by Lori Wilde
He wanted her so badly he resented it, but more than ever, he loathed the idea of letting her interview him. Her article would be worse than appearing nude on the cover of the sleaziest tabloid. It would be a betrayal of what he felt for her.
His friend, Peter Mills, was telling him an involved story, leading up to one of the punch lines that had earned him the label of class clown when they’d been boys together in a Swiss boarding school. Max tried to concentrate, but when Leigh stepped off the elevator on Hans’ arm, he totally lost the thread of his friend’s tale.
“Here’s my fiancée,” he interrupted, then realized he hated lying to someone who knew him as well as Peter did.
More than that, he detested the lie itself. What had possessed him to involve this lovely young woman in a foolish ruse? He could only imagine how tumultuous her life would be after the engagement was formally terminated. Would the boost to her career be worth the misery—hers and his?
Peter whistled through his teeth. “Wow! What a looker!”
Max disliked the compliment, even though he knew his reaction was irrational. It was only natural for other men to be stunned by her beauty. He was totally under its spell and half out of his mind wanting her, but he’d sworn to stay away from her after this party.
He didn’t want to marry a woman who was using him to advance her career, so there was no future in their relationship. He cared about her too deeply to make her his mistress—especially when his father was expecting him to return home with the matter of his marriage settled.
She saw him and started walking toward him, but a knot of people moved between them.
“Max, it’s so good to see you.” Natasha rushed toward him, linking her arm with his, overwhelming his senses with the heady scent of jasmine. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve regretted the hurricane that kept you from meeting me.”
“It was fate, Natasha.” He shrugged without managing to loosen her grip on his arm. “Are you here with the man from Chicago—what was his name?”
Her laugher trilled; he suspected she practiced it.
“Good heavens, no! He was only a casual acquaintance. You know perfectly well I followed you to Chicago in case things didn’t work out with your fiancée. Where is she, by the way? Have you broken her heart the way you do with all women?”
“Certainly not.” He could feel the bite of her fingernails through the sleeve of his tux. She wasn’t going to be easy to lose, but he tried to conceal his impatience. He owed her a measure of courtesy after failing to reschedule their assignation.
He looked urgently toward the elevators, but Leigh had disappeared from sight.
Peter succeeded where he’d failed. He detached Natasha from Max’s arm.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to this lovely creature, Max?”
“Certainly. Peter, this is Natasha. Natasha, Peter Mills, our host.”
“Mr. Mills, will you forgive me for crashing your party? A friend insisted...”
Max hurried away, hoping his twice-divorced-but-now-single friend would be interested enough to keep Natasha occupied.
“Hans!” He saw the bodyguard and barked out his name with unintentional harshness; he was angry at himself, not this man.
“Your Highness, Miss Bailey was with me just a moment ago. I think she must have gone down the stairs. I don’t see her anywhere on this level.”
He pointed at the green-and-gold carpeted stairway leading to the ground floor.
“Watch for her here,” Max ordered brusquely.
He went down the stairs two at a time, worried she might leave now that her car was available at the hotel. He couldn’t force her to stay, but he didn’t want to think about that as he rushed through the lobby, looking in every direction.
He found her by the replica of a suit of armor; rather, he spotted her backing around it, pursued by an aggressive-looking man. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and tasseled loafers with white socks. He was gesturing energetically but didn’t seem to be making sexual overtures. Max moved closer, taking care not to be seen by Leigh.
“I’m not talking out of the side of my mouth, Miss Bailey. The head editor gave me that figure—a cool half million advance, and they want the book yesterday. If you need help writing it, they’ll get someone for you.”
“I am not writing a book about the prince. Not yesterday, not tomorrow!”
“With me as your agent, the book offer is only the tip of the iceberg. I’ll be talking to TV, and I can wrap up a deal with Sensations magazine that’ll buy you a sports car with mink upholstery.”
“The only animal I’d like skinned is you! Hear this. I will not pose nude for a girlie magazine. I will not write a book about Prince Maximilian. And the North Pole will melt before I let you represent me. Have I said anything you don’t understand?”
“If it’s the money, I can do better. The half mil was only a feeler. If you marry this prince—”
“I’m calling hotel security.”
Max smiled ruefully. The lady certainly could take care of herself, but he’d never had a stronger urge to create some mayhem.
He came up behind the little weasel and grabbed the back of his jacket and the belt holding up his trousers.
“Hotel security,” he said gruffly, winking at Leigh behind the man’s back. “We can’t allow our guests to be harassed.”
“I wasn’t harassing! You got no right— Let go or I’ll sue!”
Max half dragged and half carried the blustering agent across the lobby, stopping in front of a pool below an artificial waterfall. The man squealed loudly when Max hefted him over the tiled rim and plopped him in the shallow water.
“You’ll hear from my lawyer,” the agent screamed. “I’ll put this hotel out of business.”
