His Bride for the Taking

by Sandra Hyatt

  Not long after the dinner was finished Alexia had claimed a headache and excused herself, leaving him without even the distraction of watching her as he made conversation with one after another of her mother’s guests. He’d almost wished he could use the same excuse as she had just to get away from the endless pretension.

  At the throaty rumble of an engine, he looked out his window to see a Harley Davidson carrying two leather-clad riders disappear into the night.

  He removed his cufflinks, dropping them onto the antique dresser, and flicked a glance at his watch. The other good thing about catching up with Tony was that his friend had been able to fill him in on the best Boston night spots. If he couldn’t be in his own country, he could as least make the most of being here.

  Ten minutes later he slid behind the wheel of the car that had been arranged for him and pulled out of the garage and onto the Wyndham Joneses’ driveway.

  And a mere thirty minutes later, Rafe stood by Tony on the mezzanine level of the recommended club, watching the throng on the dance floor below him and wondering if coming here hadn’t been a mistake. He could have been in any one of a dozen exclusive nightclubs around the world. Here, conversation was near impossible. One a.m. and the place heaved with dancers and the beat of the music. Artificial smoke swirled about the dance floor, colored lights cast eerie illumination on the faces, bodies and limbs of the dancers.

  There was only one thing—one person—who piqued his curiosity. His attention kept returning to her, and he couldn’t figure out why. She was familiar and yet not. Black hair, cut into a precise bob, swayed around her face as she moved to the music. The haircut and her darkly made-up eyes brought to mind Cleopatra. She danced opposite a tall, brawny man, dark hair, dark skin, possibly South American, who moved almost as well as she did. And yet, with her eyes often closed and her partner continuously scanning the crowd, she looked more as if she were dancing alone.

  There was something entrancing, an innate sensuality, about the way she seemed aware of only the music and her own body—a svelte body sheathed in a subtly shimmering black dress that was almost nunlike compared to some of the outfits here tonight. But though it revealed little skin other than that of her graceful arms and a generous but still disappointing portion of her long legs, it molded lovingly to her curves and her slender waist.

  Rafe wasn’t the only one who noticed. From his elevated position he could see that she drew more than her share of admiring—drooling—glances.

  “Who’s that?” He almost had to shout in Tony’s ear to be heard.

  Tony followed his gaze. “The blonde? An actress, I think. Or maybe a singer? Wasn’t she on the cover of the tabloids last week? The press are always after her.”

  Rafe saw the woman Tony meant, a Barbie doll clone. “No. Cleopatra. Over to the right a little.”

  Tony frowned. “Don’t know. I’ve seen her here a couple of times. Asked her to dance once. She turned me down flat, then turned her back on me. Seems to prefer them six foot four and burly.”

  Rafe watched as a man with the loudest red shirt he had ever seen tried to cut in with Cleopatra. Tall and Brawny looked at his partner and she gave her head the faintest shake. He said something to Red Shirt, who scowled and then turned back to his cluster of laughing, and clearly inebriated, friends.

  Rafe kept his gaze on the woman. There was something tantalizingly familiar about her. He had a good memory for faces and yet he couldn’t place her.

  “It happened just like that for me, too,” Tony said dolefully.

  Rafe laughed. “It’s all in the execution.”

  “You think she’ll dance with you? You’re good, buddy, but you’re not that good. She’s different. Not interested.”

  Rafe seldom turned down a challenge, and after the boredom of the evening and the potential boredom of tomorrow, a day spent babysitting “Precious,” he relished the fillip of Tony’s unspoken dare even more. “Watch and learn, my friend. Watch and learn.”

  On the dance floor, he scarcely noticed the patrons parting to let him through. He fixed his gaze on Cleopatra as he approached her from the side. Slender, toned arms were raised above her head. Her eyes were closed. Dark, curling lashes kissed her cheeks. A small, secretive smile played about her cherry-colored lips. She managed to look both vulnerable and untouchable.

  Naturally making him want to touch.

