by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
But he didn't want a companion, Tyler thought with a scowl. And of course the king found her pleasant—he was her father. Tyler wasn't. He was just a man.
Who'd been thinking about kissing her before they'd even cleared Montebellan airspace.
Who didn't like strange men calling her Annie.
Who wasn't sure he could sleep ten feet away from her.
"Your Majesty, of course I'll follow your orders, but … how can I concentrate on the search for your son if I have to be responsible for your daughter's safety? She has more than one guard any time she leaves the palace grounds, and yet here she is halfway around the world with only me."
"She'll be fine, Tyler. You'll be fine. It's not exactly a high-risk operation, is it?"
"No, sir," he admitted grudgingly.
"And you're able to take care of her if necessary."
"Yes, sir."
"And you're willing … if necessary."
Tyler didn't answer as quickly as he might have if it had been anyone else in the royal family, but he did answer. "Yes, sir. Of course."
"Then it's settled. Just do me one favor. Don't tell her you called me. Let her believe you see the logic in her arguments. Extract a few promises from her to be on her best behavior, to obey you at all times, and so forth, then agree to let her accompany you. Let her have her adventure."
"Yes, Your Majesty." If I have to.
"Keep in touch."
"I will."
Then the king's voice turned stern. "And bring my little girl home safe and none the worse for her adventure."
Which translated roughly to, You lay a hand on her and I'll throw you in the dungeon. "Yes, sir." Tyler hung up, then fell back on the bed.
Life was so damn unfair, it sucked.
Royally.
* * *
"Are you ready?"
Anna was lying on the bed, staring at water stains that spread across the textured ceiling, when Tyler spoke from the connecting doorway. "For what?" she asked morosely. To return to Billings, where the Gulfstream would be waiting to take her home in defeat? She would never be ready for that.
"I can't look for information on your brother if I don't leave the motel and talk to people, and I can't do that if you don't go with me."
Abruptly she sat up. "You didn't call my father?"
"I called my brother, and I spoke to Lorenzo."
Kyle Ramsey was one of the Noble Men, and her cousin Lorenzo, was head of intelligence in Montebello. It was logical that he would report to both of them. "And did you tell them was here?"
That muscle in his jaw jerked again as he scowled. "No. Call me crazy, but I'd rather not get yanked from this assignment before I have a chance to complete it. It wouldn't do much for my reputation … not that covering up for a runaway princess is going to help, either."
It took a moment for his words to sink in, and another for her to rise from the bed. "Thank you," she said fervently. "You won't regret it, I swear. You won't even notice I'm here, and I promise you, no one will ever know. Thank you so much."
Acting purely on impulse, she raised onto her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was chaste, innocent, and over in a heartbeat, and it left him, for one satisfying moment, looking dazed.
As she turned away to pick up her coat and handbag, she felt neither chaste nor innocent. Her lips were tingling with an unfamiliar buzz, and there was a sweet heat seeping through her. And all from a sisterly kiss! she marveled. Who knew how she might respond if he ever truly kissed her, the way a man kissed a woman.
They left the SUV in the parking lot and set out along the narrow sidewalk. He'd said he wanted to talk to people, and that was exactly what he did for the next few hours. They went inside every shop, every business, and showed Lucas's photograph to every person willing to look at it. By the time they returned to the motel, she was certain she could repeat the standard questions, and everyone's answers, in her sleep.
"What now?" she asked as she preceded him into her room.
"We might as well get some dinner, then call it an early night. How's the food at the Silver Nugget?"
As she began removing her coat, gloves and scarf, she glanced out the window at the establishment across the way. It was built to resemble an old mining shack of some sort, but inside it was pure cowboy bar, according to Rusty and his companions. The air was smoky, the music loud, and the action tended to get a little rowdy. As for the food… Granted, the palace's staff of chefs had certainly spoiled her palate, but she was quite certain that, even among the town's meager offerings, the Silver Nugget's cuisine didn't shine.
