A Prince at Last!

by Cathie Linz

  He, too, had changed from his normal working attire. Instead he was wearing the most deliciously silky shirt in a midnight blue that brought out the color of his eyes. She noticed that the minute she looked up. She also noticed the fact that he was smiling at her. Little crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.

  She’d once spent several hours trying to pinpoint the exact blue of his eyes. She’d even gone so far as to check out a color chart in an old watercolor set from her boarding school days.

  She’d been younger then. And foolish.

  Foolish enough to believe a man like him might come to have feelings for a girl like her. But now the man was about to become a king, leaving her even further behind.

  “Nice outfit,” Luc was saying with a grin. “All you need is some face camouflage and you’d be ready for a covert op.”

  “Since there are no jungles in St. Michel or in the palace, I didn’t see the point in wearing camouflage. It’s not as though we were rendezvousing in the Palm Room,” she noted tartly, not appreciating his comments about her clothes.

  “I’d never find you in all those palms and ferns in there. Besides, it’s too easy for someone to spy on us.”

  “Now who’s sounding like James Bond?” she countered mockingly.

  “I already told you that I don’t want anyone else knowing about our meetings.”

  “And I still say you’d be better off having the protocol minister assist you in this matter.”

  “Now don’t go getting all prissy on me, it’s not that I’m ashamed to be seen with you or anything. That’s not what you’re thinking, is it?” Luc demanded, studying her face. “Because you’re dead wrong.”

  “If you say so, your majesty.”

  He glared at her. “None of that fancy talk.”

  “You’re going to have to get used to it,” she firmly informed him. “So you might as well start now.”

  “Not with you.”

  “Yes, with me. At any official function, you’re going to have to be comfortable with the way others treat you. And they will treat you differently. You must learn to be comfortable with that.”

  “Or learn to be a damn good actor,” he muttered.

  “Which will no doubt come in handy as well,” she briskly agreed. “Now, one of the royal rules is that no one is to speak to you unless spoken to. I can foresee that this will be a problem since you’re so closemouthed.”

  “I am not closemouthed. See?” He pursed his open lips at her.

  She was immediately distracted by his actions and by the sensual outline of his mouth—the sculpted curve of his upper lip, the seductive fullness of his lower one. There was little doubt that most women would be fascinated by his smile, fascinated by him…period. Even without the title of king. Without any title at all. Without anything at all.

  Oh my. She raised her hands to her cheeks. Concentrate, she fiercely ordered herself. And not on him! On protocol. Which certainly precluded her having fantasies about him. Focus on protocol. What were you saying? Oh yes, you were telling him that he was closemouthed, no, don’t look at his lips again. Stay focused.

  “You must learn to speak first and initiate a conversation,” she continued as if nothing had happened. “Go ahead. Pretend I’ve just walked into the royal dining room for an official function. What do you say?”

  “Whaaatsuuup?” he drawled, like those American beer commercials they saw on satellite television.

  She stifled a laugh and attempted to give him a reprimanding look worthy of Mrs. Friesen, the headmistress at her boarding school. Mrs. Friesen was the queen of reprimanding looks.

  He lifted a brow. “What’s wrong? Not appropriate?”

  “Not appropriate,” she agreed.

  “Do I know you in this scenario? Are you an old friend or someone I’ve never seen before?”

  “You don’t know me,” Juliet replied.

  “Are you from St. Michel?” Luc asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I’d ask you who were, where you’re from, what you’re doing in St. Michel…Now what’s wrong?” he demanded as she sighed and shook her head.

  “I said to initiate a conversation, not to interrogate me.”

  He arched one dark brow at her. “There’s a difference?”

  “Yes, there’s a difference.”

  “You’re talking to a man who spent eight years in Interpol before coming here to be Head of Security. I’m much better at interrogations than I am at conversations.”

  “You don’t seem to have that trouble with me,” Juliet pointed out. “You and I have had some wonderful conversations.”

  “You’re different.”

  She wanted to ask him how she was different, but he answered before she could do so.

  “You’re a friend,” Luc said.

  As she’d suspected. She knew he only saw her as a friend and nothing more than that. Get used to it and get over it.

  “How would you speak to a stranger?” she said.

  “The way I just told you.”

  Juliet sighed. Changing his many years of Interpol training was clearly not going to happen overnight. “All right, we’ll come back to conversation later. For now, let’s concentrate on royal protocol. As our monarch, you and the highest-ranking foreign dignitary will walk into the dining room together. Your respective spouses will walk behind you.”

  “So which role are you playing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you the foreign dignitary or my spouse?”

  While the thought of being Luc’s spouse made her insides melt, the thought of being the king’s spouse made her stomach clench. “I’m a foreign dignitary.”

  “Fine. That means you walk into the room beside me, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Should I offer you my arm?” Luc asked.

  “That’s not necessary, no.” She didn’t want him touching her any more than was absolutely required. Which should be no touching at all.

  “It’s a little dark in here, isn’t it?” Luc noted as they entered farther into the large room.

