by JoAnn Ross
When he realized that they were pulling up in front of the hotel, Caine allowed himself one more lingering kiss, savoring the sweet taste of her lips. That was it, he vowed. That was as far as he could go without getting in over his head.
"I'll see you to your room."
"Yes." Her wide, passion-laced eyes met his, handing him a gilt-edged invitation he was determined to ignore.
As much as he warned himself not to touch her, Caine's hand rested on her back as they rode up in the elevator. Her white cashmere coat was soft; Caine suspected that her skin would be softer.
"Amazing," she murmured, luxuriating in the possessive touch of Caine's hand against her back.
He was a strong man. She'd seen his strength each morning as they ran, witnessed the play of rigid muscles, the power of his long, sinewy legs. But she'd suspected that he could be gentle, as well. And the exquisite tenderness of his kiss had been proof of that. Strength and tenderness—an irresistible combination for any woman, but especially for Chantal. She had waited her entire life for such a man.
He twined his fingers in her hair, tempted to press his lips against the gleaming, dark strands. "What's amazing?" The hell with it, he decided, giving in to temptation. There were still fifteen floors to go; plenty of time to regain his willpower.
Chantal sighed with pleasure as his warm breath fanned her temple. "I was exhausted earlier, yet now…" Her voice drifted off, her dark eyes enticed, her slightly parted lips seduced. "You must be a magician."
Standing close to her as he was, Caine could not avoid meeting her gaze. Thoughts—all of them erotic, each of them dangerous—raced through his mind. Images of hot, humid nights, cool jazz and steamy sex. Of laughing, lazy sex in flower-strewn meadows, while the summer sun smiled benevolently overhead. Lying beside her in a mountain cabin, in front of a crackling fire, her naked flesh gleaming with the reflected orange glow of the firelight as they created a storm that made the blizzard outside pale in comparison.
Princess Chantal was temptation incarnate. A temptation he was finding more and more difficult to resist.
"Not a magician," he said, backing off slightly and shoving his hands into his pockets. "Just a man."
The passion was still there. She could feel it surrounding them, pulsing beneath her skin, like a thousand live wires. But now there was something else, as well. Something she reluctantly acknowledged as she watched the shield close over his smoky gray eyes. "A man determined to resist my feminine charms."
Caine read the hurt in her eyes and realized what a challenge it must have been for her to pull off that casual, teasing tone. "Chantal—" He reached for her, but she backed away, shaking her head.
"No," she insisted on a voice that wavered only at the edges. "Don't make things worse by apologizing, Caine." She gave him a smile—a brave, trembling smile that tore at something deep inside him. "I've always been impulsive. It's one of my more unattractive traits—"
"I doubt that there's anything unattractive about you."
At the moment, when she was struggling to hang on to one last shred of dignity, Chantal did not welcome his kindness. "Please," she said, pressing her fingers against his lips, "don't say anything. Not until I finish."
Caine nodded.
Drawing in a deep breath that was meant to calm but didn't, Chantal tried again. "Despite what you've read of my alleged romantic escapades, the truth is that I've never been very good at relationships," she began quietly. "Something—or someone—always seems to get in the way."
She thought of the various individuals she'd given her heart to, only to learn the hard way that too many men received an ego boost from attracting—then subsequently dumping—a princess. Even those not attracted by her title had found her wealth irresistible, courting her by day even as they spent their nights with beautiful, sexually hedonistic women who were not foolish enough to expect love or commitment in return.
Perhaps, she considered, it was she who was wrong. Perhaps it was not that the men in her life had promised too little, but that she had expected too much.
"What I'm attempting to say," she continued falteringly, "is that if you walk away from me tonight, I'll live. It won't be the first time a man has rejected me, and I doubt that it will be the last. But—" she took a deep breath "—if you are at all tempted to seize the moment, so to speak, I would not send you away."