  Intrigued and appreciative, he felt an undeniable pull of attraction. She would dance with him, she had to. He wanted to learn how she would move when they danced together, he wanted to know the color of her eyes, he wanted to know the fullness of that smile. He wanted—

  Like a bucket of cold water over his wants, recognition slammed through him.

  Alexia.

  Followed by denial. It couldn’t be. Demure, boring Alexia was at home in bed with a headache.

  He moved closer. She turned away, obscuring his view. But it was her. He knew it with absolute certainty. The porcelain skin, the almost stubborn jaw, and that something else, something hidden that he couldn’t define.

  He now also knew Tall and Brawny’s role. Bodyguard. What he didn’t know was what the hell she was doing here and, more important, what he should do about it. Did he leave her or get her out of here? She wasn’t his responsibility. Yet. And chances were she’d get through the evening without a scandal.

  Another of Red Shirt’s group staggered her way.

  Rafe flicked a glance at her partner, saw recognition of him dawn in Tall and Brawny’s eyes. He signaled with a tilt of his head for the bodyguard to take care of Alexia’s next would-be dance partner. The larger man nodded and stepped aside.

  Two

  Trying not to clench his jaw, Rafe watched Alexia dance. This woman who moved so sinuously and sensuously, lost in the music, was not the same bland woman who’d sat demurely through dinner.

  She was playing some kind of game with them all.

  He had no time for women who played games, women who pretended to be one thing when they were something else altogether. He was still dealing with the fallout from his last encounter with such a woman.

  He was standing, arms folded, when Alexia finally opened her eyes. Her gaze alighted first on his chest, then snapped to his face. He caught the flash of horror, watched the horror schooled into a bright, false smile. “Sorry, I don’t dance with other men.” As if she might still get away with it. Without waiting for his response, she turned and slipped into the swirling crowd.

  She didn’t get far. He caught up with her at the edge of the dance floor as she tried to get past a cluster of tipsy women, one of them wearing a bridal veil, all of them shrieking with laughter.

  He stilled Alexia with a hand on her slender, heated shoulder.

  She spun around. “Go away,” she said with a force that surprised him.

  He’d lowered his hand as she turned, sliding it down the skin of her arm so that it now cupped her elbow. He leaned closer so she’d hear him over the music. “No.” She stiffened at his refusal. “You’re asking for trouble being in this place. My responsibility is to get you safely back to my country. The demure Alexia Wyndham Jones whom the people will love. Possibly their future princess. Someone they can look up to, bearing in mind that they’re more conservative than you Americans. Not someone who dresses like, like…”

  He faltered under the indignant heat of her gaze.

  “Like what?” Her hands went to her hips, shaking off his touch. A mutinous expression tightened her lips. In truth there was nothing anyone could object to in what she was wearing. Anyone, apparently, except him. He couldn’t put his finger on just what it was that bothered him. But it did bother him, and that was good enough for him. “Surely you don’t need me to spell it out for you?” Damn, he sounded like his father. Master of the guilt trip.

  Sudden resignation sagged through her body, and he almost felt bad for it. After all, he’d been known on more than one occasion to skip out on official duties to have a little fun. And he knew
what it was like to get busted.

  But that was different.

  Alexia was only twenty-two, and as well as being an heiress to millions, she might one day sit on the throne beside his brother. From what he knew of her, she’d led a cloistered existence. There was no end of trouble she could get into here. Very public trouble. The world was too full of predators, the press too greedy for gossip. Part of the reason her candidacy as a partner for Adam had been approved was her perceived innocence. Rafe glanced at the bodyguard hovering near her side. “Alexia and I need to have a little chat. A private chat.”

  The bodyguard looked at Alexia, she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It’s okay, Mario. I may as well get this over with.”

  As the bodyguard moved a little farther off, Rafe leaned closer. “What exactly are you doing here?”

  “Pardon?”

  She’d heard him; she was just looking to delay answering, subtly challenging his right to even ask.

