by Nora Roberts
“You love him so much,” Chris murmured. “I don’t know whether to cry for you or be happy.”
“Be happy. There are enough reasons for tears in the world.”
“All right, then.” She stood and wrapped her arms around her sister. “I am happy for you.” And she reserved the right to believe dreams could come true. “I don’t suppose you’d take the afternoon off and go shopping with me?”
“Oh, I can’t. I have to get on the phone to Houston and have copies of my records shipped over. I should already be at rehearsal making sure everyone’s calm. I have to find some office space around here.” She paused, though her mind was clicking off the next steps. “Shopping for what?”
“I only brought an overnight bag. Arrogance,” she said as she picked up the leather tote. “I was sure we’d be on a plane by dinner. Now, it seems, I have to see if Cordina has something sensational for me to wear to opening night.”
“You’re staying.”
“Of course. Think I can wheedle a room at the palace?”
Eve gave her a bone-crushing squeeze. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
* * *
Hours later, Eve sat at the laptop computer in her sitting room. The day had gone quickly, filled with problems to be solved, but the evening had dragged. Alexander hadn’t come back for dinner.
Bennett had been there, but even with his jokes and easy manner he had obviously been preoccupied. Reeve and Armand had also been absent. It was a family meal, with Gabriella and her children, Bennett, Eve and Chris—and the empty chairs where the rest of the family should have been. The moment the meal had been over Bennett had excused himself. The tension even his casualness hadn’t disguised remained in full force.
When Eve mentioned the work she still had to catch up on, Chris accompanied Gabriella upstairs to tend to the children. Back in her rooms, alone, Eve tried to fill the rest of her evening with work.
Her four scripts for the upcoming productions had been destroyed, but new copies had been secured before noon. There was no reason to look over them. She knew every word, every bit of staging. If it had been necessary, she could have filled in for any of her actors on opening night.
The opening was only days away, and though the cast had been understandably edgy that afternoon, rehearsals had gone well enough. The second production was almost as polished as the first, and rehearsals on the third play would begin the following week. If there were no more incidents.
The house was sold-out for the first three performances, and ticket sales were mounting steadily. Pete had even managed to come up with the props she had asked for.
She’d thought about reviewing her budget, but the idea of tallying figures had been anything but appealing. She had looked at her watch, soaked in the tub and checked the time again. It had been nearly ten when she’d sat down at the computer, telling herself that Alexander was safe and well, probably asleep in his own bed after a difficult day.
She would work. Her own plays had been destroyed. She could only blame herself for not making extra copies. Maybe it was just as well. That’s what she told herself. The first one had been too emotional and flowery in any case. The second—well, that had taken her six months and she’d barely gotten out of Act One.
So she’d start fresh. A new idea, a new mood, and in some ways, a new woman. Act One, Scene One, Eve told herself as she clicked on an icon to create a new file.
Time clicked by. She had printed out—and wadded up—countless sheets of paper. But a satisfying pile of working-draft sheets lay at her elbow. This time she would do it, she told herself. And when she was finished, she’d produce, maybe even direct the production herself. She chuckled as she stretched her fingers. Isn’t that what she’d told herself whenever she’d begun to write?
Alexander found her that way, hunched over the keyboard, working steadily, with her hair piled on top of her head and her legs drawn up under her. The light was burning on the table and fell across her hands as they moved over the keys. She wore the same blue robe he remembered from the first night he had come to her. She’d pushed the sleeves up to her elbows and it fell carelessly open over her thigh.
Every time he saw her he was freshly amazed at how lovely she was. She exploited her looks when she chose; at other times was negligent of them. It never seemed to matter. Competence. Was that what added so much substance to beauty? Something about her told the onlooker she could do what she set out to do, and do it well.
Her hands appeared delicate, yet she was not. Her shoulders appeared fragile, yet she was strong. Her face was young, vulnerable and so sensitive. Though she might have been all those things, she had a strength and a sense of purpose that made her capable of dealing with whatever life handed her.
Is that why he loved her? For her capabilities? Weary, Alexander passed a hand over his face. He’d only begun to realize this fully, only begun to try to analyze and understand. Attraction had become so much more than an appreciation of beauty. Desire had dipped far beyond the physical.
He’d told her once he’d needed her. It had been true, before that moment and now past it. But he hadn’t told her, or fully understood himself, the scope of the need.
When he’d thought he might have lost her, his heart seemed to have stopped beating. He seemed to have stopped seeing, stopped hearing, stopped feeling. Is that what it meant to love?
He wished he could be sure. He’d never allowed himself to love beyond his family and his country. With Eve he hadn’t allowed, but had fallen victim to. Perhaps that was love. To be vulnerable, to be dependent, to be needful. Such a tremendous risk, a risk his practicality told him he couldn’t afford. Not now, perhaps not ever. Yet it was done.
If he could have one wish at that moment, it would be to take her away somewhere where they could be ordinary people in ordinary times. Maybe tonight, for a few hours, they could pretend it was true.
He watched her straighten, then press her splayed hand against the small of her back.