As he watched the vivid color bloom in her cheeks, Caine realized that the princess, who had displayed amazing composure under some very trying conditions, was more than a little embarrassed by this intimate conversation.
"I can't think of anything I'd rather do than make love to you," he said honestly.
"But… ?"
"I thought I had explained all that."
"The part about us coming from different worlds."
The elevator door opened onto her floor, and although Caine was tempted to ride down to the parking garage and back up again all night long if that's what it took to get this settled, he didn't trust himself to be alone in such a confined space with a woman whose very scent drove him to distraction.
"Exactly." Putting his hand under her elbow, he guided her out into the hallway.
Chantal was quiet as they walked the short distance to her door. She was not in the habit of offering herself to a man, and although Caine's rejection stung, she wasn't about to let him see he had the capacity to hurt her.
Relieved when she appeared willing to allow the matter to drop, Caine escorted her into the room as he did every night, his swift, surreptitious gaze sweeping the suite. The day before their arrival, he'd arranged for her doors and windows to be wired to an alarm system that sounded both in his room and in the manager's office downstairs. If anyone had broken in during their absence, he or Drew would have been informed of the fact by the desk clerk. But it still didn't hurt to double-check.
"I'll want to run in the morning, before the flight," she said, shrugging out of her coat. The snowy cashmere fell unheeded onto the plush carpeting.
"You really do look tired," he said, noticing for the first time the pale blue shadows under her eyes. He picked the coat up and tossed it over the arm of a nearby chair, noting as he did so that it carried her scent. "Perhaps you should sleep in."
She kicked off her high heels as she headed for the bedroom. "All I need is a good night's sleep. I have no intention of foregoing my run tomorrow. If you're not here, I'll simply go alone." Her back was to him, and as she pulled down the zipper of her black silk dress, Caine was treated to a generous expanse of creamy flesh.
Biting down a surge of desire so strong that it was all he could do not to toss her onto that king-sized bed, Caine opted to leave now, while he still could. "Hey, Princess."
"Yes?" She turned in the bedroom doorway.
"Anyone ever tell you that there are times a guy might just mistake you for a Missouri mule?"
Fluttering her dark lashes, Chantal gave him a saucy, impertinent Gypsy's smile. "Only one man. But since I have reason to question his judgment, I choose not to believe him. Au revoir, Caine. I will see you in the morning. Early." Flashing yet another smile even more tantalizing than the first, she shut the bedroom door between them.
As he entered the room he shared with Drew, it crossed Caine's mind that she wasn't the only one questioning his judgment. How many men would have turned down what the princess was offering this evening?
"Don't say a word," he warned as he encountered Drew's knowing grin. An instant before that heated kiss, it had occurred to Caine the partition was open and Drew could see them in the rearview mirror. But then her lips had touched his and coherent thought had fled his mind. "Not one single word."
"About what?" Drew asked with feigned innocence.
Caine was about to reply when the telephone rang. "Yeah," he answered abruptly, not bothering to conceal his irritation.
"Mr. Caine O'Bannion?" The hesitant feminine voice, faint, as though coming over long-distance lines, caught him by surprise. Beside
s the hotel manager, only two people—Director Sebring and the president—knew he was staying at this hotel.
"Sorry, wrong number," he said.
"Mr. O'Bannion, please don't hang up. This is Noel Giraudeau. Chantal's sister."
"Chantal?"
"Oh, please, let us not waste time with foolish games. Not when Chantal is in such grave danger." Her voice was calm, but Caine could detect an undercurrent of fear.
"Look, Princess—"
"Please, call me Noel," she interjected.
"The thing is, I have no idea who or what you're talking about. Besides which, I'm a little busy right now. If you really want to talk, I'll have to get back to you, okay?"
"But…" Her voice drifted off. "I see," she said thoughtfully. "That is very clever, Mr. O'Bannion. I should have realized that you would want to confirm that I am who I say I am before talking with me. Papa says the president assured him that you're exemplary at your job."