  He leaned closer still—another millimeter and his body would be pressed against hers. Those lush, cherry-colored lips were clamped together. He caught her scent, something with an underlying zing of fresh citrus, and he felt the heat of her body radiating from her. Pushing a lock of the ridiculous dark hair—nowhere near as attractive as her natural auburn—behind her delicate ear, he put his lips close. “We’ll talk in my car.”

  She tensed. “We don’t need to talk.”

  Another patron passed too close, knocking into Rafe, who knocked into Alexia. His grip tightened around her.

  Suddenly, flashes went off, blinding in their brightness. Rafe pulled Alexia hard against his chest, shielding her face and turning so his back was to the continuing pop of the flashes.

  Damn. The paparazzi were supposed to be banned from this place. Tony had assured him of the impenetrable security.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. There the leeches were, three guys with cameras pointing them in the direction of the blonde actress. Unfortunately, Alexia and he, although behind the actress, were in their line of sight.

  “Clearly, we do need to talk.”

  Only moments too late, the club’s bouncers strode through the crowd toward the cameramen. Barbie and her entourage were shrieking in outrage, but Rafe got the feeling the outrage was as much an act as her last Oscar-nominated role.

  Rafe looked down into wide green eyes belatedly filled with concern. He felt the press of breasts against his chest, felt Alexia’s slender fragility within the circle of his arms. She was smaller than he’d realized, and shorter, even with her death-defying heels. The top of her head was tucked neatly beneath his chin.

  He felt other things, things he shouldn’t feel for his brother’s proposed bride. The protectiveness was okay, it was the pleasure and possessiveness that bothered him. He told himself that they were almost automatic responses when he held a woman in his arms. It didn’t mean anything except that he had to let her go. He loosed his hold on her, putting a safer distance between them.

  One of the actress’s party made a lunge for a photographer’s camera. A punch was thrown, then another.

  Rafe shepherded Alexia away from the tussle. Worry creased her forehead even as the bouncers quickly separated the opponents and dragged the guy who’d thrown the first punch away with the photographers.

  “Do you think we’re in the shots?” She bit her bottom lip.

  At least she realized how it would look if pictures of the two of them in a nightclub, standing close, got into the papers at home. Or if they were implicated in the brawl, which, given the way the press liked to play with the truth, wouldn’t surprise him in the least. The public of San Philippe would be curious. Adam would be furious. And if anything happened to jeopardize his father’s plans, Rafe would be in the firing line. He just needed to get this one simple job done. Get Alexia back to San Philippe—without a scandal—and wash his hands of her. How hard could it be?

  He shook his head. “I’m scarcely known here, and you, fortunately, hardly look like yourself. Even if we’re in the background, they weren’t after us. We’ll be cropped out.”

  “Fortunately?”

  “Don’t sound offended. You deliberately tried to disguise yourself. For good reason. So, yes, fortunately.” He didn’t add that in other respects it was most unfortunate. The figure-hugging dress, her long legs, the satiny skin of her arms, the curl of her lashes, her scent. All most unfortunate. Where was the boring—safe—Alexia? “How did you get here?” His question sounded harsher than he meant it to.

  “Motorbike,” she answered, with a glimmer of defiance.

  He hid his surprise. “You rode?” That had been her on the bike?

  Her chin lifted. “With Mario.”

  “In that dress?” He had a sudden vision of the dress riding high up a creamy expanse of thigh.

  “I changed at a friend’s apartment.”

  He looked at Mario. The other man moved closer. “Take the bike home.”

  Mario nodded.

  “Where’d you get him, anyway?” he asked as they watched Mario’s departing back.

  “He’s one of our drivers. He also has security, bodyguard-type training. And he’s the best dancer of the firm’s drivers.”

  Rafe glared at her. “Undoubtedly a reliable way to choose your security for the evening.” He silently counted the hours—eighteen—till they’d be safely back in San Philippe and he’d be done with her.

  Lexie sat quietly as they drove in the muted silence of Rafe’s Aston Martin to the Wyndham Joneses’ estate. Why him? She’d encountered good friends at the nightclub before who’d failed to recognize her. And yet Rafe, whom she’d met only a handful of times, had known her.

