Mouse over the cover to see
the hero, Walker Shaw
Silhouette Intimate Moments (SIM) #1424
(book 4 of the Capturing the Crown series)
Do fairy tales come true?
Once upon a time there was a beautiful doctor, Lady Zara Smith, living in the island kingdom of Silvershire. One day a bomb goes off, nearly killing her, and she suddenly finds herself in the center of a deadly royal palace intrigue, complete with poisoned princes, nasty villains, hit-and-run drivers, hidden passages, frightening visions and buried secrets. But she canâ€™t remember why anyone would want to see her dead….
Enter one handsome Cinderella knight: Dr. Walker Shaw, who arrives to help cure our Ladyâ€™s temporary amnesia. But the sexy psychiatrist has his own problems. A false accusation has ended his illustrious medical career, throwing him into professional disgrace. And a commoner with a murky past has no chance for a relationship with the noble Lady Zara.
Or does he…?
The Royal Palace, Silverton, in the country of Silvershire
Dr. Walker Shaw tried to look somber and professional accompanying His Grace, Russell Duke of Carrington, the acting regent of the tiny country of Silvershire, as they strolled through the imposing halls of the Royal Palace toward the medical wing. After all, he was here on official business. Walkerâ€™s appearance might be a tad disreputable, and his accent slow and lazy as molasses, but his credentials as a consultant with the elite Lazlo Group were sterling enough to regularly be admitted to places mere mortals rarely visited. Places such as this.
It was not appropriate to be wearing the roguish grin of a man with nothinâ€™ but romance on his mind.
But he simply couldnâ€™t help himself. Heâ€™d been fantasizing about coming to the quaint island kingdom of Silvershire for seven years now. To track down and charm the exquisitely sexy and mysterious Lady Sarah–with any luck right into his bed–as heâ€™d done so memorably all those years ago at that medical conference in Italy.
Lord willing, she was still living in her native land. And single.
â€śI understand your specialty is memory loss,â€ť Lord Carrington said, yanking Walker from a particularly vivid memory of Lady Sarahâ€™s delicious behind bending over a breakfast tray.
â€śThatâ€™s right,â€ť he answered, shifting smoothly into his professional persona. â€śMainly as relates to advancing age and dementia.â€ť
As a doctor of psychiatry, Walker had spent the better part of his adult life researching the affliction in the elderly. In his flourishing practice, he had treated patients with all kinds of memory loss resulting from everything from psychological trauma to physical accident to Alzheimerâ€™s. Medical research hadnâ€™t been his job, it had been his calling.
Well. Until the ugly scandal that had tanked his meteoric career three years earlier put an end to all that.
â€śI trust it wonâ€™t matter,â€ť Lord Carrington said, â€śif your patient here is all of thirty-four?â€ť
Walker hardly registered the quick churl of regret at the word â€śpatient.â€ť He certainly didnâ€™t bother to correct it. What the hell. He had moved on. And the life he had now was far more relaxed than the one heâ€™d had as an overworked doctor. He was even doing much of the same kind of work–minus the research, of course. With the Lazlo Group he consulted on fascinating cases by day and had lots of free time by night. Heâ€™d be a fool to miss his old life.
â€śNot at all,â€ť Walker said, turning his attention to his newest assignment. â€śI understand she was injured in the assassination attempt on King Weston.â€ť
â€śThe palace bombing, yes.â€ť
â€śA terrible thing. Sheâ€™s a doctor, isnâ€™t she?â€ť
Lord Carrington nodded. â€śDr. Zara Smith.â€ť
â€śThe renowned neurosurgeon?â€ť Walker asked, vaguely surprised. Though theyâ€™d never met, heâ€™d read a couple of her papers in the journals. Intelligent woman.
â€śSheâ€™s been treating the kingâ€™s brain tumor. She sustained her head injury saving his life during the blast.â€ť
â€śHow did it happen, exactly?â€ť
â€śUnder the plaster, the palace walls are made of stone,â€ť Carrington said. â€śSeveral dislodged in the explosion, and one of them caught her in the temple. She remembers nothing. Not even her own name.â€ť
Walker thought about the relative merits of being able to forget oneâ€™s past so completely. There had been days over the past three years heâ€™d have gladly traded places with her. But no more. Heâ€™d made peace with his demons.
Besides, not for anything would he give up the memory of a certain auburn-haired young lady stretching across an elaborately carved feather bed, bathed in the glow of the magical Italian dawn. If he couldnâ€™t remember her, how could he find her?
â€śHas Dr. Smith regained consciousness?â€ť he asked, getting back to point. The sooner he dealt with this, the sooner he could start looking. And hopefully fill some of those free nights he had…
â€śShe woke the next day. Her physical injuries are nearly healed now. Itâ€™s just the memory that is lacking.â€ť The dukeâ€™s long-legged stride slowed. â€śThatâ€™s why we need your help. Weâ€™re anxious to have her remember as quickly as possible, so sheâ€™ll be able to tell us more about the bombing. Weâ€™re hoping she saw something. Perhaps even the perpetrators.â€ť The future kingâ€™s eyes sought his. The weight of grave concern and heavy responsibility were clearly etched in his young face. â€śWe need to catch these traitors. Silvershire is already in an uproar over the death of Prince Reginald. And now this vile attempt on the life of our king. The stability of my country could very well depend upon the information Dr. Smith might give us.â€ť
Walker returned his gaze steadily. â€śI understand.â€ť
Corbett Lazlo, Walkerâ€™s boss, had given him a bit of background on the situation before sending him in. Crown Prince Reginald had been found murdered at his lavish country estateâ€”poisoned by coLandon spiked with digitalis–and there had been all sorts of speculation in the press about who might have killed Reginald, and why. At the moment the leading contenders were The Union For Democracy, a radical anti-monarchy group that had been steadily gaining political clout over the past decades, and Lord Carrington himself.
