Romancing the Crown Series

by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)

  On the snow-covered lawn, the kids' play had become a snowball fight. "You missed him, you missed him, now you gotta kiss him." The singsong voice and the giggles that followed came from Gerald and made his sister's face turn even harder.

  "Gerald!" his sister called, her voice sharper than usual. "Come on! We've got to go!"

  "But, Gretchen—"

  "Now, Gerald. Get in the car." Once he'd obeyed, she opened her door, then her determined gaze met Ursula's. "All right. I'll help you."

  "Thank you, Gretchen. You won't regret it."

  Living in a mansion in paradise, on a first-name basis with the king and queen and all the royal family, favorite aunt and friend to the future king … neither would she.

  * * *

  Tyler awakened Friday morning to the steady drip of water from the cabin's eaves and the bright welcome glare of sunlight, absent too long. He rose from the couch, aware of the aches and stiffness that seemed to worsen every night he slept on the damned thing, threw a couple logs on the fire and went to the front window. The thermometer that was nailed to one porch post showed that the temperature was already two degrees above freezing, and over in front of the lodge office, snowplows were making good progress through the parking lot.

  Thank God, they would be able to get out of the cabin today. After gathering a change of clothes, he headed upstairs. Anna usually got the bathroom before him—a simple enough inconvenience … except that days of staying away from her made every minute he spent in the steamy room redolent of her various fragrances nothing less than torture. Perversely, though, when he locked the door behind him and brushed his teeth, then stripped for his shower, he found he missed all those fragrances. Without them, the bathroom was just another utilitarian room in a place where he didn't live.

  He showered, shaved, then dressed in jeans and a crew-neck sweater. As he left the bathroom with the sweats and T-shirt he'd slept in rolled under his arm, Anna removed the pillow that covered her head, wrapped her arms around it and snuggled in close, then murmured, "You left the water running."

  "No, it's off."

  With a cranky expression marring her features, she rolled over, opened one eye, then flung her arm over both eyes. "Turn off that light."

  "That's the sun, Your Highness, and the dripping is the snow melting. It's nine-fifteen and already thirty-four degrees."

  In an instant, she transformed from drowsy and crabby to wide-awake. "The sun? You mean we might be able to leave this horrid cabin today?"

  Before he could respond, she threw back the covers and slid from the opposite side of the bed to the floor. He'd spent plenty of hours on the lumpy sofa downstairs wondering what she slept in—a frilly gown, a T-shirt, pajamas—and now he knew. Her gown was some shiny fabric, probably satin, and the deep crimson flattered her dark skin. Tiny straps held it up, and it molded itself to her breasts, her narrow waist and the curve of her hips before ending about halfway down her thigh. It was a plain, simple gown, and just looking at her in it gave him a hard-on of impressive proportions, if he said so himself.

  He held his crumpled clothes in front of him for camouflage as she rubbed the condensation from one window, then another, so she could look out. After a quick glance, she spun around, her curls bouncing, the hem of her gown fluttering almost indecently high. He was disappointed when it settled back where it belonged.

  "Can we go to the mine today?"

  He coughed the huskiness from his voice. "I don't know. We'll have to see what's been cleared."

  "I'll shower quickly so we can go. I'm so glad we can leave! It's a nice little cabin, but I've come to hate it."

  She swept past him and into the bathroom. The instant the door closed, he shut his eyes and breathed deeply of exotic flowers and subtle spices. The sheets and pillows on the queen-size bed would carry the same scents, and if he'd been weak enough—or was it wise enough?—to seduce her the way they'd both wanted, he would smell that way, too.

  Clamping his jaw tightly shut, he went downstairs, put on his shoes and socks, and coat and gloves, then went outside. The porch steps were clean of snow for the first time in a week, and the drifts around the SUV had subsided to manageable proportions. He got a combination ice scraper/brush from the back cargo area and got started cleaning snow and ice from the windows. Next door, in front of Number 12, the father was doing the same job on his truck while his kids played in the snow. After a few minutes, though, he put down his scraper to play with them, and Tyler found himself standing motionless, watching them.