"It's edible," she replied with a shrug. Her dinner the previous night had consisted of a steak on the chewy side, a baked potato on the mushy side, and corn that she was fairly certain had come from a can. And she hadn't cared at all. It had been her first steak in her first American cowboy bar with her first American beer from a long-necked bottle on her first night of freedom, and she'd been thrilled with every bit of it.
"You want to go someplace else?"
"The Silver Nugget's fine." She gave him a sly look. "Maybe we'll see Rusty and his friends there."
Tyler's gaze hardened, and his jaw clenched. "Maybe we will. Do you need to change clothes or anything?"
She looked down at her sweater and slacks, then ran a hand through her curls. Did she need to change clothes or anything to make herself presentable? she wanted to ask, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "It won't take but a minute."
With a nod, he passed through the connecting door into his own room. The instant the door was closed—or rather, pushed up apparently as far as he intended to close it—she removed an outfit from her bag and went into the bathroom to change. A moment later, she came out again and studied her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her makeup required only a minor touch-up, then she combed her hair with her fingers and sprayed herself with perfume created exclusively for her by the queen's favorite parfumier in Paris.
After a time, she acknowledged that she was dawdling merely to keep Tyler waiting. She walked to the connecting door and called that she was ready, then slipped into her coat once again, belting it tightly.
"Only a minute, huh?" he remarked dryly when he came into the room.
She didn't deign to answer.
The winter sun was low on the horizon, and the sky was quickly turning the hue of ancient pewter. Without the sun, the air seemed immeasurably colder, though realistically she guessed the temperature hadn't dropped by more than a few degrees. Even so, she was happy to match the rapid pace Tyler set as they crossed the parking lot, then the street.
They were among fewer than a dozen customers in the bar. A waitress who introduced herself as Suz showed them to a table along the wall. She wore a short, tight denim skirt and a red cowboy shirt with fringe following the yoke that dipped across her breasts, and after depositing two stained menus on the table she sashayed off, her short red cowboy boots clicking on the wood floor. Anna watched her go, wondering where she could get an outfit like that for the next charitable costume ball she was forced to attend, and whether she could possibly remain in Montana long enough to learn how to sashay like that. She wasn't entirely certain her hips would move in that manner. Perhaps it was something bred into a woman.
She chose the chair with its back to the wall so she would have a good view for people-watching when the customers began arriving for their evening's entertainment. To her dismay after removing his coat, Tyler chose the chair next to her—presumably for the same reason. Not out of any desire for proximity to her.
"What's good on the menu?" he asked as he opened it.
"Rusty says the fried pickles are good, but I didn't give them a try. The buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing are quite tasty, but they're actually chicken rather than buffalo."
"Yeah, I knew that."
She didn't like it when he used that dry tone with her. If he was dryly amused, that was one thing, but when he was dryly making fun of her �
�� though a furtive glance suggested he was amused this time.
Suz returned to deliver utensils wrapped in paper napkins, then drew an order pad from its spot tucked into the waistband of her skirt. With the skirt fitted so tightly, Anna wouldn't have thought there was room to tuck in a breath, but she would never presume to comment on it. "What can I get you folks?"
"Are your hamburgers as greasy as the steak I had last night?" Anna asked.
Beside her, Tyler made a coughing sound, but Suz didn't take offense. "I imagine they probably are," she replied, then drolly added, "I only work here. I don't eat here."
"Good. The best American hamburgers should be, you know. I'll have one greasy burger with cheese, and some of those French fries with fried onions and peppers, and one of those American beers I had last night."
"I didn't wait on you last night, honey. I have no idea what kind of beer you had."
"It was very cold, and it came in a brown bottle with a long neck."
"Just bring her whatever you have," Tyler said. "And make it two on everything."
"The staff at the palace always remembers what I eat, what I like and what I don't like," she remarked as the waitress left.
