by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
As the fire burned stronger and hotter, she nonchalantly remarked, "I noticed you brought your luggage in by mistake."
"No mistake. The motel's booked, and they needed my cabin for a family that got stranded. I've got to bunk over here … unless you object."
Her smile was cool and distant "And what would you do if I did? Bunk in the vehicle?"
"Nope. But I would apologize for the inconvenience and the impropriety, and I would assure you that my behavior would be above reproach."
"And I would inform you that I don't require any such assurances."
Meaning what? he wondered. That she trusted him to behave?
Or wouldn't object to a certain amount of misbehaving?
Leaning back on her elbows, she propped her feet on the hearth. Though he tried not to look, he couldn't stop himself from gazing at her, starting with her tight damp curls, moving down to the red sweater that ended an inch or so below her waist, sliding over snug black sweats and finally reaching her feet. Her socks were red and black stripes, with individual little knitted toes that she wiggled as if to absorb the fire's heat more quickly. With the tousled hair, the makeup worn away to a memory and the ridiculous socks, she looked incredibly young and innocent … and beautiful and desirable.
"How old are you?" he asked wryly. "Thirteen?" Her full Lower lip easily slid into the pout her father had warned him about. "I'm not so young."
"Oh, yes, you are, Princess. You're very young."
"It's a proven fact that girls mature more quickly than boys, which means that even though you're a few years older, you're less mature. So if I'm very young, then so are you."
"But you're not a girl. You're a princess. And princesses are spoiled and pampered and mollycoddled."
"Or wonderfully composed, grown up, responsible and self-possessed."
"Wrapped in cotton batting and protected from life."
"Baptized as a babe in the concepts of duty, obligation and position."
"Innocent."
She laughed. Stretched her arms high above her head, tugging the ribbed hem of her sweater inches higher, exposing creamy golden skin he had no need to see, and laughed. "Would you like to wager on that?"
It was amazing. One instant he was too cold to feel much of anything, and the next he was hot and sore and damn close to making steam rise where he was damp. He had to try a couple of times to make his voice work, and then had to clear his throat before the words could come out. "Sorry. I'm not a betting man."
"Why does that not surprise me?" she asked dryly.
He wasn't sure if her words actually held a bite, or if he felt one where none was intended. He didn't know why he would even care. He had no desire to surprise her. He wasn't concerned with what she might or might not think of him. All he cared about was keeping her safe, completing his assignment and returning her home safely to her father … how had the king put it? Oh, yeah. None the worse for her adventure.
Honor demanded that he return her unharmed. Reality suggested that he might go crazy by then.
When the heat had soaked through his extremities, he eased to his feet, took a clean set of clothes from his suitcase and went into the bathroom angled under the stairs to change. When he came out, the princess was still lying on the floor, curled on her side, head pillowed on her arms, gazing dreamily into the fire … or dozing dreamily in front of the fire, he realized when he got closer. Seconds ticked past unnoticed as he watched her—just watched, with a jumble of emotions he wouldn't identify if he could—until suddenly he realized that the side of him nearest the fire was hotter than the flames. At least, that was the excuse he accepted, and he refused to wonder why the side of him away from the fire was just as hot.
He forced himself to move away, to cross the room to the luggage near the door. Carrying her remaining bags upstairs, he listened to the steps that creaked under his weight. The loft was small, with a rough-hewn railing overlooking the rest of the cabin and narrow windows on three sides. There was room enough for a queen-size bed, the headboard and footboard made of solid rounds of natural-finished pine, a matching dresser, an armoire that bore the marks of a lifetime of hard use and a night table that consisted of a pine top supported by what appeared to be elk antlers. It was very likely the ugliest piece of furniture he'd ever seen. And back in college, he'd lived in a house decorated completely with other people's throwaways, so he'd seen some damned ugly stuff.
After leaving the princess's bags next to the bed, he checked out the bathroom—small, cozy, but with a shower and a tub—then returned to the living room to stretch out on the sofa and read.
