by Lori Wilde
But he’d managed to spoil her mood. This ball wasn’t a romantic encounter; he was taking her for show. Probably her real job for him began tonight. She hated even thinking about the crowds of women who would be vying for his attention.
“Women often fault me for being too much of a realist, but I do have my lapses,” he said. “We’re making one stop before the ball. I’m sorry for the delay, but you needn’t come in. I’ll be as quick as possible.”
She wasn’t wearing a watch, but she knew the ball had already begun. Earlier Albert had said something about the first dance, but she wasn’t clear whether that meant no one could dance until Max officially began the festivities.
Max’s unscheduled stop seemed even odder when the limo driver pulled near the main entrance of the CCH. Apparently, there were royal privileges even at a children’s hospital. Hans and the driver got out and lounged near the hood, leaving the limo in the No Parking zone, while Fred followed Max inside.
What was he doing? She imagined everything from punching the board chairman in the nose to donating blood for a suffering child. Whenever she thought she knew Max pretty well, he surprised her.
The two men strolled a few yards away and lit cigarettes, paying absolutely no attention to her. The rear door was open, letting in the pleasant evening air.
As quietly as she could, she slid across the seat and stepped out onto the pavement. A few people passed the limo with curious glances. There was enough foot traffic so her bodyguard might not hear her. She hiked up the train of her gown and dashed up the steps and into the hospital.
A pair of young doctors in green cotton scrubs gave her curious glances as she rushed past them, but no one challenged her.
Acting on a hunch, she found the bank of elevators they’d used earlier in the day, hoping to retrace the tour with Max. She exited on five, feeling more conspicuous here than in the lobby. She couldn’t think of any excuse, plausible or otherwise, for being there in a silver evening gown and velvet cape.
Luck was with her; no one at the nurses’ station noticed when she hurried down the corridor they’d taken earlier.
Some rooms were dark, but she peeped in the door wherever a light was still showing. It didn’t take long to find Max.
He was reading to the little girl he’d whispered to earlier in the day, so intent on the story between colorful covers that he didn’t see Leigh. She wanted it to stay that way, so she backed across the corridor. From her vantage point, she saw Max smile and point to a page, rewarded by a laugh from the child.
He’d put the ball on hold and come back to read a bedtime story. Her throat felt tight, and she wanted to rush into the room and take both of them in her arms. But Max would put a bad spin on her curiosity; he might even think she was spying on him for her article.
Rather than let that happen, she reluctantly crept away, then rushed toward the elevators. There were five—three on one side with the staff car and another public one across from them. She stabbed at the call button, but the overhead indicators showed every car either on the ground level or lower. She crossed to the opposite wall and pushed that button, then looked vainly around for a stairway.
One and then another elevator started moving upward, but Leigh wanted to stamp her foot at their slowness. What if someone were bleeding up here? Shouldn’t hospitals have fast elevators? A third one started moving upward; whoever heard of elevators traveling in packs?
She was being silly. Max wasn’t going to yell at her, but she wanted to get back to the limo before he saw her.
The door to her right slid open, and a woman with big daisies on her hospital smock maneuvered a cart full of complicated equipment out of the car. Leigh caught the door before the two sides slid together, slipping inside just as she saw Max coming toward the elevators.
She leaned on the lobby button all the way down, not that she could override commands from people waiting on the floors below. She just needed to be doing something. The elevator stopped once on the third floor, and an elderly couple shuffled in, blocking the door so she had no choice but to wait for them to get out before her on the ground level.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the car next to hers was on the second floor and still descending as she headed into the lobby. Max was probably in it.
She yanked up her train and ran for it.
It was dark outside, but only in comparison to the bright fluorescents in the reception area. Ahead she had her choice of the broad marble steps or the gently sloped ramp. She flung herself down the steps, praying she wouldn’t plunge headfirst and ruin her gown. She looked back to see if Max had come out of the elevator yet—then stumbled and sat down hard.
All she’d hurt was her dignity, but she’d lost a shoe in her haste to get down the steps, too. Heart pounding, she turned and saw dark trousers with a satin strip on the sides of the legs—a tux.
Max was standing above her, the lost shoe in the palm of his hand.
“Cinderella, I presume.”
Her cheeks flamed, and she opened her mouth to blurt out an excuse, any excuse, for having been in the hospital: thirst, restroom. No words came out.
Max came down to her level, and she couldn’t bring herself to lie. She’d spied on him in a beautiful tender moment, and she didn’t want to tarnish it with lame excuses. She braced herself for the worst, then Max went down on one knee in front of her.
She stood, lopsided on one heel, frozen with embarrassment. She didn’t want him to think she was a nosy royalty-stalking journalist.
He reached out, letting his fingers rest lightly on the side of her ankle. Slowly, he gripped the back of her heel, gently cupping it as he lifted her foot from the ground. His touch was so steadying she stood on one foot with perfect balance, reaching out to him with her heart but not her hands.
He lingered, sliding his palm under her sole, seemingly reluctant to release it. His fingers locked around her toes, warming flesh cold from contact with the pavement.
