The Cowboy and the Princess

by Lori Wilde

  “What in the hell are you doing?” he mumbled to his reflection. “You wanna get your teeth knocked out by whoever is looking for her?”

  No, no, he did not. Tomorrow he would find someone else to pawn her off on, but for tonight, he couldn’t really do anything except live up to his offer to give her a place to sleep. Port in the storm. That was him. More than one woman had told him so.

  You’re my port in the storm, Brady, his last girlfriend had said.

  He’d liked that. His stupid ego. Then she’d dumped him for another man.

  No one gets serious about a port in the storm, she said when she walked out carrying the Jack LaLanne juicer she bought him for Christmas, a pair of inline skates slung over her shoulder, and wearing a diamond engagement ring big enough to choke Santa Fe that he had not given her.

  No one needed a safe port when the sun was shining.

  Annie couldn’t believe she was in bed with a cowboy. She had dreamed it for so long she could not be sure she was really awake. To prove it, she pinched the underside of her arm.

  Ouch.

  All right. Wide awake. This was no dream. She curled her toes against the crisp, cool sheet and thought of the way Brady had looked as she had tended to the wound he acquired while defending her honor. Her white knight. There was no ignoring him. His big body filled the tiny space, his scent filled her nose, his face filled her mind. A cowboy. An honest-to-goodness honorable cowboy.

  He climbed into bed wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and a cotton T-shirt. She had tried not to notice how the cotton material stretched over biceps as hard and round as Granny Smith apples. The inked artwork on his right arm of a galloping horse, mane flying, fascinated her. She had an urge to press her mouth to it, trace the outline of it with her tongue.

  The rain started again, drumming against the roof.

  She smiled into the darkness. She was here. Now what? How did a princess go about seducing a cowboy?

  The spot behind her knees went itchy. Her entire body heated. The sensation started at the tips of her toes and rolled upward, spicy as truck stop chili—hot, heavy, urgent.

  Brady wasn’t asleep either. She could hear his quick, shallow breathing. Neither one of them had moved. Both lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling.

  Don’t make waves. Rosalind had drilled it into her head. Remember the three A’s. A princess is always accommodating, accepting, and agreeable. The triple A princess. That was she.

  Annie had struggled so hard to live up to that diktat. She’d been an obedient daughter never questioning the plan for her life. She believed she had accepted her marriage to Teddy. Would do whatever was required of her by her country.

  Or so she thought.

  Then she received the invitation to Echo Glover’s wedding. She and Echo had met as teenagers when Echo’s father had been president of the United States and Echo and her mother had vacationed in Monesta. Her stepmother, Birgit, had invited the first lady and her daughter to stay at Farrington Palace, and for four wonderful weeks, Annie had known what it was like to have a sister.

  She and Echo had kept in touch over the years, through letters, phone calls, text messaging. Neither one of them had been allowed to have a Twitter or Facebook account. It was considered improper conduct, not to mention a legal and security liability for women of their positions.

  The minute Annie opened Echo’s wedding invitation, so close to her own impending wedding, she had known it was her last chance to experience a normal life, if only for a few brief weeks. It had taken a heated argument to persuade her father to allow her to attend the wedding. Teddy, surprisingly enough, had been on her side.

  “Let her spread her wings, King Phillip,” Teddy advocated. “I’m pleased that my future queen has friends in America, and it would serve me well for my wife-to-be to gain a more sophisticated view of the world.”

  That had made her feel extremely disloyal. Here Teddy was trying to help her and she was planning on cheating on him.

  It’s not cheating. Not technically.

  Although she’d been promised to him, and their wedding was planned, Teddy had not yet slipped an engagement ring on her finger, wanting to play the field as long as he could in the fading glory of his bachelor days. They had never been intimate and they both knew their relationship was not a love match.

  Justifications. She knew a rationalization when she heard it.

  Suddenly, she felt ashamed of herself. What was she doing here? What did she really expect to come of this? Even if she seduced Brady and they had wonderful sex, then what? What if she went back home and Teddy turned out to be a lousy lover and she spent the rest of her life longing for Brady? That would be tragic. Better to never know what she was missing.

  Oh dear. She sank her top teeth into her bottom lip. Her hands were clasped over her chest. She twiddled her thumbs.

  “Can’t sleep?” Brady asked.

  “Strange bed,” she said. “Hard mattress.”

  “I can’t sleep either and it’s my bed.”

  “Strange bedfellow.”

  “There is that.”

  They inhaled a simultaneous breath.

  “We could talk,” Brady said. “If you like.”

  “About what?”

  “Whatever comes to mind.”

  Hmm. That left plenty of open ground to cover. Think of something nonsexual. “How did you get to be a horse whisperer?”

  “I was always naturally drawn to horses.”

  “I like horses too,” she said.

  “Do you know how to ride?”

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to learn.”

  “I could teach you to ride. If you’d like.”

  “Really?”

  He rolled over on his side. She stayed put on her back, but from her peripheral vision, in the glow of the nightlight, she saw him stack his hands underneath his head. He was watching her.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Does that mean I can stay here with you for a little while?” she ventured.

