by Sandra Hyatt
“And look what happened.”
“Nothing happened.” He’d said himself they wouldn’t turn up in those shots.
“Do you have any idea—Damn.” He sat back in his seat.
“What?”
“I sound like my father.” His hand clenched into a fist. “I can’t believe it.”
That concept apparently bothered him almost as much as the nightclub debacle had because he lapsed into silence. “How did you know I was at the nightclub?” she asked. “Did you follow me?”
“No. A happy coincidence.”
“Not my definition of happy.” At that he smiled. “So you were there, too,” she accused, “for the same reason as me, and yet I’m the one in the wrong?”
“I’m not the one who left dinner early because—” he touched blunt fingertips to his temple and blinked several times, a parody of a woman fluttering her eyelashes “—I had a headache.”
“I did have a headache. That dinner would have given a saint one. I never said what I was going to do about it. If you assumed I was retiring quietly to my bed, that’s not my fault.”
“If you want to be wife to the crown prince, you’re going to need a little more fortitude. It’ll be your job to stay at dinners like that till the bitter end. You weren’t the only one who wanted to leave that dinner tonight. Some of us managed to tough it out.”
“That’s it?” She smiled with a sudden flash of insight. “You’re sore that I got to leave earlier than you?”
“That’s not what I said. The problem wasn’t with you leaving the dinner, headache or not. It lies more in you out with other men, dancing the way you were.”
“There was nothing wrong with the way I danced.”
“No? Every man in the place enjoyed it.”
She felt the stab of his criticism. “You are being so unfair.”
Rafe turned back to stare out the windshield. “Maybe. But you need to learn how very important appearances are. How very seriously people—like Adam—take them.”
The worst of it was that he was right. She’d been brought up to always consider how anything she did, said, wore might look. Her mother was as hyperaware of appearances as anyone Lexie had ever met. Which made her occasional forays to the nightclub so liberating. So exhilarating.
She hadn’t planned on Adam ever knowing. “It might have been my last chance,” she said quietly, leaning back in her seat, and that was the truth of it.
“You’re right about that. But no one’s forcing you to come to San Philippe.”
She said nothing.
“Are they?”
She met his steady gaze. “No.” This was her choice. She’d dreamed of it for so long.
“This arrangement is far from a done deal, Alexia,” he said quietly. “I’ll be watching you, and if I find out you’re using Adam, that on your side the relationship is a pretence, I’ll hustle your duplicitous derriere back home so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
“Duplicitous derriere sounds so much better than my lying ass. Or hypocrite.” She gave the last word emphasis because it could apply just as well to him. “You won’t catch me out because there’s nothing to catch me out in.” She turned to stare out the window at the darker silhouettes of trees shadowing the night. “How sweet for Adam to have you coming to his assistance.”
“Adam doesn’t know women the way I do.”
“I wouldn’t choose to have any kind of a relationship with him if he did.” Adam was serious and constant as well as kind. Nothing like the man sitting a hand span away from her radiating cynicism and testosterone.
“He doesn’t look for subterfuge.”
“But you do?” She almost felt sorry for him. “Must make for interesting relationships for you. Ever heard of trust?”
“All I’m saying is that if Adam and San Philippe are what you really want, don’t screw it up.”
“Don’t screw it up?” Lexie’s knee bumped against the gear stick as she pivoted in her seat. “That’s a little rich coming from you, isn’t it? I thought you were the ‘Prince of Screw-Ups.’” One tabloid had, in fact, tried to pin that label on Rafe. It hadn’t stuck, but Lexie suspected that was only because it lacked originality or alliteration.
“Don’t try to make this about me.” His voice was cold, as though she’d hit a nerve.
“Well, don’t try to sully the relationship Adam and I have.”
A look of scorn passed across his face. “A few letters and e-mails do not constitute a relationship.”
“They constitute more of a relationship than gratuitous sex, which if the stories about you are to be believed—”
“They’re not.”
His vehemence silenced her.
“And even if they were, the difference, Precious, is that my business is no concern of yours. Whereas your business is my concern. At least until I get you back to San Philippe and offload you onto Adam.”
“Offload me?”
“Wrong word, sorry.” His offhand apology only incensed her further.
“No, it wasn’t. Offload me is exactly what you meant. I’ll save you the trouble for tonight.” She’d had more than enough of his company for one evening. Opening her door, she climbed out and stalked down the driveway. The cool night air was the perfect antidote to the tension in the car, and she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. Behind her, a car door shut. Moments later, the engine purred to life, the car eased alongside her, and the window slid down. “Get in. I’ll drive you.”
“I’m walking, so you may as well stop following me. Consider me offloaded.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?”
He made no pretence this time that he’d used the wrong word. “Yes. Childishly ridiculous.”
Lexie clenched her jaw and walked faster, then stumbled in the high strappy sandals, which were fine for the smooth dance floor, but definitely weren’t made for striding on driveways. The low rumble of masculine laughter sounded from within the car.
She stopped and whirled to face him, then bent to take off her shoes, tossing them one at a time through the car window and onto the seat beside him. She pulled off the wig too, and it followed her shoes into his car.
