by Lori Wilde
“How old are you?” he asked. What if she was underage? This could be the beginning of a major snafu.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“Naw.” He shook his head. “You can’t be twenty-four. I’d say twenty at most.”
She raised both palms out from her head, shrugged. “It is true.”
“You have some great genetics.”
She glanced around the room at the other diners. “This place is quite interesting.”
Interesting? Furrowing his brow, Brady followed her gaze. Nothing special as far as he could see. Asking her where she was from wasn’t getting him anywhere. Clearly she didn’t want to talk about her past or why she was on the run. He understood that impulse. He tried a different track. “Where are you going?”
“Where are you going?”
“Jubilee.”
“Where is Jubilee?”
Dammit, here she was doing it again, running the conversation in circles. “About eighty miles southwest of here.”
“Is that where you live?”
“No.”
“Why are you going there?”
“A job.”
“What kind of job?”
“I work with horses.”
“You are an equine veterinarian?”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly?”
“You could be a reporter, you know, with all those questions. Are you a reporter?”
“No, I am just naturally curious about people,” she said quickly. “What exactly?”
“I work with horses who’ve been emotionally traumatized.”
“Oh!” She broke into a big smile. “Like the Horse Whisperer in that dramatic novel by Nicholas Evans.”
“It’s not as glamorous as Robert Redford made it out to be in the movie, but yes, I do rehabilitate horses who’ve been injured or harmed or developed phobias.”
“How did you get started in that line of employment?”
“I just sort of fell into it.”
“Is it a difficult job?”
“Not from my point of view. But horses are sensitive, highly intuitive animals. You have to know how to handle them.”
“How is that?”
“With a gentle hand and a loving heart.”
“I like that.” She leaned forward. “What an exciting profession.”
“It’s just what I do.” He paused. “But I do love it.”
“Where do you live when you are not healing horses?”
“In my trailer.”
Dejection flickered across her face. “You do not have a home? You are a homeless person? I have never met a homeless person. Is it truly terrible? Being without a home?”
Beam me up, Scotty. I don’t know what planet I’ve landed on, but the hitchhikers in these parts are freaking nuts. “I live in my trailer. That’s my home.”
“Traveling from town to town?”
“Living on the road is the ultimate freedom. Footloose and fancy-free. I can go anywhere I want, any time I want to go. No limitations. No expectations.”
“I cannot imagine such circumstances.”
“No roots, nothing holding me back.”
Annie pressed the fingertips of both hands against her lips. “It sounds so sad.”
Brady blinked. Something dark and uncomfortable slithered across the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t capture or name, but it slithered all the same. Swift and heavy, scraping his brain. “What’s so horrible about freedom?”
“It is lonely.”
“No, no. Not lonely at all. I have my dog, Trampas, and friends all over the country, and there’s the horses and . . .” He trailed off, trying to think of all the wonderful things about his life.
“No one special,” she finished for him.
Brady snorted. “Hey, if you’re so happy and your life is choked with special people, what are you doing hitchhiking in the rain on a Friday night?”
She pulled herself up on the edge of her seat and looked down her nose in a stately expression of the highborn. “I am out for an adventure.”
“Yeah? Got away from the zookeeper, did you?” Now, that was tacky. He shouldn’t have said it, but his gut poked at him.
“Pardon me?” The regal expression vanished and the vulnerable girlishness was back—hurt, disappointed.
Brady shook his head. “Never mind.”
Thankfully, the waitress showed up, interrupting the weird conversation. “Toad’s chili twice.” She sat two blue bowls of steaming cinnamon-colored chili, swimming in the glistening grease of too much cheddar cheese, in front of them. She plunked down Brady’s beer with barely any foam, and then she slid a small metal pitcher of hot water in front of Annie, along with a tea bag. “No Earl Grey. All we got is orange pekoe.”
“Thank you.” Annie graced the waitress with a smile as if bestowing a title upon her. “May I have an additional spoon, please?”
“Sure thing.” The waitress grabbed an extra spoon for her.
Brady peered into his bowl and accepted his fate. That’s what you got when you broke rules. He dug into the chili. Just as he feared, it was deceptively delicious.
He tried to blank his mind and focus on eating, but then the satchel on the seat beside Annie moved. Huh? Was he seeing things? He narrowed his eyes and noticed the sides of the satchel were made of braided mesh.
The satchel moved again.
“Whoa!” Brady jumped. Which wasn’t like him. Usually he was laid back, not the least bit jumpy, but things just kept getting weirder.
Annie looked up. “What is it?”
He pointed. “Your bag moved. Twice.”
“Oh.” She put a dab of chili on the end of her spoon and reached for the satchel.
A little brown head popped from the side corner of the bag, and a tiny black button nose twitched.
“What the hell is . . . that?”
Annie laid a finger to her lips. “Shh, this is Lady Astor. My best friend in the whole world.”
Shiny black eyes fixed on him.
“Seriously? That’s a dog?”
“Lady Astor is a Yorkshire terrier. She is one year old and she weighs six pounds.” The Yorkie lapped chili from Annie’s spoon.