Instinct, along with the mention of the president, told Caine that this woman was exactly who she said she was. Experience kept him cautious.
"I'll call you when I have more time to talk."
"Of course," she agreed smoothly. "I'll be waiting for your call, Mr. O'Bannion."
Caine hung up, exchanged a look with Drew as he counted to ten, then dialed the private number he'd been given upon accepting this assignment.
Noel Giraudeau answered on the first ring. "You're very prompt, and cautious. You've no idea how that eases my mind, Mr. O'Bannion."
Her voice was a great deal like her sister's, but more restrained, more soothing. From the file photos, Caine had deduced that pretty, ice-blond Noel was cool to Chantal's hot.
"I'm glad to hear that," he said sincerely. "Is that what you were calling for? To check me out?"
"Gracious, no." She sounded flustered. "You come highly recommended. I wouldn't think—"
"Then why did you call?"
"To beg you to stop Chantal from going to Philadelphia tomorrow morning."
"You of all people must know that it's difficult to get your sister to do anything she doesn't want to do," Caine pointed out. "And of all the cities on the tour, she's looking forward to Philadelphia the most."
He didn't bother to add his irritation about her sudden, last minute decision this afternoon to stay at the home of an old friend. The hotel they'd booked was secured; he and Drew had seen to that. Her friend's house, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. And that alone made it dangerous.
"I am aware of that, Mr. O'Bannion. But you must stop her just the same."
"No disrespect intended, Princess, but why?"
"Because they are going to make another attempt on her life!" This time she didn't try to conceal the fear that had a grip on her throat. "In Philadelphia. And Mr. O'Bannion, I'm terrified that this time they'll succeed."
She'd definitely captured his interest. Caine took a pad of paper from the desk drawer, a silver pen from his pocket. "Okay," he said in a calm, authoritative voice, "why don't you calm down and start at the beginning."
6
"So tell me, Princess," Caine said, "what makes you believe your sister's in danger?"
"If she weren't in danger," Noel Giraudeau replied calmly over the long-distance telephone lines, "you wouldn't be sleeping in the next room. By the way, Mr. O'Bannion, do you carry a gun?"
Caine wondered if she was one of those people who thought that the bad guys obediently put down their weapons the moment you flashed your ID. "It goes with the territory, Princess. Now about your sister—"
"Have you ever had to shoot anyone with that gun?"
"Princess—"
"Noel," she reminded him. "And I'd really like to know, Mr. O'Bannion."
If he'd had any questions about this woman's identity in the beginning, Caine no longer harbored a single doubt. Her tone of voice was vastly familiar—her quiet self-assurance brooked no argument. It was an order. Softly spoken but couched in stone. Deciding that he'd only draw the conversation out longer by refusing to answer, Caine considered that if one princess was proving troublesome, two were a royal pain in the neck.
"The maniac who tried to kill the president didn't walk away."
There was a short, significant silence as Noel considered his words. "Good," she said finally. "I'm glad to know that you've been tested." Her tone became grave. "Because someone may die before all this is over, Mr. O'Bannion. And I don't want it to be my sister."
"If you want me to protect her, perhaps you'd better fill me in on what you know," he suggested with more patience than he was currently feeling.
"Of course. But first, what do you know about my grandfather?"
"Not a thing."
"I thought not. The summer of his twenty-first year, Phillipe Giraudeau, my grandfather, went on holiday in Aries after his graduation from Cambridge. The trip was a gift from his father."
"I see," Caine murmured, wondering just how long this little family saga was going to drag on.
"It was during this holiday that he fell instantly and passionately in love with a Gypsy flamenco dancer. Unfortunately, his father, Prince Leon, did not feel a flamenco dancer was an appropriate wife for the future regent of Montacroix."
"I suppose that's not so surprising."
"I suppose not," Noel agreed. "What my great-grandfather hadn't counted on was Phillipe marrying Katia in Spain without his blessing. Great-grandfather Leon was furious. He threatened to disinherit Phillipe."