  Juliet reached over to turn on the switch controlling the porcelain hand-painted chandelier. While nowhere near as grand as any of the ones in the Crystal Ballroom, this exquisite one-of-a-kind piece had been a gift from Queen Victoria. But the main focus in the room, aside from the series of Rembrandts hanging on the wall, was the huge table that seated forty easily.

  She gestured for him to sit at the table before taking the seat beside him. “Normally the footmen would take care of our chairs, pulling them out and pushing them back in. As you can see, earlier this afternoon I laid out two place settings as if this were a formal dinner.”

  “There’s enough silverware here to choke a horse.”

  “As the king, you shouldn’t say anything about choking a horse,” she chastised him. “It could be taken out of context and spread around the tabloids. Next thing you know, you’re being portrayed as someone who is cruel to animals. You can ride, can’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A horse. You can ride a horse, can’t you?”

  “Yes, although I haven’t ridden a lot in the past year or so.”

  “Then we should stop by the stable for a brush-up lesson. But back to the dinner. You probably attended some formal functions while you were at Cambridge.”

  “Not really, no. As a university student, I drank a lot of Guinness and ate a lot of curry, the hotter the better.”

  “Really? Why?”

  He shrugged a little self-consciously. “It’s a macho thing.”

  The idea of Luc trying to prove his machismo brought to mind more forbidden images of decidedly sensual ways in which he could demonstrate his manhood. Images filled her mind of wickedly tempting options that had him plying her with kisses hotter than any curry. That made her nervous, and, as she did whenever she was nervous, she started talking. “Usually royals stay away from spicy things.” She almost tripped over her own tongue as another
chapter of images flashed into her mind—Luc and spicy things. Luc as a spicy thing. “Um, I heard that garlic, spaghetti, tomato sauce and shellfish have been banned from the menu when the Queen of England pays an official visit to Italy. And the media has an unwritten rule never to photograph or film her while she’s eating. The press has a similar rule here. Blackberries and summer raspberries are also off most royal menus, since having tiny seeds stuck in one’s teeth would disfigure a royal smile. Fish and meat are served without bones to avoid a possible choking hazard, as once befell our dowager queen in her younger days. A similar incident occurred with the Queen Mum, Queen Elizabeth’s mother, I believe.”

  “How do you know all these things?”

  “I was babbling, wasn’t I? Sorry about that.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “My brother Georges often teases me that I’m nothing but a walking encyclopedia of trivia.”

  “You’re much more than an encyclopedia,” Luc noted quietly.

  He looked at her, meeting her gaze with a speculative interest that was a bit disconcerting. Her lashes tumbled over her eyes as she quickly shifted her eyes downward to the table.

  “Yes, well…” She cleared her throat. “So you’re saying that while you were at Cambridge you didn’t attend any formal functions of any kind?”

  “Only one—the graduation ceremony, filled with pomp and circumstance and traditional robes.”

  “Well, there you go then. That sounds very regal.”

  “That was over a decade ago.”

  “It’s probably like riding a bike, once learned not forgotten.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me if I know how to ride a bike?”

  “Bike-riding isn’t an often-used activity for a royal.”

  “I biked a lot when I was in university.”

  She tried to imagine Luc on a bicycle, but kept seeing him on a big powerful motorbike instead. He’d look wonderful in black leather.

  Not good, Juliet sternly reminded herself. Keep your mind off his body and on his protocol.

  “Yes, well…” She fidgeted with the array of forks to the side of the china plate, part of a set that had been a gift from the Royal Family of Holland. “Do you know what this is?”

  “A fork,” he replied helpfully.

  “What kind of fork?”

  “A silver one?”

  “What kind of silver fork?”

  “A royal silver fork?”

  “It’s a fish fork. You can tell by the different tines.”

  She went on to list each of the eight pieces of flatware. And then quizzed him on each one.

  “These people have way too much time on their hands if they’re so obsessed with which fork to eat with and when,” Luc declared in exasperation after he’d misidentified the first-course fork as the salad fork.

  “Do you want to return to conversation 101?” she warned him.

  He waved his hand in surrender. “No, no, let’s stick with flatware, by all means. I’m simply fascinated by flatware. Tell me more,” he invited with a mocking gleam in his devilish eyes.

  So he thought this was funny did he? She’d teach him a thing or two. “The first fork was used in the eleventh-century but it took eight hundred years before it was universally used in western cultures.” She went on until his eyes glazed over. “Are you getting bored, your majesty?” When he didn’t answer, she repeated, “Your majesty?”

  “Huh?” he said with a startled oh-you-mean-me look.

  “I asked you if you were bored by my lessons?”

  “You’re a very good teacher. It’s just that there’s only so much one can comprehend about the tines of a fork before it all becomes hazy in one’s mind.”

  “A king can’t afford to allow his mind to become hazy, your majesty.”

  “I told you to stop calling me that.”

  “And I told you that you need to get used to hearing it, and to responding to it.”

  “You know, I think I’m starting to love it when you use that prissy voice on me.”

  She stood up, straightened her shoulders and said, “That’s not an appropriate comment.”

  “You wanted me to respond, right? Well, I’m responding. Come on, Juliet. Loosen up.” The next thing she knew Luc had taken hold of her hand and tumbled her onto his lap.

