The Prince's Cowboy Double

by Victoria Chancellor

  She’d retreated to the guest bedroom after they’d watched the local news at ten o’clock. She’d seemed tense during the newscast, finally revealing that she worried about “Prince Alexi coverage”—not that there was anything to cover—and that King Wilheim would expect more newsworthy events from this trip to Texas. In Wendy’s mind, this had become a no-win situation, and Hank had silently agreed with her. How could the prince promote his country with the citizens of Texas or the U.S. when he wasn’t doing anything to get himself on television? She’d revealed that the prince had had important meetings with business leaders in Dallas before driving to San Antonio—and running off with Kerry Lynn—so at least one part of his trip had been successful.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, punching his pillow and rolling to his side. He didn’t want to think about the prince, especially when he needed to relax, get a good night’s sleep and prepare to say goodbye to Lady Gwendolyn Reed.

  He listened to the night sounds again, looking across the room to the window. The security lights outside provided full-moon brightness inside. From the guest bedroom he heard the mattress creak, as though Wendy was as restless as he was. She’d probably been thinking about her dilemma, wondering what tomorrow would bring.

  Maybe he should give up on sleeping. He could look at the horse auction catalogs for upcoming sales, or balance his checkbook, or—

  He heard footsteps. So, Wendy couldn’t stay in the bed, either. Maybe they should both get up and play cards, or watch an old movie, or sit around the kitchen table and eat ice cream out of the carton. Anything to keep from thinking about what had happened this afternoon beside the pool. Whenever he closed his eyes, he remembered her face, all flushed with passion, and her breasts, so pretty he’d wanted to spent hours exploring them with his hands and mouth.

  Dammit, now he was aroused. Again. He obviously wasn’t going to sleep tonight, anyway. With a sigh, he flung back the cover and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  And looked up into the eyes of his English house-guest, the object of his desire, as she stood in the doorway to his bedroom.

  He pulled the edge of the sheet over his erection. “Wendy? What’s wrong?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered hoarsely, as though her voice was rusty from disuse. “I couldn’t sleep…because I kept thinking about what happened this afternoon.”

  Hank ran his hand through his hair, then looked down at his bare feet. “Look, just forget about it, okay? It was a mistake.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s true.”

  His head snapped up. “What?”

  Wendy shifted from one foot to the other. “This afternoon I was frightened that if we’d continued—” she took a deep breath “—if we’d made love, I would regret it when I left.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I think that if we don’t make love, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

  Hank let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Why don’t you come on over here and we’ll discuss this,” he said, patting the bed.

  She walked slowly across the room, her feet barely making a sound on the carpet. She didn’t resemble the competent, bossy English lady he’d known for merely days. She looked younger, more vulnerable, in her simple white sleep shirt and bare feet. The cool blue light from outside the window washed out much of her color, but even so, she looked pale. Was she worried about what they hadn’t done…or what they might do?

  She perched on the bed as though she would jump up and run out of his room at any moment.

  “You’ve got to know that I’d love to burn up the sheets with you, darlin’,” Hank said, easily falling into his cowboy persona, “but you’ve got to be sure this is the right thing to do. I don’t think my ol’ heart could stand it if you put a halt to things after you snuggle into this bed with me.”

  “I want to go to bed with you.”

  “And you don’t think you’ll have regrets in the mornin’?” he asked, tipping her chin up with one finger.

  She looked at him directly, so openly he could read the honesty in her dark eyes. “I may have some regrets about things that have happened…decisions I’ve made, but this won’t be one of them.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it, as though she was forcing the truth in through his pores. “I promise.”

  Hank turned, wove his fingers through her hair and kissed her parted lips. She tasted of everything he’d dreamed of for days—elegance and sass, restraint and passion, innocence and seduction. As he deepened the kiss she moaned, her tongue pressing against his, her hands grasping his shoulders, twining around his neck. With a sigh against her lips, he pushed her back onto the mattress.