Not to watch the princess sleep.
Not to consider how damn pretty she was.
Not to think about how much he wanted her or how wrong it would be to have her.
Just to read.
Right.
* * *
Anna awakened slowly and came alert even more so. Why was she sleeping on the floor in front of a fireplace that radiated mind-soothing heat? Why was the room so unnaturally quiet, and why weren't they canvassing the town, asking about Lucas?
Then she sat up and saw Tyler's boots and coat near the door and the snow still falling heavily outside the windows, and she remembered the blizzard. She combed her lingers through her hair, fairly confident it looked frightful since it had still been damp when she'd lain down, then looked around for Tyler. He was sprawled on the sofa, wearing sweat pants that were black like hers, but much older and in a much more disreputable condition, and a white T-shirt that showed a cartoon of a bicycle and its rider huffing up a mountain trail, underscored with the question, Are we having fun yet? His feet, propped on the coffee table, were bare except for a pair of thick white socks.
He looked quite appealing.
Lowering his book, he regarded her solemnly. "It's about time you woke up."
"Have I slept away the day?"
"Nope. Just the afternoon and part of the evening. You hungry?"
She considered it a moment, then smiled. "Yes, I believe I am."
"I don't suppose you cook."
She would love to be able to say, Of course, I can throw a few things together, and then prove it by making the best meal he'd ever eaten, but the sad truth was no, she didn't cook. Couldn't. Had never even made toast. Regretfully, she shook her head.
"So it's up to me to keep us from starving to death." He laid his book aside—the same Stephen King novel he'd been reading on the flight from Montebello, practically finished now—and headed for the kitchen.
"Starving?" she echoed as she stood up. There was a half-empty bag of potato chips on the coffee table, alongside an apple core and the wrapper from a chocolate-iced cream-filled cupcake. She followed him into the kitchen, where she discovered he had finished putting away the groceries while she napped. Now he was gathering an assortment of items on the counter—aluminum foil, a package of chicken breasts, an onion, two sweet peppers, a carton of mushrooms and a box of rice.
"May I help?"
"You ever use a knife?"
She smiled sarcastically as she slipped past him to wash her hands. "I'm well aware it's used for chopping."
"That's not what I asked," he pointed out. "Which is an answer in itself, isn't it? Maybe I should chop the vegetables while you clean the mushrooms. Wouldn't want you to cut off your royal finger."
"Or stick it between your commoner shoulder blades." Tearing the plastic wrap from the mushrooms, she was about to hold the box under running water when he pushed it away.
"Get a paper towel, wet it and wipe the mushrooms clean."
"That's not very efficient."
"But it's the right way."
"According to whom?"
"My mother, who's the best damn cook in all of Arizona." He tore a sheet of toweling from the roll, moistened it, then handed it to her before returning to the peppers lined up on the chopping board.
"Funny. I never thought of you as having a mother," she remarked as she followed his dir
ections meticulously. She wasn't aware he was looking at her until she'd thoroughly cleaned two mushrooms and started on the third, and his scrutiny caused her to shrug. "Of course I knew you had a father—I've met him. And I've met your brother, Kyle, and heard about your brother, Jake, but I don't believe I've ever heard any mention of a mother."
"Did you think our father just built us out of spare parts?"
If that were the case, she knew a great many young women who would happily pay Edward Ramsey premium prices for similar models of their own. The idea made her giggle, which made him scowl, though not seriously. "Of course not. Don't be silly. I presumed you were genetically engineered in some ultra-secret laboratory somewhere."
"Well, sorry to disappoint you, Princess, but we all came about in the old-fashioned way—mother, father, sex. My mother's name is Beatrice. She's always been a stay-at-home wife and mother. When my dad was still in the air force, she considered it her job to make the rest of his life as uncomplicated as possible so it wouldn't interfere with his career. That meant she did all the cooking, all the cleaning, most of the raising-of-the-kids and handled all the problems, while he went to work, came home and relaxed."
