Dance with a Dynasty

by JoAnn Ross

  Sabrina didn’t think it prudent to admit that he certainly wasn’t alone there. “I wouldn’t have thought I was your type.”

  He chuckled. “Neither would I. And I would have been wrong.” Tangling her hair in his hands, he dipped his head and gave her a kiss so sweet it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  Sweet. She was so infinitely sweet. As his tongue slipped past her parted lips and was welcomed into the warmth of her mouth, he heard her soft, murmured approval, and felt a swelling of emotion stronger than anything he’d ever known.

  Other women had made him want. Other women had made him ache. But no other woman had ever made him experience this emotional and spiritual need. She was like no woman he’d ever met. And Burke knew that if he searched the world over, he would never find anyone like her. Which was why he decided against stripping that flowered dress from her lissome body and burying himself in her soft welcoming warmth.

  Burke still wasn’t sure what he was feeling toward this woman. But he knew that whatever was happening between them, she deserved more than a quick, furtive tumble in the sheets.

  He’d tried to keep his distance since that night in the limousine. He’d tried to give them both time to adjust to these unsettling emotions. He’d also been going crazy, hungering for a taste of Sabrina Darling’s sweet lips.

  Breaking the heated contact, he clasped her head between his hands and stared down at her lovely, flushed face. His breath was ragged. As was hers. “You need your rest.”

  Loath to sever the silken bonds of pleasure, she ran her palms down his back, reveling in the feel of muscle and sinew. “I told you, I’m fine.”

  “Oh, you are a great deal more than fine, Sabrina Darling.” Still looking directly into her eyes, he grazed the tip of her breast with a fingertip, pleased when he felt it ripen beneath his touch.

  A shudder of emotion rippled through her. She envisioned his dark head nestled between the thrust of her swelling breasts, imagined the feel of his lips on her burning flesh, fantasized him taking her tingling nipple between his strong white teeth.

  She was trembling from his touch. Burke watched the myriad emotions in her eyes, each more erotic than the last, and knew that he’d never wanted a woman so badly.

  Which was why to take her now, when she was still shaken and vulnerable from this afternoon’s incident, would be unconscionable.

  It was out of sheer willpower that he released her and pushed himself to his feet.

  Still caught up in her sensual fantasy, Sabrina stared up at him, uncomprehendingly.

  “I seem to have acquired a bad habit of choosing the worst possible time and place to make love to you.”

  He ran the pad of his thumb along her bruised cheek and frowned again as he thought how badly she could have been harmed. On his account.

  “Rest well, ma chère. Tomorrow, after I have won the race, we shall celebrate in style.”

  “You sound awfully confident,” she complained, even as she secretly admitted that his boast, which would have seemed like arrogance from any other man, suited Burke perfectly.

  “About the race, I am confident.” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “About the celebration, I am hopeful.”

  With that he was gone. Leaving Sabrina wanting. And wondering how she was going to get through the next twenty-four hours.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE COURSE for the Grand Prix de Montacroix curved past the Giraudeau palace, beyond the stables, around the north end of the lake, past the cathedral and the casino, before looping around, through a five-hundred-year-old stone tunnel cut into the Montacroix Alps, into a series of three hairpin turns, through the part of town dedicated to commerce, with its banks and stock exchange, finally returning again to the palace.

  The assembled drivers—the very best in the world—would make that circuit fifty-six times before one of them would speed into the record books.

  And all along the treacherously curving route, fans would congregate. Some would actually watch the racing, keeping track of the lap times, but most would come to socialize. Because congeniality and ambience were what made Montacroix the place to be—and to be seen—during Grand Prix week.

  As Burke went over the prerace check with his crew, his mind—which never wandered prior to a race—kept drifting back to Sabrina. He pulled on his fireproof gloves, climbed into the cockpit, and took his earned position at the post for the pace lap. As he passed the palace, it was all Burke could do not to look up at the balcony in order to search her out.