Moving in slow motion, he brought the shoe to her foot and slid the strap over it.
She tingled from the tips of her toes to the swell of her calf, and then he rose and stood looking down at her. She felt sure more than kindness had brought him to his knees.
“Your dancing slipper, my lady.”
He intended to say something frivolous to dispel the passion smoldering between them, but his mind was clouded by the impact of holding her small delicate foot in his hand. He’d wanted to run his hand upward over her shapely nylon-clad leg and caress the roundness of her calf, the hollow behind her knee, the soft tender flesh where her thighs came together.
Her voice seemed to come from another dimension when she murmured her thanks.
“I saw you reading. It was so sweet of you. Will you forgive me for following you?”
“You’re forgiven.” He took her gloved hand and brought it to his lips, but he didn’t want cloth between his skin and hers. He undid the tiny buttons, feeling awkward but accomplishing his task, and peeled back the pristine white gloves.
He didn’t kiss her fingers—it was enough to press his lips against each smooth knuckle. Enough for now.
“The orchestra is waiting for us,” he said softly, but for him the music had already begun.
And for Leigh, the evening was already perfect. She was so dazzled by the man beside her she hardly saw the posh Grand Ballroom of the Camelot Hotel. Women in silver and gold, gaudy or elegant as their taste dictated, seemed to float on the arms of their escorts, but Leigh discovered what it meant to have eyes for only one person.
She looked at her hand and realized she’d been given a glittering silver mask. Max slipped his on, then carefully took hers and worked it over her elaborately upswept curls.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.
For this one golden moment she believed him.
Max made excuses on every side for his tardiness, but no one seemed to mind it. He was besieged by glamorous
sophisticated women and their self-confident poised escorts, people who blossomed in his presence with smiles and smooth words.
The orchestra had indeed been waiting for Prince Maximilian and his fiancée to begin the dancing. They were alone in the middle of a huge, highly waxed floor when the conductor gave the signal to begin.
She’d worried for days that she wasn’t graceful enough, rhythmic enough, to dance with a prince. She’d learned a few moves in middle school gym classes; everything else she knew about dancing was instinctive, picked up in bits and pieces. She didn’t do any steps that had a name.
The orchestra began with a waltz. She closed her eyes and let the music flow through her, then she was in Max’s arms, her train held high by the wrist ribbon, whirling in perfect harmony with the music.
With his strong hand on her waist, she couldn’t misstep. They flowed across the floor, and she didn’t even notice when other couples joined them.
“You dance like an angel,” he said, holding her close and making her feel more cherished than she’d ever felt in her life.
With their masks on, they seemed like two other people. She wanted them to be those people forever, but she was quickly reminded that even here the prince had obligations.
He danced with beautiful young women and elegant older ones, while she was shuffled around the floor by an army of moist-palmed, buff and hardy men.
She wanted to be with Max, no one but Max. She watched him whenever she could and longed for him every moment of the evening. When he was able to claim her for a dance, she was in paradise.
At midnight everyone removed the glittery satin masks, and she asked Max to tuck hers in his pocket.
“For a souvenir,” she said, saddened because it was him she wanted to keep, not a little party favor.
“Would you like mine, too?”
“Yes, please.” Maybe she’d frame them so some part of them would always be together.
He escorted her to a sumptuous midnight buffet where he fed her caviar on a heart-shaped cracker and edged his chair so close their legs intertwined under cover of the linen tablecloth.
Afterward, the orchestra played again, and all the important demanding people who’d kept them apart earlier in the evening seemed to vanish. Or maybe they were restrained by the way the prince held his fiancée when they danced.
“It’s been a wonderful night,” he said, holding her against his shoulder as they danced.
“Yes, it has.”
“I don’t want it to end.”
“I guess everything has to sooner or later.”
She wanted him to deny it. The princess thing wasn’t impossible. She was willing to dance with clods in hiking boots and eat octopus eyes on crackers if that was what it took. Albert could give her lessons on how to walk, talk, and arrange flowers for the palace tables. She was more than agreeable to having Schwanstein history drilled into her until her brain suffered information overload. Why couldn’t Max see she had potential if nothing else?
“I’m afraid it’s time to leave,” he said all too soon. He held her tighter.
“If only they’d play one more piece.”
He didn’t ask why. With a flick of his finger, he brought Hans to his side.
“Please request one more waltz and give the orchestra my compliments,” he said.
Max’s arms closed around her, and she knew this was the happiest moment of her life.
8
After the ball, Cinderella went back to sweeping the hearth, Leigh recalled as she walked toward the workout room in the basement of the Dallas Ali Baba Hotel. Now her own magical evening was over, and compared to sucking in soot, a little exercise wasn’t so bad.
Of course, Cinderella eventually got her prince, and that wasn’t going to happen to Leigh Bailey, reporter. So, while she had some time to kill, she might as well keep trim. All those fancy clothes had to fit for a few more days.
