“It was my grandfather, His Royal Highness Prince Emmanuel of Tesoro del Mar, because only the ruler has the authority to make that kind of decision. And if he could close them—” he narrowed his gaze menacingly “—I can open them up again just for you.”
The little girl only lifted her chin. “But you won’t,” she said confidently. “Because you’re a good ruler and a good uncle.”
The furrow in Rowan’s brow smoothed and his gaze softened.
Lara felt her throat tighten as he reached out to touch his niece. He was a man who made decisions without hesitation, who carried himself with arrogant confidence, who never faltered. But when he stroked his hand over Lexi’s hair, she saw not just the uncertainty in the gesture, but the vulnerability in his heart, and felt her own soften.
“I don’t know that I’ve always been a good uncle,” he said. “But I’m trying now.”
Lexi smiled at him, a child’s smile full of warmth and affection. “You’re doing okay.”
“Does that mean I get a slice of that cake?”
“After the games,” Damon said.
“Games?” Rowan asked.
“They’re set up in the media room,” Lexi said, tugging on his hand. “Come on.”
The games were more for the benefit of the children, but Lara was impressed by Rowan’s willingness to play along. He took a turn tossing bean bags into a can, participated in musical chairs, allowed himself to be blindfolded and spun around for Pin the Tail on the Donkey, and swung a plastic bat at the dinosaur piñata, finally breaking it open and spilling candy all over the floor for the children to scoop up.
When the games were done, they returned to Rowan’s office so that he could open his presents.
Damon offered his first—a heavy oblong-shaped package that was covered with as much tape as it was paper. Rowan took his time admiring the careful printing of his youngest nephew’s name on the card before tearing the paper off his gift.
“It’s a pet rock,” Damon told his uncle. “Lara says you can use it as a paperweight.”
“A pet, huh?” Rowan looked the painted stone over carefully. “Does it eat much?”
Damon giggled. “It doesn’t eat anything.”
The prince regent looked skeptical. “Are you sure about that? Because I don’t want to have to share my birthday cake with it.”
“I’m sure,” the little boy told him.
“Do this one next,” Lexi said, handing him a larger and flatter package that was more neatly wrapped. “It’s from Christian.”
Rowan opened the card—this one store-bought rather than homemade—and scrawled simply with Christian’s signature. But though the card might have been impersonal, the gift was not.
Christian had shown it to her before he’d wrapped it, wanting to know if she thought it was an appropriate present for his uncle. Lara had been sure Rowan would love it, and she could tell by the surprised pleasure in his eyes that she’d been right.
It was a framed picture of Rowan and his brothers with their father, all of them on horseback, the sky behind them washed in streaks of yellow and orange and crimson by the setting sun.
“I haven’t seen this in years,” Rowan murmured.
“I was looking through some old photo albums for pictures of my dad, and I found it.” Christian dropped his gaze and shrugged, clearly more than a little self-conscious. “I thought you might like it.”
The prince swallowed as he stared at the photo in the thick cherrywood frame. “I do. I like it a lot.”
“I have something for you, too,” Lexi said, taking the last present to him.
Rowan propped Christian’s picture on his desk beside Damon’s rock before accepting Lexi’s gift.
Hers was another picture, this one painted by the little girl and showing remarkable talent for an eight-year-old child. “It’s a picture of you and me and Christian and Damon,” she told him, pointing to each in turn. “’Cause we’re like a family now.”
“We are a family,” he agreed, then kissed the top of her head. “And it’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“Now can we have cake?” Damon asked Lara, his tone suggesting that he’d been waiting forever.
She took a box of matches out of her pocket and struck one.
“Wait,” Christian said, halting her before she could touch the flame to the wick of the first candle.
He hadn’t said very much throughout the proceedings, but now he had everyone’s attention. He ducked outside the office and came back a minute later with something held behind his back and a rare smile on his face.
“Okay.” He set a fire extinguisher on the desk beside the cake, his smile growing wider. “Now we’re ready.”
As Lara lit the candles, she realized it was the first joke Christian had made in weeks, and she let herself believe it was a sign that the pain of Julian’s and Catherine’s deaths was starting to fade. She set the cake in front of Rowan and wished the same was true for him, too.
Rowan wasn’t usually one for late-night forays into the kitchen—if he wanted a snack or a drink at any time, he only had to summon one of the servants and the object of his desire would be promptly delivered to him. Just one of the fringe benefits of being a prince, and one that he appreciated but didn’t take advantage of. If it was after midnight—as it was now—he always tried to fend for himself, which was why he was on his way to the kitchen, lured by the temptation of leftover chocolate cake.
Making his way through the maze of corridors, he found himself thinking about the events of the afternoon. Considering the effort the children had gone to in planning and executing the party—even enlisting Henri’s help to ensure he attended—he figured they were warming up to him.
He was glad about that, and grateful to Lara for helping them to adjust to the numerous changes of late. Yes, gratitude was an emotion he could acknowledge and accept, though certainly not the only one she stirred in him.