  Grinning down at her with devilish sexiness, he started tickling her just beneath her right ribs, where he knew she was particularly vulnerable. But Juliet squirmed just as he reached for her, and his hand brushed her breast instead of her ribcage.

  They both froze.

  Chapter Four

  Juliet’s startled gaze flew to his. She was so close she could almost drown in the rich blue of his eyes. Perched as she was on his lap she was all too aware of the intimate differences between male and female. She could feel the magnetism flowing between their bodies.

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and certainly couldn’t look away. He appeared as caught up in the moment as she was. Her parted lips were mere inches from his. She could feel his warm breath on her mouth. Was he leaning closer?

  Desire and anticipation were like a fire dancing over her sensitized skin.

  Then she was set back on her feet as suddenly as he’d tugged her onto his lap.

  What had just happened? Had he been about to kiss her or had she imagined that?

  Luc’s smile was sheepish. She knew hers was awkward. The air between them seemed to hum. Each of them hurriedly moved away—retreating to a separate area of the dining room as if afraid of what might happen otherwise.

  Juliet tried to read Luc’s emotions from his expression, but his years at Interpol had given him the ability to hide his feelings when he wanted them hid. The only thing she caught was him staring at her as if trying to read her mind. Could he guess that she’d wanted him to kiss her? Was he regretting joking around with her? Was he sorry he’d tumbled her onto his lap? Should she say something? Make a joke? Try and break the ice? Or make a run for it in an attempt to save face?

  That last option sounded darn good to her at this point.

  “I think we’ve done about all we can for one evening,” she said briskly. “We’ll arrange the next tumble…I mean tutorial in the stables.”

  Tumble in the stables. She tried not to blush at her verbal slipup. Had he noticed?

  “That sounds fine,” Luc said, his voice as smooth as ever. “I suppose no one would get suspicious if we were to bump into one another there.”

  “Nothing suspicious at all,” she quickly agreed. “You bumped into me earlier.”

  “Right,” he agreed just as quickly. “I bumped into you and there was nothing to it.”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she said with cheerful brightness. “One friend bumping into another.”

  “With a little horseplay thrown in on the side. The stables would be a good place for that,” he said. “For horseplay, I mean.”

  Smooth, real smooth, Dumont, Luc told himself. This is Juliet you’re talking to here. Why this sudden attack of nerves? You weren’t this jumpy when you had your first weapons training exam.

  But then, caressing her breast had been as explosive as handling live ammunition.

  He honestly hadn’t been trying to cop a feel when he’d pulled her onto his lap. It hadn’t been a premeditated move on his part at all. She’d just been acting all starchy and distant and he’d simply wanted to tease her into remembering that they were friends.

  Instead he’d raised an entirely new issue. And that wasn’t all he’d raised.

  His reaction to her feminine body had not been a platonic one. He wanted to kiss her, and he almost had before he’d come to his senses. He might not have the protocol manual memorized yet, but he was pretty darn sure that seducing Juliet would not be deemed appropriate behavior.

  Seducing Juliet. Where had that idea come from? Probably from the raging arousal that still held his body in its taut grip. But where had this entire reaction come from? He’d known Juliet for years and had never even
placed her and seduction in the same sentence before.

  Maybe he’d been too long without a woman. That must be it. He’d been searching for the missing heir for months and that had left him with no time for anything else, including romantic relationships. And the year before that he’d dated several women, but hadn’t found one that really held his interest.

  His job and the long hours he kept had proved to be a stumbling block as far as long-term relationships with a woman went. And now there was this king thing.

  “So I’ll meet you in the stables tomorrow,” Juliet was saying. “Will three in the afternoon be convenient?”

  “Sure,” he replied although he had the sudden feeling that nothing about this entire situation was going to prove the least bit convenient at all.

  Juliet was in love. She had no doubts whatsoever about that. And what’s more, her love was returned tenfold, perhaps even a hundredfold, by the objects of her devotion—two-month-old kittens from the stable cat, Rexxie.

  The purring balls of fluff were stretched out on her lap with utter faith in her ability to keep them safe. How wonderful it must be to have that kind of trust. She hadn’t felt that way since her father had died. Her mother had loved him so intensely that she’d never quite recovered from his passing.

  One of the kittens wiggled and tucked his head under his brother’s leg to get more comfortable. Juliet had named the gray-and-white one Mittens and the black-and-white one Rascal. She wasn’t allowed to have a pet while she lived in the palace and having one at boarding school certainly hadn’t been allowed. While attending her first semester at the Sorbonne in Paris she’d shared a cat named Mignon with her older roommate Cleo, who had taken the cat home with her to Provence upon graduation.

  Paris was a beautiful city, but Juliet had become homesick, so she’d transferred to the local university here in St. Michel where she’d completed her degree and graduated with top honors. She was now working on her advanced degree in history.

  This morning she’d been in her office supposedly working on reading the diaries and private letters of Queen Regina, but instead had spent much of her time daydreaming about Luc and reliving that moment last night when he’d tumbled her onto his lap.