“You promised you wouldn’t overwork yourself.”
Her hand stayed where it was, but her head shot around. He saw and recognized the relief, then the pleasure that came into her eyes. “This is what we term the pot calling the kettle black.” Her gaze swept over him with a greediness that had his fatigue vanishing. “You look tired, Alex. I thought you’d be in bed.”
“Meetings.” He stepped into the room. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you this evening.”
“I missed you.” Their hands met and held. “And I wasn’t going to say it, but I worried.”
“There was no need.” His other hand came up to cover hers. “I’ve been in the palace since five.”
“I wanted to ask, but …” She smiled a little and shook her head. “I guess I didn’t feel as if I should.”
“Either Bennett or Gabriella could have told you.”
“You’re here now. Have you eaten?”
“We had something in my father’s office.” He couldn’t have told her what. He couldn’t remember any taste, just the reports. “I’m told your sister is here.”
“She got in late this morning.” Uncurling herself, Eve rose to go to a small rococo cabinet. There she unearthed brandy and two snifters. “She could use some reassurance, which I hope Brie is giving her. She worried herself into a frazzle before she got here.”
“Perhaps with her help you could be convinced to go back to America.”
Eve handed him a glass, then tapped hers to it. “Not a chance.”
“We could reschedule your performances, wait a few months, a year.”
Eve sipped with one brow lifted. “Have you spoken to Chris already?”
“No, why?”
“Nothing.” She smiled, then walked over to the CD player. With a few flicks she had music whispering into the room. When you intended to seduce a prince, she decided, you should pull out all the stops. “I’m not leaving, Alex, so it’s a waste of time for us to argue about it.” She touched her tongue
to the rim of her glass. “I hate to waste time.”
“You’re a stubborn woman.” Just looking at her, just hearing her voice made his pulse race. “Perhaps if I didn’t want you with me so badly I could pressure you into leaving.”
“No. No, you couldn’t. But you don’t know how much I’ve wanted you to say you want me with you.” She came to him, so that they stood in front of her desk with the light burning beside them.
“Haven’t I told you?”
“No.” She took his hand again. “You don’t tell me a great deal with words.”
“I’m sorry.” He brought her hand to his lips.
“I don’t want you to be sorry.” She set down her snifter. “I don’t want you to be anything but what you are.”
“Strange.” He kept her hand close to his cheek. “There have been so many times recently when I’ve wished to be anything but what I am.”
“Don’t.” Her strength was what he needed at that moment. Somehow she knew it. “No regrets. There should never be any regrets from either of us for being what we are. Instead let’s enjoy.” Her thumb ran light and caressing under his jawline. “Just enjoy.”
“Eve.” He didn’t know what he could say to her, what should be said, what was best kept inside for a while longer. Her hand still in his, he started to set down his glass. “I nearly spoiled your papers.” He put the glass down beside them. “You work too hard.”
“There’s that pot and kettle again.”
He laughed. It was always easy to laugh when he was with her. “What is this? Another play?”
“It’s nothing.” She started to gather the papers up, but he put his finger down on them. “I don’t know this one. What is this title, Marking Time? This isn’t one of the alternates.”
“No.” Embarrassed, she tried to draw his attention away. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re already thinking of producing something else?” He thought about her leaving, going on with her life, her career. With an effort he tried to show interest rather than regret. “What sort of play is it?”
“It’s going to be—it’s a family drama of sorts. Why don’t we—”
“There’s so little of it here.” With his thumb he flipped through and estimated no more than twelve pages. Then it clicked, the way she’d been hunched over her computer, the matted balls of paper. With a quiet smile he looked back at her. “You’re writing it.”
Caught, she moved her shoulders and tried to draw away. “It’s just a hobby.”
“You’re blushing.”
“Of course I’m not. That’s ridiculous.” She picked up her brandy again and struggled to sound careless. “It’s just something I do in my spare time.” She swirled the brandy, then drank, and he thought how much he regretted never seeing her on stage.
“Chérie, in the past few weeks, I’ve seen firsthand how little spare time you have.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “You never told me you wanted to write.”
“When you’re only mediocre you don’t broadcast it.”
“Mediocre. I’d have to judge that myself.” He reached for the pages again, but she was quicker.
“It’s very rough. I haven’t done any polishing.”
“I can respect an artist’s temperament about her work not being seen until it’s finished.” But he intended to see it, and soon. “Is it your first?”
“No.” She slipped the papers into a drawer and closed it. “I’d finished one and done part of another.”
“Then I’ll see the one that’s finished.”
“It’s gone.” Again she struggled to keep her voice neutral. “It was in the office.”
“Your work was lost.” He took a step to her, then framed her face in his hands. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Eve. I would think that whatever one writes is a part of one. Alive. To lose it would be devastating.”
She hadn’t expected him to understand. Writing, as any art, was emotion as much as skill or technique. Her heart, always open to him, absorbed. “It wasn’t a very interesting play,” she murmured. “More of a learning tool, really. I just hope I learned enough to make this one better.”
