by JoAnn Ross
From the moment she entered the embassy, Chantal was in total control of the situation. As he watched her in the reception line, standing beside the ambassador and his wife, greeting the Washington notables with a graceful warmth that seemed inbred, Caine couldn't help wondering if there was some genetic code that made a princess a princess.
While he admired her behavior, Caine found the ease by which she slipped into a friendly yet vaguely distant regal bearing strangely inhibiting. Although he'd been surprised to discover Chantal to be such a multifaceted woman, thus far he'd been able to deal with all her varied personalities, including the one he most disliked—the pampered prima donna. But the woman he now observed possessed an intrepid self-assurance he knew went all the way to the bone. Gleaming steel wrapped in black satin—that was the princess Chantal.
He felt an unwelcome stir of desire and told himself that it was going to be a very long three weeks.
Strange how he reminded her so of Burke, Chantal mused later in the evening as she cast a surreptitious glance toward Caine. For a diplomat, he was surprisingly aloof, standing rigidly apart from the others, refraining from entering into any of the obligatory social small talk. And although he hadn't hovered over her, whenever she turned around he was somewhere nearby, watching her with a steadiness that revealed little about his thoughts.
There was nothing relaxed about this man, nothing easy. He was all intensity and intellect. Just like her brother. Chantal wondered if he also possessed Burke's patience and loyalty. And his passion. An image flashed through her mind, a patently erotic image of lovemaking with Caine that caused a quick thrill to race through her, leaving her weak.
Caine saw the color drain from her face to be replaced seconds later by a pair of red flags in her cheeks. Instantly alert, he scanned the crowded room as he deftly wove his way through the guests to her side.
"Are you all right?"
His voice was low, meant only for her ears. The light touch of his fingers on her elbow burned her skin. "Of course," she said.
"Are you sure? You looked as if you were about to pass out."
His tone reflected more than polite concern. Although she had no reason to believe that Caine possessed the gift of second sight, she also knew that it would be impossible to keep anything from him. Those unwavering eyes saw too much.
"Positive." She managed a reassuring smile. "It's been a long day. I probably should not have had so much to drink."
"You've been carrying that same glass of champagne around all night."
They were face-to-face now, their bodies nearly touching, effectively closing out the others.
"You're very observant."
"It's my job to be observant."
"Perhaps." She studied him, all frank eyes and lingering curiosity. "Yet, isn't it also a diplomat's duty to mingle at functions such as these?"
"I suppose you could include that in the job description."
"The Montacroix ambassador has spoken with everyone here tonight," Chantal observed. "I myself have exchanged greetings with representatives of countries I didn't even know existed. But you haven't said a single word to anyone."
There was no way Caine was going to tell her what his usual function at gatherings such as these was. "I'm talking to you."
"I'm the first. And only."
He shrugged. "I guess I'm just antisocial."
She gave him a long, measuring look that had Caine believing the princess was quite possibly more than just another pretty—no, stunning—face.
"Would you consider me rude if I were to suggest that if you really are antisocial, perhaps you should consider another line of work?"
"Such as?"
Chantal toyed with the silver ring on her finger as she looked up at him, carefully framing her answer. "That's difficult to say… without knowing you better," she said slowly. "But the first thing that came to mind when I saw you at the airport, then tonight, looking so stern and alert, is that you reminded me of one of my father's palace guards."
His eyes remained remote, his face expressionless. "Now that's an interesting idea. If I were to apply for the position, would I have to wear one of those striped uniforms with pantaloons and a funny plumed helmet?"
"I believe those are the Vatican guards you're referring to," Chantal said. "They're Swiss. We are far more restrained in Montacroix."
"That's a relief. I've never looked all that good in tights."
" 'Tights'?" a deep, laughing voice repeated. "Whatever are you two talking about?"
Caine and Chantal turned toward the tall, distinguished-looking man who'd joined them. When they'd been introduced earlier in the evening, Chantal had recognized the name Sebring immediately and had been pleased to meet the man her father had always spoken of so highly.