He shook his head and tried to force all thoughts of her from his mind by mentally sorting through the highlights of his day. He thought fleetingly of the “meeting” he’d asked Henri to cancel, which had actually been plans for a private and very personal birthday celebration with Vivian Winters. He’d known Viv for years, and though they’d been occasional lovers during that time, neither of them had expectations for anything more. Still, he owed her a phone call and an explanation.
He decided he’d take his cake back to his apartment and call Viv from there. It occurred to him that he might be able to entice her into joining him for dessert, but he discarded the thought almost immediately. Now that he’d celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday, he was suddenly aware the clock was ticking.
He had only six months to marry, and though he was fond of Vivian, he couldn’t imagine her as his bride. The problem was, he couldn’t imagine any woman he knew as his bride, and he couldn’t help but resent the circumstances that were demanding he choose one.
Then he stepped into the kitchen and forgot about his marriage deadline and everyone and everything else except the woman standing at the counter. She’d changed out of the long flowing skirt and gauzy blouse she’d been wearing earlier and into a pair of dark yoga pants that sat low on her hips and a skimpy tank top that molded to her breasts. She looked casual, comfortable and far too enticing for his peace of mind.
He was suddenly conscious of the fact that, though the tie had been loosened and the jacket discarded, he was still wearing the suit he’d put on that morning. The formality of his own attire seemed to be yet another reminder of the numerous differences between them, the many reasons he shouldn’t feel the way he did about her. He should go—forget about the cake and forget about Lara—but he found himself moving toward her rather than away.
“Stealing the royal birthday cake?” he queried.
She whirled around. “Only a small slice,” she said, her cheeks flushing prettily. “We barely made a dent in it earlier.”
“Then you might as well make it a big slice—
actually, two big slices.”
“I can do that,” she agreed, reaching into the cupboard for another plate.
“What are you doing up so late?” he wondered. “Did Damon have another nightmare?”
She shook her head. “No, thank goodness. He’s slept through a few nights now—I couldn’t say how many for sure, because I don’t want to jinx it by counting.”
“Are you superstitious, Miss Brennan?”
“Not really, but I don’t believe in tempting fate, either.” She pulled open a drawer and took out two forks. She clearly knew her way around the kitchen—far more than he did.
“Glasses?” he asked her.
She gestured to an overhead cupboard.
He stepped closer, close enough to catch a whiff of the scent she wore—something light and subtle but unmistakably feminine and undeniably arousing.
She shifted to drop the cake server into the sink, and as she did, the curve of her buttocks brushed against the front of his trousers.
Mi Dios.
His fingers tightened on the handle of the cupboard.
“I beg your pardon, Your Highness.” The words were spoken softly, huskily.
“No harm done,” he told her, though he wasn’t entirely sure it was true.
Over the past few weeks, he’d been so careful to keep a safe distance between them. But the distance hadn’t done anything to lessen his desire for her, as the bolt of lust that shot through him in response to that brief and incidental contact proved.
He waited until she’d stepped away, then took two glasses from the cupboard and filled them with milk.
“You didn’t say why you were still up,” he noted.
She carried the plates to the table. He followed with their drinks. “I was finishing up a research paper on the benefits of learning through play.”
“A research paper?” He sat across from her at the butcher-block table in the kitchen while they both indulged their midnight cravings. But while the cake satisfied his physical hunger, being with Lara made him all too aware of other desires that remained unfulfilled.
She poked at her cake. “I’m working toward my teaching certificate.”
“I didn’t realize you were attending the university.”
“Only part-time,” she said quickly. “I’m always here when the children need my supervision.”
“I was commenting, not criticizing,” he told her.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I have a tendency to be defensive.”
“And we have a tendency to always talk about the children,” he noted. “I know almost nothing about your interests or ambitions, except that you apparently want to be a teacher.”
“I love my job here,” she assured him. “But the children won’t need me forever, and I thought I should have a plan for the future.”
“That sounds reasonable. And you clearly have a talent for working with children.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, as her cheeks flushed again.
He swallowed another mouthful of chocolate and tried not to think about the fact that she couldn’t possibly be wearing a bra beneath that skimpy little top.
“This is great cake,” he said, in an inane attempt to keep up their conversation, to keep her talking so she would stay there with him just a little bit longer.
“Marcel gave us the recipe and permission to invade his kitchen,” she told him. “If it had been up to me, I would have bought something from the bakery in town.”
“Not much of a chef?”
“I can handle the basics,” she said. “Enough so that I wouldn’t starve if I had to fend for myself, but not much more than that.”
“You’d never know it from the taste of this,” he told her, lifting the fork to his mouth again.
“Lexi really did most of it. I just supervised—and retrieved the eggshells from the batter.”
“Thank you for that.”
