The Prince & The Showgirl

by JoAnn Ross

  Raven, Ariel and Sabrina ran onto the stage to a thundering round of expectant and appreciative applause. And they did not disappoint. As he watched their hour-long performance, Burke, who'd seen them rehearse, found himself absolutely spellbound.

  What Drew had said was true, Burke decided. Ariel, clad in a shimmering white gown, was the most conventionally beautiful of the three sisters, and Raven, with her throaty contralto, had obviously inherited Sonny Darling's talented voice.

  But it was Sabrina who possessed the late country singer's ability to capture an audience and sell a song. When she stood in front of the enormous screen, facing the larger-than-life image of her father, and sang a soulful ballad about two star-crossed lovers finally united in honky-tonk heaven, the more emotional members of the audience began to sob quietly. Indeed, Burke felt a suspicious moisture burning at the back of his own lids.

  And then, the tempo changed and Sabrina was strutting across that vast stage on her long lissome legs, belting out an up-tempo rockabilly tune of her father's that had topped the country charts for an unprecedented twenty-six consecutive weeks.

  Burke joined the audience in a standing ovation. And by the end of their third encore, he vowed to do whatever it took to convince Sabrina to remain here in Montacroix. With him.

  Her sisters had joined the public party. At Chantal's request, Sabrina had remained behind in the tent that had been erected to serve as a dressing room.

  "Although I hadn't thought it possible," Chantal said with a smile, "you and your sisters actually managed to top your Washington performance."

  Sabrina did not believe the princess had asked to speak to her alone in order to compliment her on her performance. "We received a lot of energy from the crowd. That always helps."

  "I would imagine it would," Chantal agreed. For the first time since Sabrina had met the princess, she seemed decidedly uneasy. "Sabrina, I want you to understand that it is not my habit to interfere in the lives of my brother or sister. However—"

  Here it comes, Sabrina thought when Chantal paused.

  "I love my brother very much."

  When Sabrina didn't answer, Chantal took a deep breath and probed a little deeper. "I believe you do, too."

  Unnerved by feelings that she'd tried desperately not to feel, let alone put into words, Sabrina sat at the dressing table, plucked a handful of tissues from a nearby box and began to remove her heavy stage makeup.

  A pregnant silence swirled around them. "All right, I do," she said on a soft sigh of surrender.

  "Bon." Chantal nodded her glossy dark head. Her dark eyes, so like her brother's, met Sabrina's gaze in the mirror. "But why does this make you so unhappy?"

  Sabrina's hands trembled as she spread the fragrant white cream over her face. "Because the entire situation is impossible."

  "But why?"

  "Our lives are light-years apart," Sabrina said on a burst of feeling.

  Chantal's answering sigh was audible. "Caine felt the same way, in the beginning. But finally he came to understand that the love we had for each other was stronger than any differences in our bank accounts or the size of our homes."

  "No offense intended, Chantal," Sabrina said, scrubbing viciously at her cheeks, "but it's a whole lot easier for you and your husband. You moved to Washington. You chose to live your husband's life. Caine doesn't have to live here in Montacroix, being smothered in that museum you and your family call a home."

  Sabrina shook her head as she heard how mean-spirited her words sounded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that about your home. It's truly lovely."

  In truth, during her time in the palace, Sabrina had been surprised to find herself actually growing accustomed to being surrounded by so many treasures. She could even walk across a room now without worrying about knocking a priceless vase off its marble pedestal. Such confidence was, she supposed, in its own way, progress.

  Chantal lifted a dark brow. "You believe my brother would smother you?" She graciously did not, Sabrina noticed, respond to the impolite dig about her family's home.

  "No. I think Burke would try his best to make me feel comfortable. But it wouldn't work. Besides, it's a moot point. Because your brother hasn't proposed."

  "He will," Chantal predicted.

  "It wouldn't work," Sabrina insisted, wishing she sounded more vehement.

  "Because of these so-called differences in your lives?"

  "Yes." Sabrina tossed the soiled tissues into the wastebasket. "Stories about handsome princes rescuing fair damsels and carrying them off to their castles make nifty fairy tales, Chantal. But they don't play in real life."