“Don’t bother calling him,” Max said with a grin of satisfaction. “I have nothing to do with the hotel, but I do have diplomatic immunity. The only question is whether Miss Bailey wishes to press charges against you.”
He turned his back and walked briskly over to Leigh, offering his arm.
“The party is upstairs. I suggest we both join it.”
She’d laughed when the overbearing agent landed in the pool, but one look at Max’s face squelched her good humor. She saw thunderclouds hovering around him and wondered if he thought she’d done something to encourage the man.
“I didn’t come down to meet him, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d never seen the man before,” she said, hard-pressed to keep up with the long skirt impeding her stride. “Anyway, I had the situation under control. I told him to leave me alone.”
“From where I stood, he didn’t appear to be listening,” Max said without any sign of agitation.
He acted as though tossing people into pools was an everyday occurrence. Maybe it was in his genes-—a royal talent for punishing wrongdoers.
“Anyway, I can take care of myself,” she said.
If he went in for rescuing damsels in distress, she thought, he could at least be a little more cheerful about it.
The cocktail party was breaking up. The guests were slowly making their way to the private room where dinner would be served. Apparently, the guest of honor had been missed. He was virtually swamped by admirers as soon as he set foot on the mezzanine.
It was a long evening. Only sheer exhaustion and a vague hope that Max might yet come to her room kept Leigh from claiming her car and driving home at three in the morning.
Were any of the dazzling, clever, rich women who were at the party in the running as a bride for the prince?
She sat in bed torturing herself by trying to remember all the women he’d danced with after dinner—the lead of a television series, an opera star on her way to Milan, a woman whose family name was a household word for cleaning products.
He hadn’t used her to ward off would-be brides at Peter’s party. In fact, he seemed to welcome the attention of every female in attendance. He only danced with her twice, and that seemed like two times too m
any if his mood was any indication.
As soon as she had a few hours’ sleep, she was going home.
12
His palms were moist, his mouth like cotton. Max rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the gritty feeling caused by lack of sleep.
He felt conspicuous standing outside Leigh’s door, but he still wasn’t sure what to say to her. He should apologize for his abominable behavior at the party last night, but what he really wanted was to explain the torment he’d suffered by not dancing every dance with her. He’d deliberately deprived himself of her company, trying to put her out of his mind by showering attention on other women. He’d failed miserably. Watching her in the arms of other men was sheer torture.
How could he return to his old life without her? What choice did he have? Even if he could convince his father and his people that she was a suitable princess, how could he convince himself?
He doubted her feelings for him went much beyond an avid interest in writing about him. With every aspect of his life constantly scrutinized by the press, he couldn’t bring himself to make a public spectacle of his love life. He dreaded the kind of kiss-and-tell article she might possibly write.
For self-preservation, he should walk away without speaking to her.
She was behind that door, perhaps still curled up under the covers, her lashes feathery long on delicate lids. He imagined the fineness of her features and the sleek smoothness of her skin. He wanted to cradle his cheek between her breasts and feel the silky softness of her hair spilling over his arm.
Or perhaps she was bathing, pink and moist, ready to be wrapped in a towel. He loved every part of her—slender arms and gracefully molded shoulders, her queenly carriage with head proudly erect on the beautiful column of her neck. He ached remembering the collar of pearls she’d worn so successfully at the party.
He wanted to adorn her naked body with his family’s jewels: the diamond tiara, sapphires and diamonds for her earlobes, a long strand of pearls caressing her beautiful breasts, a fire opal in her navel. He could cover her arms with precious bangles and bracelets and wrap her shapely ankles with chains of gold. But no embellishments could make her lovelier than she already was in his eyes.
He was paralyzed by alien feelings—shyness, nervousness, fear of making a mistake. In his entire life he’d never been intimidated by anyone, except perhaps his father when he was very young and mischievous. It was incredible that this beautiful American was turning his own image of himself upside down.
With bittersweet determination, he raised his hand and knocked softly on her door.
He counted slowly to thirty, giving her adequate time to respond before he knocked again, then rapped loudly three times to wake her if she was still sleeping.
Had she left? His stomach knotted in anxiety.
He believed in fate. A man could no more control his destiny than he could move the earth from its axis. A few words printed on a bumper sticker had changed his life. Even if he walked away at this moment and flew home without ever seeing Leigh again, he would never forget her.
He’d never been passionately in love before, and he probably never would be again.
Stunned by his admission, he stared at the closed door and saw even more clearly why he couldn’t ask Leigh to be his wife. He’d always seen himself as a risk taker, a man with the courage to lead his country in the twenty-first century. In truth, he was a coward, afraid to offer his love to a woman who might use it without returning it.
He turned to leave just as the door opened.
“Max, I wasn’t expecting you.”
She was fully dressed, wearing casual tan trousers and a tailored navy blouse open at the throat—her own clothing, simple ready-mades she wore as successfully as the stylish evening gowns.
