by JoAnn Ross
"Sure thing. And Caine?"
"Yeah?"
"This wasn't your fault, you know."
Caine's face was grim as he turned to leave the room. "Wasn't it?"
When Drew entered the cubicle, Chantal greeted him with a faint smile. "I think Caine's mad at me."
"Not at you. He's mad at himself."
She arched an eyebrow, surprised that a facial gesture could hurt. "Why? He saved my life. You both did."
Drew shrugged. "Caine's not an easy man to get along with all the time. As much as he expects from the people around him, he's always demanded even more from himself. He thinks he should have been able to protect you from whoever did this."
"That's ridiculous. Caine is a diplomat, not a bodyguard."
Drew wasn't about to touch that one. The truth was going to come out; it was better that Caine be the one to tell her. "Hey," he said instead, "I brought you a present." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a familiar yellow cellophane bag.
A light brightened in her red-rimmed eyes. "Chocolate-covered peanuts," she said on a pleased little laugh. "Drew Tremayne, I think I love you."
A little in love with her himself, Drew grinned in response.
"Sounds as if you two are having a good time," Caine observed as he returned.
"Look what Drew brought me," Chantal said, holding up the bag of candy.
Taking one look at the pleasure in her eyes, Caine vowed to buy out the hospital's candy machine at the first opportunity. "Just what you need after a shock—a sugar jolt. I got you sprung from here and bought some time before you have to talk to the police."
"Thank you." Her expression turned serious. "For everything."
Unable to handle the gratitude on her face, Caine turned away.
"Come on, Princess," Drew said, stepping in with a good-natured grin. "Let's blow this joint."
As they walked out the door, Chantal took a deep breath of brisk, predawn spring air. Everything was going to be all right. She was going to be all right.
It could been minutes. Hours. Or days. The room was dark, bathed in shadows when she finally awoke in a luxuriously appointed hotel suite. Looking around, she saw Caine seated in a chair beside the bed. "What time is it?" she asked groggily.
"About nine in the morning."
"But it's so dark."
"Blackout drapes."
Of course. She should have realized. Sitting up, she pushed her tumbled hair away from her face and turned on the bedside lamp. "You should have wakened me," she protested. "The exhibit—"
"Is managing well enough without you at the moment. You'll be glad to know that yesterday's crowds broke the museum's opening day record."
"Yesterday's?" She struggled to concentrate. "What day is this?"
"Friday."
"But the dinner at Blair's was on Wednesday night."
"Bull's-eye."
"Then I've been sleeping for more than twenty-four hours?"
"Twenty-eight, give or take a few minutes. Those pain pills the doctor gave you turned out to be doozies. When you were still dead to the world last evening I gave him a call, and he assured me that they affect some people that way and the best thing to do would be to let you sleep it off."
"Pain pills?" That explained why her head felt as if it were wrapped in cotton batting. "But I never take pills of any kind. Not even aspirin."
"This was a special circumstance. In case it's slipped your mind, Princess, someone tried to kill you."
Remarkably, she had forgotten. Slumping back onto the pillow, Chantal pressed her fingertips against her throbbing temples. "I thought it was a dream."
Caine left the chair to sit on the edge of her bed. He lifted her hair off her neck. "These stitches are no dream. They're damn real. Just like the fire. And the faulty brake line on your Ferrari. And the roof tiles that almost hit you on the head last month. And let's not forget the way the ski trail was mismarked to lead you out onto that glacier."
Stunned, Chantal stared at him. "How do you know about those things?" When he didn't immediately answer, all the little pieces of Caine O'Bannion that she had not been able to fit into a workable whole began slipping into place.
"You're not really a diplomat, are you, Caine?"
"I work for the government."
"But not the State Department."
"No. Not state."
"What then? FBI? CIA?"
"I work in the Treasury Department."
"Doing what?"