“You brought her with you on Annie’s Big Adventure?”
“Of course. I could not, in all good conscience, leave her at the pal . . .” She trailed off, got a strange look on her face, and finished with “leave her home alone.”
“Ever heard of a kennel?” Did they have those in whatever la-la land she was from?
Annie glared as if he had suggested she run the dog through a blender.
“Hey, you’re the one who carries her around in a satchel.”
A distraught furrow creased her brow. “She is comfortable in it. The mesh sides let air get in. It keeps her dry in the rain and I bought the most expensive one they had and—”
He raised a palm. “You don’t have to justify it to me.”
“Do you really think it is a bad thing that I keep her in a satchel?” She worried a paper napkin between her fingers.
“Why do you care what I think?”
“I am not—” She shut her mouth.
“You’re not what?”
She tilted her head back and gave him that condescending glare again. “Disregard that.”
“C’mon, you can tell me.” Brady hated secrets. Had since he was a kid and he’d learned—well, there was no point going there—but whenever he was around someone who was obviously hiding something, he couldn’t resist nudging for full disclosure. He’d discovered a lot of unexpected things about people that way. “It’s not like you’re ever going to see me again. Your secret is safe with me.”
“I have no secret,” she insisted, but her earlobes pinked and she did not meet his gaze.
“None? Nothing? Not even a tiny white lie you want to confess?”
Her eyes widened and she seemed
even paler than before. Did the woman ever go out in the sun? “No.”
Brady’s lie-o-meter went off. Big time. He did not know who or what Annie Coste was, but she spelled complication in capital letters.
Lady Astor finished licking the spoon, and then burrowed back into the satchel. She did seem to like it in there.
Annie picked up the second spoon that the waitress had brought her and daintily dipped it into the chili. Brady couldn’t help watching her bring the curved stainless steel up to her full pink lips. When they finished their meal, they ordered banana cream pie and Annie attacked it with gusto.
“I am not allowed to eat like this at home.” She moaned a soft sound of pleasure and put a hand to her stomach.
“Allowed to?”
She ignored that, flicked her tongue out to lick a spot of frothy meringue from her upper lip, laughed. It was an airy sound that had real joy behind it, a gleeful laugh that embraced life in a hard hug. If he never saw her again, he would always remember the sound of her laughter, because it sounded like freedom.
For some reason, just hearing her laugh made him laugh and they both sat there underneath the mule deer, the smell of grease in the air, the taste of banana cream pie on their tongues, laughing and looking at each other and having a high old time together. It was the most fun he’d ever had at a truck stop, bar none.
Slowly, her laughter drained away.
So did his.
They were left with just the looking.
Mesmerized, he pulled a palm down over his mouth. He couldn’t figure out what compelled him more, his attraction to her or his curiosity about her.
The healthy, masculine part of him was already toying with the idea of seducing her. She was sexy in an unusual way and it had been months since he’d taken pleasure in the company of a willing woman. But his gut was saying back off. Something wasn’t right. All was not as it seemed.
To distract himself, he turned and peered out the window. The rain was still washing down in angry torrents. Through the dark night, a long black limousine emerged and pulled up to the gas pumps.
“Now there’s a sight you don’t see every day at a truck stop in this neck of the woods unless it’s prom night,” Brady said. “But prom was two weeks ago. Unless it’s a school with a late prom.”
“What is that?” Annie asked in her slightly prissy, nondescript tone.
It drove him nuts that she had no birthplace-identifying accent. Who was she? Where was she from?
“Limo.”
The chauffeur got out to fuel the vehicle. The rear door opened and two other men emerged. They were dressed in expensive suits tailored to perfectly fit their bodies. One man was tall, the other squat, and they both wore sunglasses at night and jaunty fedoras pulled down low over their foreheads.
Who were these guys? Mobsters? Secret Service? The Blues Brothers?
Then he remembered that former president Franklin Glover’s daughter, Echo, was getting married this weekend and the president’s ranch, where the nuptials were being held, weren’t far from here. It had been all over the radio for days.
Most likely they were Secret Service. But in a limo? He would have expected a black Cadillac Escalade with bulletproof glass.
Brady felt movement beside him, turned his head to see Annie had gotten up to come peer over his shoulder. He swung his gaze back to the window. Her warm breath tickled the hairs on the nape of his neck.
A fierce craving hammered down his spine and drove to his groin. He swallowed hard, fighting off the reaction. Yes, okay, she got a rise out of him, but he did not have to do anything about it. In fact, a smart guy would get the hell out of here as fast as possible. Unfortunately, Brady had never been particularly smart when it came to women. He always seemed to go for the troublesome ones.
The two guys from the limo broke into a trot, rushing to get out of the rain, and headed for the front door of the restaurant.
Annie made a noise of distress.
Brady jerked his head back in her direction.
She stood clutching his cowboy hat in her hands, her head raised expectantly. “May I sit here?”
“Um . . . sure.”
She set his straw Stetson on the table and sank down beside him, her gaze coddling his. She did not look out the window. Did not glance around the room. Her eyes were on him and him alone.
