A bubble of hysterical laughter formed in Rory’s diaphragm. This, she had to see.
CLAUDE CRUISED PAST Princess Charlotte Aurora’s house on his motorcycle, hoping to learn if the princess was still residing in her home. The number of vehicles jammed in the driveway gave him his answer. He also saw a bodyguard watching him.
Claude’s lips thinned. Did Prince Laurent see the need to protect his princess?
Too little, too late, Laurent.
Was Laurent with the princess now? In the three years since his sister’s death, Claude had been unable to get close enough to Laurent to perform the duty of a brother.
Claude revved the engine, the power of the motorcycle humming through his thighs and into the rest of his body. A smile warmed the emptiness inside him when he discovered a public beach access down the street. This could be the opportunity he had been waiting for.
He parked his bike beside a classic blue VW bug and removed his helmet. The princess’s home was only four houses down. Claude could watch the princess’s driveway from here if it weren’t for the presence of an elderly man in a straw hat who was seated on one of two benches near the wooden staircase that led down to the beach.
The old man had a book in his lap and a thermos on the bench beside him. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck. He looked as if he planned to stay the afternoon.
Claude swore under his breath and removed a backpack from the saddlebag on his motorcycle. The backpack contained the handgun he’d purchased in a bar after his arrival in California a few days ago.
He concealed his eyes with a pair of sunglasses and gave the man a curt nod as he strode past him to the stairs.
Maybe he could find a way up to the princess’s property from the beach. He had a score to settle with Laurent.
Chapter Eight
Laurent observed Rory’s rebelliousness grow—a quiet storm that raged in her eyes and compressed her lips as each successive outfit was tried on, critiqued and accepted or rejected by Odette and Renald.
Laurent knew his princess would require up to four changes of clothing on her busiest days. Unfortunately, far too few outfits were making it onto the accepted list. Those that did were elegantly tailored suits with simple lines in understated colors that no one could possibly find fault with. A professional princess’s wardrobe. Yet with each critical comment Rory seemed to shrink farther behind the clothes like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.
When a coral silk gown that displayed Rory’s entrancing figure and brought out the first real smile of pleasure to her lips was rejected as being too showy, Laurent firmly put his foot down. “That gown is exquisite. Definitely that one for the engagement announcement.”
“But, sir,” Odette protested. “Don’t you think a shade of blue that brings out her eyes would be more suitable for the official photograph?”
Laurent could tell exactly what Rory thought about that suggestion from the expressive tilt of her eyebrows.
“I agree with Mr. Guimond,” Chandale said. “This one is stunning. The woman underneath is wearing the clothes, not the other way around.”
Laurent felt a thrum of passion stir in his veins at Chandale’s words. The woman underneath.
“She will have that one,” he declared, admiring the lustrous coral tinge the vibrant dress coaxed into Rory’s cheeks. He could imagine his sexy princess’s golden skin shimmering with the heat of passion as this dress slid down her bare body. He would ensure she had delicate underwear that matched the dress. “A gift from her fiancé.”
From me, he wanted to add as her hyacinth-blue eyes lifted to his, wide and wary, and her lips spread into a tremulous smile.
Laurent impatiently awaited the day when there would be no more secrets between them and he could claim those lips.
THE OLD MAN didn’t leave his position on the bench until after the sun had set. Claude reached the summit of the wooden steps, relieved the way was clear at last. The cliffs had been too steep to climb up to the princess’s property from the beach.
He had an alternate plan.
Checking that no one was watching in the darkness, he pulled himself over the vine-covered stucco wall that bordered the property nearest the beach access. He dropped down onto a low-growing succulent that made a peculiar popping sound as it crunched beneath his weight.
He froze, listening. His stomach growled. The granola bars he’d eaten on the beach hadn’t been enough.
There were lights on inside the house. He took another step, wincing as the thick spears of iceplant popped beneath his feet. He swore silently, praying the sound could not be detected over the relentless pounding of the surf. His parents had endured enough pain over Marielle’s death. He did not want them to see their last child in jail.
