by Lori Wilde
“Now,” he said ominously. “Walk quickly.”
She thrust out her chin defiantly. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by the crowd of photographers and reporters she saw through the window.
The sedan entered a circular drive, followed by the news corps on foot, and eased to a stop outside a door flanked by carriage lights on poles. Leigh got a fleeting impression of shutters and brick, then Albert was opening the door, offering his hand as she stepped out.
Max moved fast, joining her on the pavement as a miniature lightning storm of flashbulbs went off in her face. She expected him to grab her arm and hustle her into the house.
She didn’t expect him to grab both her shoulders and kiss her soundly on her carefully lined and made-up lips.
She saw stars, but she couldn’t pinpoint their origin— the sky, the cameras, or her own mind. It took every shred of willpower not to put a hand over her mouth and lock in the pulsing sensation left by his kiss.
“Darling, our hosts are waiting for us,” he said, the amusement in his voice rippling through her, making her realize she was frozen to the spot in shock.
He put his hand on her waist, low on her waist, and gently propelled her toward the dark Georgian-style door. She walked, but only after his fingers nudged her just enough to suggest she might need a pinch to wake up.
Then they were inside. He was too busy being greeted to apologize for the very public, very energetic kiss—if he had any intention of doing so. Her lips were still tingling.
“I’m deeply honored,” he was saying to a portly woman with iron-gray curls and a dark-red dress adorned with what appeared to be heirloom diamonds—large, gaudy, and set in a necklace inspired by the jeweled collars found in Egyptian tombs. “Allow me to present Miss Leigh Bailey.”
He didn’t explain her; she liked that. He did increase the pressure of his hand on her waist, giving her a cue to say something. She didn’t like his hint; she wasn’t an idiot.
Smiling broadly, she pressed Mrs. Braeworthy’s moist plump hand and made what she hoped was an appropriate comment about her heavy necklace. Either her hostess was inordinately proud of it or just thrilled to have real royalty in her house. She beamed.
“Please call me Marty, short for Martha,” she trilled. “All my friends do.”
“I’m Leigh—short already.”
Mrs. Braeworthy’s husband rumbled with laughter; apparently he had a sense of humor. Leigh decided to treat them the way she did her great-uncle Calvin and his fourth wife, a technique that usually endeared her to the old boys without annoying their wives.
She could handle this hobnobbing; it was a challenge, but she was going to keep her end of the bargain even if she had to imitate Princess Di. She sailed through the introductions—smiling broadly and making small talk. Max took his hand away; apparently the baby bird was ready to fly on her own.
Four hours later she was more in the mood for crawling—home.
“This is hard work,” she whispered to Max in one of their few moments alone.
He laughed; he was doing that a lot lately.
Dinner was over, but the after-dinner drinks kept coming. So did guests who were either late for the meal or not important enough to feed. Leigh suspected the latter. She even recognized someone among the latest arrivals, a supermodel she’d interviewed just last year whose one-word moniker—Natasha—matched her sophistication.
“There’s actually someone here I can introduce to you,” she said, taking Max’s arm and steering him toward the willowy raven-haired model.
“Natasha, I’m Leigh Bailey, Celebrity magazine,” she said just to avoid the embarrassment of not being recognized in her princess getup.
“Of course, I adored your article—and I forgive you for using that dreadful photo with my hair all kinky.”
“This is Prince Maximilian,” Leigh said, telling herself it was silly to feel so darn proud of being on his arm.
“Max, darling!” Natasha inclined her long body in his direction and kissed him full on the mouth.
Leigh felt invisible all of a sudden. “So you two already know each other.”
“We met at a wonderful ski jaunt in the Alps,” Natasha said without looking at her.
“Yes, the Duke of Cornelli was our host,” Max said for Leigh’s benefit, since the model already knew it. “You’re looking marvelous, Natasha.”
“I’m not feeling marvelous. That nasty storm ruined my week—but of course, you know that.”
“It will spice up your memoirs to include a hurricane,” Max said.
“Darling, my memoirs are spicy enough already, as you well know.”
Leigh didn’t doubt it. This was definitely the longest evening of her life.
Finally, her big debut was over.
Max was quiet on the ride back to the hotel. Now that she thought about it, he’d been quiet before they got to the dinner party, too. Why should she be surprised? Why would a prince want to talk to her? She was the enemy, a reporter. He was only with her because it was the lesser of two evils: fending off hordes of eligible women or putting up with her.
He’d done more than put up with Natasha. They’d talked earnestly, alone in a corner, until other guests demanded his attention.
Max rested his head on the back of the seat, willing enough to let Albert find the way back to the hotel. Clouds obscured the moon, and the velvety darkness allowed him to watch Leigh without being obvious.
Natasha had been miffed, especially when he ignored her questions and refused to explain why he’d escorted Leigh to the party. He had enough male ego to enjoy her ire, especially since Leigh’s elegance had overshadowed the almond-eyed model’s.
He’d found a rain-soaked water sprite and transformed her into a fairy princess. He smiled at the fanciful notion, but he had misgivings. His plan was simple enough: use a decoy to fend off predatory females. His feelings about her were more complex.
