Guarded Moments

by JoAnn Ross

  The back-and-forth motion of his jaw indicated Caine was grinding his teeth. "I'll try not to dawdle, Your Highness."

  "See that you don't."

  As she walked away, Drew following on her heels, Caine could have sworn he saw an invisible crown perched atop her sleek sable head. Muttering a particularly virulent curse, he headed toward the baggage claim area, deciding that he'd take a dozen crazed would-be assassins over one snotty princess any day.

  At least the driver was friendly, Chantal considered. Although his manner had been properly polite, his eyes had smiled at her in a way that almost made up for Caine O'Bannion's rudeness. Alone in the back seat of the State Department limousine, she thought about her reasons for coming to America. Burke had been the one who insisted all she needed to lift her spirits was some time away from Montacroix. An opportunity for a new lease on life. After giving the matter serious consideration, Chantal had agreed that a change of scenery might just do her some good.

  The trick had been to find a place that held no painful memories, something easier said than done. Then the letter had come inviting Montacroix to take part in a cultural exchange program.

  The offer, along with an opportunity to raise much-needed funds for the world's underprivileged children, had seemed the answer to a prayer. During the six months that she'd prepared for the exhibit, selecting works from remarkably talented yet still obscure European artists, along with the appealingly primitive artwork of the children, she'd managed to go hours, sometimes even days at a time, without dwelling on the past. By the time she'd boarded the Air France jet today, she'd felt as if she were standing on the brink of a bright new life.

  And then she'd run smack into Caine O'Bannion and that cold, hard look of disdain she remembered all too well. Her husband had perfected that look, wielding it with brutal efficiency. After her divorce, Chantal had thought that she'd never have to see that look directed her way again. Obviously she'd thought wrong.

  "Damn," she murmured, leaning her head against the back of the glove-soft leather seat and rubbing her throbbing temples with her fingertips. "What do I do now?"

  "Since your welcoming reception at the Montacroix embassy is only a few hours away and you've had a long flight, I'd suggest going straight to the hotel for a nap," a deep voice beside her offered.

  Lost in introspection, Chantal had failed to notice Caine's arrival. Now, as she lowered her hands to her lap, she reminded herself that it was important—vital—that she remain calm.

  "I do not take naps."

  Her tilted, arrogant chin was quintessential princess, but the obvious exhaustion in her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks hinted at something soft and vulnerable lurking beneath that vivid, self-assured exterior. Telling himself that such flights of fancy must be a residual, unexpected side effect of the pain medication they'd pumped him full of last month, Caine shrugged.

  "Fine. You can spend the rest of the day hanging up all the clothes you brought with you." He thought of the numerous pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage he and Drew had finally managed to stuff into the roomy trunk of the limousine. "May I ask you a personal question?"

  "I suppose that would depend on how personal."

  "Did you leave any clothes back at the castle?"

  If he'd been anyone else, Chantal would have laughed and confided that Burke had asked her that very same question when he'd driven her to the airport. But her brother's question had been in the vein of good-natured teasing. Caine's was heavy with scorn.

  "I am here in America representing my country," she said blandly. "As Montacroix's unofficial delegate to the United States, I have a reputation to uphold."

  "Excuse my ignorance, Your Highness," Caine shot back mockingly. "I hadn't realized that an entire country's international reputation depended on the size of its princess's wardrobe."

  It crossed Chantal's mind that if Caine O'Bannion was typical of the country's State Department officials, America's foreign affairs were bound to be in a great deal of trouble. She couldn't remember ever meeting a more undiplomatic man.

  "Don't tell me that my luggage is too heavy for you to manage?"

  "Of course not. However, I was wondering whether you plan to lug all those cases around from town to town for the next three weeks."

  "Don't be ridiculous. I have no such intention."

  That, at least, was something, Caine decided. Obviously, she'd decided to pull out all the stops for the diplomatic circuit, intending to ship a lot of the stuff back home to good old Montacroix before they moved on to their next stop.