Unnerved, he scooted as far across the seat as he could, his shoulder bumping up against the cool glass window.
At that moment, the Blues Brothers came into the seat-yourself dining area, scanning the room as if searching for someone.
Annie leaned in closer.
There was nowhere else for Brady to go. This development took him completely by surprise. He didn’t know if he liked it or not.
“You are very handsome,” she said.
“Um . . . okay.”
“I want to kiss you.”
Stunned, he blinked. “Huh?”
“Kiss me.”
“What?” Had he heard her correctly?
“Kiss me.”
The Blues Brothers were talking to Heather, the waitress.
Do not kiss her. Something is not right. Warning! Whatever you do, do not kiss her!
“Kiss me now!” she demanded, and puckered those honeysuckle lips.
He held up a palm like a stop sign. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like being bossed around.”
“Please,” she wheedled.
“Well, when you put it like that,” he drawled. “No.”
“You do not find me desirable.” She reached out to stroke his chin with an index finger. He caught a whiff of her talcum powder scent.
“Quite the contrary.”
“So why not?”
Brady peered into those big gray-blue eyes and he was a goner. Ah shit. What the hell? Why not? Illogically, he pulled her into his arms and proceeded to dismantle rule number two.
Always trust your gut.
Her lips were heated satin, melting Brady’s self-control like cotton candy dunked in hot soda pop. She tangled her slender arms around his neck, tugging him closer, but she did not loosen her jaw.
Mystified, he lightly rested the tip of his tongue against her bottom lip. Was she going to let him in?
“Hmm, mmm.” Annie increased the pressure of the kiss, but she did not part her teeth.
Okay, this was the first time he’d ever had a woman beg him to kiss her and then not let him fully do the job. Brady didn’t like to brag, but he knew he was a good kisser. Many a woman had told him so.
Kissing was his second favorite part of lovemaking. He loved to taste things. Explore. Savor. Push limits. And he’d been right. Annie did taste like caramel. He wanted more.
She loosened her arms around his neck, broke the lip-lock, rested her forehead on his. “Are they still there?” she whispered.
“Who?”
“The men in the suits and fedoras.”
Once more, Brady shifted his gaze to the dining room. The Blues Brothers were gone. He glanced back at Annie. Took in her glistening lips. Inhaled her innocent fragrance. Heard her soft intake of breath.
Right then and there, he trifled with his number one rule for leading an uncomplicated life. The rule that had kept him safe, satisfied, and single for twenty-nine years. The rule he was about to shatter into a million little pieces.
Never tell a lie.
“They’re still here,” he said. “You better keep kissing me.”
Chapter Two
You might be a princess if . . . your nickname is Buttercup.
Princess Annabella Madeleine Irene Osbourne Farrington of Monesta, the smallest country in Europe, was running away from a very complicated life.
No, that wasn’t quite true. She was running to a life of simple, unrestrained pleasure. At least, that is, for the next six weeks.
After that, she must return to Monesta and wed forty-two-year-old Prince Theodore George Jameson Forsythe of
Dubinstein, the second smallest country in Europe. In a prearranged marriage that was protocol for royalty in her country, she’d been promised to Teddy since she was twelve years old, and while she’d managed to put off the wedding by getting her PhD in comparative literature (with a specialization in works of the American Southwest), in less than two months she would be twenty-five. The age at which her father, King Phillip, decreed she would marry.
Although she and Teddy weren’t officially, officially engaged (no engagement ring or party yet), the last wedding details had already been planned. The date was set. Her fate forever sealed.
But until then, she was in America, living her dream of having a wild romantic adventure before she settled into the staid role as Princess of Dubinstein and started producing heirs.
She could barely believe it. No one who knew her would believe it either—shy, obedient Princess Annabella kissing a wild, handsome Texas cowboy a mere two hours after she’d run away from former president Glover’s compound with a little help from her cohort, bride-to-be Echo Glover.
It felt thrilling, exhilarating, and exotic.
Erotic.
Add to it the fact that she’d never kissed anyone besides Teddy, and those had been nothing more than restrained, chaperoned pecks. Kissing Brady Talmadge was, well, mind expanding to say the least, and she wished it would never stop.
This was exactly what she needed. He was exactly what she needed—a man with more sex appeal than morals. A footloose man who preferred no strings attached. He was perfect for what she had in mind.
“Annie,” he whispered against her mouth, the sound vibrating an exuberant tickle through her.
Annie.
Her heart tripped, skipped.
She was glad she had thought of the nickname. No one in Monesta ever dared call her anything so informal. The name had a cowgirl ring to it. Like Annie Oakley. She approved of the idea of being an Annie. Annie was spunky, levelheaded, the girl next door.
Annie was a lot like Princess Ann from Roman Holiday, her favorite movie in the entire world. In fact, that movie was what had given her the courage to spread her wings and fly the coop. She had also learned from Princess Ann’s mistakes, and she even made a list of pitfalls to avoid when going AWOL from a royal life.
She was Annie Coste now.