"Well, she doesn't work at the palace, and her universe doesn't revolve around you."
She granted him an aloof stare. "I'm well aware of that, Mr. Ramsey. I was simply making a comment."
"Call me Tyler."
"No, thank you."
"You can't keep calling me 'mister' or people will get suspicious."
"Then I won't call you anything," she announced. Before he could respond, she gestured. "See that man behind the bar? His name is Toy. Isn't that an unusual name for a man of his stature? I'd wager he recalls what kind of beer I ordered last night. And see the man seated on the stool? His name is Slow. Of course, that's a nickname. Americans have a fondness for nicknames, don't they? Rusty's name is actually Dudley, and I seriously doubt Suz—" she nodded politely to the approaching waitress "—is her given name."
The waitress smiled as she served two bottles of cold beer.
"You're right, hon. It's short for Suzannah. What's your name?"
She had introduced herself the previous night as Anna Peterson, Peterson being her maternal grandparents' surname, but Rusty had been quick to christen her with a nickname of her own. She happily used it now. "Annie. Which is short—rather, long for Anna. And he's just Tyler."
"Is that a first name or last?" Suz asked.
"Makes no difference," Anna replied before he could. "As long as he knows to come when called," Suz said with a laugh. "That's all that matters, isn't it, Annie?"
Chapter 4
T yler pushed back in his chair so he could see the princess better, then rested one ankle over the other knee. So the name issue was still a sore point with her. Maybe he'd handled it the wrong way. Maybe, when she'd asked him to call her Anna in private, he should have agreed, made her happy and then made a point of not using any name at all when they were alone.
It was too late to do that now. With that mile-wide stubborn streak running through her, the only way she was going to call him by his given name was if he used hers so often it became second nature. Familiar. Friendly.
He didn't want to be friendly, damn it. He only wanted to do his job and do it well, without complications or emotional entanglements.
He was looking around the room for a diversion when the scrape of chair on floor beside him brought his gaze swinging back to her as she stood up, inches closer to him than he'd expected her to be, and loosened the belt that secured her coat. With easy, graceful movements, she shrugged out of the garment, then leaned to drape it over the chair on the opposite side. The movement gave him a moment too long to gaze at faded denim molded over a shapely derriere, then she straightened and gave him a better view of rounded breasts, a narrow waist and womanly hips. The T-shirt and jeans couldn't fit any more snugly if they'd been made for her body, and they could put a man in mind of all sorts of things, starting with taking them off of her … slowly.
He tried to swallow but couldn't, reached for his beer but grasped only air. Forcing his gaze away from her as she settled in the chair again, he found the beer and drank half of it in one swallow, but it did nothing to ease the heat building inside him. He wanted to order her to put the coat back on, to flag down Suz and tell her they would take their food back to the motel … where they had connecting rooms … with beds…
"Do you like my shirt?
He stared toward the bar. "Yeah, sure."
"You didn't even read it."
How could a red-blooded man who'd been alone a long time be expected to notice what was on the shirt when he'd already noticed what was under it?
He glanced at it, then had to take a longer look to actually read it. There was a photo of a man, head tilted, cowboy hat tipped low to hide most of his face, and the legend, I got lucky at the Silver Nugget. He might have been amused if he wasn't aroused, and if she were Cindy, Suz or any other non-royal female in the world. Instead, he finished off the beer and signaled Suz for another before asking, "Do you know what getting lucky means, Your Highness?"
"My command of the English language is as good as yours, Mr. Ramsey," she said with exaggerated patience. "Perhaps even better. 'Getting lucky' refers to having good fortune."
"Your command of the English language probably is better than mine," he agreed. "But your command of English slang isn't. Having good fortune is one meaning. 'Scoring' is another. Getting laid. Having sex." He half expected her olive skin to turn deep crimson, or the smug superiority in her expression to shift to dismay.