  "Giraudeau men have a history of falling in love and marrying exciting, independent women," Chantal argued, displaying a deep-seated tenacity that was an obvious genetic gift from Prince Eduard.

  "Grandfather Phillipe married Katia, the gypsy, and my father wed an American film star. So, you see—" she shrugged her silk-clad shoulders "—it's only natural that Burke would chose an actress as his bride."

  After receiving Sabrina's reluctant promise that she would at least give Burke the opportunity to state his own case before making up her mind, Chantal left.

  Outside the gaily striped tent, mere was the sound of music and laughter. Inside, there was only a deep, lonely silence.

  11

  Despite Chantal's optimistic words, Sabrina was not convinced. Because even if Burke did propose, she didn't believe she'd dare accept. She couldn't see herself being married to a man responsible for the welfare of an entire nation. Burke needed a serene, serious wife with proper diplomatic and social graces. One his people could respect and admire.

  Late that night, after the charity fund-raising concert, Sabrina stood at her bedroom window and stared out over the moon-gilded lake.

  Her thoughts were in a turmoil, scattering here and there like leaves tossed around by hurricane-force winds. It was late. The rest of the household had gone to bed, but Sabrina couldn't sleep.

  More than ever, she understood Maggie's tumultuous passion. Because tonight Sabrina was the one feeling like a cat on a hot tin roof.

  So engrossed was she in her stirred-up emotions, she failed to hear the door to the adjoining living room suite open.

  "Bon," the deep, wonderfully familiar voice murmured. "I was hoping you'd still be awake."

  Desire ripped through Burke at the sight of Sabrina, standing in the moonlight, dressed in a lace-trimmed silk teddy that was as scarlet as sin and made her look as if her legs went all the way to her neck.

  Rather than the silk dressing gown she would have expected a prince to wear—the type David Niven wore in all those late, late movies—Burke was clad in a pair of cream linen trousers and a white sweatshirt embossed with the Oxford university emblem. His feet were bare.

  "It's leftover stage energy," she fibbed. "I can never sleep after a performance."

  "I am usually the same way after a race," he acknowledged, adding to his growing list of things he and Sabrina had in common. "You were wonderful."

  The smoldering warmth in his gaze threatened to scorch her skin. "Thank you."

  He crossed the room to stand in front of her. "I couldn't keep my eyes off you." With his hands splayed on her waist, he drew her forward. "I knew that you were talented." He touched his mouth against hers, capturing her soft sigh. "Even so, I was stunned by your beauty." His tongue outlined her lips, creating a dizzying trail of sparks. "And your energy, and—"

  "Burke," Sabrina interrupted on a desperate moan. "Would you do me a favor?"

  His hand caressed her arched neck; his thumb rubbed a slow, lazy circle against her wild pulse beat. "Whatever you wish."

  "I wish you'd please shut up and kiss me." She ran her hands down his arms, slipped them beneath his sweatshirt and pressed her palms against his chest. "Your Highness."

  Her fingers were playing in the dark pelt of hair covering his torso, making his flesh burn. "Anything to oblige a lady," Burke rasped, his voice rough and raw. He
twisted his hands in her hair and tilted her head back, capturing her mouth in a hot, ravenous kiss.

  His rampant tongue swept the dark moist vault of her mouth, seeking out her tongue, engaging it in an erotic ballet that was both imitation and prelude of the lovemaking yet to come. Tumbling headlong into the kiss, Sabrina moaned softly and wrapped her arms around him, tightly, pressing her trembling body against his in unspoken yet undeniable need.

  All the differences between them disintegrated, blown away by the rising, heated winds of desire.

  "Do you have any idea," Burke gasped when they finally came up for air, "how much I want you?"

  "Yes." Breathless, nearly delirious, Sabrina buried her lips in the hot flesh of his throat. "Nearly as much as I want you."

  Her absolute honesty was one of the many reasons he'd fallen in love with her. Tugging gently on her hair, he coaxed her liquid gaze back to his. "I'm all yours."