She smiled and licked a smudge of icing off her thumb, drawing his attention to the moist pink tip of her tongue and conjuring up all kinds of wildly erotic and completely inappropriate images in his mind.
“I want to thank you,” she said, “for being such a good sport about the birthday party. I wasn’t sure how you’d react, but you know Lexi—when she gets an idea in her head, there’s no telling her no.”
He dragged his attention away from his illicit fantasies and back to their conversation. “I’m starting to know her,” he agreed. “But right now, I’m curious about you.”
“Why?” she asked warily, no doubt aware that he could find out anything he wanted to about her background with a few inquiries of his staff. And he’d been tempted to do just that, believing that the answers to his questions would help eradicate his inexplicable fascination with her. But he hadn’t, not because he felt uncomfortable with the idea of going behind her back for information but because he wanted her to tell him.
“Where you grew up, for starters,” he said. “I know my brother and sister-in-law met you in Ireland, but you don’t have Catherine’s Irish accent.”
“My mom was Irish,” she said. “But I was born in America. Colorado, actually.”
He imagined rocky mountains and rugged cowboys and a country that was more than a world away from his own. “How did you end up back in Ireland?”
“My mother died, and I had no other family in America.”
“What about your father?”
She dropped her gaze. “I never knew him.”
He guessed that her father had passed away when she was very young, and he couldn’t help but regret that she had no memories of him—as he feared would be the case for Damon. As much as Rowan hated knowing that his young nephew continued to be haunted by bad dreams, he suspected that the end of those nightmares would only come with the acceptance that his parents were gone, and that his memories would fade along with his dreams.
“How old were you when you lost your mother?”
“Fifteen.” She mashed the crumbs on her plate with the back of her fork.
“Not much older than Christian is now,” he noted.
She nodded. “I’d hoped that experiencing a similar kind of loss might help me to reach through his grief, but so far I haven’t been able to do so. He’s completely focused on his studies, as if nothing else matters. I don’t even know if he’s really let himself grieve.”
He noted that she was much more comfortable talking about his nephew than she was about herself, and while he still had a lot more questions about Lara, she had succeeded in diverting his attention—at least for now.
“Julian always marveled at how intensely focused Christian was,” Rowan told her.
“I’ve known him since he was Damon’s age, and I used to feel as if I did know him. Now I can’t even guess what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s as if he’s forgotten how to be a child, and I don’t know how to help him.”
“I’ll try to talk to him.”
She was visibly surprised by his offer, so much so that he didn’t know whether to be amused or insulted.
“I didn’t mean to put the onus on you,” she said. “The children are my responsibility—”
“And Christian is my nephew.”
“I realize that, of course. It’s just that…” She gave a slight shake of her head. “Thank you. It could be that I’m not the right person for him to confide in, that he needs to talk to another man.”
“Then you acknowledge that I am a man?”
Her fork clattered against her plate. “I beg your pardon?”
He couldn’t help but smile as he reached up to smooth the furrow between her brows. His smile widened as her breath caught and every muscle in her body stilled.
“I’ve noticed that you refer to Marcus, Julian and Catherine by name, but you always call me ‘Your Highness.’ I wasn’t sure if you saw past the title to realize that I am anything else.”
“I never doubted that you were more,” she told him, her voice suddenly husky.
He shook hi
s head. “It would be a mistake not to think that I am more, Lara. I am a man—with the same wants and needs as any other man.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“To remind myself of the fact. And maybe to warn you about the same thing.”
She swallowed. “Your Highness—”
“Rowan,” he told her.
“It’s late,” she said, picking up her plate and glass to carry them to the sink. “And the children will be up early in the morning. I really should get some sleep.”
“Lara?”
He could tell that she wanted to ignore him, but she paused at the door and reluctantly turned back to face him.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
He studied her for a moment, noting the flushed cheeks, the twined fingers, and knew the attraction he felt wasn’t entirely one-sided. But he had yet to figure out what he was going to do about it except that his decision would have to wait for another day.
“Sweet dreams,” was all he said.
Chapter Seven
Michael Leandres did a double-take when he returned to his office and found his mother waiting for him. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d ventured through the doors of his company in the past five years, and he knew she wouldn’t be there now unless it was important—at least to her.
He closed the door to give them some privacy and crossed the room to kiss her cheek. “This is a surprise.”
She raised one perfectly arched brow. “Samantha didn’t tell you that I called yesterday?”
“She did. But it was late when I got in last night, then I had an early meeting this morning, and I have another one—” he glanced at his watch as he settled into his chair “—in twenty minutes.”
Elena’s lips thinned. “This is important, Michael.”
“I’ve got twenty minutes,” he said again.
“Instead of wasting your talents running this company, you could be running the country.”
That certainly drew his attention away from the messages waiting on his computer.
“You’re a royal, Michael. You were meant for greater things than this.”
“This” being the advertising company he’d built from the ground up, relying only on his education and ambition rather than the fact that he’d inherited some blue blood from his mother.
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