"You sound almost resentful."
"I'm really not. If she'd wanted him to be different, he would have changed, and would have thought it was his own idea. She has a lot of power in their relationship. She just wields it subtly."
Anna cleaned the last mushroom, moved them next to Tyler, then circled the island to sit on a stool on the opposite side. "What does she think of you and Kyle following in your father's footsteps?"
"She'd rather have us both living close to home, especially now that Kyle and Joanna are married and there's a grandbaby. But as long as we're doing what we want and we're not taking any unusual risks, she's satisfied."
"And if you were taking unusual risks, she would never know, would she?"
He looked up, a grin softening his features. "I'd never tell. Funny thing about mothers, though … they tend to figure things out on their own.
Anna thought of Tyler putting his life in danger for someone else, for some noble cause, and her stomach turned a somersault. If she were in Beatrice Ramsey's position, she would hate her sons' careers with a passion and would do her best to discourage them from continuing in that field. If she had any right to an opinion at all, she would voice it … but two small kisses gave her no such right.
Deliberately she returned to his earlier comment regarding being conceived the old-fashioned way. "I learned where babies come from in school, but when I realized that meant all babies, including Lucas, our sisters and me, which meant that my mother and my father had done that … I was appalled. I simply couldn't—wouldn't—imagine my parents sharing that kind of intimacy. After all, they were the king and the queen of an entire nation. Heavens, I couldn't imagine myself doing such a thing. It was unthinkable."
"And then you did it and it wasn't so appalling anymore, was it? At least, not if it was done right."
She watched as he tore off large pieces of the heavy-duty foil, then divided the chicken breasts, vegetables, spices and a sprinkling of bottled Italian salad dressing among them. Should she play along with his assumption and hope that sometime before this journey was over, he would find out firsthand how wrong he'd been? Or should she be honest and forthright with him, and risk destroying that hope for all time? Some men, she was well aware, liked bedding virgins—took it as a challenge and saw the results as proof of their sexual prowess. Others had no desire whatsoever to deal with inexperience, fears and pain.
Which was Tyler?
"You're awfully quiet," he said as he laid additional pieces of foil over each chicken breast, then folded the edges to make an air-tight packet. "Does that mean you've never experienced it done right?"
Which was Tyler? She supposed she would soon find out, though she couldn't bring herself to look at him as she carelessly replied, "Actually, it means I've never experienced it at all."
He stared at her. She felt his green gaze on her, creating a heat that started somewhere around her cheeks and spread in every direction. Suddenly it seemed overly warm in the room, and she wished for a bit of the chill she'd felt when she'd fallen in the snow. But she didn't wish she could take back the words. If they were going to have any sort of relationship—and that was quite an if—it must be based on honesty. His career and her place in the royal family put enough obstacles in their way. Better that an unwelcome surprise—if that was how he viewed this—come sooner rather than later.
"You're—you're a—a—"
Barely able to breathe, she managed to smile and answer lightly. "It's not such a difficult word. Virgin. See?"
"Not such a difficult word," he muttered, "but one hell of a difficult concept." After a long still moment, he gathered the foil packets onto a baking sheet and put them in the hot oven behind him, then came back to the counter, resting his hands flat on the surface. "You're teasing, right?" he asked, then demanded, "Look at me."
Slowly she raised her gaze until it locked with his. He studied her long and hard, then his face paled and his jaw tightened as he answered his own question. "Aw, hell, you're not. Jeez, last night … the things I said … the way I acted … you must have thought…"
She waited a polite moment before finishing for him. "That you were temporarily gone feeble-minded? Yes, I did." In some tiny hopeful place deep inside, she'd also thought he was jealous, and she'd liked thinking it—liked thinking he cared enough to care.
