by Cathie Linz
Why had he done that? He’d just been kidding around, one friend to another, she told herself as she’d done a hundred times over the past fifteen hours. He didn’t mean anything by it.
And that moment when their lips had almost touched? When his hand had touched her breast? The kitten stretched and snuggled its silky head against the very same breast Luc had touched. She could still feel the warmth of his hand, as if it had been imprinted through her skin to her very heart.
Looking down, she blushed at the sight of her nipples showing through her white shirt. She’d removed her formal riding jacket so she wouldn’t get fur on it while playing with the kittens.
Her appearance in the stables hadn’t aroused any suspicions, because she’d been a frequent visitor since the kittens had been born. The stablehands didn’t even notice her, which was fine by her. Juliet had never been the kind of female a man noticed.
She’d never minded that before. She was smart and that had always been enough for her in the past. And then Armand Killey had come into her life, with his charming ways, sweeping her off her feet.
But Armand had just been using her. After she’d confronted him about his deception, he’d at first tried to deny it before realizing the game was up. Furious at having his plan backfire, Armand had said some scathing things to Juliet—telling her no one would love her for herself, that she lacked the elegance and class of a true royal, that she was the gangly, ugly stepsister.
He’d hit her where she was the most vulnerable.
Juliet had no royal blood in her veins. The king had only been her stepfather. And she wasn’t elegant or gorgeous like her stepsisters, the royal princesses, or adorable and charming like her half sister, twelve-year-old Jacqueline.
She’d thought at the time three years ago that she’d been broken-hearted. Then Luc had come into the palace and into her life. And the longer they knew one another, the more she suspected that while Armand had severely damaged her self-esteem as a woman, he’d never truly touched her heart. Luc, on the other hand, seemed to have the key to her heart. And that made her entirely too vulnerable.
Whereas Armand had hurt her deeply, Luc had the power to destroy her. Not that he ever would intentionally. But the very fact that he was the heir to the throne of St. Michel meant that there were some pretty insurmountable differences between them now.
While Mittens slept on her breast, Rascal woke up and started playing with his own tail, tumbling over backward as he did so. In an effort to save him from falling off her lap, she stuck her legs straight out so he’d roll down her thighs to her knees. The kitten scrambled back up her trousers to the safety of her lap. Luc wasn’t as lucky. He tripped over her shiny riding boots and landed face-first in a pile of hay.
Great way to make an impression on a king, she thought to herself as she quickly set the kittens back into their basket and hurried to Luc’s side.
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
He got up and plucked the hay from his dark hair, while shooting her a wry glance. “If you wanted to take a tumble in the stable with me, all you had to do was ask.”
“It was an accident,” she protested. “I had two of the kittens on my lap and one was about to fall off, so I…”
“Tripped me?”
“I put my legs out and you stumbled over them. You should have watched where you were going.”
“Me? You’re the one who created a hazard.”
“They didn’t teach you how to avoid falling over someone’s feet in all your Interpol training?” she automatically teased him as she had many times in the past before remembering who he was now.
As if able to read her thoughts, he cast her a warning glance meant to remind her that they were not alone. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, “Don’t you dare your highness or your majesty me here.”
His breath was warm against her skin and smelled of coffee. She wondered if she’d taste coffee on his lips. Unable to resist touching him, she pulled a few bits of hay from his hair. “You look like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.” If the Wizard had been played by a young sexy Pierce Brosnan perhaps.
“Was the scarecrow the one who lacked a heart?”
“The scarecrow lacked courage, which you have tons of. The Tinman was the one who lacked a heart, which you also have.”
“Not everyone would agree.”
“You’ve definitely got a heart,” she whispered, sliding her hand down to his chest. “I can feel it beating.”
Again their eyes met and time stood still. As had happened last night, Juliet was swept up in a wave of sensual awareness. Her surroundings melted into the background, and all her attention was focused on this one instant in time, on this one man in the universe.
She felt the throb of his heart beneath her palm, felt the warmth of his skin through the cotton of his riding shirt. Her own heartbeat was pounding so loudly she was surprised Luc couldn’t hear it.
“Luc, I didn’t see you there.” The interruption came abruptly and caught them all by surprise. The stablehand named Pierre appeared disconcerted to have walked in on them. “Is there something you need?”
What Luc needed was his head examined for allowing himself to think of Juliet this way. What had come over him? By this morning he’d convinced himself that last night had been a momentary lapse, a freak occurrence never to be repeated.
Yet here it was, just a few hours later and again Juliet was getting to him. His life was complicated enough at the moment, he certainly didn’t need a romantic entanglement to further muddle things.
“No, Pierre, I’m fine,” he belatedly replied, stepping away from Juliet and, he hoped, from further temptation. “I just thought I’d take one of the horses out for a ride.”
“Monarch is feeling frisky today, why don’t you take him?”
Luc knew all about feeling frisky. “I’ll do that, thanks for the suggestion.”
“I’ve got Annabelle saddled and ready for you, ma’am,” Pierre added with a shy smile for Juliet.
