by Renna Peak
He hands me a cup of water as he sits down cross-legged in front of me.
I take it from him, lifting it to my lips and taking a hesitant sip.
“You should have told me about your foot. I’m…surprised you made it here. Of course, you should have stayed back at the lake. I would have sent help—”
“You would have died, Andrew. You saw a man with a gun who wasn’t here. Let’s just leave it at that, okay? I did what I had to do. You did what you had to do. And neither of us would have made it out here alone. We both would have died if we weren’t together.”
He presses his lips together and nods. He’s silent for a moment. “I might… I may possibly…” He clears his throat—whatever it is he’s trying to say is clearly difficult for him. “I may owe you an apology.”
I lift a brow, but I can’t help the slow smile that forms on my lips. “Oh?”
He nods. “I underestimated you.”
Oh, this is just too good to pass up. I know I have to milk it for everything it’s worth—Prince Andrew is apologizing to me. I know there’s a strong possibility this might be one of the first legitimate apologies he’s ever issued, and I’m not about to let this moment go to waste.
I blink at him a few times. “How so?”
“I had my doubts about this. Any of this.” He shakes his head. “My mother was insistent that it be you. That you were the right person to handle this job.” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head again. “I disagreed with her. I was certain that hiring you was going to be another in a long line of mistakes, but I see now that I was wrong.”
My head tilts. “Because another reporter wouldn’t have had the survival skills…?”
He shrugs. “That hasn’t hurt. But I see now what she must see in you. That perhaps you’re more than just—”
I can’t help but interrupt. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but you don’t really think people are only their jobs, do you? I know you’re stuck in your ivory tower most of the time, but you have to know no one is only their job.”
His head tilts to match mine and his brows arch. “Pardon me, Ms. Simpson, but in my experience—”
“Your limited experience. Tell me something, Andrew. Is it a requirement for the crown prince to fly his own airplane?”
His brow furrows. “Of course not—”
“Then you’re more than your job, aren’t you? You can’t imagine anyone else might have interests…abilities outside of their profession? No matter how distasteful you might find their profession?”
“I—”
“Do you know why your mother likes me?”
He blinks at me a few times. “Well, I presume—”
“Do you know why she likes me? Not your presumption—do you know what I did for her?”
His mouth drops open for a second before he clamps it shut. He shakes his head.
I nod. “Three years ago, your sister Sophia graduated from high school.”
His brow furrows. “I fail to see—”
“Your country was in the middle of a financial crisis if I remember correctly. And your mother took your sister on a shopping spree in Paris. The tabloids were all over that shit. They were tearing her apart.”
He lets out a short huff. “Ms. Simpson, you’re not making your case—”
“Not me, asshole. Your mom is smart. She contacted my magazine—the person who had been assigned to cover your sister happened to be on leave at the time, so we hadn’t covered the scandal at all. I was in the right place at the right time and your mom offered to give me an exclusive interview. And we talked openly about the shopping trip, but it wasn’t the focus. We focused on the great things she’s done for Montovia and the rest of the world. The children’s clinics she’s set up in South America. The clean water projects she’s worked on in Africa. I told her side of the story—and I told it honestly. The same way I do with every story I write.”
I pause for a moment, trying to read his expression. But as usual, I can’t—his face is blank, probably because he doesn’t believe me.
“Look, Andrew, whatever it is you did, your mom wanted me to help you because that’s what I do. It’s not like I want to be out there writing stories about celebrity scandals. If people were to start buying magazines that covered hard news, I’m sure our format would change. What I write about would change. But people buy scandal. And it’s the way you present the story that matters—not the content. And that’s what I’ll do for you. I’ll tell your side, no matter what it is you did. No matter how horrible of a thing it was. I’m not your enemy. Your mom and your brother realized that a long time ago. Maybe it’s time you did, too.”
He stares at me for a long moment, and I still can’t read anything in his expression.
Only a second passes before I realize he must still be delusional from his dehydration. He tilts his head and leans toward me.
And he kisses me.
Andrew
I know, even as I do it, that I shouldn’t.
But the moment my mouth touches hers, the moment I taste the sweet heat of her lips, suddenly nothing else matters. I’m consumed by the fire I’ve been trying so desperately to ignore.
My hand comes up to her neck, pulling her deeper into the kiss. I feel her lean into me, feel her shock give way to response as her lips part beneath mine. She makes a sound like a little gasp against my mouth.
And then, suddenly, she jerks away from me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands.
I blink at her, frowning. “I should think that would be quite obvious, Ms. Simpson.” I reach for her again, but she leans away from my touch.
“You’re delusional,” she says, climbing awkwardly to her feet. “You’re hallucinating, or—”
“I assure you, I am not hallucinating,” I say, standing up beside her. “Nor am I delusional.”
“Either way, that is not going to happen. We have a business arrangement, Your Highness, nothing more. And it’s going to stay that way.”
