To Kiss a King - NIcole Burnham Page 0,32

movers and shakers of San Rimini would see that she could not only fill Rich Cartwright’s role, she could improve upon it.

“All right,” Eduardo said. “You have a deal.”

She could hardly believe it. She even heard the doubt in her tone as she repeated, “I get the support of those four parliamentarians and you’ll introduce legislation to parliament to fund the education program and support sending teachers from San Rimini. That’s the agreement?”

“Yes.”

He stood and reached across the table. Claire couldn’t get out of her seat fast enough. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

His grin made her heart soar. Then there was his touch, the handshake held longer than necessary. Anyone watching them would have done so with wide eyes and a sharp intake of breath.

When he finally let go, Claire’s insides did a hard flip.

She might have won the evening, but she was in deep, deep trouble.

Chapter 8

A battered cribbage board rested between King Eduardo diTalora and Count Giovanni Sozzani. They sat at the same table where Eduardo had enjoyed dinner with Claire only twenty-four hours earlier. As Giovanni opened a deck of cards, Eduardo poured whiskey into a pair of crystal tumblers.

The cribbage board had once belonged to Giovanni’s grandfather. When Eduardo and Giovanni were seventeen, Giovanni’s grandfather was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The boys had gone to visit him at the hospital a few days before he entered hospice. Giovanni had indulged his grandfather’s request to play a game of cribbage, though he had no idea what to do.

When Giovanni’s grandfather passed away two weeks later, the cribbage board was on his bedside table along with a note: Giovanni, this is yours. Play with your future king. Teach him something. Learn something from him.

And so they did.

The boys found a book on cribbage, spent time learning the basics, and played a few games before abandoning it for more interesting pursuits. But one night, during their final year at university, Giovanni had appeared at Eduardo’s door with the board tucked under one arm and a half-empty bottle of whiskey he’d nabbed from his parents’ liquor cabinet the previous weekend in his other hand.

Giovanni’s girlfriend of three years had left him for a Spaniard she’d met at a party the night before. Giovanni needed a mindless pursuit.

“Cribbage is not mindless,” Eduardo had informed his friend.

Giovanni had raised the bottle. “It can be.”

He’d stared at Giovanni. “She met him at a party?”

“After five minutes of conversation, she realized that he is the man for her and I am not. I suspect—though I did not confirm—that she took him back to her flat to validate this newfound knowledge.”

Eduardo had grabbed the bottle of whiskey. “I’ll make yours a double. We’ll need a deck of cards.”

“Have one in my back pocket.”

The pair soon became addicted to what their friends considered a quaint hobby. At least once a month, usually on a Sunday, Eduardo and Giovanni met and played cribbage. All these years later, they used the same board, though a few of its pegs were discolored and the wood around nearly every hole showed scrapes. Before each game, they toasted Giovanni’s grandfather.

Eduardo handed Giovanni a tumbler. They raised their glasses, then sipped. The liquid worked its magic on Eduardo in an instant. He relaxed into his chair, closed his eyes for a moment, and savored.

Sunday nights were his favorite. It was as if the entire country stilled for a weekly moment of reflection. Museums, shops, the aquarium, and most restaurants closed early. Tourists often used Sundays as a travel day, so the sidewalks stayed relatively uncrowded. Casino spotlights were prohibited from splitting the night sky and the predominant sounds were that of the sea breeze, the birds, and the occasional tolling of church bells.

The palace was also quiet, with all but essential staff at home. His children—and their children—usually spent the evening ensconced in their own palace apartments.

“What is this?” Giovanni asked as he tilted his glass to inspect his whiskey. “It’s different than your usual.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Neither. It’s different. Like eating rotini with pesto one day and puttanesca the next. This whiskey has more smoke to it. Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift.”

They drew to determine who would deal first. Eduardo had the low card, a four of hearts to Giovanni’s king of diamonds. He picked up the deck to shuffle as Giovanni reached for the whiskey bottle. “New Mexico? I’ve never heard of whiskey from New Mexico. That’s the United States, not Mexico itself, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Hmm.” Giovanni spun the