helped restore him to sanity. That, and a calming sip of his cheroot. “I am, very much,” he drawled, gazing over her head to where the action was taking place now, at the far end of the field. “Especially the horses. That gray stallion of Rashid’s—”

“Oh, but they are all Rashid’s ponies. He raises them, you know, on one of the other islands. Siraj—it is just south of Tamir. Perhaps you would like—”

“Cade raises horses, too,” Elena interrupted. “Arabians.” “Really? But that is wonderful!” In her eagerness and enthusiasm she seemed almost weightless, like a bird, he thought—a blackbird one sudden motion away from taking flight. “How I wish that I could see your horses, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Maybe someday you will,” Cade murmured, and felt a strange little shiver go through him—some sort of primitive warning. He coughed, glanced at Elena and gruffly added, “When you come to Texas to visit your brother.”

And he watched the light go out of the girl’s eyes as if someone had thrown a switch, shutting off all circuits. Her lashes came down and her smile faded. Her body grew still.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Perhaps…” She turned away, one hand going to her forehead. “Oh—I see the play has been stopped. Someone has fallen off. I think now it is safe to get my hat. Please, excuse me—”

Maybe it was because she’d looked so sad—Cade had no other rational explanation for doing what he did. He shot out a hand and caught her by the arm. The feel of her flesh beneath the silk fabric of her blouse sent impulses tingling along the nerves in his fingers as he gruffly said, “Here—I’ll get it.”

With that, he strode past her down the slope, stepped over the low barrier and scooped what was left of the hat out of the trampled grass. Grimly ignoring the smattering of applause from nearby spectators, he whacked the hat once against his thigh, then retraced his steps to where Elena and the princess were waiting for him under the trees.

“There you go,” he said as he handed the hat over to its owner. “For what it’s worth. Looks in pretty bad shape.”

“It is only a hat,” Leila said, smiling but without a trace of the sparkle that had lit her eyes before. Cade was conscious of a vague disappointment. It was like watching the sun set without colors. “It is not important. But it was very kind of you to retrieve it for me. Thank you.

“Well—” She looked quickly, almost guiltily, around. “I must go now. Someone will be looking for me. Elena, I am so glad to have had a chance to see and talk to you. And Mr. Gallagher, it was very nice meeting you. Thank you…goodbye….” Cade watched her disappear into the crowd like a doe in dense forest.

“Cade,” Elena said in a warning tone, “I mean it—she’s absolutely off-limits.” He pulled his gaze back to her, covering the effort it cost him with a snort and a wry smile. “Hey, she’s too young for me. Besides,” he added after a moment’s contemplation of the end of his cigar, “she’s not really my type.”

Elena gave a derisive hoot—not very ladylike, but pure Texas. “Oh, yeah, I know all about your ‘type.’ Whatever happened to that Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, by the way?”

“She was a nice girl,” Cade said with a small, reminiscent smile. “We…wanted different things, is all. She was thinkin’ in terms of wedding bells and baby carriages, while I—”

“I know what you were thinkin’ about,” Elena said dryly. “The same thing you’re thinking right now, which is absolutely out of the question. You promise me, Cade—”

Laughing, he held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey—you’ve got nothing to worry about. Like I said earlier, and like I told your friend Kitty last night—where is she, by the way? Haven’t seen her around this morning.” He looked around furtively, half expecting to see a fuzzy brown head bobbing through the crowd, to hear that gawdawful, “Yoo-hoo!”

Elena grinned. “I think maybe she overdid a bit on the rich food last night. She was planning on taking it easy this morning, getting all rested up for this evening’s festivities.”

Cade made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

Leila ran across the courtyard, the patterned tiles smooth and warm under her bare feet. She had taken her boots off in her chambers, but had found it impossible to stay there. She felt too stirred, too restless to stay indoors—which admittedly was not an uncommon way for Leila to feel.

But this was different. Today the pounding of her heartbeat was only an echo of the thunder of horses’ hoofbeats. The breeze from the sea tugged gently at her hair, but she longed to feel it whipping in the wind as she raced wild and abandoned across fields without boundaries. Today, every flower and tree and shrub in the gardens, every fountain and vine-draped arch and pillar, seemed like the bars of a prison to her. A very beautiful prison, it was true, but a prison nonetheless.

And something else. Today as she ran, she thought of the way a garden feels when it rains—a contradiction of freshness and excitement and anticipation, but also a bit of gloom and sadness, a yearning for the sun’s familiar warmth. And all of her insides seemed to quiver like the leaves of flowers and shrubs and trees when the raindrops hit them.

The palace gardens were vast, and Leila knew every inch of them, including hidden nooks and bowers where she occasionally sought refuge from turbulent thoughts like these. Today, though, it wasn’t refuge she wanted. After this morning, she very much needed to confront those disturbing thoughts, face them head-on, and then, if at all possible, decide what she was going to do about them. For this she had chosen a spot she was almost certain would be empty at that hour—the private terrace adjacent to the family’s quarters where she sometimes took breakfast with her sisters, or her mother and her mother’s faithful servant, Salma, who had once been Leila’s nanny. The terrace faced northeast and overlooked the sea. Now, approaching midday, it would be shaded, with a nice breeze from the sea to cool her burning cheeks while the gentle trickle of the fountain and the heady scent of roses would, she desperately hoped, help to calm her fevered thoughts.