My frown deepens. She’s right, damn her—I’ve known all along that indulging these baser desires would be foolish—but I resent the fact that she is the one who has to point it out. That I was the one who lost control, who let my primal needs dictate my behavior when I should know better. Victoria might be beautiful, and spirited, and surprisingly astute—but I still hired her for one reason and one reason only. I’m not my brother—I believe the needs of Montovia should always come before the needs of my body. I can’t believe I let myself forget that.
I turn away from her abruptly.
“You should rest your foot,” I tell her. I should probably say something else, should probably come up with some semblance of an explanation for leaving her, but I can’t seem to think properly. Without another word, I march to the door and head outside.
You’re a fool, I think. I still can’t believe I allowed myself to be distracted by her pretty green eyes or her shining hair or her soft skin. There are more important things I should be focusing on right now—our survival, first of all, and Montovia, secondly. I can’t believe a reporter, of all people, would be the one to draw me under this strange spell.
She’s not merely a reporter, I remind myself. And the more time I spend with her, the more I find myself respecting her. She’s much more passionate than I first realized, much more intelligent. I’ve always trusted my mother’s judgment when it comes to other people, but I resisted trusting Victoria from the start. Now, though…
Now, you’ve made a fool of yourself.
I hadn’t planned to kiss her. Hadn’t planned to do anything at all. But when she looked at me… I’ve caught her staring at me a lot these past couple of days. A man of my position and appearance doesn’t make it this far in life without learning to recognize the look of attraction in a woman’s eyes. She wants me. I would stake my title on it. But she, at least, was able to see the idiocy of letting anything physical happen between us. When did I become the irresponsible one
? The man who listens to his cock over his brain?
I run a hand through my hair. My feet have taken me in the direction of the road—if it can be called that. I was expecting something paved in asphalt, but the road in front of me appears to be nothing more than dirt. I can’t see very far—the light from the moon, while welcome, is not very bright tonight—but I can only imagine the road is unpaved for some kilometers. And judging by the weeds growing so thickly at my feet, it hasn’t seen regular use in some time. I had hoped we might find ourselves along some sort of country thoroughfare, that we might be able to flag down a passing vehicle, but it appears we aren’t that fortunate.
I straighten my shoulders and look around, weighing our options. I’m still not entirely convinced this place is safe—Victoria might mock me for my vigilance and wariness, but I grew up with the knowledge and understanding that my life is always at risk. Montovia might be small, but we still have political rivals who might wish me harm. And kidnappings are always a potential threat when you’re heir to the throne. It is only sensible for me to be alert.
But it’s seeming more and more likely we are the only two people to find ourselves at this property in some time, which means it is safe enough for now. And it has running water, which is the most important thing.
My stomach rumbles. Food, on the other hand…
I turn and face the cabin again. Food will be a problem. I don’t want to leave Victoria without something to eat, not when I don’t know how long it will take me to get to the town.
I rub my face. Frankly, I’m almost grateful for the dilemma, as it gives me something to think about that isn’t Victoria’s soft lips. You’re the crown prince of Montovia, damn it, I remind myself. And you’re currently struggling for survival. Behave like the intelligent, respectable man you are. You need to get help, get food and medical care, and contact your family as soon as possible. If they believe you’re dead…the resulting crisis in Montovia might be worse than your current crisis.
I can’t help the thought that comes swiftly after: And if you’re dead, there’s no one to stop your secret from coming out.
I take a couple of deep breaths, and when I’m properly composed again, I return to the cabin.
Victoria is sitting on the floor again, a cup of water in her hands. My eyes go to her instantly, drinking in every inch of her—the tangled mass of dark hair, the smudge of grime on the bare skin of her shoulder, the gauze on her foot, and I’m struck by how beautiful she looks, even exhausted and dirty and disheveled. I feel an ache deep in my gut, a longing to go over to her and pull her into my arms again. I find myself imagining what it might be like to peel that tiny little shirt off of her, to push her to the ground beneath me and to—
Control yourself! I think. You’re the heir to the throne of Montovia—show some restraint.
I clear my throat, and she looks up at me.
“I’ve walked out to the road,” I tell her before she has the chance to say anything about what happened in here before. “It looks unused. I doubt we’ll see anyone driving by anytime soon.”
She gives a sober nod, apparently accepting this bit of bad news. “So what do we do now?”
“Tomorrow morning, I’m planning to walk down the road,” I say. “We have no way of knowing how far the town is, but I’m hoping I might encounter a busier street or highway long before then. You should stay here. I’ll send—”
“I’m not staying here by myself.”
“You have water,” I say. “And your foot—”
“I made it this far, didn’t I?” she says.
Apparently she’s forgotten that I’ve seen her foot now—it’s impossible for her to lie to me about its condition. So I just keep going.
“Of course, there’s the issue of food in the meantime—”
“Oh,” she says suddenly. “I did actually find something while you were outside.”
I stare at her. “What? You found food?”
