Dammit! He couldn’t remember when any woman had frustrated him so completely.
Though he didn’t like it, he supposed he could understand why she’d be reluctant to make love with him if she didn’t know who she was. There was the possibility that she had a lover, a boyfriend, even a fiancé, though she wore no ring.
He narrowed his eyes at the thought. He didn’t give a damn if there was another man in her life—unless she was married, of course. That was one line he would never cross. But he did not believe she was married. As far as he was concerned, Emily belonged to him.
He picked up his glass of Scotch and drained it. He’d never been a patient man, but he’d give her more time if she needed it.
With a sigh, he laid his head back on the sofa and hoped to God she didn’t make him wait long.
The next afternoon, as he’d promised, Dylan arrived at Emily’s room to take her on a tour of the palace grounds. She’d been anxious and tense all morning while she’d waited for the prince, but now that they’d been strolling in the warm, fresh air for the past hour, she found herself finally starting to relax and even enjoy the opportunity to be away from the confines of her room.
The palace outside was every bit as beautiful as it was inside. Sparkling marble fountains, formal gardens, a towering white gazebo and tennis court. And though it was winter and the roses had been pruned down to the barest stubs, Emily could picture the bushes in full bloom come spring. Bright pinks, soft yellows, deep reds. Lavenders, whites and every shade of orange. She could even imagine how sweet the air would smell, filled with the exotic scents of thousands of flowers.
She’d never see or smell them, she knew, but she let herself dream for a moment as she walked along a rock path beside Dylan. He’d been explaining how the marble used in the fountains and the interior floors of the palace was mined in the Aronleigh Mountains and brought by trucks to local tradesmen to be finished.
He’d dressed casually again today, tan slacks, a white polo shirt and dark-brown boots. Emily was thankful that Sally had laid out the comfortable clothes she had on—black slacks, a pale pink, long-sleeved cotton blouse and soft leather walking shoes, though she was certain it had not been coincidental. From the first night Emily had been brought here, Dylan had seen to her comfort, had paid attention to every detail, made sure that she had everything she could possibly want or need. He’d been wonderful to her, had made her feel special.
Like a princess.
She watched him as he pointed out one of the garden statues, commenting that it was fashioned after the Minotaur, the mythic creature who was half-bull, half-human and every nine years feasted on seven maidens and seven youths. He spoke of the Labyrinth, where the creature had been contained, how its hapless victims were released into the twisting, endless maze, and then devoured by the beast.
Emily was certain she knew how those poor people must have felt. Wandering about a maze with no escape, knowing they were about to be devoured. A feeling of utter hopelessness.
He’d nearly caught her last night.
Every time she thought of it, she had to remind herself to breathe. Ten seconds more, less than that, and he would have seen her pushing the buttons on his alarm. Or if she’d managed to get inside his suite—Dear God!—he would have found her there. He would have known, would have seen her for the liar she was.
And still, in spite of everything, she’d nearly gone to his bed last night. She’d wanted to, had wanted to be in the safety of his arms, had wanted to forget about everything else, if only for a little while.
If she hadn’t been such a coward, if she’d been thinking about her grandmother instead of herself, she would have gone to bed with Dylan. She could have waited for the right moment, when he was deeply asleep, or maybe in the shower, and opened the safe behind the Monet oil painting in his study. She would have found the information they’d demanded of her, and this nightmare would be over.
Or would it? she wondered. Would it ever truly be over, whatever the outcome?
“Hello, Emily,” Dylan whispered in her ear, making her jump. “Where are you?”
Her cheeks flushed as she realized he’d caught her not paying attention. “I—I’m sorry. I’m a little lost in all the beauty here. Forgive me.”
Smiling, he took her hand and kissed her fingers. Electricity sizzled up her arm and raced through her body.
“I find myself a little lost, as well,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face. “And I’ll forgive you if you tell me you were thinking about me.”
This, she thought, was a question she could answer truthfully. She met his intense gaze. “I was.”
His hand tightened on hers, and he bent toward her, his eyes on her mouth now. Her pulse skipped as she lifted her face, felt her lashes flutter down as he drew closer—
The quiet sound of someone clearing their throat made Emily jerk away. Frowning, Dylan stepped back.
A pretty young woman stood a few feet away, watching Dylan with obvious interest. Shiny light-brown hair streaked with blond tumbled around the shoulders of her cotton blouse and a calf-length beige skirt hugged her slender hips and covered the tops of her low-heeled black boots.
“Hello, Dylan,” the woman said, then glanced at Emily and smiled. “You must be the mysterious Emily.’
“Emily.” Dylan swept a hand toward the other woman. “May I introduce my sister, Princess Anastasia.”
One look at the woman’s eyes would have told Emily that this woman was related to Dylan. They were the same striking blue. Emily curtsied. “Your Royal Highness.”
Princess Anastasia smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. I heard my brother plowed you down with his limo when you were out bicycling.”
“It was my fault completely,” Emily said awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have been in the road, and he couldn’t have—”
“Ignore my sister,” Dylan said dryly. “She has an odd sense of humor at times.”