  With that simple statement, Burke was offering Sabrina more than his body. Or even his love. He was, quite literally, offering her all the days, and nights, of his life.

  Integrity warred with desire. Honesty battled passion. Sabrina knew that she should insist that all they could ever have was this mystical, magical time together. She realized, with the brilliant clarity of shared emotion, that Chantal had been right; Burke wanted her to remain in Montacroix with him. She also knew that to make love with him tonight would be implying a promise she could not keep.

  But, dear heaven, she was terrified that if she told the truth, explained that she could not stay, Burke's ego might be so wounded that he would never make love to her again.

  And that was something Sabrina was not prepared to risk.

  So, turning down the volume on that little voice of conscience, she gave him a slow, warm, womanly smile.

  "All mine?" she challenged teasingly. "To do whatever I want?"

  He released the silken tangle of her hair and held his hands out to his sides. "You're free to have your wicked way with me."

  "In that case…"

  Sabrina took hold of the bottom of his sweatshirt and worked it up over his rigid, flat stomach, over the ebony pelt of chest hair, going up on her toes to pull it over his head. His dark hair fell back into place, several thick strands tumbling over his forehead, making him look sexily mussed.

  "That's better." Drawn by a torso that could have been the model for any of the palace's Renaissance sculptures, she pressed her mouth against his chest, delighting in the tingling feel of his springy jet hair against her lips.

  "Much better," Burke agreed, drawing in a quick, sharp breath when her tongue grazed a nipple. Heat rushed over his bare skin. His trousers were growing tighter and more uncomfortable by the minute.

  As if reading his mind, she knelt and dipped her tongue sensually into his navel, rewarded when she heard his ragged groan. Encouraged, and feeling wickedly, atypically bold, she moved her fingers to his fly and unfastened the first button.

  Hunger had claws. Burke leaned back against the mahogany dresser and closed his eyes. "Oh yes," he murmured. "That's better yet."

  She pressed her palm against his rigid erection, dizzy with feminine power. Power she understood he'd willingly ceded to her. When her mouth replaced her hand, she felt his body stir violently beneath the rough linen.

  Slowly she released each button, one at a time, each time treating him to a warm embrace of her lips.

  "Gracious." From her kneeling position on the Aubusson carpet, she looked up at him, her eyes dancing with merriment. His skimpy silk briefs were both a surprise and a delight.

  "I received several pairs as a gift from a Paris designer several years ago and haven't bothered to wear them," Burke revealed, a bit uncomfortably, Sabrina thought. "After our afternoon in the cottage, they seemed appropriate."

  "Oh?"

  "They remind me of how your silken skin feels against mine."

  "Oh." The sensual vision caused moisture to gather between her thighs. She trailed her fingers along the low-slung waistband, pleased by the animal growl that emanated from deep in his throat.

  And then, with a boldness that would have appalled her even a day ago, she pressed her open mouth against the ebony silk, reveling in the strong male body that stirred so violently at her intimate caress.

  "Sabrina," Burke moaned, "if you want me to beg-"

  "No." Her hands embraced the firm flesh of his inner thighs. "I'd never ask you to do that."

  Answering his unspoken plea, she pulled the silk briefs down the strong dark columns of his legs. He stepped out of them and reached for her, but she shook her head. Sensuality was pumping through her veins like a narcotic, more powerful than the adrenaline she'd felt earlier during her performance. Sabrina felt wonderfully, exuberantly, alive.

  She nuzzled her face in the dark hair surrounding his rampant sex, loving the springy feel, the warmth, the musty taste. Her fingers encircled his length, stroking him lovingly, fascinated by the silky smoothness.

  "My God, Sabrina!" Burke knotted his hands in her hair once more, wanting her to stop. Wanting her never to stop. She was killing him slowly with her touch. With her lips. With her warm and sensual tongue.

  When that tongue made a long wet swath the entire length of his aching arousal, circling the dewy tip with all the sensual instincts of a natural-born courtesan, Burke's tautly held control snapped.