He inhaled deeply, letting her subtle scent tease his senses. She’d worn her own perfume, instead of selecting one at the spa, and he realized how wise she was. It suited her, suggesting the freshness of a rain-washed summer garden. Did she splash it on her wrists or dab it behind her delicate earlobes? He wanted to search for the source with his nostrils and his tongue.
He took another deep breath, this time trying to concentrate on more mundane thoughts—the hidden agenda of his host and the possibility of interesting Braeworthy in Schwanstein investments.
Albert stopped the car under the front canopy of the Conquistador, but Max didn’t give him time to open the door for him.
“I’ll see Miss Bailey to her room,” he said. “I won’t need the car again tonight.”
Leigh felt something suspiciously like relief. She’d had an unsettling hunch that Max might deposit her at the hotel and seek out a more exciting companion for the rest of the night. Natasha, for instance. It was none of her business, but...
The elevator was waiting for them, the door open. It carried them up to her floor with the speed of a rocket launched into space. Before they’d done more than exchange tentative smiles, they were standing in front of her door.
“I’m afraid this evening wasn’t much fun for you,” he said, looking into her eyes without the sardonic smile he usually seemed to reserve for their moments alone.
“It was interesting.”
“Interesting. Hmm. You’re a writer. You can be more descriptive than that. It was a bloody bore, and you know it.”
“For you, maybe. I enjoy meeting people.”
“Do you?”
He lightly stroked the underside of her chin with one long tanned finger. She clenched her jaw, not wanting him to detect the involuntary quiver he was causing.
“You look lovely. I was proud to be with you this evening,” he murmured.
“The spa did wonders.”
“The spa provided something for you to do while I attended tedious business meetings. The beauty business is dedicated to making women look ali
ke. Fortunately, you defeated their best efforts. Your beauty is unique.”
Now she did feel shivery. She knew Max could be charming, but his words washed over her like the stardust in animated fairy tales.
“Good night, Leigh.”
His face was only inches away, his dark eyes focused on hers. For one heady moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he turned and strode down the corridor without another word.
She held the keycard in her hand a long time before she opened the door.
4
Albert provided the itinerary along with a huge breakfast—Max must have said something to him—and the morning newspapers. The pleasure of rising late and enjoying gourmet coffee, exotic fruit, and eggs Benedict paled when Leigh saw the front-page headline:
Prince Squires American Beauty.
At least the local photographer had missed the kiss. Or the paper had chosen not to run it, possibly because the conservative old-money readers in Paradise Beach preferred their gossip served up as discreet innuendoes.
Was Marty Braeworthy even now manning a hotline, dishing out the true story to those among her nearest and dearest friends who hadn’t merited an invitation to the party?
Leigh stared moodily at the fuzzy image of Max with his arm around her waist, hustling her toward the mansion. She did look good. In fact, her own mother probably wouldn’t recognize her in the picture. She ran her fingers through hair that was now flat and stiff, looking forward to doing it her way again—if Albert didn’t object.
What would her friends think? Her editor? For that matter, how did she feel about this surreal plunge into the world of the rich and royal?
She touched her chin where the prince’s finger had stroked her, wondering how it would feel to have his lips trace a path along her throat, his breath warm on her skin— The phone rang, and she reached over her breakfast tray to pick up the nearest of the six or so phones in her suite.
“Hello.”
“Waverly here. Is this Bailey?”
“Yes.”
She pretended to herself she wasn’t disappointed. She had no reason to hope Max might be calling.
“What’s new with the prince? I saw the Trib.”
So everyone in Miami knew about her romp with royalty.
“You know better than to believe everything you read in the papers,” she told her editor. Max hadn’t been happy, but she’d had to let Waverly in on their plan. He was still her boss.
“That’s what I figured,” he said with a knowing laugh. “Well, keep me posted.”
“Sure.”
She’d like to post him all right—via the U.S. Postal Service to the Antarctic. Was it so far-fetched to believe a prince might date her because he liked her?
Yes, she admitted glumly, it was. So, what was on the itinerary for today?
The schedule she pulled from a heavy nine-by-twelve envelope was impressive, printed on thick paper with a gold-embossed royal seal.
Not only had the valet listed events, locations and times, he’d included suggestions that she took as orders on what to wear. At noon she was supposed to wear a bathing suit under the turquoise-and-black-striped beach coat, a wardrobe oddity she hadn’t really expected to need.
Skimming through the list, she concluded that her main function was to wear different outfits. Max might as well have hired a model—or wagged his little finger at Natasha, who’d probably turn somersaults for the chance to grab headlines with His Highness.
“It’ll be the best story I’ve written—maybe the best royal profile ever,” she said, reminding herself of the reason she was doing this.
So why did she feel so gloomy?
She was ready when the tap came on the door. Albert was five minutes early.
“I hope you like smoked salmon and mimosas,” Max said when she opened the door.
He grinned boyishly, shifting the handle of a big plastic cooler from one hand to the other.