  “Until you can find other arrangements.”

  “You’re very generous.”

  “Not really. I’m just a sucker for a pretty face.”

  “You say the oddest things.”

  “You find compliments odd?”

  “Manipulative, generally.”

  “You think I’m manipulative?”

  “Most people are.”

  “You must come from money,” he said flatly.

  “What makes you say that?” She wasn’t about to confirm it. She didn’t want anyone in Jubilee connecting her to Princess Annabella, because when word finally got out that she was missing, it would be all over the media. Everything she’d ever done had ended up in the media. Which was part of the reason she never did anything that would shame or embarrass the royal family.

  “I don’t know.” Brady paused. “I suppose it’s in the way you carry yourself.”

  “In what manner?”

  “As if the world is your oyster.”

  “I do not do that . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “Do I?”

  “Sort of, yeah. You’ve got this regal tilt to your head and a way of looking down your nose that can make a guy feel put in his place.”

  That bothered her. She didn’t want to come across as condescending or dismissive. Her mother had been like that and it bothered her to think she had absorbed those traits. “I apologize if I have done anything to cause you to feel that way.”

  “It’s my problem. Not yours.”

  “What do you mean?” Intrigued, she rolled over on her side to face him and tucked her hands under her cheek just as he had done. They stared into each other’s eyes.

  “The thing that makes me so in tune with horses is the same thing that makes me thin-skinned with people.”

  “Thin-skinned? What does that mean?”

  “I read too much into peoples’ motivations. I have a tendency to take things personally even when they’re not intended that way.�
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  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Well,” he said, “like now for instance.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m picking up on the vibe that you’re conflicted.”

  “Could you elaborate?”

  “Your body is rigid, tight. You’re nervous.”

  “Who wouldn’t be? I am in bed with a stranger.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said. “Some people like being in bed with a stranger. They seek it out. For the thrill.”

  “Do you go to bed with a lot of strangers?” she asked, feeling suddenly, inexplicably jealous. She pursed her lips, crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Not a lot, but a few,” he admitted.

  “What do you like about sleeping with strangers?”

  “It’s interesting.”

  “Do you . . .” She cleared her throat. She didn’t know how to ask this next part, but she sorely needed to know if this was to end up the way she was hoping it would end up. “Practice safe sex?”

  “I do,” he said. “But to be honest, it’s been a long while since I did anything like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Picking up a stranger. Offering her a place to bunk.”

  “But you have done it.”

  His guilty grin said it all. He was perfect as he was. Flaws and all. He was just what she needed. He’d confirmed it. She was looking for an adventure. A casual fling with a man who would not fall in love with her.

  “Except not lately?” she ventured.

  “There was this woman, about two years ago. I thought we might have something going.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged. “We didn’t have anything going.”

  “Did she break it off or did you?”

  “She left. Took my Jack LaLanne juicer with her. For her new bodybuilder fiancé.”

  “She broke your heart.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” he drawled. “But she confirmed an old lesson.”

  “What was that?”

  “Never trust someone with a secret.”

  “She really hurt you.”

  “No biggie. I’m not the settling-down type. And the juicer? Way too much trouble. Just buy the juice at the store and be done with it.”

  Annie touched his forearm. “I’m out of my element.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” He reached up to ensnare her wrist with his thumb and index finger. “Please don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Touch me like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m hanging on by a thread here. You really have no idea what your touch does to me, do you?”

  “Should I?”

  “You’re a gorgeous woman in the prime of life. You figure it out.”

  “I . . .” Her stomach stumbled. “Do I turn you on?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Do you want to make love to me?”

  He took her hand and guided it under the covers. She touched something hard. “Oh my.”

  “Yeah, oh my.”

  She gulped. She had never touched a man’s erection before. She had heard about it. Felt it when she had danced close with Teddy, but she never put her fingers to one, even one cloaked behind a pair of cotton underwear. It felt like hot velvet steel.

  Abruptly, he let go of her wrist.

  Her eyes met his. He stared at her.

  Into her.

  “Annie.”

  “Brady.” She breathed.

  “This isn’t going to work. Lying here beside you. Not touching you. You’re too much woman for that.”

  “What are you going to do?” She hauled in a deep breath. Her pulse hammered so hard she heard it rushing blood through her ears.

  “I’m going to go sleep in the backseat of my truck.” He sat up.

  “No.” She put a restraining hand to his bare chest, marveled at the strong, hard strata of muscles. “Don’t go.”

  “I can’t stay.” He shook his head. “If I stay—”

  “What?” she whispered, scarcely breathing.

  “I can’t be held accountable for my actions.”

  “What if I do not want you to be held accountable for your actions.”

  “Do you even know what the hell you’re saying?” His voice hissed like sizzling hot coals splashed with ice-cold water.

  Did she? Probably not.

  All she knew was that she ached deep inside. An ache that caught fire the moment he’d picked her up on the side of the road, an ache that had built steadily from the kiss in the restaurant to culminate here in his bed.