Cautiously Claude moved through the shrubbery toward the opposite fence. A climbing rose scratched his legs as he scaled the fence. This time he landed beside a swimming pool. He crept around the pool and into the next yard undetected, though he ripped his shorts on the metal pickets of a wrought-iron fence.
Princess Charlotte Aurora’s house was next door. He could hear music playing in the backyard. Chopin, he thought. He concealed himself in the shrubbery and peered over the wall. A table was set for two in the courtyard beside a fountain. The gossamer tablecloth stirred in the faint breeze. Garlands of the same gossamer fabric and lights shaped like blue flowers were strung in the trees.
A bodyguard patrolled the courtyard. A second bodyguard stood on the side of the house near a rack that held two surfboards.
Claude’s breath burned with a charge of adrenaline as he waited to be sure the guards hadn’t seen him. He counted five people inside a room with bloodred walls. He recognized Marielle’s friend, Odette Schoenfeldt, who had been at the yacht party the night Marielle died. Claude had heard she was working in the palace press office—some people had no loyalty.
The princess was speaking to Prince Laurent. She gazed up at the prince the same way Marielle had once looked at him. With love in her eyes.
Bitterness coated Claude’s stomach like vinegar. Prince Laurent had deprived Marielle of her dreams. He had deprived the Dupont family of a sister and a daughter.
He inched open the zipper of the backpack. The weight of the semiautomatic was heavy as he curled his palm around the handle and found the trigger.
He braced his shooting arm on the top of the stone wall and waited for Prince Laurent and Princess Charlotte Aurora to venture into the courtyard and into his line of sight.
The time of final reckoning had come.
“WE’LL TAKE OUR LEAVE NOW,” Laurent told Rory, sending a nod in Heinrich’s direction. “Heinrich just advised me your brother should be arriving any minute. How were the language lessons?”
“Bien. Recht Gutt.” She rubbed her neck. “Exhausting, actually. I hope you aren’t expecting great advances.”
He arched a brow. “I am expecting your best.”
A worried frown etched her forehead, and she glanced back toward Renald and Odette who were deep in conversation with Chandale.
“Will you think less of me if I confess that I hate the clothes? Well, most of them, anyway. I love the coral dress—and this one isn’t bad.”
Laurent felt a smile building inside him. The sultry copper and blue cocktail dress with the short hip-hugging skirt was much more than not bad. It made Rory look sexy and flirtatious and beautiful.
Acting on impulse, he took her hand. “Come outside a moment. I’m going to tell you a secret.”
“What…?”
She giggled as he opened the patio doors and dragged her out into the courtyard. Laurent thought it the most entrancing sound he’d heard in ages. It made his chest hurt with the yearning to laugh with her. When was the last time he had truly laughed?
His princess was doing the most peculiar things to him. Like the mermaid Lorelei, she was entrancing him with her song and her beautiful hair. Luring him into danger.
But he told himself that
he was wise enough to resist her allures and stay on solid ground.
He pulled her close, breathing deeply of the alluring tropical scent of her and wishing the candles and the music and the meal were for the two of them to share. There was still so much he wanted to learn about his princess if they were to be husband and wife. But she needed to bond with her brother first.
“I hate the clothes, too,” he murmured in her ear.
Her eyes widened. “You do?”
“Unequivocally yes.”
She laughed again. “Oh, Sebastian. I wish—” She paused, blushing furiously. “Do I have to wear them?”
Laurent couldn’t resist touching her pink-tinged cheek. He traced the heated golden softness with his finger and tilted her face up to his. He had to fight to remind himself that he was her tutor, her mentor, not her lover. He took a deep breath.
“Renald and Odette have the best of intentions, but you will have to take some initiative and make their advice work for you. Choose things that make you feel like a princess and you’ll always be appropriately attired.”