It was now or never. "I'm a Presidential Security agent. My superior assigned me to accompany you on this tour because of what he and the president and your father perceived to be attempts against your life. I was supposed to protect you."
Stunned though she was, Chantal could still detect the self-reproach in his gritty tone. She'd have to deal with the fact that he'd lied to her later, when she'd had time to sort things out. At the moment she only knew that she hated him feeling responsible for her own stupidity.
If she'd only listened to her father, to Burke. But if she had, then she would have brought her own security force to America and she and Caine would never have met. Timing, she mused, was indeed everything.
"If you work for the president, you must be very good at your job."
"I used to think I was."
She knew she should be furious at his deception, but for some strange reason, which she'd also think about later, she could not work up the proper amount of injured pride. "Caine," she said softly, "you saved my life. Why, if you and Drew hadn't found me—"
Caine cut her off. "It never should have come to that. Especially since I had received a warning about the fire before we even left New York."
"Noel." It was not a question.
"Noel," Caine agreed grimly. "How did you guess?"
Chantal shrugged. "She has this knack. When we were children, it drove me crazy. As we grew older, I learned to listen to her." Except once, Chantal added silently. I ignored all her warnings about marrying Greg.
"She told me about a dream she'd had. About you lying in the dark, near death. She'd seen it all. The fire, the smoke." Caine dragged his hand over his face. "Dammit, I should have listened."
How could she be angry with him when he was so unrelentingly furious with himself? "What could you have done?"
"I don't know. Forced you to stay here at the hotel, I suppose, where you'd have been safe."
"But then you'd have had to tell me who—and what— you were. And I suspect you'd already given your word not to do that."
He took her hand in his. "Believe me, it certainly wasn't my first choice. Unfortunately, your father felt that since you refused to admit that your life was in danger, you'd reject any bodyguard assigned to you."
Chantal considered his statement. "Papa may have been right. I'm afraid I can be a little headstrong from time to time."
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, a half smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. " 'A little'?"
"Perhaps a bit more than a little," she admitted. "Enough so that I may have indeed refused a bodyguard on principle. But that was before I met you." Her dark eyes grew wide and clouded with need as she gazed at his face. "May I ask a personal question?"
Caine willed himself to stay calm. All his life, even as a child, people had described him as a rock—unemotional, unmovable. Despite his mother's assurances that she was quite capable of taking care of them, he'd felt an unbearable need to take on the role of the man of the house after his father's death. He'd been head altar boy at Saint Gregory's, high school senior-class president, Eagle Scout, valedictorian, and to no one's surprise, had followed in his father's footsteps by going on to be cited for his sterling leadership qualities at the U.S. Naval Academy.
Even his Presidential Security assignment was a plum position, the result of hard work and an unwavering attention to duty. He'd never been a man with doubts; he'd always known who he was and exactly where he was going. He was, quite simply, a man used to charting
his own course.
Until a breathtakingly beautiful princess had stormed into his life like a hurricane. During these past days with Chantal, Caine had felt hopelessly adrift, as if he'd been cast onto a dark, uncharted sea, forced to navigate by instinct alone. He was a long, long way from the controlled individual he'd always thought himself to be, and he wasn't sure he like it. Not one damn bit.
"You're entitled to one question, I suppose. Considering all the lies I've told you."
She touched a hand to his cheek. "Were you going to tell me who you were before you made love to me?"
He wanted her so very badly. And the situation was so very tempting. Caine hesitated, duty warring with de-sire, honor with need. Inexplicably drawn by a power more intense than anything he'd ever known, he cursed softly as he lowered his mouth to hers.
"I could never have kept the deception up," he said against her lips. She tasted moist and sweet. "Not this way."
"I'm glad." Chantal linked the fingers of both hands around his neck. "Make love with me, Caine. Prove to me that I'm still alive."