As her hair unfurled around her shoulders, his smile suddenly disappeared. She turned and, ignoring his call to her, darted into the lightly wooded area bordering the driveway. She’d grown up here, had played, whenever she’d been allowed to escape, amongst these very trees. Some of those times of escape had even been at night. A girl took her freedom where she could. She scarcely needed the occasional shafts of light that filtered through from the driveway lamps.
She caught a sound behind her and stilled, alert and listening, her senses heightened. “Alexia.” Her name sounded on the night, low and clear. “Cut this out and come back to the car. Now.”
He was not happy. Lexie smiled. “Or what? You’ll make me? I don’t think so, Rafe.”
His silence was ominous.
Lexie’s heart beat faster. “I’m fine.” She slipped behind a tree. “You drive. I’ll make my own way.” She darted for another tree, stopped and listened again.
She heard nothing, but caught the faintest trace of his cologne. He was close. She waited in the deepest shadows she could find, her shoulder pressed against the roughened bark of an ancient oak, and held herself perfectly still, kept her breathing quiet and even.
From behind, a strong hand clamped around her arm, and without thought a scream started in the back of her throat. The hand swept up to gently cover her mouth, cutting off the incipient sound. She was pulled back against a broad chest. “Do not scream.” The softened command was spoken clearly into her ear. “It’s only me—” his breath was warm on her skin “—and the very last thing we need tonight is for security to come.”
She swallowed and nodded. The hand lowered from her mouth, but she was still clamped against that broad chest. It was the second time in the space of an hour she’d been pressed against
its hard contours. It didn’t feel like the body she would have expected from the profligate prince. Sure, he was tall and lean. She’d figured that build, combined with the occasional gym workout and exceptional tailoring, was enough to give the fine line to the clothes he wore. But the chest and the arms about her spoke of sinew and strength and an intimidating elemental toughness that was eons away from the high life he lived.
“How did you find me?”
“I’ve done my share of nighttime operations.” His arms loosened and he stepped away from her. “You, Precious, were a piece of cake.”
Of course. All men in San Philippe, including the princes, served two years in the armed forces. Rafe, from memory, had served even longer, spending time in each of the three military services.
“Now we’re going back to the car.” She heard the carefully reined-in temper beneath his quiet words. “And we’re going to the house.”
She nodded again. It was definitely time to get the willful streak she’d worked so hard to conquer back under control. She was achieving nothing letting Rafe goad her. “I was going anyway. Once I’d cooled off.” Which she’d done now, emotionally and physically. She suppressed a shiver.
As they turned for the car, a jacket, warmed with the heat of Rafe’s body and imbued with his subtle masculine scent, came to rest on her shoulders. The silk lining caressed the bare skin of her arms.
“Covering me up?”
“Warming you up. I personally have no problem with a little skin. But I will have a problem with my father and my brother if I take you back sick.”
“Chivalrous to the end.”
Unexpected, Rafe’s rich, deep chuckle sounded on the air, eroding her resentment and warming her, against her will, as much as his jacket.
But the resentment was back in full force by the time Lexie reached her bedroom. She shut the door, leaned against it for a second, then crossed to a window and looked out along the shadowy driveway. The driveway, which, after insisting she come back to his car, Rafe had made her walk down. Well, not “make” exactly, but he’d somehow made it seem the only option for her pride. Another besetting sin to add to her list.
He’d idled along beside her, occasionally offering her a ride. She’d refused with the line about not getting into cars with strange men, which had drawn out that unexpected laughter again. In reality the only strange thing about him was the heat—the temper—he ignited in her. He’d talked a little about the car, the ergonomic design, the comfort of the heated leather seats, proving either that he’d lied when he pretended to know nothing about it or that he was lying now as he made up features.
As soon as she reached the house, she’d gone in, leaving him to drive around to the garage and make his own way. Army boy should have no problems with that. Unfortunately.
She sat in front of her dresser and brushed out her hair. Apparently, the hundred strokes a night that Maria, her live-in nanny for the first ten years of her life, had insisted on had been disproved as doing any real good, but sometimes it was just so therapeutic. Lexie caught her flushed reflection in the mirror and made herself take a deep, slow breath.
If only it had been Adam who’d come for her, this mess wouldn’t be unraveling in her hands. She’d be the woman she was supposed to be. She would have stayed by his side for the dinner. She would have stayed in for the night. She would have had nothing to do with Rafe.
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Of all people, why Rafe? Twenty-nine, thirty. Why had he come to that same nightclub? Why had he recognized her? And more important, why did she let him make her feel so inept and inadequate and infuriated? “The arrogant, inconsiderate, hypocritical, condescending…prude.”
A shape moved in the mirror behind her and she whirled to face it, her hairbrush raised. Rafe stood a few feet away, eyeing her choice of weapon with scarcely concealed amusement. “I did knock. You were talking so loudly you didn’t hear me.” She lowered the brush, turned back to the mirror and started brushing again. Thirty-one, thirty-two.
“I’ve definitely had arrogant and inconsiderate before,” he said thoughtfully, moving a little closer. “I don’t think I’ve been called hypocritical or condescending, at least not to my face. But I’m absolutely positive I’ve never been called a prude.”