“Are you sure I won’t cause an international incident?”
He chuckled. “Perhaps a minor one. But it will be worth it to see you looking radiant.”
She moistened her lips, and Laurent felt her pulse quicken in the sensitive underside of her jaw. The music beckoned him to touch her, hold her. Make her his.
He reacted to the music. “Dance with me, Princess,” he commanded.
She moved toward him shyly, her toes clumsily stepping on his. Her eyes implored Laurent’s forgiveness, and embarrassment blossomed in her cheeks like a profusion of roses. If he lived forever he would never tire of watching the changing colors in her petal-soft cheeks.
He squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “It’s a waltz. Very simple. Imagine we are skating on ice. That’s what my mother taught me when I was twelve and taking my first lessons. Step, glide.”
Rory stepped on his toe again. “I’m so sorry.”
“You should be,” he scolded her with mock severity. “Despite the fact that you are a princess, you must always allow your partner to lead. Relax. It’s a beautiful evening. Pretend you are in-line skating.”
Relax? He had to be kidding. Rory couldn’t possibly relax. Sebastian was holding her, looking at her as if he thought she was beautiful. Special. Every nerve in her body recorded the overwhelming effects of his nearness: determining the precise degree of his heat; gauging the potent hardness of his body; and identifying the components of his sensual scent.
Her body melted into the steady warmth of his embrace. She had never felt so safe. So happy to be alive. She didn’t want to ever meet Prince Laurent.
Sebastian’s breath caressed her cheek, his lips precariously close to her own. For a tiny exhilarating second she let herself believe that he intended to kiss her. Instead, he twirled her away from him.
A sharp retort like the backfiring of a car split the night—followed by several others in rapid succession.
At first Rory thought it was fireworks.
Sebastian snatched her hand. He jerked her across his body and threw her toward the pool. He didn’t let go. He fell into the water with her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the bodyguards drawing his gun.
Then the water swallowed her up.
PANIC POUNDED in Rory’s ears as she clung to Sebastian. The sky was as black as the lid of a coffin above them.
His face swam before her eyes, calm, resolute. His hands squeezed her shoulders, reassuring her that everything would be okay. But everything wasn’t okay. Someone had shot at them! At her!
He kicked, pulling her with him. She came up gasping for air. Sebastian shielded her with his body near the edge of the pool.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered breathlessly.
“Sebastian, are you all right?” she demanded at the same time, running her fingers over his chest to ensure there were no bullet wounds. She checked the water for trickles of blood. She couldn’t stand the thought of him taking a bullet for her.
Dying for her.
He cupped her nape with his hand. His lips brushed the damp hair from her temple and touched her skin in a fiercely tender kiss that chased the fear from her heart with an emotion so powerful that she trembled with the truth of it. She flattened her palm to his chest, seeking the solid hammering of his heartbeat through his damp shirt. Sebastian made her feel safe. Secure.
“Stay quiet, mein Lorelei. I am unharmed,” he murmured in her ear.
She nodded dumbly in pure relief, her fingers latching on to his tie. She was not letting go of him.
His lips formed a wry smile. “When we are most afraid is when we must remain calm and think clearly. We must stay here and wait for instructions from the guards.” His words belied the rapid beat of his heart and the dark fire in his eyes.
Rory started as the lights in the courtyard, the pool and inside the house were abruptly extinguished. Two bodyguards appeared at the pool’s edge with their guns drawn and formed a human shield for them. Rory heard them speaking in low urgent tones into their headsets. Had they caught the shooter? Had anyone been hit?
“Hurry, now,” Sebastian urged her. “Into the house.” The five-hundred-dollar shoes that were so appropriate for dancing were treacherously slippery as she climbed out of the pool. Sebastian kept a protective arm around her as they raced the few yards to the patio doors.
He moved her briskly past the racks of clothes to the hallway where the catering staff and the others waited in the dark.
“What’s happened, Sebastian?” Odette demanded in an imperious tone infused with fear. “We heard shots.”
