by Lori Wilde
“You’re damp again,” she said.
He was more than damp. Rain had pelted his bedsheet toga, soaking the front so thoroughly she could see dark shadows and unmistakable contours under the flimsy covering.
“So I am.” He looked down, then backed toward the bed.
His hair, dried to an unruly mass of dark-brown curls before he opened the door, was wetly black again, and she’d seen an outline of the royal anatomy that made the room seem as hot as a sauna.
“If you’ll kindly turn your back a moment...” he said.
“Sure.”
This couldn’t be happening. If she wrote about it, even the most gullible reader would think she’d made it up.
“You can turn around now.”
He’d discarded the sheet and wrapped himself in a fuzzy yellow blanket stripped from the bed, securing it under his arms so his shoulders were bare.
And what magnificent shoulders they were.
Nicer than any she could invent in a fantasy: bronzed from the sun with a light sprinkling of freckles and so sleekly muscled his flesh seemed carved from the finest marble. She looked away; she had to. The urge to stroke them with her fingertips was almost overwhelming.
He walked around the end of the bed and stopped a few steps from her.
“You look like a big chicken,” she teased, focusing on the part of him that was securely covered.
“You could at least have said rooster.” He moved away from the lantern into the shadows, apparently not pleased to have his dignity called into question.
She studied him.
“Why do you enjoy being a reporter?” he asked, startling her a bit. Had he suddenly realized she was a potentially interesting person?
“I love talking to people. The world sees the famous in terms of what they’ve accomplished. Sometimes I find surprisingly nice human beings behind the facades.”
“And sometimes not?”
“I could tell you about a folksy guitarist who made me watch his pet boa gulp down a poor little mouse—”
Suddenly there was a tremendous crash, one that made the floor shake.
She froze, unsure whether to run or crawl under the bed.
“What was that?” she gasped, her astonishment doubled when Max rushed over and put his arms around her.
Something ominous had happened out there. She did the natural thing: she hugged him back.
“You’ll be alright. Probably a tree,” he said in a low comforting voice, cradling her cheek against the fuzzy blanket.
How could she let him hold her like this? What kind of signal was she sending? He might even think the F-word: faking! Women probably played the damsel in distress for his benefit all the time.
“I’ll be fine.” She pulled away with the greatest reluctance. “You probably think I’m a sissy.”
“No.” He chuckled softly. “But if you’re trying to make me feel brave and protective, you’ve succeeded admirably.”
Before she could decide how to take that, the door blew open, slamming against the wall and letting the storm invade their precarious sanctuary.
He reacted instantly, getting behind it and forcing it shut with his shoulder.
“I thought I locked it.”
“You did.” She hung back.
“This time I’ll use the chain, but I can’t guarantee it’ll hold.”
“Prop the chair against it, too.” She tossed his trousers on the bed and carried the wooden-backed chair to the door.
“Can’t hurt,” he said, following her advice.
Leigh shuddered, wondering if the storm would ever pass. It was hard to believe they were only on the fringe of Hurricane Jeff.
“There’s one more thing we can do,” he said. He padded gingerly across the wet, faded blue carpet on bare feet.
“Get under the bed?” She tried not to think of what could happen on top of the bed.
“Close. I think the safest corner is over there. Help me move the mattress.”
“Our own little fortress?”
“Something like that.”
She helped him make a nest, spreading the remaining sheet and tossing down the two pillows. As an afterthought, she grabbed her duffel before huddling down in the corner behind the mattress.
“Can you think of anything else?” he asked before lowering himself beside her, still trailing the blanket.
She could think of several things, all of them involving more hugging. She could feel one of his long muscular legs against her calf, tickling her, creating its own kind of electricity. She remembered that the blanket was all he was wearing.
“You don’t need a change of clothes now,” he said, bumping against her duffel, “although I wish I could say the same thing.”
“My clothes are still in the car. This is just my travel bag.”
She dug into the bag, unintentionally letting him see her camera and tape recorder.
“I hope you don’t have any ideas about taking my picture.” He reached over and restrained both her hands with his.
She should have resented the gesture, but his fingers were more caressing than invasive. Imagine, a prince with hard, strong hands.
“I was going to share my emergency rations with you. There’s not much, but I didn’t expect to be stranded in a hurricane.”
He watched her suspiciously, his dark eyes following her every move as she handed him a can of soda and a plastic bag of trail mix. He didn’t relax until she zipped up the duffel and pushed it aside.
They sipped and nibbled, and she tried to watch him in the dim light without seeming to stare. She caught a faint whiff of spicy aftershave, although it seemed improbable that even a trace remained after his drenchings. Maybe a really good men’s scent permeated the skin and released fragrance almost forever. Or maybe he was just the nicest-smelling man she’d ever met—even wrapped in a fuzzy old blanket. She had an impulse to test her theories by snuggling against his shoulder and nuzzling the hollow of his throat. This situation would be wonderful if she wasn’t trying to get a story out of him.