"But … the T-shirt … and you said Rusty stayed with you at the motel…"
"I said he gave me the shirt when he left the motel that morning. It was late when we left the Silver Nugget, after midnight, and he escorted me to the motel to ensure I got there safely. He bought the shirt as we were leaving and gave it to me when we reached the room. He thought I would get a kick out of it—which is slang for enjoying something, I believe."
"Close enough." Tyler dragged his hand through his hair, the gesture taut with frustration, embarrassment and surprise. She truly had shocked him, Anna thought, and wished she knew whether that was good, bad or in between. "Jeez, Your Highness, you're twenty-five," he said as if that was somehow significant.
"I'm well aware of that."
"And you've had opportunities."
"A few," she replied dryly.
"So why…?"
"Why not? Is it wrong to wait until it means something?"
"Of course not It's just … rare."
"Believe me, I know. My girlfriends all think it's most strange. Even my sister, Christina, believes that I'm—" Blushing, she broke off, but it was too late.
"That you're what?" When she didn't answer right away, his gaze narrowed, and that muscle in his jaw twitched. "Even your sister believes what, Your Highness?"
"That I'm … uh, we … that is, you and I are…" She saw when he fully understood—saw the dismay and something very close to horror that turned his gaze to emerald stone. Once upon a time, the idea of having sex had appalled her. Now the idea of having sex with her clearly appalled him.
Biting her lip and finding it sore from when she'd bitten it earlier that afternoon, she slid from the stool to her feet and retreated to the living room side of the cabin, where she added a log to the fire, then turned on the television. She found nothing but static on the regular channels, so she selected a video from the cabinet and inserted it in the VCR before making herself comfortable on the couch.
In her peripheral vision she could see that he hadn't moved and that he didn't appear any less repulsed by the idea that someone thought he might actually, willingly be her lover. It wasn't so far-fetched! Men had tried to seduce her before, and that very morning Tyler himself had said if she weren't who she was, they would have been in the back of their vehicle having fabulous sex instead of arguing at the side of the road.
Very well, so he hadn't said fabulous. In fact, he hadn't mentioned sex at all. Specifically, he'd said, I would have you str
ipped naked in the back of that truck and we wouldn't be talking at all. Perhaps her English wasn't as good as his, but she knew what that meant.
But she was who she was, and he clearly had no intention of ever forgetting it.
"Listen, Princess…" His voice was quiet, his tone regretful. Stubbornly she increased the volume on the movie. It didn't deter him one bit.
"Look, I'm sorry for … hell, I don't even know what. I didn't even say anything."
But his look had said plenty, and it had hurt more deeply than she'd dreamed possible. She was only grateful that her eyes were dry. She couldn't bear it if she burst into tears in front of him.
He crossed to the television with long strides and pressed the mute button. She responded by raising the volume once more, and he responded by snatching the remote control unit from her hand and shutting off the television entirely, then placing the unit on top of the cabinet out of her reach. "I'm trying to talk to you, and I'll be damned if I'm going to yell over the TV. When we're done, you can watch your movie, but not until then."
"We are done now." Regally she rose from the couch and started toward the stairs. When he caught her wrist and brought her sliding to a stop, she spun around, her free hand raised in anger.
His features hardened, but he didn't release her. "Don't even think about it, Annie," he warned in an icy low voice. "It seems I've spent about half my time with you apologizing or groveling, and I damn well don't like it. There's no way in hell I'm going to stand here and let you slap me without spanking you like the spoiled brat you are."
"Spoiled brat?" Slowly she lowered her hand and raised her chin, managing to look down her nose at him in spite of the fact that he was half a foot taller. "Then we are a fine pair, for you are an ill-mannered boor."
For a moment he didn't react, then a frown wrinkled his forehead. "An ill-mannered boor? Is that the best you can do? Try a damn fool bastard. Or a stupid son of a bitch."
She blinked. "My mother says a lady never swears. Besides, I have no reason to cast doubt on your parentage and no desire to insult your mother."