  Sabrina had never been more nervous in her life. Unable to stay still, she paced back and forth along the balcony, until Dixie complained about her blocking everyone’s view.

  “You’re actin’ like a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs,” her stepmother complained.

  Which was, Sabrina thought, exactly how she felt. Her heart was in her throat, and her stomach felt as if it had taken off on a roller coaster ride, leaving her behind. She didn’t want to watch, in case the unthinkable happened. For that same reason, she couldn’t take her eyes off the track.

  She kept her binoculars focused on Burke’s red car. It was sleek and dangerous looking, resembling a manned cruise missile.

  From the beginning, he lapped more quickly than the others, repeatedly setting the fastest lap and never giving up. If her interest hadn’t been so intently personal, Sabrina knew that she would have found his daring a thrill to watch.

  Right in front of the palace, a Porsche, driven by an American, came too close and brushed wheels with a black Lotus driven by the son of an Italian industrialist. The Italian braked, causing a third car coming up behind the pair to have nowhere to go but over the back of the Lotus.

  Complete chaos ensued. A fourth car screeched to a grinding halt just short of the third, while a fifth careened into them both just as Burke came out of the tunnel into the turn. Jessica cried out, the regent cursed, and Sabrina held her breath as Burke attempted to get around the outside of the wrecked cars, spun one-hundred-eighty degrees, backed up, turned around and managed to push on. Behind him, the rest of the pack staggered by, more and more strung out.

  “I knew he could do it,” Eduard insisted on a voice that was far shakier than his usual strong baritone. “Do you remember when I avoided a similar crash in Monte Carlo, my dear?”

  “I could hardly forget it,” Jessica said dryly. “I had nightmares about you burning up in that car for months afterward.”

  “It could not have happened,” Eduard insisted. “I was an expert driver. And our son inherited my skills.”

  As she watched Burke speed through the narrow streets, Sabrina wished she could feel as confident as Prince Eduard sounded.

  * * *

  THE MAN, dressed in an Italian pin-striped navy suit left the office of the Giraudeau Bank, headed down the fifth-floor hallway to the rest rooms. Once inside the stall, he opened his padded alligator briefcase and took out the disassembled pieces of the automatic rifle, putting them together with a deft skill that bespoke years of experience.

  Outside the gray stone bank building, the deafening roar of the engines was making work impossible, which was why the employees had given up for the day and gathered atop the roof to watch the race. Rather than finding it a distraction, the man welcomed the noise; it would mask the sound of the gunshot. If all went as planned, it would appear as if the prince merely lost control of his car. With any luck, it would burn when it crashed; if not, at least the ensuing chaos would give him sufficient time to get out of the country before the authorities realized that their regent-to-be had died of a gunshot wound.

  He took the key he’d stolen from the custodian’s closet and locked the rest room. Then, using the stock of the rifle, he broke out the frosted glass in the rest room window. A window that conveniently offered an bird’s-eye view of the racetrack.

  Lifting the rifle to his eye, he squinted into the sun, adjusted the telescopic sight, then waited patiently for the re
d Ferrari to appear in the cross hairs.

  * * *

  BURKE HAD A HEALTHY LEAD when he pulled into the pit on the twenty-eighth lap to change tires. The pit crew excelled themselves, changing all four wheels in less than eight seconds.

  As he roared out of the pit, Burke felt extremely confident. He was enjoying the beautiful weather and the challenging course, kissing the curbs on the hairpin turns, flying through the ultrafast corners with a master driver’s precision. This Grand Prix was turning out to be a perfect prelude to his coronation.

  But the race wasn’t over yet. As Burke exited the tunnel on the forty-ninth lap, swooping out of the stone arch like a fighter jet on a strafing run, the driver who’d been in second place for the past ten laps tried to pass him on the inside. But he’d timed the move wrong, causing his car to be momentarily pinned against the stone wall. Then, completely out of control, it did a slow heart-stopping roll in midair over the top of Burke’s speeding Ferrari.