  The purpose and urgency that had infused him as he’d all but picked her up and bundled her into his car had gone. He drove the powerful machine with relaxed effortlessness, his hands curled lightly around the distinctive three-spoked steering wheel. But she sensed his underlying tension, and it was in her interests to placate him. She wanted him to see that she really was suitable for his brother. Serene, regal, dignified.

  “Nice car.” She smoothed her palms over the soft black leather of her seat.

  He said nothing.

  “It’s a Vantage, isn’t it? A V12?” She exhausted her knowledge of the car.

  “I wouldn’t know.” His usually undetectable accent, foreign and vaguely French, colored his words.

  So much for getting him to relax by complimenting his car. It worked on most men she knew. His dismissiveness needled her. He’d clearly made up his mind not to engage with her. “A real playboy car.”

  That drew her a scornful look, at least.

  “How’d you get it, anyway?”

  “My secretary arranged it. Ask him.”

  Lexie gave up trying to either soothe or bait him and looked out her window at the city and then countryside sliding by. Gone. Soon she’d be gone from here and the narrow confines of her life.

  As the estate gates closed behind them, he pulled off the driveway into a wooded area. The house was still half a mile away.

  “Why are we stopping here?”

  “Because if I don’t stop till we’re in front of the house someone will doubtless come out and find me with my hands wrapped around your neck. And while I’m sure whoever it is will sympathize with me, it’d still be frowned upon, bound to cause a diplomatic fracas. And worse, I’ll be interrupted.”

  He’d had a hand around the back of her neck once four years ago as he’d kissed her senseless. Which was not what she should be remembering now. She called up righteous anger. “You’re assuming you’ll get the chance to wrap your hands around my neck. If you’d read my background information—” which of course the Playboy Prince wouldn’t have “—you’d know I have a black belt in karate. Second dan.” She was tired of him thinking he could push her around. “Perhaps it’d be my hands around your neck.”

  Unfortunately, a contrary image sprang to mind of the two of them in the car with the
ir hands all over each other in a very different way. Shocked at herself, she banished the image. It had only happened because he reminded her of Adam and they were confined in the intimacy of his car, faces and bodies close, emotions running high. The scent of his cologne, masculine and appealing, wasn’t helping, either.

  He laughed, low and deep. “I did read the information. My secretary handed it to me as I boarded the jet, and unfortunately there was nothing else on board to read. It mentioned years of ballet dancing, sailing and show jumping to a nationally competitive level, and musical accomplishments including flute and, rather more surprising, the saxophone. Sadly, they must have left off the karate. Though it’s entirely possible that the ballet training will help in the execution of a passable roundhouse kick.”

  Lexie knew when to quit. He clearly wasn’t going to fall for that one. Even if she had learned karate. Once. A long time ago. A secret rebellion cut short.

  He turned off the engine. And though she’d scarcely heard the car’s low purr before, the silence of the night settled over them like a heavy, uncomfortable blanket.

  Now it was just her and Rafe.

  He turned, filling the space in the suddenly too-small car from floor to ceiling, his presence surrounding her. Just enough light washed in from the closest of the lamps dotted along the driveway to make out his features, the dark brows drawn together, the strong nose, surprisingly full lips and the stubborn, stubborn jaw. And the eyes that raked disrespectfully over her. Adam would never have looked at her like that.

  “Your headache is better, I take it?”

  “Much, thank you.” She chose to ignore the drawled sarcasm. And the lie of her fabricated illness.

  “You often pull stunts like that, Precious?”

  “I don’t pull stunts. I wanted to go out tonight. I wanted to dance. There’s no crime in it.”

  “It was a stunt. And it was stupid.”

  “It was not stupid. I was careful. I took Mario with me.” Her life was about to change; all she’d wanted was one night of anonymity. It wasn’t so much to ask. She’d been to the nightclub before. Many times. And in all that time she’d never been recognized.