  “No regrets, Gwendolyn,” he whispered. “No matter what happens tomorrow.”

  She nodded, although he thought he caught the glimmer of a tear in her eye. He didn’t want tears, so he kissed her eyelids, then her cheeks. Her skin was smooth and tasted the way vanilla smelled. They rolled together until she was twisted in the sheet and he was lying half on top, completely uncovered.

  Her hands roamed his body, arousing him with long strokes of his back and short grasps of her nails. When she got to his waist, she pulled her head back and looked at him.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Not a blessed thing,” he whispered. “And you’re wearing way too much.” He grabbed the hem of her sleep shirt and pulled it up past her thighs, although he didn’t want to stop kissing her long enough to get her completely undressed.

  She rolled them over, tangling him once again in the sheets, but at the moment, he didn’t care. She sat up, reached for the shirt and whipped it off in a graceful arc.

  She wasn’t wearing a blessed thing, either. Hank smiled. “Nice.”

  “Thank you,” she said primly before leaning over him, brushing the tips of her breasts against his chest and searing him with a kiss that went on forever.

  He grasped her bottom and pulled her on top so she straddled him. He took advantage of the situation to run his hands over her breasts, her waist, her hips, memorizing the feel of her. When she moaned and collapsed on top of him, he rolled them over until they were perilously close to the edge of the bed.

  Lacing their hands together, he looked into her eyes. “Stay with me,” he whispered, not knowing what he meant, only knowing he had to say the words.

  “All night,” she replied breathlessly, and he knew that was all either of them could promise.

  He worked them back toward the head of the bed, closer to the nightstand drawer where he kept protection. He couldn’t get enough of her kisses, her caresses. And he couldn’t stop himself from touching her everywhere, from her sleek, lustrous hair to her firm, smooth legs. And in between, where she was damp for him. Where she gasped and silently asked for more.

  He complied, sending them both soaring, holding nothing back as their bodies joined. She arched against him, seeking a rhythm, and he tried to go slow. He wanted this first time to last forever, but her throaty moans and demanding hands were driving him crazy. When she convulsed around him and sank her teeth into his shoulder, he let himself go, surrendering with a shudder of completion that left him breathless and dazed.

  Reality came back slowly. The rasp of Wendy’s hot breath against his neck, the smell of mind-blowing sex surrounding them, the gentle May breeze caressing his bare backside. Outside he heard the crickets and other night insects singing to one another.

  “I must be crushing you,” he whispered.

  “No. Stay,” she said faintly, but accented her command by closing her arms around him and holding tight.

  “Spoken like a true aristocrat,” he said with a chuckle, moving his hips against her, making her gasp. “I’ll do my best to please my lady.”

  “Oh, you do,” she said breathlessly before he turned and kissed her again.

  Chapter Eleven

  “What the heck is going on?” Dr. Ambrose Wheatley asked as he stood inside the Four Square Café and gazed
out at the town square. Two odd-looking strangers argued with each other. Both of them had at least two cameras hanging around their necks.

  “Beats me,” Travis Whittaker said, only half interested since his bacon and eggs had just arrived. “Maybe they’re lost.”

  “I don’t think so,” Thelma, the newspaper owner and editor, stated as she walked to the window. “Maybe I should go see if they need some help.”

  “Might be a good story in it,” Dr. Wheatley replied with a chuckle. Since he’d semiretired last year after his daughter returned to take over his practice, he had a lot more time to socialize with his friends and pester his new wife, Joyce, at her hair salon.

  Travis buttered his biscuits and tried not to get involved in the scene unfolding outside.

  “Maybe they’re government agents,” Jimmy Mack Branson added as he joined two of the busiest busy-bodies in town.

  “I don’t think so, not with those cameras. Undercover types don’t usually take pictures, do they?” Ambrose asked. “But they do look a mite suspicious.”

  Travis sighed. He should have sat in one of the booths at the back, but instead had chosen his favorite table by the plate-glass window overlooking the parklike town square with its gazebo and flowering bushes.