“But you love me, anyway.” Anastasia moved forward to give her brother a peck on the cheek. “I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to take a dig at you, would I?”
“Nor I, you,” he returned and grinned. “I was just showing Emily the Minotaur.”
“Is that what you were doing?” she said with a twinkle in her eyes, then glanced at Emily. “Did my brother tell you that my sisters and I renamed this statue Dylan? You know, half-bull, half-man.”
Emily smiled, though it was clear that Dylan did not see the humor in Anastasia’s revelation regarding the statue.
“I thought you had a fund-raiser at the hospital today,” Dylan said with a sigh.
Anastasia glanced at the gold watch on her wrist. “And so I do. I’ve got you down for a hefty donation to the children’s ward, Dylan. I’ll stop by later for a check.”
He nodded, then Anastasia turned to Emily and offered a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Emily.”
Emily took the princess’s hand, couldn’t help but feel the warmth and sincerity Anastasia radiated. “The pleasure was mine.”
Anastasia gave her brother another kiss on the cheek. “Forgive me for intruding on your—” she hesitated and smiled “—tour.”
She walked away then, leaving Dylan to frown after her.
“A man with three sisters has no childhood secrets,” he complained. “And even less privacy.”
He took Emily’s hand suddenly, pulled her along the rock path behind him. She could barely keep up with his long strides as he led her off the path onto a graveled driveway leading to the building where the palace vehicles were garaged and maintained.
“Dylan, what are you—”
He pressed a finger to his lips to quiet her, then glanced around the garage. There were three shiny black limousines, two Town Cars, three compacts, and a sleek forest-green Jaguar. Emily heard the muffled voices of men talking from an office in the back of the garage, and a radio sitting on a work bench poured out a Celtic tune about highway robbers.
Dylan opened the
passenger door of the Jaguar, nodded for her to get inside. She sank into the soft seat, and the smell of leather and freshly polished wood filled her senses.
“What are you doing?” she asked when Dylan slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car.
“We’re playing hooky for the afternoon.” He grinned at her, then turned the key in the ignition.
The engine purred so silently she wasn’t certain it was even running. Emily thought of her own twenty-year-old Fiat that choked and gasped every time she started it. And though she’d seen Jaguars and other fancy cars when she’d gone to university in Wales, she’d never ridden in such a fine, elegant car as this one. Her breath caught when Dylan turned and brushed his shoulder against hers, then reached across her. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, felt her skin heat up, then tighten at the close contact. But he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he grabbed the seat belt, then snapped it into place.
By the time she managed to release the breath she’d been holding, they were heading up a private mountain road to the west of the palace.
She glanced over at Dylan. “Where are we going?”
“There’s something I want to show you.” He opened the sun roof, let the fresh air and the warm sun inside the car. “Did you have any more dreams last night?”
About you, she could have said. What little sleep she’d managed to get had been filled with images of Dylan, erotic dreams where he’d kissed and touched her, until she held out her arms to him and begged him to make love to her. He’d stripped her naked, then abruptly, the passion that had been in his eyes had died, replaced by cold anger as he’d seen her for what she really was.
She certainly couldn’t tell him about that dream.
“No,” she lied, kept her gaze outside the window to the passing pine trees and jutting rocks. The Jaguar hugged the road, smoothly took the next hairpin turn and continued to climb upward.
“Won’t your family worry if you disappear like this?” she asked. “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”
“They’ll find me if they need to.”
He offered no more than that, and she didn’t press. She was happy to be away from the palace, if only for a little while. She’d always loved the mountains, had gone camping and fishing with her father and grandfather when she was a little girl.
The road narrowed and grew steeper, the forest around them thickened. When they crossed over a wooden bridge, Emily heard the sound of rushing water underneath.
He pulled the car under a stand of trees, then cut the engine. “Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes.”
She did as he asked, heard him open his door, then shut it. A moment later he opened her door and had her hand in his, pulling her out of her seat.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he insisted.
Pine needles crunched under her shoes as he led her away from the car. Birds chirped noisily overhead. They walked quite a distance, and twice, when she stumbled, he steadied her, but still insisted she keep her eyes tightly shut.
“Okay, stop.”
He put his hands on her arms, then moved behind her. She felt the breeze on her face, caught the scent of salt water, heard the wild crash of waves.
“Open.”
She did, and gasped.
They stood on the edge of a high cliff. Deep-blue ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, rushed in to pound the beach below, then rushed out again, spraying foam and water amongst the jagged rocks. Overhead, seagulls soared, screeched at the sight of intruders, then dive-bombed into the ocean in search of a snack.
“Oh, Dylan,” she breathed. “It’s so beautiful.”
“I was hoping you’d like it.”
She heard the pleasure in his voice, felt it shimmer from his body into her own. His arms circled her waist and pulled her closer. She let herself lean against his strength.
“How could I not?” She felt lighter than she had in days. Her heart, her spirit seemed to soar with the gulls overhead. Being surrounded by this beauty filled her with a sense of supreme magnificence. A sense of hope, and a strange sense that everything wrong would somehow be made right.