  The shrill screams of the engines muffled the screams of the spectators. Chantal, Dixie, Ariel and Raven covered their eyes and turned away, emotionally unable to cope with the horrific accident. Noel, Jessica, Eduard and Sabrina could not look away.

  When the other car’s tire creased Burke’s red helmet, Sabrina felt the blood drain from her face. Her knees weakened and for the first time since the start of the race, she sank in one of the wrought-iron chairs flanking the balcony railing.

  “He’s all right!” Eduard shouted. “Look, he’s continuing the race!” His chest was puffed out with paternal pride; his dark eyes, suspiciously moist, revealed his earlier fear. Beside him, Jessica sat, her fingers curled tightly around her husband’s arm, silent tears streaming down her too pale cheeks. Sabrina felt similar tears on her own face and brushed them away with the back of her hands.

  Burke blinked against the red veil obstructing his vision and pulled into the pit.

  “That’s it,” his crew chief said. “You’re done for.”

  “The hell I am,” Burke retorted, yanking off his helmet. “I just need something to stop this damn bleeding.” The blood, dark and deadly, was pouring from a two-inch gash on his forehead.

  “You could have a concussion,” Drew warned as one of the crew mopped away the blood with a towel and slapped a thick flesh-colored adhesive bandage against the prince’s brow.

  Another man, clad in a red Giraudeau team coverall, tossed the bloody helmet aside and handed Burke another one. Meanwhile, the remainder of the crew took advantage of the unscheduled stop to top off the gas tank and check the engine.

  “You should be in the hospital,” Caine, who’d joined his partner in the pit, said grimly.

  “I’ll have a doctor check me over after the race,” Burke countered. Before anyone could object, he slammed the car back into gear and rejoined the race.

  For a time it seemed as if the celebrated Grand Prix had turned into the Demolition Derby Sabrina remembered going to after Sonny’s performance at a Tulsa, Oklahoma rodeo. Cars crashed into the heavy barricades and each other, leaving brightly colored metal parts scattered over the curving roadway. Tires shredded and engines blew apart, creating billowing clouds of black smoke that mingled with the odor of oil and exhaust on the soft summer air.

  By the fiftieth lap, only four of the thirteen cars that had begun the race were still on the track. And despite two dangerous near misses, Burke was still in the lead.

  She watched spellbound as the prince continued his smooth and exhilarating run, putting on the same polished performance to the finish, effectively annihilating the opposition.

  And when the long race was finally over, she was laughing and hugging everyone on the balcony. As she felt herself being given a most unregal bear hug by the ebullient Prince Eduard, she felt as if she were one of the family.

  * * *

  BURKE SAT ON THE EDGE of the examining table, his bare legs dangling over the side, trying not to flinch as the doctor poured a stinging antiseptic over his wound. The pain was ripe and throbbing in his temple; his head swam.

  “You must be one of the French loyalists who have been threatening to disrupt the ceremonies,” he complained between clenched teeth. “Or else you’re a sadist.”

  “There were rumors about the Marquis de Sade being my great-great-grandfather,” the white-jacketed man answered blithely. “Of course the family has always chosen to ignore such stories.” He dabbed at the cut with a sterilized swab. “My brother, however, is a dentist, which I suppose adds credence to such rumors.”

  He slid his glasses down his nose and studied the gash over the top of his tortoiseshell frames. “You are a very fortunate man.”

  “I’ve always been lucky,” Burke agreed, deciding it would sound like bragging to point out that his expert driving skills had contributed to him escaping what could have been a fatal collision.

  “Still, not many men could survive two near crashes and a gunshot wound all in the same day.”

  “Gunshot wound?” Drew and Caine said in unison. They’d been waiting nearby. At the doctor’s pronouncement, they snapped to immediate attention.

  “Oui,” the doctor answered. “As you can see, it is only a graze, but another millimeter to the right, Your Highness, and your father would have been planning a funeral rather than a coronation.”

  “It can’t be a gunshot,” Burke argued. “The wound is from Mario Francotti’s front tire. I felt it brush my helmet.” He turned to the two security agents. “You both saw it happen.”