He needed no second invitation. As he slipped the narrow straps of her nightgown off her shoulders, her skin felt like liquid satin to his touch. She'd taken a shower immediately upon arriving at the hotel, and now, as his lips skimmed over the warming flesh that he had denied himself for too many days, Caine thought he could detect the lingering aroma of the gardenia bath talc the management had generously supplied. Her luxuriously soft breasts filled to fit his hands with such perfection that it crossed his mind that they might have been created specifically for him.
"We shouldn't be doing this."
She pressed her finger against his frowning lips. "This is no time to be analytical."
One final scrap of reason tried to make itself heard in the heated turmoil of his brain. "This is crazy," he said, his words a gentle breeze against Chantal's mouth.
"I know." A golden glow infused her body as he ran his tongue around her lips. She had to touch him, to experience his body as he was experiencing hers. With hands that trembled slightly, Chantal unbuttoned his shirt. "That's what's so wonderful about it. Please let's be crazy, Caine. Let's be crazy together."
Her hands fretted over his chest; her fingers tangled in the softly matted dark hair. He was taut, tense, hard as a rock. Bending her head, she pressed her lips against him, exalting in the dark, masculine taste of his flesh. Needs tore at her—wild, wanton cravings that only he could satisfy. A lingering sense of danger, fueled by desires too long ignored, created a greed she was stunned to discover she possessed.
When her fingers trailed down his rib cage, lingering over his stomach before slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans, Caine decided that if this was madness, sanity was highly overrated. Passions that had been building for days threatened to consume him; the memory of how he'd felt when he'd thought he'd lost her made him ache.
"Chantal." It was only her name, but never had she heard it sound so sweet. "Chantal… Chantal." He said it over and over again, a lush litany of wonder.
A ruthless, ripe hunger consumed them both. Chantal heard the sound of silk tearing and welcomed it. Caine's own clothing disintegrated as if blown away by a fierce desert whirlwind. The crisp sheets beneath them became a heated tangle; the cool air grew hot and steamy.
If this was insanity, Chantal welcomed it with open arms. Her hands, like her lips, refused to remain still as they roved over his body, never lingering in any one place as they teased and tormented. In turn, Caine was relentless, nipping and licking and sucking, as if he wanted to leave no part of her body untouched, unclaimed.
He'd intended to treat her like a lady. Like a princess. But she'd bewitched him from the beginning, and now he finally succumbed to her with a primitive kind of desperation he'd never known before.
Chantal wrapped her legs around him and drew him into her, thinking that having him inside of her was more than she'd ever want. Or need.
"Chantal." His breath fanned the hammering pulse in her throat. "Open your eyes, sweetheart. I want to watch you go over the edge."
Unable to deny him anything, Chantal did as he asked. Her eyes were full of restless pleasure as he began to move, slowly at first, then deeper and faster, taking her places she'd never known. She arched against him, agile and demanding, moaning softly as she reached her peak. But Caine was relentless, and incredibly the need built again, higher, hotter, until her body went wild, matching the power and speed of his.
Caine watched her eyes darken to molten amber as she gave herself to him totally. And when she peaked again, he allowed himself to follow.
"I realize this will sound terribly trivial to a man," she murmured, wrapped in Caine's arms, "but I'm relieved that I let you talk me into taking only the clothes and jewels I planned to wear in Philadelphia to Blair's house. I would have hated to have had to replace everything on such short notice."
"Speaking of jewels, they're going to be sifting through the ashes, but I wouldn't hold out a lot of hope for those amethysts."
"They're insured. Fortunately, I never take this one off."
Caine took hold of her hand, toying with the slender silver ring. "I've been wondering about this."
"Burke gave it to me. On my parent's wedding day. The day we legally became brother and sister."
"Your brother sounds like a nice man."
"The nicest." Subject closed, Chantal smiled at him. "Have I told you that I love your body?"
She was remarkable. Other than the faint shadows under her eyes and the row of stitching at the back of her head, there were no signs that she'd been on the brink of death. "I don't believe the subject's come up."