“I already told you to call me Juliet,” she gently scolded him, her smile brightening her entire face. “Thank you, Pierre.”
“Not at all, ma’am, I mean Juliet.”
“We’ll both be there shortly,” she added.
Pierre nodded and reluctantly walked away.
“That young man has a giant crush on you,” Luc told her.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She scooped up the basket of kittens.
“I’m not being ridiculous, I’m being observant. Didn’t you see the way he blushed and tripped over his own tongue when he spoke to you?”
“Pierre is just shy.”
Luc reached out to gently rub one of the kitten’s ears. It was Mittens, who adored ear-rubbing more than anything except for the cooked chicken Juliet sneaked in from the royal kitchen.
Seeing Luc’s slender but large hands on the tiny kitten made her melt inside. His gentleness made her think he’d be good with a baby. It was the first time she’d thought of him and children. She wanted children herself. Only the other day she’d realized that her mother had been married and pregnant by the time she was Juliet’s age.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked her.
She could hardly say “your children” so she replied, “Our next lesson.”
“We’ve barely started this one yet,” he noted.
“I suspect you’ll do fine on a horse.” He certainly looked fine in the formal riding attire. The crisp white shirt was none the worse for his tumble in the hay, and the dark jacket and tight-fitting jodhpurs hugged his body like a glove. She quickly looked away before he could practice his eye magic on her, drawing her into his gaze. “Ballroom dancing is next.”
He grimaced.
There wasn’t time to say anything else until they’d both mounted their horses and begun their ride. Even then, Luc waited until they’d cantered some distance from the palace in the royal park, well beyond the formal gardens, before pulling Monarch to
a halt and turning to face her.
“Ballroom dancing?” he repeated.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to dance.”
“The last dancing I did was at a Sting concert, and somehow I doubt that the movements will be the same in this case.”
“Not unless you were doing a waltz at the concert.”
“Waltzing was frowned upon,” Luc noted dryly.
“Well, it’s not frowned upon at a formal ball. I’ll meet you in the Crystal Ballroom just before midnight tonight.”
“Are you planning on wearing your covert operations outfit again?” he inquired.
“Now you’re planning my wardrobe?”
Luc shrugged. “It’s just that if you’re going to teach me how to dance in a formal situation like a ball, then perhaps you should dress appropriately.”
“If someone sees me walking down the corridor in a formal ballgown they’re bound to get suspicious,” she pointed out.
“Then let’s compromise. Wear that black slinky dress you had on the other week for the ballet gala.”
She frowned. “Slinky? I don’t have anything slinky. Oh, you mean that black slip dress? It is a favorite of mine. I got it at a vintage clothing store in Paris.”
“Wear that and I’ll be a happy man,” Luc stated.
He might be a happy man, but she’d be a very vulnerable woman, moving closer to falling even more in love with him with every second.
Juliet looked at the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes. She even went over to the mantelpiece to make sure it was working correctly. After all, the timepiece was almost a hundred years old and had been stashed in the palace attic for most of that time. The glass was missing from the face, but the elegantly painted cherubs dancing around the outer edge were exquisite.
Everything in the two rooms assigned to her—a large sitting room/bedroom and an attached drafty bathroom—had either been rescued from the palace’s attic or basement.
Junk, Celeste had proclaimed in disdain, preferring her own royal apartments with their ivory chaises and gilded cabinets. But Juliet loved the comfy feel of her surroundings, where nothing was perfect, but everything blended together in a way that made her smile.
Blue was her favorite color, and that showed, from the faded blue damask of an armchair to the delicate robin’s-egg blue in a series of watercolors of Venice. Sure the chair had a few lumps; she just sat around them. And yes, the watercolors had age speckles along the edge, but that just endeared them to her all the more.
As in her office, a large Oriental rug covered the floor and books covered almost every available space. A few smaller items on display, like the porcelain figurine of a mother and child, had been purchased by her at some out-of-the-way shop in Paris or St. Michel catering to those who liked unique pieces.
Indeed, her college friend had referred to Juliet’s decorating style as “Paris Flea Market” and told her it was all the rage now.
Juliet studied her reflection in the slightly cracked rococo mirror. The black dress Luc had ordered her to wear did go well with her pale coloring and dark hair. But there was no way it was slinky. Was there?
She turned sideways and sucked her tummy in. She even attempted to take a few regal steps before wobbling on her high heels.
Juliet never had mastered the art of walking in these darn things. She was tempted to wear flats, but Luc was right in his assessment that for the lesson to be most beneficial they’d have to recreate the actual atmosphere of a ball as best they could in the circumstances. He was even bringing music. She wondered if he planned on bringing a Sting CD.
She smiled and tried walking again. Better this time. Not regal by a long shot, but no longer as dorky or bookish.
Of course, the logical, practical side of her brain was sternly warning her that it shouldn’t matter how she looked, what she wore, or how she walked because she was merely tutoring Luc. It wasn’t as if they had a date or anything.
Guard your heart, she warned her mirror image, who showed no sign of heeding her words if the grin on her face was any indication. You’d think she’d just been given a huge box of dark chocolates or something, the way her face was beaming.