  He glanced outside again. The older man wore a wrinkled, cheap suit and had a five o’clock shadow left over from last night. The younger man wore baggy khaki pants and a multipocket camouflage vest. One of his cameras boasted a lens that could photograph a horsefly from the next county.

  “Maybe they’re professional photographers. They could be taking pictures of the bluebonnets,” Jimmy Mack said.

  “Then what are they doing in our town square?” Thelma asked. “I’d better go ask them if they’re lost.”

  “Good idea,” Travis said. “Ambrose, you might want to go with her for backup, just in case they decide to take her in for interrogation.”

  Jimmy Mack frowned. “I’d better go open the hardware store. It’s nearly ten.”

  The doorbell tinkled merrily as everyone left. Travis smiled and took a big bite of eggs.

  He’d just buttered his last biscuit and topped it with strawberry preserves when Thelma burst into the café, her tight gray curls bobbing and her eyes alight with news in thirty-point type.

  “One of them is a tabloid photojournalist,” she announced to anyone who was paying attention, “and the other one is a paparazzo from one of those sleazy European rags.”

  “What are they doing in Ranger Springs?” Travis had to ask, despite his best intentions to mind his own business and finish his breakfast.

  “For some reason, they’re looking for Prince Alexi of Belegovia in our town. Can you imagine? Like the prince is going to come here on his important state visit when everyone knows he’s in Austin, waiting to hear if the president is coming to Crawford for the weekend.”

  “They could be some of the same paparazzi that chase movie stars and royalty, trying to photograph their weddings,” Mrs. Jacks stated, carrying a plate of hotcakes and sausage to Pastor Carl Schleipinger. “There should be laws against those people harassing everyone who is the least…bit…famous.” She plopped the plate in front of the minister and sat down in an empty chair.

  “Mrs. Jacks, are you all right?” Pastor Carl asked.

  Thelma hurried over. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Charlene.”

  “It’s the royal thing,” Dr. Wheatley said, hurrying over to take her pulse. “Charlene, do you feel dizzy?”

  “What?”

  “How do you feel, dear?” Thelma asked, patting her other hand. “Dr. Wheatley wants to know.”

  “Oh, I’m fine now. I just…thought of something.”

  “Yes, we know,” Dr. Wheatley said. “It’s that royalty thing.”

  She looked at him blankly. Travis suspected something other than the princess’s untimely death several years ago was bothering the middle-aged waitress, but darned if he knew what. He’d heard from friends that she was a royal buff; she’d even wanted to go to Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee in London this year, but Kerry was graduating and they really didn’t have the money for that type of trip.

  “I swear, Charlene, you gave me a fright,” Thelma said.

  “I’m better now, but I think I’ll rest for another few minutes in the office.”

  “I could drive you over to the clinic,” Dr. Wheatley offered. “Amy is still seeing patients until one o’clock.”

  “No, I’m fine. Really. I’ll just splash some water on my face and put my feet up for a few minutes.”

  She stood with the help of Pastor Carl and the doctor, smiling weakly at both men. “You help yourself to more coffee until I get back.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” the minister said.

  Travis decided he needed another cup, so he retrieved the carafe and refilled his and the pastor’s. Glancing outside, he noticed that the two reporters had stopped arguing and were walking toward the café.

  “Here comes your story, Thelma,” he said.

  The bell tinkled gaily as the two men entered. One had the darker coloring of southern Europe or perhaps northern Africa, while the other looked like a hard-drinking, heavy-smoking journalist from a 1940s black-and-white movie. Both of them tried to look pleasant as they stopped just inside the door.

  “Hello,” the older one said in a gravelly voice and Bronx accent. “We were just wondering if anyone here knew where we could find a man named Hank McCauley.”

  “THERE ARE TABLOID reporters in Ranger Springs,” Hank told Gwendolyn when he hung up the phone. “And they’re looking for me and Prince Alexi.”

