A Royal Con (EBOOK)

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Chapter 1

“Savvy…?”
“Um, oh, right. What was that? Could you repeat the question?”
“We could take a break. Get some fresh air.”
“No, no. I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Okay, then. We have a list of charges here. Attempted murder at the top.”
“Hmm.”
“Savvy…?”
“Right. Yes.”
“Do you want a cup of coffee? Water?”
“Nope. What was the question? Oh, right. Attempted murder.”

Chapter 2

Scrabble was a tradition, and not one to be taken lightly with Malcolm or his family. Especially since his family came from a line of assassins.
Not that I expected to be threatened over my use of letter tiles. Or snuffed out by quick thinking and my ability to use the triple word score to my advantage. But I’d trade it all in to get a look inside Malcolm’s head.
“Your move.” He lifted his heated gaze that said he’d rather be doing something other than placing tiles on a board.
He was still as handsome as the day I met him in Paris. Dark hair swept across his forehead. His eyes, flecked with charcoal, hooked me every time, and that grin, it challenged and flirted and charmed every time he flashed it. My heart still beat faster, even after three years of married life. Now, we lived with his parents in their home on Long Island.
I returned his heated gaze. “Patience, my dear. You can’t rush genius.”
In fact, I was the one who needed patience. For weeks, something had been bothering him, and I was determined to figure out what.
With a mischievous grin, I placed the letter Q on the board.
“Hmm. Very interesting.” His gaze swept the board, his forehead creased in thought.
“How’s work been?” I prodded.
He wielded an S on the opposite side of the board, building his own little word empire. “Fine.”
“That’s a brush off if I’ve ever heard one.” I placed the letter U next to the Q.
“Brush off?” He acted surprised. “Never.” His eyes told a different story.
This cat and mouse game continued. Me trying to dig deeper. Him using humor and witty banter as weapons.
What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t see, was that this whole game had been a test. In between turns and his cryptic answers, I studied him. His posture, tone of voice, whether he slouched or not, his enthusiasm, and most importantly, his effort, how hard he tried to beat me. It was the perfect barometer of his mood and focus.
And tonight, he was lacking.
After several more turns, I finished what I started with the word, Q-U-E-S-T-I-O-N. “I’ve got one for you.”
“What?” he murmured.
Then I studied his expression, the slight slump in his posture, and I couldn’t ask it. Everything about him said, I’m not ready. Not yet. I need more time.
I pushed back from the table. “Want some ice cream? Something with chocolate and cookie chunks.”
“Sure. Sounds good.” Then, without even realizing it, he let out a small sigh.
The sign that something deeper troubled him. Possibly something he couldn’t admit.
I had questions, but whether he wanted ice cream or not wasn’t the one weighing on my heart, not the one I really wanted to ask.