“I’ve wanted to ask you something.”
“What?”
“You once wanted to be an actress. Why aren’t you acting?”
“Because an actor has to do what he’s told. A producer calls the shots.”
He had to smile. “As simple as that.”
“Added to the fact that I’m a better producer than I ever was an actor.”
“And the writing?”
“Sort of a dare to myself.” How easy it was to tell him now that she had begun. There was no need for secrets or embarrassment. Not with him. “If I claim to know so much about the theater, what pleases the audience, how to stage and produce a play, why couldn’t I write one? A successful one,” she added before she drained the brandy. “The first attempt was so miserable I decided I could only get better.”
“You enjoy challenging yourself. The theater, fencing, your martial arts.”
“I learned, later than most, that challenging yourself means you’re alive, not just existing.” With a shake of her head she set down her empty glass. “And you’re spoiling things.”
“I?”
“Yes. You’ve got me philosophizing, when I was set to seduce you.”
“I beg your pardon.” His lips curved as he leaned back on the table.
“I suppose you’ve been seduced before.” Eve walked to the door, clicked the lock, then turned back.
“Countless times.”
“Really.” Her brow lifted as she leaned back against the door. “By whom?”
His smile only widened. “Mademoiselle, I was raised a gentleman.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she decided with a wave of her hand. “As long as it wasn’t that British blonde you danced with instead of me.”
He remained discreet.
“Hmmm. Let’s see. I’ve plied you with brandy. I’ve added the music. Now I think …” A gleam came into her eyes. “Yes, I believe I have just the thing. If you’d excuse me for just a moment.”
“Of course.”
She swept by him into the adjoining bedroom. Without a qualm, Alexander drew open her drawer and began to read her play. It caught him immediately, the dialogue between a woman no longer young and her reflection in her dressing room table mirror.
“Your Highness.”
He slipped the drawer closed before he turned. He wanted to tell her he thought it was wonderful. Even with feelings prejudicing him he knew there was something special in her words. But when he saw her he could say nothing at all.
She wore a teddy skimmed with lace and a long, open robe, both the color of lake water. Her hair was down now, freshly brushed so that it pooled over her shoulders. Behind her, light flickered, shifting and swaying. Her eyes were dark. He wondered how it was he could see his own desire reflected in them. Then, as she had the first time, she held out a hand.
He walked to her and his head began to swim from the scent of candle wax and women’s secrets. Saying nothing, she drew him into the bedroom.
“I’ve waited all day to be with you.” Standing close, she began to unbutton his shirt slowly. “To touch you.” She ran a hand down his flesh before she pushed the shirt over his shoulders. “To be touched by you.”
“When I’m away from you, I think of you when I should be thinking of other things.” He slipped the robe from her and let it drift to the floor. “When I’m with you, I can think of nothing but you.”
The words thrilled her. He said such things so rarely. “Then think of me.”
The room was alight with a dozen candles. The bed was already turned down and waiting. Through the doorway came the quiet music, Debussy now, and nothing else. Wordlessly she drew him with her to the bed and began to love him as every man dreams of being loved.
Her first kiss was tender, reassuring, giving, while her hands stroked easily over him. She brushed her lips over his face,
his throat, lingering long enough to arouse, not long enough to satisfy. The lace, the silk, the flesh that was her rubbed and shifted over his body until the flame burned hot inside him.
She undressed him, murmuring and brushing away the hands that sought to help her. Her tongue toyed with the back of his knee, drawing a groan from him. Her eyes half-closed, she looked at the body she brought such delight to. He looked gold in the candlelight. Gold and gleaming. She set out to destroy all semblance of control.
He thought his heart would burst through his chest. No woman had ever aroused him so outrageously. Whenever he reached for her, she evaded, then weakened him with a nip of her teeth or a featherlight caress. Agonizing. Magnificent. The breath backed up in his lungs or he might have begged for her to stop. To go on.
Helpless. She was the first ever to have made him helpless. It was a feeling that skittered through his stomach, rippled through his muscles, smoked through his brain. His skin grew damp, hot, sensitized. Wherever she touched brought a myriad of thrills. A moan wrenched out of him and he heard her low, answering laugh.
How incredible to learn that making a man shudder could be so exciting. How satisfying to discover a power that brought only pleasures. Her mind buzzed with the sense of it until she heard nothing else.
Here he belonged to her. If only here. There was no country, no duty, no traditions.
On the edge of reason, he pulled himself up. Hooking an arm around her waist, he dragged her to him, under him. Ranged above her, breath heaving, he stared down. Her chin was lifted. The dare was in her eyes.
“You’re my insanity,” he murmured, and crushed his mouth to hers.
They were sucked into the whirlwind, each not fighting to be free, but for more velocity. Once they had fenced and struck power against power. Now it was the same.
They rolled over the bed, mouth to mouth, body to body. He stripped her, but not with the care she’d come to expect. His fingers shook as he pulled the brief barrier from between them. They shook, then pressed and gripped, leaving tiny aches behind.