  "You 're going to lug them from town to town for the next three weeks," Chantal returned silkily, her tone schooled to annoy.

  As she watched the smoldering fury rise in those hard eyes, she swallowed, all too aware of her heart hammering in her throat. Feeling defensive and hating herself for it, she turned away.

  Before Caine could come up with an answer that was even remotely civil, she was pointing out the window. "Oh, the Lincoln Memorial," she exclaimed as the limousine sped past on the way to the hotel. "I read in my travel guide that on a clear day you can see Mr. Lincoln's statue in the Reflecting Pool. Is that true?"

  The transformation had been so rapid, so unexpected, that Caine was forced to blink slowly to regain his equilibrium. The haughty princess was gone, and in her place was an enthusiastic young woman whose dancing dark eyes could bring even the most stalwart of men to his knees. As he struggled against an unruly tug of attraction, Caine tried to recall the last time he'd stopped to look at any of his adopted city's famed landmarks.

  "If it says it in black and white, it must be true."

  Chantal was leafing madly through her book while at the same time trying not to miss any of the sights passing by the tinted windows.

  "So many statues. My great-grandfather adored statues—he had them built all over Montacroix. There are those detractors of my family who insist that we have more statues in Montacroix than we do citizens, but of course that's an exaggeration. Still, I have to admit that even when driving through the countryside you can't get away from my great-grandfather Leon's statues."

  "The pigeons must love him."

  Chantal glanced back over her shoulder, surprising him with a saucy grin. "That's the same thing Burke always says."

  "Burke is your brother."

  "Technically my half brother," she corrected. "His mother was Papa's first wife. Burke was only five years old when my parents fell in love. He was ten when they were finally permitted to marry. Those five years in between were definitely not easy on anyone." She exhaled a soft, rippling sigh. "Divorce is so horrible. I can't imagine what it must be like for a child, having his world turned upside down before he's old enough to comprehend what's happening."

  "It sure as hell isn't easy," Caine said, thinking of his own disrupted life.

  Something in his gritty tone caught her attention. Interest, along with a surprising hint of sympathy, appeared in her eyes. "Were your parents divorced?"

  Caine wondered how the hell they'd gotten started in on his personal life. He was a bodyguard, nothing more. And a reluctant one at that. He had no interest in knowing anything more about Chantal Giraudeau than whatever basic facts he needed to ensure her safety. And he damn well didn't want her knowing anything about his personal life.

  "My father died when I was a boy."

  "Oh. I'm sorry." Chantal studied him silently. Then, reminding herself that she had no interest in this man other than whether he could effectively manage her travel arrangements, she fell silent, content to simply observe the scenery going by the tinted windows.

  Unaccustomed to Washington's streets, Chantal had no way of knowing that the limousine's abrupt turn was taking them in the opposite direction from the hotel. -Aware that Drew must have spotted a tail, Caine stiffened, shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror and automatically reached for the gun hidden beneath his jacket.

  The tense moment passed as the yellow taxi that had appeared to be fol
lowing them continued on its way down Connecticut Avenue. Drew returned to their initial route, leaving Caine to breathe a sigh of relief. Within minutes the limousine pulled up in front of the hotel.

  As Chantal entered the luxurious lobby, with its gold domed ceiling and gleaming travertine marble floors, she hoped that the check in would be achieved with the Americans' usual display of efficiency. She had no desire to remain with the obviously disapproving Caine O'Bannion any longer than was absolutely necessary.

  Her suite was roomy, gracious and full of the small details that made a hotel a pleasure, from the authentic antique furniture to the wide, comfortable bed with goose-down pillows to the basket of imported soaps, lotions and fragrant bath salts. As she toured her spacious quarters, Chantal knew that had it not been for the silent man following her every move, she would have been very comfortable here.

  "It's quite lovely," she said after returning to the living room.