In spite of the sun, the air was crisp and the icy breeze made her shiver. Dylan’s arms tightened around her and she shivered again, though this time not from the breeze.
“You’re cold,” he murmured, then stepped away. “Come with me.”
She turned, was about to protest until she spotted the small, vine-covered brick cottage no more than twenty yards away. It sat on the edge of the cliff, nestled amongst a few small pines, staring out over the ocean, like a woman waiting for her lover to return home.
Dylan took her hand, led her over the rough rock path. He opened the unlocked door and pulled her inside. The room was masculine, dark woods, heavy beams across a vaulted ceiling, stone fireplace and hardwood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the ocean.
She couldn’t imagine anything more perfect, more inviting. Still, she hesitated at the door, glanced at him curiously.
“It’s mine,” he answered her unspoken question. “A gift on my eighteenth birthday.”
He closed the door behind them and moved to the fireplace.
She would have known it was his even if he hadn’t told her. She could feel him here, his energy, his essence. There were rows of books on a built-in pine shelf beside the fireplace, a sturdy beige sofa and two dark-brown plaid armchairs, a family picture in a silver frame on a small corner desk.
She watched as he struck a match and held it to a readied stack of firewood and kindling inside the fireplace. The kindling caught quickly and a small flame flickered, then rose.
“The kitchen is through there,” he said, pointing to a door beside the bookshelf. “I keep the pantry stocked, and there’s cheese and a few edibles in the refrigerator if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you. I’m fine.” Captivated, she moved to the windows, hugged her arms as she glanced out at the endless ocean. She felt as if they were hundreds, thousands of miles from the rest of the world.
“The room will warm up in a few minutes.” He stepped behind her, rubbed her arms briskly. “So what do you think?”
That was the problem. She couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think. He was too close, and his hands on her arms had slowed and moved upward to her shoulders.
“It’s wonderful,” she said, heard the breathless quality of her own voice.
“Relax, Emily. You’ve knots in your neck that would make a sailor proud.”
His hands, those amazing, incredible hands, worked on those knots. She closed her eyes, bit her lip to keep herself from moaning with pleasure. He soothed the tension in her neck and shoulders, but created a new and different tension in her body.
She felt as if she’d become part of her surroundings: the flames from the fireplace snapped inside her, the distant pounding of the surf pulsed through her veins. She leaned back against the hard wall of Dylan’s chest, let herself melt into him.
Tell him, a small voice whispered in her ear. Tell him the truth. You can trust him, he’ll help you.
She tried to concentrate on that voice, told herself to listen, but when he lowered his head and touched his lips to the side of her neck, every thought flew out of her head. When he nipped at her earlobe, she moaned.
He turned her to face him, slid his arms around her and brought his mouth within a whisper of her own. “I want you, Emily. Let me love you.”
His words, spoken with such need, such intensity, were her undoing. She could deny him no longer. Could deny herself no longer. She wrapped her arms around his neck, afraid she might fall if she didn’t hold on.
“Yes,” she murmured, and rose on her tiptoes. “Yes.”
Eight
Mine, Dylan thought as he covered Emily’s mouth with his own. His heart slammed in his chest, and when her tongue met his, a shy tentative touch, he reined in his need to take her quickly, ro
ughly. Don’t frighten her, he told himself. It might kill him, but he would take this slowly, take her slowly.
Through a will of iron, he kept the kiss gentle, nipped at the corner of her mouth, nibbled at her bottom lip before he dipped back in again. She opened eagerly, her breath quickening with every thrust, every hot, wet slide of his tongue against hers.
He moved his hands up her back, her neck, then dug his fingers into her thick, glossy hair. He tilted her head back, tasted more deeply. She made a sound, a soft whimper; he lifted his head, gazed down at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and wet from his kiss.
Her lashes fluttered open, and he saw the need shimmer in her smoky-green eyes. “Tell me you want me,” he demanded. He needed to hear her say it, needed to know she had no doubts.
“I want you, Dylan.” Her lips parted, waiting, ready. “I do want you.”
He ground his mouth against hers again, relieved there’d been no hesitation in her reply. The ache he’d felt turned into a living, breathing beast inside him, pounded in his veins as fiercely as the surf pounded the rocks below them.
She gasped when he suddenly swept her into his arms to carry her to his bedroom. To his bed.
You belong to me, was his thought as he pushed the bedroom door open with his boot and moved inside. He held her tightly, possessively, kissed her again, and with his mouth still on hers, let her slide intimately down the length of his body.
Emily spread her hands on Dylan’s chest, felt the ripple of hard muscle under her fingers and the fast, heavy thud of his heart. She’d spoken the truth a moment ago. She did want him, with a desperation that stunned her. But in spite of the need racing through her blood, guilt crept along the edges of what little rational thought she had left.
She had to tell him the truth. She didn’t care what happened to her, only her grandmother. Surely he would help. Dylan was a good person, he wouldn’t let any harm come to an old woman.
You can trust him, she told herself. She had to trust him.
She struggled to pull her thoughts together, to find the words she needed, but his kisses were insistent, and his hands moving over her confused and excited her.
Royally Pregnant (Crown & Glory Book 9) Page 8