"I was merely suggesting alternative career choices for Mr. O'Bannion, Mr. Sebring," Chantal answered with a smile.
" 'Alternative career choices'?"
"In the event he might ever tire of the State Department."
"Oh?"
"Princess Chantal doesn't believe I have much of a future in the diplomatic corps," Caine said dryly.
"Is that a fact?" The director exchanged a look with Caine. "I do hope Caine hasn't offended you, Princess."
Chantal decided to apply a little diplomacy herself by not bringing up Caine's earlier snide remarks. "Certainly not. Mr. O'Bannion has been the soul of discretion," she said sweetly. "It is simply that he's unlike any other diplomat I've ever met."
"I remind the princess of one of her father's palace guards," Caine offered.
James Sebring's jaw began to twitch. "Is that right?"
"There is a decided resemblance," Chantal replied. "Perhaps if Mr. O'Bannion ever tires of the State Department, he could come to work for you in the Presidential Security."
"Now there's an idea," the director said with forced enthusiasm. "By the way, Princess, my wife and I were discussing the photographs of your paintings in the gallery catalog earlier this evening. She was particularly curious about the inspiration for your most recent work."
As the director deftly steered the conversation onto a safer track, Caine took the opportunity to drift back into the crowd, remaining, as always, only an arm's length from Chantal.
A palace guard, he mused. As he watched her carrying on an obviously stimulating conversation with Sebring, a senior senator from Illinois and a newly appointed Supreme Court justice, Caine wondered if Chantal had any idea how close she'd come to hitting the bull's-eye.
There was a light rain falling when they left the reception. For the first time since they'd entered the lofty, dignified reception hall of the embassy, Chantal allowed herself to relax. Leaning her head back against the leather seat of the limousine, she closed her eyes.
She was so silent and so still that Caine thought she'd fallen asleep until she said, "I'm famished."
"You should have eaten something at the reception."
"Impossible. Royal etiquette decrees that a princess never eats in front of her public."
"You are kidding."
"Only slightly." Opening her eyes, she met his incredulous look. "Whenever I'm on public display, especially in such a formal setting such as tonight, it's safer to refrain from eating. Think what a disaster it would be if the princess of Montacroix spilled cocktail sauce down the front of her dress. Or worse yet, someone else's gown."
"Probably change the free world as we know it today," Caine agreed dryly. "The dining room is probably closed at the hotel, but there's always room service."
"I'm not certain the room service menu has what I'm hungry for."
Her sultry scent surrounded them in the warm air of the limousine, filling his head. "Don't be ridiculous," Caine countered, reminding himself that she was merely an assignment—an assignment he didn't want. "You're a princess. The chef will undoubtedly be thrilled to whip up anything your royal little heart desires."
Since the scorn seemed to be missing from his tone this time,
Chantal decided not to challenge his renewed reference to her royal status. "Do you think he'd be all that eager to grill a cheeseburger?"
"A cheeseburger?"
"With French fries. And lots of catsup. I do believe that cheeseburgers and French fries are one of the best things about America."
Her light laughter made Caine think of silver wind chimes touched by a summer breeze.
"I've tried for years to teach Bernard, our family chef, the way to grill a proper cheeseburger, but he can't seem to manage such a simple task. Although I can't prove it, I believe he refuses to learn out of spite."
"Spite?"
"I'm afraid he's not much of a fan of America," she said on a slight sigh. "Actually, as far as Bernard is concerned, Montacroix is the cradle of civilization. Anyone who is not a citizen of our small country is obviously a barbarian, guilty of all sorts of primitive behavior."
"Such as eating cheeseburgers and French fries."
Chantal nodded. "Exactly." She caught a glimpse of a blue-and-green neon sign flashing outside the limousine window. "The sign says Open 24 Hours," she exclaimed happily. "Driver, please stop here."