In addition to clout, the UD had also been increasingly accepting of violence as a vehicle for political change. On the other hand, before the murder, Russell, Duke of Carrington, unrelated to the present king, had been third in line for the monarchy. Now heâ€™d not only moved up to the second spot, heâ€™d also hastily married the crown princeâ€™s fiancĂ©e and then become acting regent when King Weston collapsed. Two months from now, due to an ancient, quirky law that mandated the ascension of the heir to the throne upon his thirtieth birthday, Carrington would be crowned king of Silvershire.
It all seemed a little too convenient to the countryâ€™s rumor-mongers and particularly the local weekly tabloid, The Inquisitor, popularly dubbed the Quiz.
Still, the Lazlo Groupâ€™s money was on the UD and not the duke, who seemed sincerely reluctant to becoming king. It was he whoâ€™d hired them to investigate both the princeâ€™s murder and the attempt on King Westonâ€™s life. But it would be nice to have proof of his innocence in the tangled intrigue. Walker could see why Carrington was anxious for Dr. Smith to recover her memory, if he was innocent.
â€śHow long has it been since the bombing?â€ť he asked.
â€śJust over a week.â€ť
Walker pursed his lips consideringly as they passed through a magnificent gilded hall filled with mirrors and tapestries, huge paintings and windows overlooking a formal courtyard garden. A week wasnâ€™t all that long. Heâ€™d seen cases where it took a year or more for the memories to return. â€śSheâ€™s remembered nothing at all?â€ť
â€śAnd your physicians have ruled out any lingering physical injury?â€ť
â€śTheir examinations have been meticulous. Can you help her, Dr. Shaw?â€ť
â€śIâ€™ll certainly try,â€ť he said, knowing better than to promise anything. The mind was as unpredictable as the weather in a South Carolina springtime. As they approached the palace medical wing, Walker added, â€śBut thereâ€™s one thing I need to insist on.â€ť
â€śAnything. Just name it.â€ť
â€śThe way I work requires that the subject not be told anything about their former life other than whatâ€™s strictly necessary. Has anyone talked to Dr. Smith about her background?â€ť
Carrington shook his head. â€śJust her name, nothing else. Corbett Lazlo already made that recommendation. She hasnâ€™t been allowed to watch the news or read the papers, since she has been all over both since the blast. I even managed to dissuade her family from visiting her yet, though it wasnâ€™t easy. Her father is the Marquess of Daneby, one of the most influential men and highest ranking nobles in the country.â€ť
â€śI appreciate his cooperation. The reason for the precaution is to prevent false memories. It can be hard for amnesia victims to distinguish between something they are told and a true memory. We donâ€™t want to influence Dr. Smithâ€™s recollections in any way.â€ť
â€śNo, of course not.â€ť
Theyâ€™d arrived in the medical wing, and Walker glanced around at the compact facility, modern and crisply white. The nursesâ€™ station was manned by a rosy-cheeked matron named Emily, whose smile lines indicated she was usually a lot more cheerful than she appeared today. There was a short bank of blinking monitors, cozy furniture and a couple of framed paintings of flowers. No signs of fire or debris.
â€śYouâ€™ve already made repairs from the explosion?â€ť he asked, surprised Corbett would have allowed that.
â€śGood God, no,â€ť Carrington said, indicating a hallway to their right. â€śThe room where the bomb went off is down at the end. We havenâ€™t touched anything, since the investigation is ongoing.â€ť He swept a hand in an all-encompassing gesture. â€śDamage was pretty much confined to King Westonâ€™s recovery room and Dr. Smithâ€™s connecting office and lab. The stone walls are over three feet thick.â€ť
â€śIs that a fact?â€ť Walker hid a smile, recalling a similar comment by the nubile Lady Sarah concerning the walls of the Florence palazzo where they were staying. And theyâ€™d been grateful for every sound-dampening inch. â€śIâ€™m surprised anyone even heard the explosion.â€ť
They arrived at a closed door and Carrington halted. â€śThis is Dr. Smithâ€™s room. Would you like me to go in with you?â€ť
â€śIâ€™m sure your schedule is more than full, Your Grace, so I wonâ€™t keep you any longer. Thank you for meeting with me.â€ť
With a formal nod and an offer of any further assistance, Carrington strode purposefully back down the hall.
Walker watched him round the corner, then he turned to the door in front of him and took a deep breath. After a quick knock, he entered the room and stood in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. The lace curtains were drawn, but the sun was setting on the other side of the palace, throwing the interior of the room into a misty sort of soft focus.
On the tidy bed lay a woman, her long, loose auburn hair spreading across the pillow.
His body gave a jolt of surprise. Or maybe of primal recognition. There was something about that hair…
His mind was still working in slow-motion when her face turned toward him.
He froze, welded to the spot, his entire being shocked to the core.
Sweet merciful heaven.
It was her.
There on the sterile hospital bed lay his delectable Lady Sarah. No longer a young ingĂ©nue, but all grown up and sexier than ever, her mouthwateringly curvy body ill-concealed under the thin white sheet, her beautiful face pale and fragile, her sensual eyes wide with apprehension.
She gazed right at him.
Without an ounce of recognition.