Rory was shivering. Her sopping-wet dress molded like a cold glove to her body as her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. But her trembling wasn’t just from chill. Someone had tried to kill her—again.
Sebastian spoke calmly, soothingly. “We are safe, that is all that matters. Odette, I trust you will ensure that everything is under control. One of the neighbors may have called the police. The princess is soaked and needs to change out of her wet clothes.”
Odette’s shoulders snapped taut, her face pale, but her tone was brisk and businesslike again. “Understood, sir.”
Renald stepped beside Odette. “I will assist Odette, sir. Prince Olivier has been diverted to the Hotel Del.”
“Very good.” Sebastian steered Rory past them to her bedroom. “This way, Your Serene Highness.”
Serene, ha! Maybe once, when her life had been normal, back before she’d found out she was a princess. Except for some sullen door-slamming in her teens, Rory had never thrown a tantrum in her life. Much like her mother, whenever she was upset, Rory retreated to think until she’d regained her equilibrium.
But her life had disintegrated to a nightmare, and Rory was on the verge of a drama queen rant.
Too much had happened in the past few days.
Her mother—the person she’d trusted most in the world—had lied to her about her birth. A brother she’d just met expected her to marry a man she’d never met. And for the second time in three days, someone had tried to kill her.
Rory’s stomach pitched. Oh, God, it was probably the same person who’d murdered her mother!
As if all that weren’t enough to send her screaming into therapy, the most incredible man she’d ever known had just kissed her and was calmly leading her down the pitch-black hallway toward her bedroom so she could remove her wet clothes. She stamped her Manolo Blahnik-clad foot on the floor. Pain jarred through her ankle. “I am nowhere near being serene. Someone just tried to—”
He pressed a warning finger to her lips. “Hush!”
Rory did not want to hush. She felt an insane urge to nip at his finger. Or suckle it...just a little bit to see if any of this was real. What the heck, maybe she’d go for broke and plaster herself to his chest and kiss him. Really kiss him.
He pushed her into her room, his hand firmly at the base of her spine. “Don’
t turn on the light. We’ll be visible to anyone lurking outside. Where’s the bathroom? I’ll get you some towels.”
“Sebastian?” Her courage wavered. What if she kissed him and he didn’t kiss her back?
Never in her life had Rory so desperately needed to hold on to someone. She reached for him in the dark, her fingers encountering soaked cotton and tiny wooden buttons. Her fingers found skin between the buttons. The scorching heat of his body seared her right down to the soles of her feet like hot sand on a ninety-degree afternoon.
Her voice trembled. “Thank you for saving me!”
Her lips tickled the stubble riding the edge of his jaw, her mouth feeling cold against the hardness of bone as her thumbs tried to ease his jacket off his shoulders. She rose onto her tiptoes, so she could find his mouth. She needed him. Needed his kiss.
He smelled so good, even with a dose of pool chlorine.
Her lips found the corner of his mouth. Found the firm warmth of a welcome.
Groaning, Sebastian gripped her shoulders. “I’m supposed to be helping you get your clothes off, madame.”
Rory whimpered with need at the thought of him peeling this skimpy little dress from her breasts, from her hips. Her breasts ached, puckered with an overwhelming need for his touch. For hot, healing sex. She didn’t care that the house was filled with people or that a hunt for a killer was going on outside. This moment and the way she felt about Sebastian were the only things that mattered.
Proving to herself that she hadn’t imagined Sebastian’s attraction to her was the only way she could stay sane.
“So, do it. Take my clothes off,” she urged, inching his jacket off his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a wet plop. She reached for his tie. The muscles in his throat constricted.
He was going to argue with her. His fingers closed around hers, stopping her as she yanked the knot loose. “Princess…It is hardly appropriate—”
“Not Princess. Rory, or better yet, Lorelei.” It was highly erotic knowing that he thought of her as his mermaid.
Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love Page 34