“I thought perhaps you were— But that doesn’t matter.”
“Do you want to come in?”
He noticed a housekeeping cart less than six doors away and nodded his head, struck dumb by the impact she had on him. Her hair was loose, spilling over her shoulders in disarray, and the brush in her hand told him she was in the process of arranging it.
He stepped inside and closed the door, reaching out like a man in a trance and taking the brush from her unresisting hand.
He didn’t ask, and she didn’t protest. He moved behind her and began brushing her hair, the silence between them broken only by crackles of static electricity. The ends of her locks danced under the strokes of the brush, then he abandoned it, running his fingers through her hair.
“Your hair is beautiful,” he said, speaking for the first time.
“Is that why you came—to tell me that?”
She turned and faced him, and he was pleased that her face was free of makeup. Her lips were rose-petal pink, and he desperately wanted to feel them on his body. He reached out and touched them with the tips of his fingers, but she didn’t respond, didn’t part her pearly white teeth and caress his fingers with the tip of her tongue.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have come,” she whispered hoarsely, lifting his hand and setting it at his side.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. I don’t want you to be sorry. You do exactly as you please, then you expect me to be thrilled by your apologies.”
“That’s not the way it is.” He felt as though he’d been slapped.
“Then tell me. For what, exactly, are you apologizing? For insisting I go to a party? Your reason for that escapes me.”
“We did have an agreement.”
“Yes, but I don’t know why anymore. You certainly don’t object to being pursued by women.”
“That’s not true. I only fulfilled my social obligations by dancing with the guests at Peter’s party.” He felt cornered, and lies came much more easily than the truth.
“I’m much too busy to listen to fairy tales.”
She walked over to the bed where she’d arranged piles of clothing in an order that escaped him.
“I imagine Albert will be the one to haul all this to the thrift shop. I’ve put the things that need laundering in that plastic bag. I’ve never given away designer clothes before, so I don’t know about having them cleaned first.”
“I wish you’d keep them. The silver gown—”
“—would look silly at the office Christmas party.”
“Then at least keep the suits. Surely a career woman can use them,” he said, angry at her for being stubborn—and at himself for so badly botching what was supposed to be an apology.
“Stop it, Max! Or should I say Your Highness now that our engagement is over?”
“Is it over?” he asked bleakly. “Have you made the announcement to the press?”
“No, I’m not going to.”
For one instant he misinterpreted what she said, allowing himself to hope she didn’t want their engagement to end. But of course, her main concern was the interview, the cozy chat he’d promised. He was honor-bound to go through with it, even though it would be agonizing. How could he bare his soul to this...this reporter without revealing the love that was tearing him apart?
“How do you want it handled?” he asked.
“It’s in your hands. I won’t be talking to the press about our breakup or anything else.”
She fussed with the clothing on the bed, smoothing a skirt, buttoning a jacket, and picking up a jewelry box to look at the collar of imitation pearls.
Upset as he was, he still longed to see real pearls against her fair skin. He was tormented by a vision of her body adorned with only precious jewels.
He walked over to the window and spoke with his back to her, unwilling to let her see how aroused he was.
Would she resist if he tried to make love to her again? His need for her was so intense he nearly dropped to his knees at her feet and confessed all that was in his heart. He could bear the humiliation, but not the possibility she might reject him. He cursed his stiff-necked pride and regretted the day he’d met her, then tried to concentrate on ending the fi
asco of their engagement with as little public clamor as possible.
“When I arrive home, I’ll make a small announcement for our press. Does it suit you if I say it was a mutual decision with no negative feelings on either side?”
“Whatever you like.”
He would have preferred an argument; after all, he had promised to let her be the one to break it off.
“If you prefer, I can say it was your decision. Or you can make the announcement...”
“Max, it doesn’t matter. No one cares what I do—the world is only interested in you. Say or do whatever is easiest for you.”
“I’ll give it some thought, but I promise not to embarrass you in any way.”
“Thank you.”
Her voice was listless, and she kept fidgeting with the garments on the bed. He wanted to take her in his arms, but what could he say to a woman who was getting exactly what she wanted—an exclusive story for her magazine?
“Where are you going now?” He didn’t want to hear the answer, but he lacked the will to walk out of the room.
“Home.”
“And then to your office?”
“Not today. I’m on vacation. I’ve accumulated about three weeks’ time off, so I may not go in next week, either.”
“I see.” He didn’t, but her job was the last thing he wanted to discuss. “Then all we have to do is get on with your interview. Would you like to do it now?”
“No.” She’d been expecting him to mention it, but she wasn’t anywhere near ready to deal with him as the subject of an article. “I mean, I have some work to do first—a question outline, a little research. How much longer will you be here?”
She braced herself, expecting him to say he’d be leaving in a day or two.
“I have to spend a few days in Washington before I can leave. I really do have a few chores to perform as a representative of Schwanstein.”