The flickering glow of the lantern was the perfect setting for seduction, and she was a heart-stopping beauty. But Max wasn’t about to become romantically involved with a reporter, not even one who’d aroused him with a casual hug. He wanted to tell her to sit still; her squirming was driving him wild. In spite of his best intentions, he’d maneuvered himself closer, his bare arm brushing against her until it seemed only natural to rest it across her shoulders.
“If you don’t mind...” he said huskily.
“It certainly is crowded...”
Her hip was against his, and he wasn’t quite sure how that had happened.
“I think it’s a little quieter now,” he said after what seemed an extremely long interval broken only by a few inane remarks. “Surely the storm won’t rage like this all night.”
He prided himself on self-control, but sitting next to Leigh was a real test of his restraint. The evening was still young, but the space behind the mattress was extremely crowded.
She shifted position at the same moment he did, and somehow they were closer than before, her head cradled on his shoulder, her hair tickling his nose.
“The floor gets hard,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I suppose we really are safer behind the mattress.”
“No doubt.”
“That nasty little man should have boarded up his windows, instead of worrying about how much he could charge.”
“If he had, we wouldn’t need to worry about the windows blowing in.”
“Flying glass is a real danger,” she said.
He tightened his hold on her shoulder, letting his fingers caress her upper arm. “We’re safer here.”
Could he sit this way all night, holding her close, without doing something he’d regret? He tried hard not to think of her as a desirable woman. It wasn’t possible. Even if he closed his eyes, he could still sense the heat of her body. The intoxicating scent of her
skin was making him light-headed.
She was extraordinary in more ways than appearance and sensuality. How many women had such strong inner resources in a crisis? He had to admit she was quite a woman—still a reporter, but certainly a cut above the tabloid writers. She wouldn’t be a bad person to interview him. In fact, she might be in a position to reverse some of the bad press he’d received, especially his playboy reputation.
The wind battering the small cottage was getting to him.
Acting on impulse, he cradled her in both arms, feeling a need to protect her—if only from himself. He had another impulse, risky but potentially helpful. There might be an arrangement that could do both of them some good.
“It won’t last forever,” he whispered close to her ear. “Why don’t you close your eyes and try to get some sleep?”
He shouldn’t be holding her, shouldn’t feel so content burying his nose in her hair and softly kneading her arm with his fingers. But when she relaxed against him, he felt a contentment that overrode his growing need. It was almost as satisfying as seducing her might be. Almost.
He was paying a price for his tender ministrations, stirred to an arousal that was as untimely as it was unwanted. Why couldn’t she be something—anything—besides a reporter?
He distracted himself by mulling over his new idea, trying to find some disadvantages while she lay, drowsy and silent, in his arms. Satisfied he had a sensible, workable plan, he decided to sound her out, give her some time to make a decision. He wasn’t a man to hesitate when a good opportunity was in front of him, but he had no intention of pressuring her.
“I didn’t fully answer your question,” he said.
“My question?” she asked sleepily. It was clear she’d forgotten her quest for tidbits of gossip—for the moment.
“About why I was reading the tabloid.” He was committed now. All he had to do was convince her.
“You said it was to check on what they were saying about your cousin.”
“Yes, but I probably left you with the impression I was only concerned with her welfare.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Of course, but I have a selfish reason for being unhappy with her elopement. I’m in the States to look for venture capital. We’d like to lessen Schwanstein’s dependence on tourism.”
“What does that have to do with your cousin?” She sounded fully awake now.
“Darcy was going to help me—by running interference, you might say.”
“In what way?” She shifted slightly; he hoped she wouldn’t move away.
“If I travel with a temporary fiancée, it will save me from running a gauntlet of eligible females everywhere I go—”
“You want people to believe you’re engaged so you won’t be pursued by women?”
“That was the plan before Jose swept Darcy off her feet.”
Leigh laughed, relaxing even more in the crook of his arm. “Why don’t you get someone else?”
“Potential princesses are in short supply—especially one who wouldn’t take the charade too seriously.”
“You’ve just given me a hot lead for a story.”
Now he could tell when she was teasing.
“Have you ever considered doing anything besides writing? Say, acting?”
She left his embrace, getting up on her knees and trying to read his face in the gloom.
“Are you asking me...?”
“If you would consider helping me in this, I’ll reward you handsomely for your time, and it will be a relatively short trip.”
“I wouldn’t dream of playing your fiancée for any amount of money.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. The only requirement would be to appear at public functions with me. I wouldn’t presume—I wouldn’t expect—What I’m trying to say is, your virtue would be safe with me.”
“Oh, no. That’s something my grandfather would say. But I get your meaning.”
“I want you to know this is strictly a business proposition. If you aren’t interested in money...”
“I’ll do it.”
“You just said—”
“I won’t do it for money. I want an exclusive interview with you, one I can be proud of writing. No silly fluff piece or rehashed rumors.