"I do." She pressed her lips against his chest. "Every morning when we're out running, it's all I can do not to drag you into the nearest alley and have my wicked way with you."
He tangled her hair in his hand, pulling her mouth to his. As he drank from the honeyed sweetness of her lips, Caine wondered if he'd ever get enough of her. "It's a good thing you managed to resist the temptation. The police are an unromantic bunch. They tend to frown on public displays of lust."
"I suppose your superior might also disapprove of such behavior," she said, slipping lower to continue her tantalizing assault down his body. How she loved his dark, musky scent!
"Probably fire me on the spot." Her tongue plunged wetly into his navel, and Caine drew in a sharp breath.
"Then you'd have no choice but to come to Montacroix and be a royal guard."
Alarms sounded in his head. "Chantal…"
She'd pushed too far. Burke had always chided her on her impatience. Damn, she thought, struggling to ease the tenseness from Caine's body with hands and lips, when would she learn to curb her natural impulsiveness?
"I was only joking," she soothed, not quite truthfully. Actually, the idea, which she honestly hadn't thought of until this moment, sounded wonderful.
Caine observed her carefully, looking for some hint of a prevarication. What they'd shared was special. Unique. But unfortunately, it hadn't changed a thing.
Dear Lord, she really was in danger, Chantal realized suddenly. She was in danger of falling in love with Caine. Perhaps she already had. If that was the case, he could hurt her now. He could tear her heart to ribbons, and this time she might not recover.
"Honestly, Caine, I don't expect a lifetime commitment from you. I'm entirely willing to accept a short-term relationship. A no-strings affair that will last only as long as I'm in your country."
Even as she heard the words leave her lips, Chantal knew they were a lie. She wanted more from him, a great deal more. But afraid of frightening Caine away, she tried to make herself believe that she would be satisfied with whatever he was willing, or able, to give.
Just when he'd come to believe that Chantal was not the fall-in-bed-at-the-drop-of-a-hat princess of the supermarket tabloids, she did a 180-degree turnaround and invited him to enter into a one-night—or in this case, eight-night—stand. It was
such a rapid reversal that Caine felt as if he should ask the real princess to please stand up.
"No strings," he repeated dubiously, running his hand down her side from her shoulder to her thigh. Her skin was warm and soft, and she trembled under his light touch.
Her heart was drumming. Her blood warmed. Would he always be able to affect her this way? With a single touch? A mere look? "No strings," she said.
Caine's hand settled on her hip, his fingers molding to the slender bone as he remained silent for a long, thoughtful moment. Experience had taught him that nothing in life came totally unencumbered. "Is that really what you want?"
"Isn't it enough?"
Caine tried to accept her answer for what it was: a declaration that the only future he and Chantal had together was a brief, fiery affair that would last just as long as her time in the States. Wasn't that exactly what he'd wanted?
So why did he suddenly find the idea strangely distasteful?
"Do you honestly believe that it's enough?"
Because she wasn't entirely sure of the nature of her own needs, Chantal could not understand his. "Really, Caine," she protested on a forced laugh, "must you take everything so seriously?"
"I take you seriously." With fingers that were heartbreakingly gentle, he brushed her hair back from her forehead, wondering what childhood adventure had rein that thin scar over her eye and wishing he'd been there to prevent it. "I wish I didn't. But I can't help it."
Even as she warned herself against setting herself up to be hurt again, Chantal felt a tiny seed of hope taking root in her heart. A hope that would make her vulnerable. Dependent. All the things she'd sworn she'd never be again.
"Is that so bad?"
"I don't know," Caine said on a long breath. "I just don't know." He shaped her shoulders with his palms. Just looking at her made him want. Touching her made him ache.
Chantal didn't resist as he drew her into his arms. As their mouths met, they went together to a shimmering, glowing place where there was no need for answers.
11
Chantal was in the shower when the phone rang. "O'Bannion," Caine answered it.