Maybe she’d dreamed the whole ball. Maybe Max had never asked for an extra waltz so he could hold her in his arms for a little longer.
“No way,” she said under her breath. It had been as real as the warmth of his hands when he put on her shoe. Just thinking about the sensual way his hands had caressed her foot made her ache with longing.
Since the ball, nothing. Hans had walked her to her room afterward; Albert had occupied the seat beside the prince on the plane trip to Dallas. Max hadn’t mentioned the Silver and Gold Ball not even once. It might never have happened.
At least he hadn’t brought up the hospital. What explanation could she give for spying on him and running out so fast she’d lost her shoe?
The morning after, before they left for Dallas, she’d been upset by a newspaper article criticizing him for arriving late at the ball. When she mentioned it, he’d shrugged it off.
“If we really were engaged, you’d have to develop thicker skin,” he’d told her.
She took it as his way of reminding her she wasn’t princess material. As if she didn’t know it.
She pushed open the heavy door that muffled the grunts and wheezes of body-conscious hotel guests and showed her room card to an attendant with pecs and abs to die for. Unfortunately, he also had a big beefy face and a pouty too-small mouth. Men just weren’t looking good to her lately.
Except for one.
Max was working on a weight machine, his torso bare above the waist. A moist sheen accentuated his golden tan and matted the silky dark hairs that disappeared under low-slung trunks. His cute little navel invited her to tease it with her pinkie, and she had an alarming urge to kneel beside him and cradle her cheek on one of his muscular thighs.
I hate you, Prince Maximilian Augustus Frederick, she thought, tempted to leave before he saw her. How could he look so great and be so charming and not share in the feelings consuming her? Didn’t he see what it was doing to her, pretending to be his fiancée and trying to be indifferent to the chemistry between them at the same time?
She had no one but herself to blame, and that made her even more upset. She hurried over to a rowing machine because it was placed so she wouldn’t have to look in his direction.
Max, however, had seen her come in, and he knew she was pretending not to see him. What was the little wench trying to pull now? She kept him so off balance he felt like a prisoner on a roller coaster. Leigh’s soft lips, sexy hips, and incredibly delightful chatter were all he could think about. He was in big trouble.
He forced himself to finish the repetitions he’d begun, then stood and rubbed down his chest and arms with a towel, draping it around his neck. His trunks were sticking damply to his buttocks; he was too sweaty to approach a lady, but he was drawn to Leigh like iron to a magnet.
Hans was taking a turn in the sauna, and Fred was making small talk with the hotel’s trainer. There was no one to distract him from approaching her.
He saw the energetic way she tugged on the oars, her shoulders knotting under a sleeveless top as she put all she had into her effort. There were exciting reserves of strength in her slender limbs, and he couldn’t hold back an image of her legs locked around him in passion.
He’d been prepared to seduce her after the ball, but the foil-wrapped packets were still tucked away in one of his cases, unopened but not forgotten. He’d been confident of success, sure that her consent would be wholehearted enough to keep his honor intact.
It wasn’t his promise not to take advantage of her that kept him from making love to her. Nor was it fear of rejection or recriminations. Those were reasons he could understand. What he felt was much more complicated. He felt protective, but at the same time he admired the way she could take care of herself. When he was near her, he was in an almost constant state of arousal, but the sight, sound, even the scent of other women left him totally indifferent.
Yesterday, when he’d tried to put distance between them by remaining aloof, speaking to her as little as possible, he suffered an even more intense longing. Separation was no solution for his yearning.
“Good morning, Your Highness.” She didn’t stop her rhythmic pulling.
“So formal. Have I done something to deserve it?”
She didn’t look up, allowing him to watch the jut of her breasts and the way a loose strand of honey-gold hair clung to her cheek. What pleasure it would be to carry her into the sauna and slowly peel off her bright-blue leotard. He wanted to see her fair skin flush from the dry heat and grow even pinker under his caresses.
He wanted her. It was that simple—and so complex he felt powerless.
“I’ve no idea what you’ve done. Don’t you have a meeting?” she asked nonchalantly.
“In an hour or so I’ll be conferring with some venture capitalists interested in Schwanstein’s high-tech potential. For a woman who loves to ask questions, you’re amazingly adroit at evading them. When did I stop being Max?”
She looked up, running her gaze down the length of his torso. He felt seared by the directness of her stare. He had absolutely no prudishness about his body, but she made him feel exposed.
He yanked on the towel around his neck and pulled it free, letting it hang in front of him as he patted his face and throat.
“Do you get tired of royal courtesies?” She stopped rowing and sat motionless, looking up at him.
“Another question, instead of an answer.”
“It’s what I do best.”
“I doubt that. You have other qualities—”
He clamped his mouth shut, knowing how it must feel to venture through a bog where every step could plunge you into quicksand.
“I’m going to ride the bike.” She was quick and nimble, on her feet before he could offer his hand.
“Have you tried the sauna here?” he asked.
It was an invitation, and she knew it. They wouldn’t have any privacy there, but he wanted to see her wrapped in a towel in the cleansing heat.