  Foregoing what he'd always proudly considered a suave approach to lovemaking, he half carried, half dragged her to the bed, tossing her unceremoniously onto the mattress.

  "If you continue to play so recklessly with fire, Sabrina, my love, you will burn down my family's two-hundred-year-old home."

  She'd landed spread-eagle on her back, her long legs splayed, the lace-edged teddy riding high on her hips. Her hair was spread out on the linen pillowcase like an angel's gilded halo. But as she looked up at him, all wide sensual eyes and luscious wet lips, she looked anything but angelic.

  When he lay down beside her, Sabrina rolled over and knelt above him. "When I was a just a little girl, back home in Tennessee," she said breathlessly, "I used to go to summer camp." Her mouth retraced that burning path down his throat, over his chest and stomach. "Want to know what my favorite part was?"

  Hunger. He was delirious with it. Passion. He was mindless from it. Blood pounded in his head, his heart, his aching loins.

  "Horseback riding?" Burke managed to croak.

  "The camp fire." Her searching lips reclaimed him, driving him to the very brink of madness. Her voice, usually modulated from voice lessons, had slipped back into her soft Tennessee roots. "I have always just loved buildin' fires."

  "No wonder." His desperate fingers reached between their bodies to unfasten the snaps that were guarding her feminine secrets. "Since you're so very, very good at it." Roughly pushing the crimson silk aside, he pulled her astride him.

  Even as Burke arched his hips off the bed, Sabrina was moving downward to meet him. As he finally claimed possession of her slick body, she claimed his.

  Their lips met with strangled cries of shared pleasure. And then they began to move in unison, faster and harder, higher and higher, until they took the final glorious leap into oblivion together.

  The coronation was scheduled for the following evening. Sabrina was disappointed, but not surprised when Burke's duties kept him at the cathedral all day.

  She'd be leaving with Dixie and her sisters tomorrow morning. And although there was still the ball to attend, she doubted if she and Burke would be able to steal much more private time together.

  "At least, we'll always have Montacroix," she murmured as she finished dressing for the coronation ceremony. She was in her most conservative attire—an electric blue silk suit adorned with shiny gold buttons and a matching hat that dipped low over one blond brow.

  "What did you say?" Ariel asked, entering Sabrina's room in search of her misplaced gloves. Her sister's dress was emerald green, a brilliant foil for her red hair. Raven had chosen
an ivory raw-silk suit, while Dixie was in basic black.

  "Nothing." Sabrina spotted the kid gloves on a nearby table, tossed them to her sister, gave herself one last judicious perusal in the beveled floor-length mirror, then said, "Ready?" Her patently false smile was bright, belying the fact that her heart was breaking.

  The coronation possessed all the pomp and circumstance Sabrina would have expected from such an important, solemn occasion. It also effectively drove home exactly how different her world was from Burke's.

  The most solemn event of her life had been her father's funeral. And even there, Sonny's long-time friends and fellow performers had somehow managed to bring a festive air to the proceedings by telling sidesplitting tales about Sonny's antics during his early days in Nashville and singing the songs he'd made famous.

  Needless to say, there were no bawdy tales told at this event. Nor would any country songs be heard inside these august stone walls. Chantal had been right about the chamber music. She'd failed to mention the Bach.

  The invited audience was, indeed, prestigious. Members of other royal families—the men handsome in dark suits, the women resplendent in formal dress and sparkling tiaras—shared the front pews with various heads of state. In the pew in front of her, on the aisle, Sabrina recognized the vice president and his wife, along with two former presidents.

  Marble statues of former rulers, commissioned by Burke's great-grandfather Leon, lined the walls, looking down on those gathered for today's ceremony.

  While she waited for Burke's entrance—which Chantal had told her would be in the same royal coach that Napoleon had ridden in when he'd come to the cathedral to crown the first regent of Montacroix—Sabrina studied the magnificent building, taking in the graceful Norman columns, the towering windows whose stained glass caught the afternoon sun, scattering the light so that each colorful piece glowed.

  At the stroke of six o'clock, the hammered-copper doors at the back of the cathedral swung open. The choir, on cue, began the processional.