“I haven’t granted a formal interview to an American reporter since that false report of an affair with the actress—”
“I know you’re justified in resenting an outright lie like that,” she interrupted. “But dozens of men have been linked with her. Her name sells papers. You didn’t have to take it personally.”
“I take my reputation very personally.”
“I won’t do a hatchet job, but I won’t do a vanity piece, either. If you expect me to make you look like a cross between Sir Galahad and Captain Wonder...”
“Are you good enough to do that?”
She seemed to consider the question for a moment. “Yes, I am.”
“Modesty isn’t one of your virtues.”
“False modesty isn’t.” She grinned wickedly. “You don’t seem to be suffering from low self-esteem yourself.”
“No, but I suspect you’re going to work on that.”
“Will I have the opportunity?”
“Yes. I do have one other stipulation.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“You can’t use social media for the duration of our engagement.”
She paused, considering. “Deal.”
“Then I agree to your terms. A serious interview in exchange for posing as my fiancée for a brief period. When I leave for home, you may announce that you terminated the engagement.”
“Prince dumped by reporter?”
“If that’s how you want to present it.”
“I’d rather just fade from the picture. I do have a life of my own.”
“You don’t already have a fiancé, do you? Or a significant other who might be unduly upset?”
“No, and as luck would have it, my mother just left for two weeks at my brother’s vacation home in the Caribbean. With any luck at all, they won’t hear about my ‘engagement’ until it’s over.”
Now he did smile. He’d just done an outrageously foolish thing, but he felt good about it.
The wind died down, leaving only the sound of rain beating on the roof. They could leave soon, but he wasn’t in any hurry.
3
Leigh wondered if the Fairy Godmothers’ Union knew about Albert.
At just under six feet, Max’s valet weighed in around 240, most of it solid muscle. No doubt he could lay out a would-be attacker as easily as he did the prince’s wardrobe. And this was the man who was going to turn her into princess material.
She looked around her suite in the Conquistador Hotel while Albert found an inconspicuous spot to stow her plebeian travel gear. She’d never been in a place that looked less like a hotel room.
Real oil paintings decorated the walls, including one of a Renaissance masked ball, which hung over the bed. The windows had shimmering silver and burgundy draperies, and sliding glass doors led to a balcony with a chaise longue and potted plants.
If this was a dream, she didn’t want to wake up.
Yesterday morning she’d been driving through pouring rain on the highway, hoping to catch up with the elusive Prince Maximilian. Twenty-four hours later she was his guest in Paradise Beach and turned over to Albert, who was supposed to transform her from girl reporter to royal bride-to-be.
“If you need anything at all, miss, please call me in room 1210.” He managed to give the impression of bowing without actually inclining his top-heavy body. “I’m going to make the arrangements for this afternoon.”
“I thought we had to shop.”
“Yes, miss. I’ll have a luncheon tray sent to your suite, and we’ll depart at one o’clock.”
His English was as fluent as the prince’s, but his accent was much more pronounced. When he said one o’clock, she was pretty sure he meant exactly one o’clock. She was trying n
ot to be intimidated, concentrating on his drooping mustache and the thin strands of pale hair carefully plastered to his large skull. But comical he wasn’t, not impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit with a black brocade vest, gray silk pinstripe tie and starched white shirt. He made her feel like flotsam washed ashore by the storm.
After a night of restless sleep, mostly spent cowering behind the mattress using Max’s shoulder as a pillow, she’d hurriedly gotten ready to leave without benefit of a brush or makeup. By the time the prince made arrangements to have her car towed to a garage and drove them to Paradise Beach, she was grubby enough to deserve Albert’s politely masked disdain.
Fortunately, as Max had driven north, the storm damage had lessened. After one minor detour, they arrived in mid-morning with their deal more or less worked out.
He agreed to answer every reasonable question when she interviewed him. In return she had to promise not to tell anyone—with the possible exception of her editor, if necessary—that she was only pretending to be his fiancée.
Of course, she’d have to phone into the office from time to time, but Waverly would have to trust her. She was on to something big and that was all she could tell him.
Max had brought up the subject of her wardrobe, or lack thereof, rattling off a list of social engagements that made her head spin. Even if there had been time to go home for more clothes, she was woefully lacking in the ball gown department. She’d adamantly refused to let him buy clothes for her until they reached a compromise: after her stint as his fiancée, the whole wardrobe would go to a charity resale shop.
She had until tomorrow evening to complete her Cinderella transformation. That was where Albert came in. He was serving as combination genie and drill sergeant, preparing her to enter the world of the pampered rich. He was as autocratic as he was well mannered; if he told her to drop to the floor and give him ten pushups, she’d probably have done it.
She rushed to shower and wax—heaven forbid some salesclerk should see her leg stubble. She hoped Albert wouldn’t be embarrassed if she wore her midcalf-length rust skirt with a casual top. All she’d brought were work clothes.