  She craved him in a wholly physical way. Hungry need bit into her. Below her waist she felt a demanding stirring. She had never experienced such a strong sexual sensation. To date, her desires had been sedate stirrings. Mild interest. Academic curiosity. Nothing like this full-bore yearning that made her heedless to everything sensible and right.

  “Annie,” he whispered hoarsely, and the next thing she knew he was pulling her to him.

  His arms encircled her. It felt good. It felt right. She pursed her lips, waiting for his kiss.

  When it came, the kiss was light, seductive. A sweet tease. She moaned softly and burrowed closer.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, slipped his mouth from hers to slide slowly to her neck. When he got to the underside of her jaw, his kisses turned to tender nibbles. Erotic sensation swamped her entire body, skipping from nerve ending to nerve ending, a joyous warning of what was in store.

  She wanted this. Wanted it more than she could say. But she worried that if she made love with him, she would be forever changed. That she couldn’t go back to her well-ordered, well-planned life. That once she tasted of the cowboy myth she would discover it was not myth at all, but a way of life she could no longer live without.

  She made a soft noise, a high reedy sound, half protest, half plea. She wanted him to take the reins, to leave her helpless and breathless. Pleasure, unlike anything she’d ever experienced addled her brain, left her witless.

  “Tell me,” Brady said, his hands skimming over the silky material of her peignoir. “What do you like?”

  “What do you like?” she said, using her fall-back technique of answering a question with a question. She had learned that answering a question with a question gave her time to gather her thoughts and formulate a plan. The delaying tactic offered her some small measure of control, and as a woman whose life was not her own, she took a great deal of comfort in it.

  “I’m a pretty simple guy,” he said. “The basics work for me. I don’t need anything fancy, but I’m not opposed to it if that’s what you’re into. A little light bondage? Role-playing? Sex toys?”

  “Goodness.” She had not expected that.

  “But I’m very satisfied with regular sex. I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy.”

  “Meat and potatoes.” She laughed. “What does that mean?”

  “Just you and me and the equipment God gave us.”

  “My.” She giggled. “Do you have protection?”

  “I’ve got condoms. How about you? Are you on the pill?”

  “The pill has been taken care of.” The royal physician had started her on birth control pills to control irregular periods.

  “So why are we still talking?” he asked gruffly. “I want you, you want me.”

  Yes, she did want him. Very much. But this was her first time. She didn’t know how to tell him that. She knew well enough that an almost twenty-five-year-old virgin was an anomaly in this day and age. “I . . . well . . . Can we take this slowly?”

  “Buttercup, slow is my modus operandi,” he drawled in a sultry, dark voice that sent delighted shivers through her.

  “That’s good,” she said, relieved.

  “Now, let’s stop talking and start kissing.”

  Chapter Five

  You might be a princess if . . . you’re a twenty-five-year-old virgin.

  Every sensible b
one in Brady’s body was telling him that this was not a good idea. He knew better than to get involved with a secret-keeping woman. He had the self-control to turn her down. Or at least he thought he did until he started kissing the sweet underside of her jaw and heard her soft purr of pleasure.

  You’ve just been too long without sex.

  That was true enough. He’d been busy. On the road. And while he did have a reputation as something of a ladies’ man, he was not—tonight exempted—much one for one-night stands. He did like light, casual relationships with women who were in the same frame as mind as he was, and that certainly seemed to be Annie, but her secretiveness gave him pause. She was in some kind of trouble and she was using him as the fall-back guy. It wasn’t the first time a woman had used him in such a manner and he figured it wouldn’t be the last, but Annie was different somehow.

  For one thing, she seemed so damn fragile while at the same time she exuded a toughness that belied her cultured air. He had to admit he was intrigued. He wanted to know more.

  And he wanted more of her kisses.

  His body heated up quickly. His erection tightened and surged. His dick was clear on the subject. Sex would be a nice way to take the edge off the aching wound on the right side of his face.

  Normally, he wasn’t a man much troubled by excess contemplation. He was a sensual guy. He liked things tactile—the feel of a horse beneath him, leather reins in his hands, boots on his feet. Most men were more visual than anything else, and while Brady enjoyed seeing a naked woman as much as the next guy, he also had a powerful need to run his hands over things, to touch and feel, textures, shapes, temperature. His palms and fingertips absorbed sensory input far more acutely than either his eyes or his ears.

  As a kid, he never missed an opportunity to pocket a fascinating found object—a bumpy tortoise shell, fuzzy caterpillars, prickly pieces of twine. When they got their summer haircuts, he loved to run the flat of his palm over his brothers’ buzz cuts even though it usually ended up getting him punched. When he lost a baby tooth, he couldn’t resist poking his tongue through the gap, exploring the strange terrain. And he had loved nothing more than walking barefoot in the sand, curling his toes in the fine grit.

  His fingers traced Annie’s rose petal skin, detecting the heat of her veins. He pressed his lips to the pulse point at her throat, felt her heart flutter. She was excited.