Her smile faded as she remembered the baby gift that she’d sent to Celeste’s apartment that afternoon. It had been returned by the footman Henri, one of the few servants Juliet couldn’t warm up to, along with a note from Celeste.
I hardly think a toy giraffe is appropriate for the new king of St. Michel, since giraffes are not regal animals. It is my hope that you were not trying to insult baby Philippe II with your paltry present.
Most of the time, Juliet simply tried to keep out of Celeste’s way. After her mother’s death, it hadn’t taken King Philippe long to find a replacement. Celeste was a beautiful woman, with classy features and lovely blond hair. But the class was only skin deep—and it had nothing to do with the fact that, like Juliet, she lacked any royal blood. No, her commonness had more to do with her behavior than her background.
Not that Celeste couldn’t be sweet and charming when the occasion warranted it. She could. And that surface brightness blinded some to her true nature. But not Juliet.
Enough thinking about Celeste. It was almost midnight, the magical witching hour. She had to hurry or she’d be late.
The Crystal Ballroom was located on the main floor toward the back of the palace, facing the gardens. The huge rectangular room got its name from the series of priceless Austrian crystal chandeliers on display—three large examples placed down the center of the long room and three smaller ones at each shorter end of the room. The elaborate design created a tiered waterfall of crystal drops, each one mirroring a rainbow of colors as they reflected the light. The first time Juliet had seen them, she’d felt as if she were standing in the middle of a rainbow.
The famous chandeliers weren’t illuminated tonight. Instead Luc had set a series of candles on the sideboard.
It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him in a tuxedo, but her breath always caught at how devastatingly handsome he was in the formal attire. The impeccable cut emphasized the athletic fitness of the strong body beneath—the broad shoulders, the lean torso, the narrow waist.
His mouth was quirked into a teasing smile as he murmured, “Well, do I pass inspection?”
“You’ll do,” she replied a tad breathlessly. “I see you brought the music.” She nodded toward the portable stereo system on the Italian marble floor. “Is it Sting?”
“No, it’s Strauss. I borrowed some CDs from the prime minister. He has an amazingly vast and diverse collection, everything from Mozart to Duke Ellington to the Beatles.”
“Strauss is good for waltzing.”
“So is that dress,” Luc noted approvingly. “I’m glad you took my suggestion and wore it tonight.”
“Suggestion?” she repeated with a lift of one brow. “An order was more like it.”
“Does that mean I’m sounding more kingly already?”
“I told you from the very beginning that you were already a pro at giving orders.”
“Yes you did, and I appreciated the vote of confidence.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Juliet replied with deliberate cheerfulness. The look he’d just given her when he’d commented on her dress a moment ago was still making her heart hum. Nerves were clearly fueling her imagination, because she could almost have sworn that a smoldering sexual interest had been present in the depths of his gorgeous eyes.
Hah, that’ll be the day, she thought to herself. Luc looking at her as anything other than a buddy.
What about the other night? that nagging voice in her brain demanded. What about the almost kiss? Or that moment in the stables when his eyes met yours…?
Get real, she ordered her fanciful thoughts. You can’t afford to get caught up in this fairy-tale moment. Don’t do it. Don’t play the fool the way you did with Armand.
“All right then,” Juliet said crisply, as she did whenever she start
ed a lesson with Luc. “Let’s get started. I’d like this lesson to be more productive than the one on dining. We never did get around to things like olives.”
“Olives?” Luc lifted one elegant eyebrow at her in a gesture she recognized and was coming to love.
“Yes, olives. One must always take olives with a spoon and never a fork. Here, I’ve written up a list for you.” She handed him a neatly folded piece of paper.
“I suppose I mustn’t drink my soup, either, hmmm?” he teased her.
She flushed. “You asked me to help you.”
“So I did and I truly appreciate the help. I’ll look over your notes later when I’m in bed.”
She could picture him in bed—his bare chest with a tantalizing whirl of dark hair leading down to his navel, the white sheets gathered down around his narrow hips, barely covering him.
Suddenly the ballroom was unbearably hot. She would have fanned herself with a sheet of paper, but she’d just handed it over to Luc and she wasn’t about to grab it back again. She’d just have to pretend nothing was happening, that her hormones weren’t going into overdrive.
“Yes, well…” She cleared her throat and began again. “As I mentioned earlier in the stables, I believe you’ll find the waltz the most useful dance. We’ll start with the basic position, your hand curved around my waist, your other hand clasped in mine.”
“What about white gloves?” Luc suddenly said. “I’m not going to have to dance in white gloves am I?”
The mental image of him dancing in white gloves and nothing else had her stumbling over her own two feet.
“Steady there,” he murmured, catching her in his arms.
“I’m not that good a dancer,” she said, embarrassed by her inability to focus. “You’d do better with someone else.”
“I don’t want anyone else,” he said.
If only that were true. If only he really did want her as something other than a friend.
“And don’t even think about turning me over to the protocol minister,” he warned her. “Can you see me dancing with him?”
