“Frankie—”
She pointed at a violet sun hat wreathed in a yellow ribbon and angled her head with a questioning smile. “Don’t use my name.”
“What do you want me to call you?” he asked, doing his best not to frown. Frankie smiled so rarely that he wanted to bask in this moment. But it wasn’t right. It was too . . . sweet. Soft and open. That wasn’t how Frankie smiled. She revealed her amusement with a hard grin, quick and sharp, leaving a bite mark on his heart.
“Don’t call me anything. It won’t matter.” She reached out, bottom lip disappearing between her teeth as she made a show of tentatively tugging the brim of his cap lower and sliding her fingertips up into his hairline, pressing escapee strands out of sight. Then she pulled back and eyed him beneath her lashes. “I listen every time you speak.”
“Are you—?” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. Had that admission been part of her act? “This is so weird.”
“Can you do it?” Her expression was composed, attention idly following an evening cyclist that rode past, but the question was quiet, fierce, cutting through her façade. “We’re not going inside if you’ll give us away.”
Resolve formed a band around his chest. If she believed the hotel guy was worth all this effort, Kris wasn’t going mess it up. “I can do it.”
“Don’t act like a prince. Don’t act like a cowboy. Don’t act like you’ve never seen me before. We’re on a date. You know me. Got it?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” he murmured, and reaching out, he laced his fingers through hers and drew her hand up to his mouth. Her wide, thick-lashed eyes darted to his as he slowly kissed each of her knuckles, his tongue sliding over her skin. “It’ll be easy—you taste exactly like the woman I want to date.”
He pretended not to notice the pain that flashed in her eyes.
She withdrew her hand to adjust her necklace as they made their way to the crowded bar. Once they were seated at a table for two against the far wall, she angled her chair to sit with her back to the room, and Kris let the shadows of this rear corner conceal his features beneath the cap. Instead of beer, he ordered a whiskey on the rocks and Frankie ordered a white wine—after she’d confirmed the region and vintage.
Once again, her posture was faultless, shoulders settled just so and her spine an elegant line. Her forward lean granted him permission to admire her breasts, an unspoken flirtation that betrayed the date was going well. Picking up her glass and smiling across at him, she said, “This is nice.”
Forcibly reminding himself it was an act, he did his damnedest not to look and replied, “One word for it.” His smile was slow as he leaned back, stretching one leg out so his polished black shoe was beneath her chair and his knee brushed against hers. “Where did you get that dress?”
“Hanna. She made it herself.” She angled her head, patting the back of her headscarf. “And she borrowed this from Gul.”
“I like that color on you. It makes the green in your eyes look darker.”
Setting her wine on the table, she ran a fingertip along the glass lip. “You might have noticed that he’s sitting in a booth by the window. With a different woman.”
Resting his head against the wall behind him, Kris swung his gaze toward the front of the bar and took a moment to assess the man properly. Roughly in his early fifties, he was of average build but in great shape. Easily good-looking, handsome really, with a kind face and ginger hair that was greying around his temples. The man laughed, effused with warmth and affection, and then raised a hand to his chest in apparent surprise as he glanced across at his companion. Surprised to be laughing?
He should be, playing two women like a stacked deck of cards.
“Stop looking,” Frankie said quietly, pressing him with her knee.
He swirled his glass, ice clinking. “Who is he?”
“The woman he’s with is Isadora Moretti. Filthy rich, widowed, and missing her daughter who recently moved out of home to attend college at Cambridge. She’s a woman who can afford the penthouse suite at the most luxe lakefront hotel in Kiraly but wants to experience a taste of local life.”
Hence her presence in an average bar on a Monday night.
“Okay,” Kris said.
“You see how endearing he is, how genuine,” she said, fingers moving in little starburst gestures, so anyone watching would see her animated conversation. Her stare, however, was focused on Kris’s chin and it occurred to him that she wasn’t blinking enough. “By the time she returns to Italy in another three weeks, she’ll find herself short several hundred thousand dollars. I’m not sure of his sob story, and a smart woman like her will probably take a night to sleep on his request, but she’ll transfer him the funds he needs. And she’ll never be able to track him or the money.”
His brows rose. She dug fast. “How does he connect to—everything?”
She laughed, airy and light. “The woman he was with earlier is Clare-Marie Bromley. She was a principal ballet dancer with The Australian Ballet for over ten years and is now artistic director. She will also return home to find the generosity she showed her international lover will never be repaid.”
Incredulous, Kris leaned forward to rest his forearms on the table. “Wait a second.” He lowered his voice. “He’s a con man?”
She seemed to reel, just a little, at his words. A hand rose to toy with the scarf above her ear. “Yes.”
“Is this all he does?” He swirled his whiskey as casually as he could. “Romance scams?”
“No,” she said, very quietly.
“Has he ever been caught?”
“Once.” Pausing, she raised her glass and sipped. Then sipped again. “About ten years ago. A minor swindle that saw him serve two months in prison. A disgrace, really, for a man of his skill to be caught like a gutter grifter.”
“So he’s good?”
Now he was sure she wasn’t blinking enough as she stared at the brim of his hat. “Very.”
“Someone like that could have easily got into the palace.” It made sense. A master manipulator made an effective criminal. Why break in or sneak around when he could be invited in the front door? “If he’s played the right people, he could have accessed almost anything. Anyone.” A revolted kind of fascination had Kris sweeping another glance at the booth. The man was seated at the front window, shamelessly courting another woman in plain view. Or not shameless—rather, so sure of his plans and the people twisted around his finger, he knew the ballerina would not come this way. Knew he wouldn’t get caught. “Do we know how he feels about the monarchy?”
After a beat, she nodded.
Kris blew out a rough breath. “How did you find him?”
“I’ll explain when he’s gone.”
“Gone?” Urgency pushed him farther forward. “You’re just going to let him leave?”
“I’d happily kick his ass on the way out, but yes, for now.” She picked up her wine—and finished it in several long swallows. Despite her sophisticated air, her nerves were starting to show. Did she suspect how this con man fit into the investigation but lacked enough evidence? When she set her glass down, Kris swiped up her hand and found it trembling.