It crossed Caine's mind that Phillipe may have been the first Giraudeau to have taken what his family considered a highly unsuitable bride, but as Chantal's own father had proved, he was not to be the last.
"Which, of course, he couldn't do because of the male line of ascendancy," he said.
"That's right. So you have studied our country's history, after all."
"A bit. And as delightful a love story as this is, Noel, I still can't see what it has to do with Chantal."
"I'm getting to that," she replied with equanimity. "Of course, once my father was born, Great-grandfather Leon welcomed the young couple back with open arms. So Montacroix's future was assured and Leon stepped down, allowing Phillipe to take his rightful place on the throne, an act that caused not a little dissension."
"Oh?"
"You see, my Grandmother Katia had been born with the gift of second sight. This caused some of her detractors to accuse her of being a witch. Her husband and children, however, learned to trust in her uncanny intuition."
Comprehension slowly dawned. "Intuition that has been passed down to her granddaughter."
"The president assured my father that you were very bright, Mr. O'Bannion. I do hope that you also believe— even a little—in clairvoyance." Her tone rose a little at the end, turning her softly spoken statement into a question.
Although he would be the last person to describe himself as a fanciful man, through the years certain inexplicable incidents had led Caine to believe that there were forces in the universe that science had not yet begun to explain.
Like the woman who walked into the Washington, D. C., police station five years ago claiming to have information concerning the kidnapping of a prominent British diplomat's two-year-old boy. The case had driven the cops crazy for years; there'd been no clues and every lead they had managed to uncover had resulted in yet another dead end.
Yet Margaret Reed, who'd only moved to the city a month prior to her visit to the department, and who alleged never to have heard about the kidnapping had described the child in startlingly accurate detail. She'd also given them a description of the kidnapper—a former pediatrics nurse at D.C. General Hospital—and an address of a red brick house where they could be found.
The woman was unable to name the city, and it seemed that every city and town in America possessed an Oak Street, so it took a while to locate the house. But five days later, Phoenix police, responding to a request from the Washington department, called to say they'd found the now seven-year-old chi
ld watching television inside a red brick house that was identical in every way to the one Mrs. Reed had described.
If that hadn't made Caine a believer, his own experience would have. In the predawn hours of the day of the assassination attempt against the president, he'd awakened in a cold sweat, a nightmare still reverberating in his head. The face of the man holding the gun was still vivid in his mind's eye as he reported for work. And later, when he saw that same unforgettable face in the crowd lining the sidewalk outside the hotel where the president was to speak, Caine didn't hesitate to push the president out of the way even as he pulled his own revolver. As he lay in Walter Reed hospital, waiting impatiently for his wound to heal, Caine realized that his early-morning dream had prevented the country from suffering a horribly painful tragedy.
"I like to think of myself as open-minded," he answered finally.
"You've no idea how happy I am to hear that," she said. "I had a dream last night, Mr. O'Bannion. A dream about Chantal. She was lying in the dark, surrounded by clouds of thick, dark smoke. I could hear her calling out to me, and I tried to save her, but a wall of flames kept me from reaching her."
Her words, spoken with a quiet intensity, had the effect of making the hair on his arms stand on end. "How do you know it was Philadelphia?"
"Because, over her cries and the roar of the flames, I could hear a bell tolling. That's how I found her in the first place, you see, by following the sound of the bell."
"The Liberty Bell."
"I saw it, famous crack and all." This time her softly modulated voice trembled a bit at the edges. "Chantal must not go to Philadelphia, Mr. O'Bannion. You must stop her."
Once again Caine considered exactly how difficult it was to talk Chantal out of anything. "I'll do my best."
Her relief was evident. "Thank you, Mr. O'Bannion. We all are very grateful to you."
As he replaced the receiver on its cradle, it crossed Caine's mind that the family would have a lot more to be thankful for if Chantal returned safe and sound to Montacroix eleven days from now.