  When Anna laid her small hand on his forearm, it startled him. He blinked, then gazed down at her. Had he wasted so much time, or had she taken the quickest shower on record? The latter, he'd bet. She wore little makeup, and didn't need what she wore, and rather than wait for her hair to dry naturally, she'd blown it dry and tamed the curls in the process. In her black trousers, emerald-green shirt and rust-colored down vest, with her sleek hair, green ear muffs and gloves to match, she could pass for any young American girl. If he took her to the nearest college campus, she could lose him in the crowd without even trying.

  She glanced at their neighbors, then back at him. "Did you play with your father like that often?"

  The question was the wake-up call he needed to quit staring and get back to work. "My old man was never around to play with. The first mine or ten years of my life, he was still in the air force and was always busy. Then he retired and started the business, and that took most of his time for the next nine or ten years. By the time he was ready to slow down and make time for snowmen or a game of catch, I was going off to college."

  She moved to the opposite side of the truck to avoid the snow that showered off as he swept the brush from side to side. "He did important things."

  "Yes, he did. And raising his family wasn't one of them. But I didn't really miss him. Jake did some, and Kyle did, but I had both of them, so it was no big deal."

  "And you had your mother."

  "Yeah," he agreed, then grinned wryly. "But there are some things a boy just shouldn't have to do with his mother, like sizing his first athletic cup or finding out where babies come from or buying his first box of condoms. There were a lot of times when it would have helped to have a father we could talk to, but he had more important things to do."

  "You don't sound bitter."

  "I'm not." No, the bitterness had been left to Kyle, for a long time, at least. And that was understandable, because it had been Kyle who'd taken on many of their father's responsibilities, who hadn't gotten to be merely the oldest son and big brother, but had been forced into the role of father figure for Jake and Tyler. "I just wish things could have been different I think Dad wishes that, too. He realizes that he missed out on some things that'll never come around again."

  "And when you have children of your own, you won't repeat his mistakes."

  He glanced again at the father and children next door. "I never really thought about having kids. That would mean growing up, and that was something I resisted for a long time. And having kids means getting married, and that means being committed and stable and doing a job every day, whether you like it or not. Since I couldn't find a job I could face doing every day, I never thought that far ahead."

  But lately … yeah, he could see himself settling down sometime in the not-too-distant future and having kids. Kyle had done it, and he seemed more satisfied than he'd ever been before. There were things Tyler needed to accomplish before he gave marriage any serious consideration—like ensuring that he could hold on to this job he wanted to do every day—but, yeah, someday he would get married and have kids, and he would make damn sure he was there for them.

  "What about you?" he asked as he swept piles of snow from the SUV's roof. "Do all prissy little princesses grow up to become royal wives and mothers?"

  "I suppose they do. I adore children. I'm a wonderful aunt to my nephew, Omar, and I assume I shall have several of my own, regardless of whether I marry."

  Tyler felt
the muscle in his jaw start to twitch as he squinted at her against the glare off the snow. "Well, that must make King Marcus happy." It damn well didn't do much for him.

  "My sister, Julia, was already pregnant when she married Rashid."

  "But she did marry him."

  "That was her choice," she said with a shrug. "But if she'd decided against it, Mama and Papa would have been no less thrilled with their grandbaby."

  "Of course not. But they would have been just a little less thrilled with their daughter."

  "There's no shame in choosing motherhood without marriage. Is it fair that a woman who cannot find a suitable husband should be denied the opportunity to be a mother because of it?"

  "You bragged just the other night that a lot of men want to marry you."

  "I wasn't bragging. I was simply stating a fact. And they don't want to marry me. They want to marry one of the few princesses available these days. Most of them don't even know me."

  "I could have guessed that. They wouldn't be so eager to marry you if they did."

  She lifted her chin and fixed her haughtiest gaze on him. "I don't see women lining up, clamoring to be your wife."

  He finished clearing the SUV, knocked the snow off the scraper, then returned it to the cargo area before circling the truck to face her. "One of these days you'll marry one of those men," he said flatly. "Maybe not Prince Arthur—"

  "Never Prince Arthur," she declared.