“I was expecting Albert.” What a dumb thing to say.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Believe me, you haven’t.”
Great, admit he makes your pulse pound like conga drums, she admonished herself, taking in his loose-fitting yellow-and-white soccer jersey and dark-green shorts that left most of his muscular thighs bare. He was wearing sandals and had one of the hotel’s huge white towels draped on his shoulder. Were they really going swimming?
“A friend made arrangements for us to use a private beach—just the kind of secluded place lovers would choose,” he said with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
“According to the itinerary, we’re supposed to frolic for the press?”
“Don’t worry, we won’t elude anybody. No one will doubt we’re involved in a relationship.” He put his hand under her elbow after she closed the door behind them. “You have no idea what peace of mind that gives me.”
“No, I don’t,” she said dryly, remembering the dark-haired model and her big openmouthed kiss.
A long gray stretch limo was parked in front of the hotel, but she looked in both directions for his rental sedan.
“Here,” he said, leading her to the limo. “Since you left yours at home...”
He was smiling. At least he had a sense of humor.
“I thought I’d have to get married to ride in one of these,” she said, sinking back on the plush seat and taking in some of the perks: TV, stereo, cellular phone, smoky-gray windows, and a bar with an ice bucket.
Max disapproved of the plastic goblets furnished by the service, but the combination of French champagne and Florida orange juice made the best mimosa he’d ever tasted—or maybe Leigh’s enthusiasm gave it a special zing. He settled down beside her, draping his arm on the seat behind her.
“I don’t think snuggling is part of our deal,” she said, sliding a few inches away from him.
He liked feeling her shoulder against his arm and her thigh against his. He had no intention of chasing her around the back of the limo, but her flowery perfume was making him light-headed. He was used to women who had fragrances blended especially for them, but never with such appealing results.
The walkie-talkie concealed under the towel he’d dropped on the seat crackled unexpectedly, giving her a start.
“Sorry, just Hans checking in,” he said. “My men are following the cars following us.”
“Are you sure we’re just going to the beach? This sounds like a spy mission.”
“This, Leigh, is how I live—at least whenever I leave Schwanstein. My own people tend to take me for granted.”
“No mothers lining up to have you pat their babies’ heads? No fair maidens kneeling to kiss your ring?”
“Alas, none.”
“I’m disillusioned.” She grinned wickedly. “Next you’ll tell me you don’t live in a castle.”
“I don’t. My ancestors abandoned ours in the eighteenth century, I’m happy to say. All the water had to be hauled up a mountain, so it was a singularly inconvenient fortress.”
“Then where do you live?”
“My father and I share the palace. There are twenty-two bedrooms, but still it sometimes seems confining. Do you live with your family?”
“I share the city of Miami with my mother—and sometimes it’s not big enough for the two of us.”
He laughed, but a nagging doubt persisted: could a woman this beautiful be wholly unattached?
“Perhaps when I’m a father, I’ll understand the parental urge to control my offsprings’ lives,” he mused, forgetting the plastic goblet in his hand.
“My mother isn’t controlling, just inquisitive. If I have lunch with a business acquaintance, she wants his life history.”
“My father would like an international hotline on single females—an Interpol dating service.”
She sipped her mimosa, enjoying it without making silly comments about bubbles or drinking before noon. Everything she said interested him because she never uttered the obvious. He silently cursed the
parasites who would be stalking their picnic on the beach. He yearned for time alone with Leigh.
“Actually, I admire my mother immensely,” she said. “When my father deserted us—did I mention I haven’t even met his fourth wife?—my mother lost a pretty cushy lifestyle. Country clubs, live-in help, the social whirl... All she had left was my brother, me, and an art-history degree. The only job she’d ever had was camp counselor.”
“Surely your father provided for you?”
“Yes, but trophy wives are expensive, so his help was minimal. My mother, though, went into real estate and made a big success of it by giving high-class service to owners of low-cost homes. In some areas she has so many FOR SALE signs, it looks like she’s running for office.”
“She sounds remarkable. My mother would have admired her. She put a great deal of time and energy into helping people.”
“I read about her accident, of course. She must have been a special person.”
“She was.”
The limo left the heavy traffic and slowed, according to his instructions. Since he had to feed the barracudas, he didn’t want any delays because they’d lost his vehicle.
The walkie-talkie crackled again; Hans reported the press was still on his tail.
Leigh refused a refill, wanting to stay alert. This was the best date she’d ever had: champagne, a limo, and a man with ballroom manners and bedroom eyes. Too bad it was only pretend. But while it lasted, she was going to savor every beautiful moment.
Somewhere along their route, the space between them had vanished. She was keenly aware of his hip and thigh against hers, and his aftershave teased her nostrils, reminding her of The Kiss. If getting engaged to the prince meant an occasional lip-lock, she was ready, willing, and eager. She’d never been kissed that way.
Did Europeans have a special technique, or was it Max’s natural gift? She got goosebumps just remembering the way his mouth had covered hers, making her lips tingle and taking her breath away.
His first kiss—and a public one at that—had the impact of a dynamite charge. How would it feel to be kissed by him for real?