  She'd tossed her cape onto a chair immediately upon entering the suite, and as Caine observed the stark but obviously expensive black sweater and slacks, he decided that this was a woman who'd look good in anything. Or nothing. Try as he might, he had not been able to get the picture of her lying on the beach, her nearly nude body gleaming with oil, out of his mind.

  "I'm glad you approve."

  For the sake of peace, Chantal decided to ignore his clipped tone. She also decided that it was time to drop the prima donna princess act. Not only was it exhausting to behave so out of character, she had the impression that Caine was not a man to be easily fooled for long.

  "You don't like me very much, do you, Mr. O'Bannion?" she asked as she attempted to untie the ribbon on the enormous cellophane wrapped basket of fruit and cheeses on a nearby table.

  Reaching into the pocket of his slacks, Caine pulled out a compact Swiss army knife and deftly dispensed with the ribbon. "I don't know you."

  "True." Selecting a peach, Chantal bit into it, savoring the succulent rush of juice. "You don't know me. Nevertheless, you have formed a decidedly negative opinion regarding my character." She plucked a red Delicious apple from the basket. "Would you care for a piece of fruit?"

  The way she looked right now—her dark hair in a wild tangle around her shoulders, her full lips glossy with nectar, the ripe, red fruit in her outstretched hand—enabled Caine to have a good idea how Adam must have felt when Eve showed up in the Garden of Eden with the suggestion that they try something different for dessert.

  "No, thanks." Caine was trying to relate this self-possessed woman with the devil-may-care princess of the tabloids. Impossible. "You've got a busy night ahead of you. I'd better leave so you can get some rest."

  Her early-morning departure, the differences in time zones, jet lag, not to mention the unsettling meeting with Caine, had all conspired to make Chantal suddenly exhausted. "I believe I will take a nap before the reception," she said. "I'm strangely tired."

  "I suppose even princesses get jet lag."

  She'd been a princess all her life. For the past twenty-four years, discounting those disastrous months of her marriage, she'd lived a life of luxury in the royal palace. Yet, for some reason, the way he insisted on pointing out her position was beginning to grate on her nerves.

  "You do know," she said evenly, "that my mother was— and still technically is—an American citizen."

  "Of course." Despite all his warnings to himself to keep his distance, Caine smiled. "I remember that no matter where my father was stationed in the world, he never missed a Jessica Thorne film. My mother always accused him of having a crush on her."

  "Really." Although she couldn't begin to count the times she'd heard similar declarations, Chantal found herself responding to his sudden grin. He should smile more often, she decided. It made him look warmer. Nicer. More human.

  "I can't remember the name of his favorite, but it was the one where she played a mermaid caught in the net of a fisherman in the Greek isles."

  "Siren Song."

  "That's it. Mom told me about one night when it popped up on the late show and Dad became so enthralled with those scenes of your mother perching atop her rock that Mom threatened to divorce him."

  "Surely she wouldn't have done that?"

  "Of course not. But the next night, to make up for his perceived indiscretions, he took her out dancing." Caine didn't mention that that was his father's last night stateside before his death.

  "Siren Song was Mother's last picture. It is also my father's favorite. They met while she was filming it on Mykonos and fell in love at first sight. Rumor has it that the censors didn't know which to be more upset about— her amazingly scanty wardrobe or her heated, off-screen romance with a married prince."

  Chantal smiled as she thought about the fairy-tale story of her parents' love affair. A love affair that scandalized European society for five years. "Everyone said it would never last, but they're as much in love today as they were thirty years ago. Perhaps even more." Her eyes turned dreamy. "Papa still calls her his siren. Isn't that amazing?"

  Caine realized he was being given a glimpse of yet another Chantal, this one an unabashed romantic. Her open smile enticed him nearer, even as he knew he'd drown in the swirling depths of those mysterious dark eyes. She exuded sensual heat from every pore, making him want to reach out and touch her skin, to discover if it was really as warm as it looked.