  “Oh, no!” She sank back on the couch, all the starch gone from her spine. Her worst fear—other than losing her job—was negative publicity. This type of scandal was just what the paparazzi were looking for. They’d love to break the story of the missing prince, his working-class lover and the phony prince that had dined with congressmen and the governor of Texas. Add a two-headed baby and an alien abduction and they’d have a bestseller. She dropped her head to her hands and felt like crying.

  “Who was that on the phone?” Gwendolyn asked, her voice muffled as she rubbed her aching head.

  “Mrs. Jacks. She was calling me from the office of the café, telling me they were looking for the prince. Then Thelma rushed in and told her they were looking for me, too.”

  “Then they’ll be looking for me, too. Oh, this is terrible.”

  “They don’t know anything yet.”

  She looked up into Hank’s frowning face. “But they will. These…maggots are so persistent. And they’d sell their own mothers for a story. You have no idea how utterly ruthless, how reprehensible, they are.”

  “Not your favorites,” he said dryly. “Okay, then let’s assume they’ll eventually find out how to get to my ranch. We’d better not be here when they arrive.”

  “But where would we go that we’ll be safe from them and still be able to get in touch with Kerry and Prince Alexi when they finally show up?”

  “Mrs. Jacks is gonna do her best to contact Kerry Lynn and the prince and warn them to stay away from town. And she’s telling the paparazzi a story about seeing someone who looked like the prince in a car at the Dairy Queen in Buda, which is out on Interstate 35.”

  “Does Mrs. Jacks think the paparazzi will believe this story?”

  Hank shrugged. “Who knows? But it’s the best we can do for now. There’s another possibility, one we haven’t considered until now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That Kerry Lynn is running late, probably because the prince decided to take another detour,” he added with contempt, “and she needs to drive directly to the graduation ceremony.”

  “So we’re going to her university?”

  Hank nodded, then glanced at his watch. “I think it’s the only other place she might show up besides her house or where her momma works in Ranger Springs. We should have plenty of time to discover where the g
raduates are dressing, where the guests are sitting and so forth.”

  “Is the school far away from here?”

  “About a half hour to forty minutes,” Hank told her, pulling her up from the couch, “so you’d better get a move on. Wear something kind of casual—not one of those cold-weather power suits you’re so fond of—but not your jeans, either. And wear comfortable shoes because we may have to do a lot of walking.”

  And he talked about her being bossy? “Very well. Anything else?”

  “Put some sunscreen on your nose,” he said with a smile, giving it a tweak.

  Just like that, she went from being slightly peeved to hopelessly smitten. How did this infuriating man make her emotions leap to extremes with the crook of his finger? In the past twenty-four hours she’d experienced tenderness, exasperation, frustration, desire and a dozen other feelings too jumbled to name.

  Just thinking about the desire part…she wanted to crawl back into his large bed, pull the covers over them both and hide from the world for the next forty years or so. Maybe by then she’d become tired of his fantastic body, or annoyed with his teasing, or bored with his intelligence. Maybe then she could go about her life without constantly thinking of Hank McCauley.

  “I’ve got to call Milos Anatole and tell him what’s happening,” Gwendolyn stated, trying to get her thoughts together on her job, not her personal life.

  “It might be a good idea to have Pete Boedecker drive him in from Austin, just in case the prince shows up.”

  “You’re right. I’ll have Pete prepare the Land Rover and pick him up.” She frowned. “But where could they stay where they won’t alert the paparazzi?”

  “Tell them to get a room in San Marcus, although it won’t be easy with all the friends and family in town for the graduation. If they look around, they ought to be able to find a motel that isn’t too crowded where they can park the Land Rover in back.”

  Gwendolyn was absolutely certain Milos would not be happy about checking out of the grand historic hotel in Austin to find a room that no one else wanted in a small college town, but she couldn’t help the situation. Hank’s suggestion made a lot of sense.