  "—but one of them, and you'll fill the royal nursery with little princes and princesses and leave them to be raised by the royal nannies while you're off fulfilling your royal duties. Maybe, if you're finicky enough, one of your princes will become king, and then instead of a mere princess, you'll be Anna, Queen of—"

  A snowball smacked into his face, dusting his lashes, sifting into his mouth, stunning him into utter stillness for a moment. Finally, he raised one hand, cleared one eye, then the other, then wiped his face. "I don't believe you— You're gonna pay for that, Princess."

  He started toward her, and with a giggle, she spun around and begun running, heading in a zigzag around the cabin. She was quick, making it to the backyard, but he was quicker, taking her to the ground in a sliding tackle. Shrieking with laughter, she tried to wiggle free, but he flipped her onto her back, straddled her hips to keep her from escaping, then scooped up two big handfuls of snow, patting them together into a snowball of monstrous proportions.

  She tried to regain her composure, but her laughter interfered. "You don't dare throw that at me," she decreed, her tone seesawing between breathless amusement and princessly hauteur.

  "You're right, I don't." He held up the snowball, almost too soft to hold its shape, then grinned at her. "However, I do intend to put it someplace where it will have an even greater impact than if I threw it." He let his gaze slide down her body, from the collar of her vest to the soft curves of her breasts, straining the buttons that secured her shirt, to the narrow triangle of skin exposed at her waist where the two halves of the shirt had fallen to either side, and he grinned deviously.

  "Oh, no, you don't," she warned, her brown eyes growing huge even as a smile twitched the corners of her mouth. "You wouldn't dare—I'll apologize for throwing the snowball at you. I'll tell my father. I'll tell your father. Tyler—Tyler—"

  He let a bit of snow drift down onto that narrow triangle of warm brown skin, and she shrieked again. "You'll apologize, huh?"

  She bobbed her head.

  "Nicely? Sincerely?"

  Another eager nod.

  "Hmm. A proper apology from a princess or a snowball inside her clothes. Which would be more satisfying?" While he pretended to consider it, he vaguely noted that the cold was seeping through his jeans, that the heat where her hips cradled his was nothing less than amazing and that they were playing a dangerous game. He was naturally, inevitably getting turned on again, and he suspected she was, too, judging by the hazy warmth in her dark eyes. It was dangerous and reckless and foolish, and at the moment, he didn't give a damn. He didn't want to stop. Didn't want to get up. Didn't want to do the right thing and walk away.

  "It will be a very sweet apology," she said with a very sweet smile. "And trust me—it will be very satisfying. Just give me a chance to show you—"

  Too late he realized that while he'd been watching her eyes and her incredible mouth, she'd dug her own hands into the snow. She began shoveling it up at him by the handfuls, leaving him no choice but to dump his own snow inside her shirt. With another shriek, she renewed her efforts to escape, but he held her, his hands still under her shirt, his body stretched partly over hers, and somehow as she laughed and writhed, his hands moved slowly, purely by accident, farther beneath the shirt until they covered her breasts, and suddenly they both went still.

  Silently he cursed the gloves that prevented him from feeling anything more than soft mounds and the small hard crests of her nipples. He wanted to know the texture of her skin and whether it was chilled by the snow or warmed by the internal heat they were so good at creating. If she was chilled, he wanted to warm her, and if she was warm, he wanted to make her burn. He wanted to stroke her, kiss her, taste her, suckle her, until they were both weak. He wanted everything.

  And he shouldn't have a damn thing. Couldn't have.

  He started to pull his hands free, but she grasped his wrists, holding them where they were, and she delicately arched her back, pressing her breasts harder against him. "Please, Tyler," she whispered. "I need you, and I think … you … need…"

  His voice came out harsh and guttural. "Annie, I can't."

  "I won't tell anyone, I swear. Your father, your superiors—no one will ever know."

  "No."

  "Tyler, please … I may be inexperienced, but I know you want this, and I—" She raised one hand to his face, cupping his cheek, gently stroking it. "I've never asked any man to make love to me, but I'm asking you."

