by Sandra Hyatt
His eyes narrowed, as though suspecting some kind of trap. “Far too much.”
“It’s not just for the press?”
He shrugged. “It’s for the press and for the public. But remember what we said about how we didn’t need to pretend to enjoy a meal if it was a good meal?”
Yes, she did. So he enjoyed kissing her? As much as she enjoyed kissing him? Though she wasn’t entirely sure that enjoy was the right word, it was too uncomplicated, too tame almost. Kissing him thrilled her, confused her, made her want…more, made her uncertain of herself even as it gave her pleasure. So many things, too much for something as uncomplicated as enjoyment. But still he was only kissing her because of their arrangement. He didn’t need or want anything further from her than the appearance that they were in a relationship. That could work in her favor.
“I get to kiss you and enjoy it. Like tasting a delicacy that has you craving more. A definite win-win situation.”
Somehow his words stirred an element of loss, too. She couldn’t quite identify it. Somewhere along the line this had become something far more important to her than it ought to be. Not just showing her father that she was a woman capable of making her own decisions and controlling her life. But about showing herself that she was a woman. Not a princess.
Logan reached for a delicate dusky pink bloom, ran a blunt fingertip between the petals. “Do you know what these velvet petals make me think of?” Still teasing, still trying to disconcert her. He knew this type of conversation, this subtle flirtation, wasn’t her forte.
“Stop it. It’s a flower, nothing more.” The rose breeders would slay her if they heard her say that.
“Or how I have visions of laying you down on a bed of rose petals?”
“Logan. Don’t.” How had their conversation taken such a sudden swerve? How did he so easily plant images in her mind, or bring to life the images that she’d already allowed to grow?
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll call Mrs. Smythe-Robinson back over.”
A honey bee landed on the rose, collected pollen. “We can talk fertilization with her. I’m sure she’ll have an opinion on the subject.”
Ahead of them there was a burst of laughter.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything you want and I’ll answer, but only something you actually want the answer to, because I’ll be honest.”
She believed that much of him, but she pressed her lips together because her thoughts flashed back to last night and this morning.
“Go on. One question. Anything. I dare you.”
Ah, the Buchanan dare, she could hear the cockiness in his voice, the expectation that nothing she could ask would throw him. “What if I asked you to…”
Her request faltered beneath the sudden intensity of his gaze. It was so easy to say things in her head. Teach me pleasure. Teach me how to be myself when I’m with a man. Teach me what men like.
“Go on.” He couldn’t possibly know what she’d been about to ask but there was a sudden wariness to his tone as though he at least knew it wasn’t going to be a flippant request. Although maybe she could phrase it that way. Teach me how to make pancakes for breakfast for the man I’ve just spent the night with.
“Teach me—”
Those liquid brown eyes held her still, urged her on.
“Your Highness, there you are. We thought we’d lost you.” Mrs. Smythe-Robinson bustled toward them, her program for the day’s events in her hand, a small posse of enthusiasts behind her. “Can you can settle something for us? Was your mother’s favorite color apricot or lavender?”
Relief washed through her at the interruption because she’d been suddenly afraid of Logan’s response. He wanted her on his arm in pictures to further his company’s goals. He had no need or desire to help her learn what she wanted to know. He had scores of willing women who needed no teaching whatsoever. She allowed herself to be drawn into settling the supposed debate.
Once, when looking at a child’s artwork, her mother had exclaimed that the apricot crayon used was her favorite color. From that moment on she had been deluged with apricot-colored gifts. She had confessed to her family, but to no one else, that her favorite color was in fact blue. It had been a lesson for her mother, who had only been trying to be diplomatic. A lesson she had ample time over the following years to contemplate.
One of her father’s secretaries approached her. “You’re needed for the photos, ma’am.”
She turned to Logan, realized that at least now with her question rightfully repressed she could look him in his lovely brown eyes. “This may take a while. And then I have to go straight on to a meeting of The Princess Foundation. I’ll see you for the polo match tomorrow.”
“Your question?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” She was hardly going to ask it with royal staff standing nearby no matter how much they pretended not to be listening.
He reached for her wrist before she could turn away, anchoring her to the spot. Heat snaked up her arm, slithered deep inside her. He held her gaze, his eyes serious, and gave a single slow nod. “Yes. I’ll teach you.”
Seven
Rebecca sat in the car given to her for the evening by the chief of security. It wasn’t one she’d driven before. And never before had she sat so uncertain for so long.
Out of a desire to preserve the architectural heritage of San Philippe, there were no true high-rises in the city. So it was easy enough to look up at Logan’s riverfront penthouse apartment.
But what if Logan’s yes hadn’t actually been in response to the question she’d wanted to, but hadn’t quite asked? What if his yes had been “yes, I’ll teach you to row a boat.” He hadn’t called her or made any attempt to contact her to discuss her question. Admittedly, it had only been a matter of hours since she’d asked it but if she didn’t act now she’d lose her nerve. His windows revealed nothing. All she could make out was that lights were on inside. She looked from those uninformative windows to the phone clutched in her hand.