“Sort of.” She climbs to her feet, limping over to the corner where a mildewed cardboard box is sitting. She reaches down into the box and pulls out a can of what appears to be diced tomatoes.
“There’s more,” she tells me. “Some black-eyed peas and baked beans and sliced beets, too. But I couldn’t find anything to open any of the cans. No can opener, no knives, no anything.”
That is a dilemma. I glance around the kitchen, feeling both hopeful and frustrated at the same time. To be so close to food, to have it right in our hands…
“Oh,” I say suddenly. “I have an idea.”
I dart over to the first aid kit and rummage around inside. After a moment, I pull out a small pair of scissors. They’re tiny—hardly the length of my finger—but they might be the only blade we have.
I go back to Victoria. “Which one should we open first?”
A hint of a smile plays at her lips. “Take your pick, Your Highness.”
I choose the can of baked beans. I’ve never had baked beans—it must be an American thing—but of all of our options, they sound the least offensive. And they’ll have protein, which we both desperately need.
I jab the top of the can with the scissors—but the scissors only bounce off.
I try again, using more force this time, but while the scissors manage to make a small dent, they still don’t pierce the aluminum. I curse under my breath.
Five more times I try—by the fifth time, I’m ready to throw the can at the wall and be done with it—but finally, I manage to slice a hole through the top of the can. After that, it’s relatively easy to cut off the rest of the lid. Once the beans are open, I pass them to Victoria.
“Save a few for me,” I tell her. “I’m going to open some of the others.”
There are eight cans in the box. We should probably ration them, just in case, so I only take a can of black-eyed peas and a can of beets. A few frustrating minutes later, I have them open, too.
It’s only then that I look back at Victoria. She’s started on the baked beans, scooping them up with her fingers—I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised there are no forks or spoons in this place—and I happen to catch her just as she’s licking one of her fingers clean.
My physical reaction to that sight is instant and intense, and I nearly drop the can of black-eyed peas. I silently chastise myself, but I still can’t keep my eyes off of her as the tip of her pink tongue flicks across her skin.
This is most undignified, I think. She’s merely eating, and yet you’re as hard as—
“Do you want some?” she asks.
She’s caught me staring. The only thing I can do to save face now is to take the can from her outstretched hand—which I do, and quickly.
“Here are the black-eyed peas,” I say. “And I opened some beets as well. I think we should save the rest, just in case.”
She nods, taking the black-eyed peas from me, and I force myself to look down at the can in my hand.
Eat, I tell myself. You couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.
I approach the baked beans as she did—by scooping them up in my fingers. They’re sweeter than I expected, and if we were under normal circumstances, I probably wouldn’t have found them particularly palatable. Right now, though, it takes all of my willpower not to eat the rest of this can.
Somehow, Victoria and I work our way through the remainder of the open cans without saying a word to each other. I keep my eyes on my food as I eat, trying to train myself back into some self-restraint, but it’s impossible not to be aware of every move she makes. My body is tense for the entire meal, my shoulders so rigid they start to ache.
If you were Leopold, you would have charmed her onto her back by now, I find myself thinking. Your face would be buried in her hair and your cock would be buried between her legs and she’d be crying out your name, begging you for more. I want to feel her body against mine, feel the shivers race across her skin as my tongue teases her. Feel her arms and legs wrapped around my body, holding me against her.
&nb
sp; Even though she’s covered in sweat and grime, I’m still very aware of the scent of her. It draws me toward her, tempts me to pull her back into my arms. But though my body throbs with need, I do my best to ignore it. This time, I have every intention of controlling myself. Prince Andrew doesn’t lose his head over women—especially American reporters, no matter how beautiful or intelligent they might be.
After we’ve finished our food, I stand.
“We should probably try to sleep,” I say. Even though we spent much of the day dozing, I’ll need my energy tomorrow.
Unfortunately, that brings us to the awkward conversation of sleeping arrangements. There’s only a single bed in this cabin, pushed into the back corner, and it certainly appears to have seen better days. Still, it is better than some of the alternative options.
“You can have the bed,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep in the armchair.”
She eyes the bed warily, before turning back to me. “I’m pretty sure there’s something living in that bed.”
“You’re welcome to take the armchair instead,” I tell her, “but I can’t imagine it’s the better option.”
She seems to consider this. I feel her eyes on me as I walk over to the sink and refill my cup. In the morning, I need to look for a canteen or makeshift water carrier.
“We never finished talking about our plan for getting help,” she says.
“Our plan is exactly as I said—I’ll walk down the road and look for civilization, and you’ll stay here.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m not staying here.”
“There’s no excuse for you not to,” I say. “You shouldn’t be walking on that foot. And here you have food and water and a roof over your head, which means you should be safe for a few days.”
“A few days?”
“I don’t expect it to take long for me to find help, but it’s always good to prepare for the possibility.” I level my gaze at her. “You know I’m right, Ms. Simpson. You know this is the best option we have. I admire you for being stubborn and determined—”