  "Not so amazing," he said gruffly, "if she's anything like her daughter."

  As their eyes met and held, Chantal couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. Just when she was certain that her heart had stopped beating, a sudden knock on the door shattered the expectant mood.

  "That'll be the bellman with your luggage," Caine said.

  Chantal wondered if his frown was due to the untimely interruption or the fact that for one suspended moment he'd allowed himself to be as drawn to her as she was to him.

  She glanced down at her slender gold wristwatch, but her numbed mind was unable to decipher the Roman numerals. "I hope I still have time to send tonight's evening dress down to be pressed," she murmured, seeking something, anything, to say.

  She was obviously flustered and trying not to show it. Her cheekbones were splashed with scarlet and her eyes— those amazing, sultry eyes—were still wide with an enticing blend of confusion and passion. Dragging his gaze from her exquisite face, Caine went to open the door.

  "I'm sure you won't have any problem getting someone to press your gown," he said once the bellman had left with a generous tip. "After all, according to the fairy tales, whenever a princess snaps her fingers, her minions immediately scurry to do her bidding."

  Well, Chantal considered, sinking onto a gold-brocade-covered Louis XIV chair, the moment, as intriguing and unsettling as it had been, had definitely passed. The old Caine O'Bannion was back. In spades.

  It was early morning in Montacroix. The streets were silent save for a sleepy shopkeeper taking the shutters from his windows while his wife hosed down their section of cobblestone pavement. A fat cat, the color of old stonework, curled up on a balcony overlooking nearby Lake Losange and took a bath in the first shimmering beam of golden alpine light.

  Two men—one in his mid-thirties, the other at least twice that—sat at a wrought-iron table on the balcony, talking quietly over their cafe au lait. "She has arrived," the younger man said.

  The older man nodded. "So it begins. What security have the Americans provided?"

  "None."

  The older man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he appeared to be mulling over the unexpected news as he lit a cigarette. "That is a surprise."

  "A pleasant one."

  "Perhaps." The man exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching the slender blue column rise, then dissipate on the crisp air. "The princess is traveling all alone on this cultural tour?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Aha. I thought not."

  "There is a man accompanying her. But he is only a minor diplomat and no threat to us."

  "I w
onder." The man reached down and stroked the cat's damp, newly bathed fur. In the early-morning silence, the animal's purring sounded like a small, finely tuned motor. "If this American diplomat proves to be a nuisance, he must be eliminated, as well."

  "Of course. I've already made provisions for such an eventuality."

  "C'est bon." His lips, beneath the salt-and-pepper mustache, curved upward as he lifted his cup in a silent toast. "This time," the younger man promised, "we will not fail."

  Rigid determination hardening their dark eyes, both men's gazes moved to the island in the middle of the diamond-bright lake, where the Giraudeau palace turrets jutted above the mist-shrouded trees.

  3

  The Montacroix ambassador's reception for Princess Chantal was the social event of the season. While in other cities wealth might be the key to social success, in the nation's capital, political clout was what counted; tonight, all the heavy hitters were in attendance. Everyone in "The Green Book"—Washington's social register—had been eager to meet the glamorous princess.

  And Chantal did not disappoint. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman Caine had ever seen. Eschewing the elaborate beading, sequins and chiffon flounces worn by the other women, who seemed grimly determined to outdo one another, Chantal had opted for a strapless, floor-length tube of black satin that captured the light from the crystal chandeliers and gleamed with her every movement.

  She'd pulled her thick, dark hair into an elaborate twist at her nape, thus emphasizing her high cheekbones and sultry, dark eyes. An avalanche of milky pearls curved around her neck, tumbling down toward a single, flawless ruby. Enormous blood-red rubies adorned her ears, and a glowing pearl had replaced the canary-yellow diamond on the ring finger of her right hand. She was, Caine noticed, still wearing the thin silver ring.