  “We saw the accident,” Caine agreed as he rubbed his jaw, concentrating on his memory of the rapid-fire sequence of events. “But sometimes, what we think we see isn’t what really happened.”

  “This is ridicule.” Burke shook his head, then wished he hadn’t as a blinding light flashed behind his eyes. “What are the odds of getting shot and struck during a collision at the same time?”

  Caine’s expression was nearly as grim as it had been after Chantal’s near-fatal experience in that Philadelphia fire. “I wouldn’t want to calculate the odds. But I have a feeling that you were right on the money about being lucky. I’ll bet that the reason that shot was off the mark was because the accident deflected the bullet.”

  “That would be,” Burke said slowly, “a fantastic coincidence.”

  “Isn’t it?” Caine agreed. He turned to Drew. “Why don’t you see if you can retrieve the prince’s helmet? And get some forensic guys busy calculating the direction of the shot, so we can start looking for our needle in a haystack.”

  “I’m on my way,” Drew said. “I take it you’re going back to the palace with the prince.”

  “Yeah.” Caine had a sudden need to see Chantal. To make certain that his wife and child were safe. He turned to the doctor. “I’m going to have to insist that you keep this confidential.”

  The doctor nodded. “Bien sûr.”

  After arranging to have the bill sent to his accountant, Burke took the bottle of pain pills the doctor prescribed and returned to the palace with Caine.

  Although it was more than two hours since he’d taken his victory lap, the narrow winding streets were still filled with merrymakers. Any one of the exuberant individuals could have been his attempted assassin, Burke mused as the gunmetal gray sedan made its way slowly through the crowds. The darkly tinted windows provided privacy, but for the first time in his life, he felt unreasonably exposed.

  Someone had tried to kill him. Not once, but twice. And as disturbing as that idea might be, Burke knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his would-be executioner would try again.

  “Perhaps we should postpone the coronation,” he murmured.

  Caine shot him a sideways glance.

  “Because of the women,” Burke answered his brother-in-law’s sharp, questioning look. “While I detest the idea of caving in to these terrorist demands, I cannot ignore the fact that Sabrina could have been killed that night at the casino. And now that he’s failed again, this would-be assassin will b
e growing more frustrated. Who knows what he will do next?”

  “It’s your call.” Caine’s mild tone did not reveal his own feelings on the matter.

  “Can you keep them safe? All of them?”

  “We can sure as hell try.”

  Burke laughed, but the sound held no humor. “There are times, Caine, when I wish that you were a bit less honest.”

  Caine flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, attempting to ease some of the tension that had every tendon in his body feeling as if it were in a vise.

  “If you want an ironclad guarantee, I can’t give it to you. If you want my word that I will do my best to keep your family—and my pregnant wife—safe from these maniacs, you’ve got it.”

  As Burke considered his words soberly, he studied the faces of the crowd outside the window. Was it the older man in the black turtleneck? he wondered. The young man in tennis whites walking beside the stunning blonde dressed in a crocheted sweater and enticingly sexy suede shorts? Dammit, who was it who had managed to grasp so much control over his life?

  “Your word has always been enough for me, Caine.”

  Caine nodded, his grim expression mirroring Burke’s own.

  It was agreed that they would keep the news of the bullet wound from the family for the time being. Eduard would of course have to know. But both Caine and Burke saw no reason in disturbing the women any more than they’d already been.

  And although Burke knew that such a decision was blatantly chauvinistic, the part of him that had been brought up under the tenet of male ascendancy to the throne attempted to convince him that it was for the best. But later, as he’d deftly brushed aside his mother’s and sister’s concerns, Burke had suffered pangs of guilt that were nearly as painful as his throbbing head.

  Although the rest of Montacroix continued to celebrate long into the night, Burke was not up to such revelry. Instead, after a brief family supper, he excused himself and went upstairs, where he downed two of the pain pills with a glass of water.