Spineless. Time to either go through with her plan or go home.
Men were supposed to like the hunt, the thrill of the chase. She knew that much. Desperate women who threw themselves at men were desperately unappealing. Then again, she didn’t need Logan to like her, she just needed him to…help her.
On the ancient bridge spanning the river, couples walked hand in hand. Women leaned heads on partners’ shoulders, so trusting, so gently intimate. Two looking almost as one. And here she was sitting alone in her car.
Following the photo session and then the meeting, her father had wanted a private conversation with her this evening. But she’d figured she’d face an inquisition over Logan so she’d cried off, explaining she’d already arranged to see Logan, knowing that her father would be in Switzerland for the next couple of days. She was becoming quite adept at evasion, at telling…things that weren’t quite the truth. In her head she could almost hear Logan challenging her to call it what it was—a lie.
The only person she was practiced at lying to was herself. For so long she’d pretended she didn’t have wants and needs of her own. In the time she’d known Logan he had made her far too conscious of her self-deceit. And more than anything else he made her conscious of those wants and needs.
She lifted her phone then closed her eyes and doubt flooded in.
She couldn’t go through with it. What was she even doing here? What had she been thinking? She was not, and never would be, a normal woman. She’d never walked with her head resting on a man’s shoulder. Because she couldn’t depend on a man like that. She couldn’t trust Logan—or any man—like that.
Because if you didn’t trust someone they couldn’t betray you. Trusting someone gave them power over you.
And Logan was too much an unknown quantity. Too unpredictable. Too uncontrollable. She had too much to lose.
A light rain began to fall, refracting the light on her windshield, obscuring the world
outside, making it shimmer.
Home. She would go home where she was safe and knew the rules. They had a plan. A good plan. Safe, if not completely sensible. All she had to do was stick to it and pretend to date Logan for the allotted weeks. No more. No less.
The phone cradled in her palm vibrated and rang, making her jump. Logan’s name lit up on the display. He needn’t know anything. “Hello,” she answered, keeping her voice casual, a little curious.
“What are you doing?” His voice was almost all curiosity. Curiosity with a hint of something knowing.
The knowing could only be her imagination, her guilt. “Reviewing the minutes from the foundation’s meeting,” she said with a bored sigh. But her lack of skill at lying shined through and she spoke a little too quickly, her voice a little too high.
“In your car?”
“Sorry?” She pretended she was confused, that she hadn’t quite heard or understood a question that ought to make no sense. In part she was confused. He couldn’t possibly know she was outside his apartment building. She looked around to make sure. There was no one near her car, no one paying any attention to it. The windows were darkly tinted.
“That is you, isn’t it? Parked along the riverfront. Near the street lamp.”
Her face heated in the darkness. Clearly he could, and did, know.
Part and parcel of being no good at lying was being no good at extricating herself from a lie. “I…I…have to go. I’ll talk you later.”
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather see me sooner?”
“I have another call coming through. I think it’s my father. Bye.” She jabbed at the off button and let her head fall back against the headrest. But only for a few seconds while her heartbeat slowed. Anyone else in the world would surely have handled that better than she had. And she was a princess. She was supposed to be adept at handling delicate situations. Time to get a grip. She turned her key in the ignition and flicked on her lights. Illuminated in their beam, a tall, broad-shouldered man, his dark hair rumpled, walked toward her, his long, easy stride eating up the distance. Rebecca tapped her forehead against the steering wheel. She’d had extensive training in defensive, and evasive driving; hand-brake slides, high-speed escape maneuvers. But none of that would be any help to her now. There was no dignified retreat.
He tried her door. She pressed the button to unlock it and cut the engine. As he opened her door he held a hand toward her. She focused on that hand rather than his face and held on to it only until she stood. Eventually she had to look up. A frown creased his brow, not irritation but…concern? As his gaze traveled over her, assessing, the frown eased. His breathing was rapid but controlled. As though he had raced to get here? His button-down shirt was untucked and the first few buttons undone. He started walking and Rebecca had little choice but to fall into step beside him.
He asked no questions. She volunteered no explanation, no excuses. Their footsteps sounded in quiet unison on the damp cobbles.
He walked slowly, strolling, when the part of her that wanted to escape her foolishness would have strode as though she could leave it behind. The more distance she put between her and her car, the more she could pretend she’d never parked on the road in front of his apartment, never been caught.
They crossed the pedestrian bridge that arched over the river. Balmy night air wrapped around them. Light shimmered and reflected in the inky water and on the damp cobbles. Ahead of them a couple walked hand in hand, their mingled laughter barely audible. And somewhere in the unseen distance the rapid, fluid notes of a Spanish guitar sounded.
Still she waited and mentally prepared for Logan’s request for an explanation, or his mockery. She would be regal. She owed him no explanation. And she could rise above his mockery.
Neither came.
They just walked. Side by side. And she didn’t feel regal. She realized, after maybe ten minutes, that this might be what it was like to feel normal. She could be with a man and not be compelled to make polite conversation. She could just…be, soaking in the sights and sounds and sensations.