  For one endless moment, he closed his eyes and leaned against her palm. Then he jerked free of her and got to his feet. He couldn't look at her, lying there, looking at him with shameless desire, so he turned his back to her. "No, Annie. It would be wrong. My job— Your father—"

  "No one need know, Tyler. It would be our secret."

  "I would know!" he shouted in frustration, then turned in time to see her flinch. "I won't be your secret, Annie, and you won't be my mistake."

  He stared at her a long time, letting the hurt in her eyes seep hot and deep inside him, then he pivoted on his heel. "Come inside and get cleaned up," he muttered as he stalked toward the cabin. "We've got a lot of ground to cover today."

  * * *

  It sounded like a line from one of the hokey country and western songs Roberto was so fond of—I won't be your secret, and you won't be my mistake—but Anna didn't feel the slightest inclination to sing along. A mistake. She was quite certain no one in her life had ever considered her a mistake. At least Tyler Ramsey was the first at something. Just not what she'd wanted.

  She stood up, brushed away the snow and blotted the melt with her shirt, then returned to the cabin with, hopefully, some measure of her dignity intact. When she reached the front door, she hesitated, fingers wrapped tightly around the knob. For just a moment, she wished she was nobody special—just any twenty-something trying to juggle life, career and love all at the same time. Then she could indulge in her emotions—have a pity party, pig out on ice cream and chocolate or get drunk, and find some other guy to make her forget this particular guy. But if she were just any twenty-something, she wouldn't have any need to indulge her emotions, because Tyler wouldn't be walking away from her all the time. She wouldn't have any impact on his career, and he wouldn't have any excuse to keep his distance.

  Instead, she was Princess Anna of Montebello, whose lessons in proper deportment had begun while she was still in nappies.

  Head high, expression cool and polite, she entered the cabin, removed her vest and started up the steps. "It won't take me but a moment to get read
y," she called to Tyler, who stood at the kitchen counter, his back to her. "Will we be eating breakfast while we're out, or should I snack on something before we go?"

  After a moment, he shrugged and mumbled, "We can get something while we're out."

  "Very well. I believe I would like a pecan waffle and hash brown potatoes. Doesn't that sound like a very American breakfast?" Without awaiting his response, she removed her shirt and hung it on the doorknob to dry, then took a pullover from the dresser. "I fear I need to experience another common American practice—that of doing laundry—or I shall soon be reduced to wearing my bedclothes and nothing else."

  An odd choking sound came from downstairs, muffled by the top she was pulling over her head, then Tyler said, "There's a laundry room over by the office. We can do that tonight."

  In the bathroom, she combed her hair, sprayed it generously with extra-hold hair spray, then added a bit more makeup before studying her reflection in the mirror. Only someone who knew her well—her sisters or her friend, Serena—would detect that her emotions were in turmoil. Anyone else would attribute the color in her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes to high spirits or, perhaps, sheer relief at being freed from a week's imprisonment, and she fully intended to get through these next few days without anyone discovering otherwise.

  When she returned downstairs, Tyler was waiting near the door for her. She put on her vest, earmuffs and gloves and slung her handbag bandolier-style across her chest, then preceded him outside.

  The interior of the vehicle was unusually frigid, so much that it seemed the leather seat would crack each time she shifted her weight. But the big, heavy vehicle had no problem negotiating the partially cleared parking lot and streets. While Tyler pointedly ignored her, she rummaged through her bag for a pair of dark glasses, slid them into place, then pulled out the photograph of Lucas and studied it. As if his rank alone weren't enough to draw women to him, with his dark brown hair and amazingly blue eyes, he was one of the handsomest men she'd ever seen. It was affectionately said in the palace that he hadn't yet met the woman who could tell him no—not his mother, his nanny, his tutors, his sisters, and certainly not the myriad girlfriends he'd possessed. He was charming, kind, a bit of a flirt, and he had a reckless streak that their father claimed had turned his dark hair prematurely white, and even though Anna saw him more rarely than she would like, she missed him terribly. She couldn't imagine living in a world without Lucas in it.