Drew, only slowing slightly, lifted his eyes to the rear-view mirror. "Mr. O'Bannion?"
Chantal was not accustomed to having her instructions questioned. Especially not by a chauffeur. "Mr. Tremayne," she repeated firmly, in that tone Caine was beginning to recognize, "I asked you to stop."
"I'm sure you'll be able to order a cheeseburger from room service," Caine assured her, waving Drew on with his hand.
Chantal's previously merry eyes flashed with temper. "I'm going to be spending far too much time in hotel rooms as it is during this tour. I wish to eat out tonight." She lifted her chin, daring him to defy her request. "I wish to eat at that restaurant we just passed."
"You know, my grandmother O'Bannion has a saying—if wishes were horses, beggars would ride."
Chantal found herself wishing that she'd been a princess in a former century so she could banish Caine O'Bannion to the dungeons. "What does some ancient family proverb have to do with my dinner?"
"Think about it," Caine suggested. "Besides, that restaurant is nothing but a greasy spoon. The hamburger bun would undoubtedly be dripping in grease, and the coffee would taste like battery acid. We're returning to the hotel."
The dungeons were too good for this arrogant, unpleasant man, she decided. "Precisely the way I like my dinner. Now, are you going to instruct our driver to turn around, or shall I simply return after you take me back to my suite?"
Their eyes met and held; blazing amber eyes dueling with hard gray. Caine tried to remember when he'd run across such a hardheaded woman and came up blank. "Okay, Drew," he said on a frustrated burst of breath, "take the princess back to the damn diner."
Satisfied, Chantal rewarded him with a dazzling smile that didn't quite expunge his irritation but nevertheless managed to ease it a great deal. "Thank you, Mr. O'Bannion," she said. "That's very diplomatic of you."
As the limousine made an illegal U-turn in the center of the nearly deserted street, Caine didn't answer. He didn't dare.
Thirty minutes later, Caine was sitting in a red vinyl booth, looking in awe at Chantal across the scratched and nicked green Formica table. For a princess, there was certainly nothing dainty about her appetite, he considered, watching as she single-handedly made a cheeseburger, a double order of fries and a chocolate milk shake disappear. At the moment, she was debating over dessert.
"I suppose, since I'm in America, I should have the apple pie," she mused aloud. "But the chocolate cake sounds heavenly."
Where did she put it all? As he cast an appraising glance over her slender but oh so pleasingly curved figure, Caine decided that her metabolism must be locked into high gear.
"Why not order them both?"
"What a marvelous idea! I can eat the apple pie now and take the cake back to the hotel for later. Thank you, Mr. O'Bannion. That was a decision worthy of Solomon."
"Not quite, but I'll accept the compliment nevertheless. On one condition."
"Do you think the waitress would be willing to serve the pie a la mode… ? What condition is that?"
"You're in luck. Apple pie without vanilla ice cream is unpatriotic. And the condition is that you stop calling me Mr. O'Bannion. The name's Caine."
Chantal nodded. "Caine," she repeated slowly, as if measuring the taste and feel of it on her tongue. "Caine O'Bannion. It's a fine, strong name. I like it."
"I'll tell my mother," he said dryly. "She'll be so happy that you approve."
Chantal refrained from answering immediately, waiting while Caine gave her order to the waitress. She braced her elbows on the table and linked her fingers together, studying him judiciously. "Why do you insist on being so sarcastic," she asked quietly, "when it's not your nature?"
Caine took a sip of his coffee. He'd been wrong; it didn't taste like battery acid. Toxic waste was more appropriate. "What makes you think it's not?"
"The president has been a friend of my family since I was a child. He'd never have requested the State Department to assign you to me if he'd known how rude you'd be. Or how much you were going to dislike me."
"I don't dislike you."
"Don't you?"
"Not at all. Oh, maybe I did at first, when you pulled that little stunt in the airport, but if you want to know the truth, Princess, you're beginning to grow on me."