Instead she smiled—a sly, subtle I've-got-a-secret sort of smile—and murmured, "So that's what Rusty meant. He gave me the shirt, you know. Last night—or, actually, early this morning. When he left the motel."
Tyler was stunned at the intensity of the jealousy that settled in his gut. The thought of her with the big, brawny redhead who'd called her Annie was enough to knot his muscles and stir a few murderous impulses. Not that it was any of his business. He was protecting her from those who might threaten or endanger her life, not from herself. Even back home in the palace, she had the freedom to carry on affairs, as long as she did so discreetly. The king and queen might not like to acknowledge it, but those apartments were private for a reason.
The hell it wasn't any of his business! Back home in the palace, help was never more than the push of a button—or a scream—away. Security was strict, and it was a damned island, which made it easy to lock down. Here he was responsible for her safety. He was the one whose career and life would be over if anything happened to her.
He was the one who wanted her for himself and couldn't have her. Damned if be would stand by and let good ol' Rusty take what he was denied.
Suz brought their meal, along with another beer, and they ate in silence. The princess had been right—the greasy burgers were good. Now if he could just find a way to get her back to the motel while he passed around her brother's picture … not that sending her back would necessarily make her safe. Rusty could find her there easily enough. She could call him or any of her other new friends, or could slip out and wander off.
Too bad handcuffs and a gag really were out of the question. He was morosely considering that fact when a warm hand touched his shoulder. "Hi, darlin'," Cindy murmured, leaning close enough for him to smell her cologne and get an indecent look down her blouse. "I was hoping I'd find you here."
Without waiting for an invitation, she slid into the chair opposite him. "Things won't really pick up in here for another hour or so. There's gonna be a local band playing tonight. What they lack in talent, they make up for in enthusiasm. I hope you're planning to stick around so I can give you a tour of the dance floor."
Instinctively he knew her style of dancing was suggestive and intimate—exactly what he might need if he was by himself. But he wasn't alone, and no way was he going to let himself be dragged off in Cindy's clutches and leave the
princess alone for Rusty or any other cowboy to make a move on. Another move, apparently, in Rusty's case.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't dance."
"Why, of course you do," the princess said innocently. "And quite well, too. Go ahead. Drop a few coins in the jukebox and show her."
He gave the royal brat a warning look. "I can't leave you alone here," he said, his tone neutral for Cindy's sake but his gaze threatening.
"Don't worry about me. My friend Rusty has just arrived." Smiling, she waved at the red-haired miner, who picked up his beer from the bar and headed their way. "You two go on. Enjoy yourselves."
"I really don't like to—" Tyler broke off as he moved against his will. How had Cindy gotten a death grip on his arm and pulled him to his feet and halfway to the dance floor, with a stop at the jukebox, in a matter of seconds? And what the hell was the princess doing, laughing at something the big guy had said and laying her hand on his arm as if he deserved it?
"Sorry, Cindy, I don't want—" He got about three steps away before she swung him back around.
"Relax, darlin'. All this tension isn't good for you … well, except in certain places." With a devilish smile, she wrapped her arms around his neck, stepped in close and began moving in time to the music.
Because it appeared he had no other choice, he settled his hands at her waist and tried subtly to put some space between them … with emphasis on tried. For such a slender little thing, Cindy was stronger than she looked. "How well do you know Rusty?"
"Jealous, darlin'? Don't be. He's just a friend." She slid her fingers into his hair, leaned even closer and brushed a kiss to his jaw.
The action annoyed him. Hell, the whole scene annoyed him—the fact that a stranger could insist he dance with her, that she felt entitled to touch him intimately, to kiss him as if she knew him, to rub against him as if she had the right. And that was all that was annoying him. He didn't care that the princess was still laughing with Rusty, or that she looked like she was having a better time with him than she'd ever had with Tyler. He for damn sure didn't care that she was still touching the guy, or that she'd apparently done a hell of a lot more than touch him last night.