Never had Leila so desired to be alone with those thoughts! Oh, such humiliating, embarrassing thoughts. And so she was dismayed to find, as she plunged headlong through the arched portal that was the garden entrance to her retreat, that someone was there before her.

Worse, a stranger. A woman with drab brown hair—rather frizzy—was sitting in a chair beside the fountain, reading a paperback book.

Leila’s headlong plunge had already taken her several steps onto the terrace before she realized it was already occupied. She lurched to a halt, arms flung wide, body tilted forward, and uttered a soft, disappointed, “Oh!”

The woman quickly set aside her book, a romantic novel, by the looks of the cover. She smiled, and Leila recognized her then—the woman who had been talking with Cade Gallagher during the banquet the night before. She felt a jolt of excitement, then an alarming twinge of jealousy. But it was fleeting. The woman wasn’t very pretty, and besides, Leila told herself with a mental sniff, she’s old. At least forty.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, and Leila noticed that she had an accent just like Elena’s. “Gee, I hope I’m not where I shouldn’t be. I was looking for someplace cool and quiet, and…well, the roses just smelled so good….”

“No, no, it is quite all right.” Leila had been raised to be polite to her elders. She advanced, hand outstretched. “I am Leila Kamal. Please—do not get up.”

In spite of Leila’s assurance, the woman half rose and at the same time managed to execute an awkward sort of curtsey. “I’m Kitty.” And oddly, it was she who sounded out of breath, though it was Leila who had been running. “Elena’s friend.”

“Yes, I saw you last night at the banquet. You were talking with Mr. Gallagher.” Leila spoke slowly, absently. An idea was beginning to take shape in her head.

“That’s right!” Kitty looked pleased, perhaps flattered that Leila had noticed her. Then her pleasure changed to concern. “My, but you look warm. Would you like something cold to drink? There’s a lot more here than I’ll ever need.” She indicated a water-beaded pitcher and several glasses sitting on a tray on the glass-topped table an arm’s length away. “It’s some kind of fruit juice, I think—got a little bit of a bite to it. It’s not quite up to sweet tea, but it’s pretty good.”

“Thank you,” Leila said with an absent sigh, then gave the plain woman a friendly smile. “I have been watching the polo match. You do not care for polo?”

She sat down in a chair beside the table and only then realized she was still holding what was left of her hat. She glanced at it, frowning.

“Well, you know, it’s not really my sport. I’m more a Dallas Cowboys fan,” Kitty began apologetically, then gave a gasp of dismay as she, too, noticed Leila’s hat. “Oh, my goodness, what in the world happened? That’s a real shame.”

Leila shrugged and placed it on the tabletop. “The wind blew it onto the field and the horses trampled it,” she explained matter-of-factly as she poured herself a glass of the blend of pomegranate and grape juices. She sipped, and found it nicely chilled and just slightly fermented. She lowered her lashes, veiling her eyes, and casually added, “Elena’s friend—Mr. Gallagher—got it back for me.”

Kitty chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, that sounds like something Cade would do.”

Leila flashed her a look of what she hoped was only polite interest. “You know this Mr. Gallagher—Cade—very well?”

“Not real well, no—mostly through Elena.” But then Kitty gave a little smile and sort of waggled her shoulders as she settled back in her chair, reminding Leila so much of her favorite source of gossip, Nargis, that she almost laughed out loud. “He is a good-lookin’ man, though, isn’t he?”

“He is handsome,” Leila said in a considering tone, then made a brushing-aside gesture with her hand as she picked up her glass. “But surely such a handsome man must be married.”

Kitty shook her head, looking gleeful. “Uh-uh—he’s not.”

Leila glanced at her in surprise. “Really? Then…surely, someone special—a girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of.” The expression on Kitty’s face reminded Leila now of the palace cats—she all but purred. “Lots of girls, I imagine, but, nope—no one in particular. Elena would have told me if there was.”

“But that seems very strange,” Leila said, frowning. “What do you suppose is the reason? There must be some reason why a man of his age—he is what, thirty?”

“Thirty-six,” Kitty promptly supplied. “I know, because Elena told me he’s six years older than she is.” Thirty-six…ten years older than I am. But that is good—

Startled by the thought, Leila guiltily slammed it into a drawer, hidden far away in the back of her mind.

“Perhaps,” said Leila with a sniff, “he is not a good man.”

“Cade?” The other woman looked taken aback, even mildly affronted. Then she chuckled. “I’m not sure how you mean that, honey, but if you mean ‘good’ like in decent, honorable—that sort of thing—then I can pretty much tell you there’s probably not a better man alive. Cade Gallagher is so honest it’s scary. Oh, I hear he’s tough when it comes to business, but judging from the way I’ve seen him with Elena—” She interrupted herself to lean forward like a conspirator. “His parents are dead, you know, just like Elena’s—they’re all the family each other’s got.” She sat back with a little wave of her hand. “Anyway, as far as I can see, the man’s got a heart like a marshmallow.”