Lexie studied his reflection. His white shirt lay open at the collar, revealing a vee of tanned skin and reminding her that she still wore his jacket, the too-long sleeves pushed carelessly up. Stubble darkened his jaw. Her sandals dangled from one hand, looking ridiculously flimsy in his grip. In the other hand he held her wig. Behind him, her big bed, the covers turned back, her lacy nightgown laid out, filled the background.
She dragged her gaze away from him, focusing on her own reflection and brushing her hair. “Look at what you’re wearing,” she said, mimicking his voice. “The people of San Philippe are very conservative, Alexia.” She spoke to him in her mirror. “And the way you dance. Sounded prudish to me.”
A smile, not in the least prudish, played about his lips and eyes, threatening to distract her. “So? Prudish?” She nodded. “And hypocritical?”
She held tight to her anger, wouldn’t let herself be beguiled by the charm he could wield. “I’ve read about you on the Internet. Seen pictures.” She knew about his latest, brief affair. He shifted uncomfortably, his expression clouding. “I’m practically Amish in comparison to you. And I’ve been to San Philippe more than once—it’s not that different from here in terms of conservatism.” She waited for his response.
“Finished? You don’t want to expound on arrogant and inconsiderate?”
“Self-explanatory, I would have thought.” She wanted to point out just how inconsiderate he’d been, making her walk, but that had kind of been her fault. Still, she was paying for it now; the soles of her feet were stinging. She’d probably have been better off keeping the four-inch heels on.
“I can accept some of your points.”
Not used to the people in her life admitting mistakes, she hid her surprise.
“And you’re right, not everyone in San Philippe is conservative. But I’ll tell you one person who most definitely is.”
She sighed and put her brush down. “Adam?”
He nodded.
“It’s one of the things I like about him. It seems sweet and noble.” Unlike his brother, there had never been a hint of scandal attached to Adam.
“He’s noble. He’s not sweet.” Rafe walked closer. The description seemed to fit him just as well. There was nobility in his bearing, his aristocratic features, and nothing sweet about the hard glaze to his eyes. He stopped at her side, heat radiating from him as he lowered her wig to the dresser. It lay like a small, sleek animal. His fingers, large and blunt, traced the length of the dark hair. And for a second she recalled how those fingers had felt the time he had plunged them into her hair. How he had cradled her head for the erotic assault of his kiss. She quickly turned her eyes back to the mirror.
He dropped her shoes to the carpet. And still he stood there, making it difficult for her to breathe normally.
“We want the same thing here, Alexia.” His gaze tracked to her hair, her real hair. He lifted his hand and ran his thumb and forefinger down the length of a lock before frowning, clenching his hand into a fist and lowering it to his side. “We both want to get you to San Philippe as soon as possible. And without any scandal. Don’t we?”
“Yes, of course.” Lexie swallowed. “Can I point out that you being in my room at 3:00 a.m. is probably not the best way to go about that?”
“Probably not.”
She waited for him to move. And waited. “If you’re finished, I guess you can go.”
“One more thing.”
Surprising her for the second time that night, even more than the first, he crouched before her and, wrapping his fingers around her ankle, picked up her foot, lifting it so he could see the sole. He ran his forefinger along the arch. “How is it?”
Ignoring the response to his touch th
at seemed to slither from her sole and up along her leg, Lexie swallowed. “Fine.”
A corner of Rafe’s mouth quirked up. “I don’t suppose it is. But you’ll live.” He placed her foot carefully back down on the plush carpet, picked up her other foot and, after running his thumb along the sensitive underside of that one, too, placed it back beside the first.
Lexie stood as he straightened and turned to go. “Your jacket.” If she got rid of that there would be no link between them from tonight.
He moved behind her. As she shrugged the jacket from her shoulders he slipped his hands beneath her hair to grasp the collar, his knuckles skimming her neck. Her eyes met his in the mirror as he drew the garment down her arms. For a second their gazes locked. It was as though he was undressing her and she was allowing it. Sudden heat suffused her, coalescing deep inside her. Lexie closed her eyes so he wouldn’t be able to read her response, part confusion and part desire.
Three
Lexie paused with her cup of strong black coffee halfway to her lips as Rafe strolled onto the terrace where her mother and the dozen or so guests who’d stayed over last night had gathered for breakfast. She put her cup down and followed his progress. He was immaculate, gorgeous. Even the sun seemed to brighten with his entrance, sparkling on the nearby lake.
It shouldn’t annoy her that he looked so good and so relaxed. But it did.
He approached their table. Lexie’s only comfort was that the four seats were already taken. “Antonia.” He smiled at her mother, a flash of white perfect teeth, warmth in his eyes. “Clayton, Jackson,” he greeted the two elderly oilmen already at her table.
Finally, deliberately, his gaze found hers. “Alexia.” He dipped his head, no trace of remembrance of that other gaze, the one that had heated her very being. No wonder women fell over themselves for him, she’d thought as she’d lain in bed, sleep slowly claiming her.
“Rafe.” She nodded back, found a smile in her repertoire, hoped it was both gracious and remote.