"Always the diplomat," she murmured.
When he stretched his long legs under the table and brushed hers, Chantal felt a tingle of something indiscernible race through her veins. What was it? Pleasure? Desire? Fear? As she met his unwavering gaze, she reminded herself that just because Caine O'Bannion was different from any man she'd ever met, didn't mean that he was special.
For someone who'd been schooled in royal discretion since birth, Chantal's face was an open book. Caine watched as the emotions washed over her delicate features in waves. When he viewed what could only be fear, he wondered what the hell he'd done to make her afraid of him. Whatever it was, he considered, he'd have to correct things before they got out of hand. Before she called the president and requested that he be replaced.
While trying to think of something to say that would ease the tension hovering over the table, Caine was saved by the waitress returning with Chantal's dessert. Putting his hand over his chipped white mug, Caine turned down the offer of a refill on the toxic waste.
"Montacroix is a constitutional monarchy, isn't it?" he asked in an apparent attempt to change the subject. In truth, he wanted to see if he could determine a reason for the attempts on the princess's life.
"That's right. Besides my father, the country is ruled by the prime minister, a four-member cabinet appointed by the prince, and an eight-member elected parliament."
"The monarchy is always represented by a prince?"
"Succession to the throne is through the male line."
Obviously no one was trying to keep Chantal from ascending the Montacroix throne. "Does that bother you?"
"Does what bother me?"
"That you'll always be merely a princess with ceremonial duties and no real power?"
Chantal laughed. "If you knew my brother, Burke, you wouldn't be asking me that question," she said. "In the first place, I'd never want all the responsibilities he's going to inherit. And in the second place, though I dearly love my country, I'm not certain I wish to spend the rest of my life in Montacroix."
So far everything they'd discussed had been in her file, but this last statement was news. "What's the matter, is Montacroix getting a little too provincial for you, after all those years of jet-setting around the world?"
Chantal ignored his gritty tone. "Not at all. I love Montacroix, but I have become more introspective as I approach my thirtieth birthday, and lately I've been thinking that since I've spent the first twenty-nine years of my life in my father's country, I should see how I adapt to my mother's homeland."
"I'm afra
id there's not a lot of demand for royalty in America, Princess."
Her chin came up. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a very rude man?"
Her annoyance rolled off him as he shrugged. "If by rude you mean I'm not continually tugging my forelock in your presence, I suppose I could plead guilty."
"That's not what I'm talking about," she tossed back on a flare of temper. "I'm referring to the way that you continually insult me for something I have no control over."
They were the only customers in the diner. Realizing that she had drawn the interest of both the bored, gum-chewing waitress and the late-night fry cook, Chantal lowered her voice.
"There are those in Montacroix, even now, who cannot forgive my father for falling in love with my mother. Despite the fact that long before they'd met, the doctors had informed him that his first wife, Princess Clea, would never be sane enough to leave the sanitarium where she'd been a patient for years."
He knew the story, of course. Anyone who didn't know the story of the beautiful love child produced by Prince Eduard and international sex symbol Jessica Thorne would have had to have spent the past three decades camped out on the dark side of the moon. In fact, Caine recalled, a condemnation of the American actress had actually been written into the congressional record by a Mississippi legislator running for reelection on a morality platform.
"I knew that his wife had been hospitalized," Caine said. "I hadn't realized she'd had mental problems."
"According to my father, instability ran in her family. Her mother committed suicide in a mental institution. Princess Clea had been getting progressively worse throughout their marriage. Shortly after Burke was born, she was committed to the sanitarium, where she finally died last year."
"It must have been tough on your father."
"My governess, who was also governess to my father, once told me that life around the palace had been dreadful for a very long time. Which is why I've always been happy he was fortunate enough to receive a second chance at love, despite the fact that even as a child, I heard people whispering about my mother and their affair behind my back. When I was seven, I finally got up the nerve to ask my father what they meant when they referred to me as 'the bastard princess.'"