His shoulder was close to her head. If she had the courage she’d reach for his hand, she could tilt her head, rest it on his shoulder like the couples she’d watched earlier. She did not have the courage. They passed beneath an ornate street lamp.
“Jeans?”
It was the last thing she’d expected him to ask. She’d almost forgotten them. “I was trying to be normal. You know, not a princess. For an evening.”
They walked on. His silence perplexing.
“What do you think? Of the jeans?” They both knew she could pretend but she could never be normal. Leopards and spots and all that.
“Nice.” His hand swung back and patted her butt. “Very nice.”
Nobody had ever patted her butt.
Rebecca smiled.
Logan lifted his arm and settled it around her shoulders, pulling her gently against him. And her head nestled against his shoulder as though designed to fit there. Sensation surged within her. She recognized it as happiness. Maybe she could walk like this all night long, circling the old parts of the city.
The sounds of the guitar grew clearer as they approached a strip of waterfront cafés and restaurants. “Have you eaten?” he asked.
“No.” She’d escaped the palace rather than have dinner there.
“Neither have I.” He steered her down a side road then stopped to open a door beneath a small green awning. “The view’s not the same as on the waterfront, but it’s quieter and the food—”
“Is divine?” she asked with a smile, remembering his previous descriptions of food.
He matched her smile. “It’s simple but good. I think you’ll like it.”
They walked down a set of narrow stairs into the small restaurant redolent with aromas of Mediterranean cooking, olives and tomatoes and garlic. A short, balding man hurried up to them, arms held wide, his gaze and his smile lighting first on Logan, then freezing momentarily as he noticed Rebecca.
“Stefan,” Logan said, “a quiet table, please.”
“Of course.” Stefan led them past the tables in the busy restaurant. The hum of conversation died away, to be replaced by whispers as diners realized who she was. Stefan showed them to a small corner table partially screened from the main restaurant. “I hope this will be suit able.”
Stefan seated her. Logan sat opposite. A low candle flickered and danced between them.
She watched him, wondering when it was that Logan had changed from an irritant to the pearl.
Gradually the noise level resumed its initial volume.
Logan leaned back in his chair, watching her. And all the reasons this might not be such a great idea returned. The primary one being that now there was no escape for her, no avoiding his questions. Stefan placed a basket of assorted breads on their table. Rebecca smeared pesto on a small wedge of bread and waited. And waited. Until she could bear it no more. “I suppose you’re wondering what I was doing outside your apartment.”
“Actually, I was wondering what it must be like to have people fall silent just because you walk past them. To have people stare.”
No one had ever asked her that. “It’s just how it is, how it’s always been. And it will undoubtedly help give you the profile you’re after.” She tried to keep the hint of hurt from her voice.
“Undoubtedly. So, you’re here with me for my benefit?”
She didn’t need the hint of sarcasm. “No. To be honest I’m not sure why I’m here with you. It seemed like a good idea to drive to your place. I know my father keeps tabs on me, that it will help convince him we have a real relationship. He has doubts.”
“Smart man. And that was your only reason.”
“And,” she said and took a deep breath, “partly I just wanted to see you.”
He hesitated for just a second. “And the other part?”
She waited while Stefan poured two glasses of ruby-red wine. But by the time he’d backed away her resolve
was gone.
“The other part doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It always matters.”
Rebecca took a sip of her wine. “Try this. It’s divine.”
And Logan laughed, recognizing her use of his own distraction techniques. She’d never met anyone whose laugh was quite so deep, quite so warming. It was one of the things, if not the thing, she liked best about him. There was such an appealing openness to his laugh, a complete lack of pretension. And it stirred a warmth within her, made her want him more. Made her wonder what it would be like to wake up to that smile, that laughter.
One of the other things she liked about him was his patience, though she knew that he could probably wield it as a weapon. He didn’t press, seemed content to enjoy a meal that was as he’d predicted very good. She’d never heard of Stefan’s, never eaten at a place like this in San Philippe. How much more was there for her to discover in her own small country?
She watched Logan’s hands as he buttered bread, his lips as he sipped wine, the vitality in his eyes as he talked. Did he have anything like her level of awareness of him?
And she thought about those eyes watching her, those hands touching her, those lips kissing her.
Forbidden thoughts for a princess. She’d never before had trouble controlling her thoughts. It was what she did. But Logan with his indifference to royalty made her keep wondering what it would be like not to be royal. Foolish notion. She couldn’t, and wouldn’t want to, change who she was. There was no point wondering.
No point in wondering, or wishing, for just a few weeks of anonymity. A few weeks when everything she said and did, or didn’t say and do, wasn’t scrutinized, reported, speculated on. A few weeks when she did something real. Her work with charities and schools and the arts was appreciated and did, she knew, benefit others. But sometimes she daydreamed about being a gardener, or a cook, or a painter—not an artist, but someone who painted walls and fences. Someone who at the end of the day could stand back and see what they’d achieved, other than neatly bisecting a ribbon or attending meetings.