Gabby snorted. “Not likely.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you. And if you were easy, you would have had sex with him in the back of his car.”
“Except that he doesn’t want to have sex with me—he wants to marry me. Or he thinks he does.”
“There are worse things than marrying a man who makes your blood hum,” Hannah noted. “Not that sexual attraction alone is a good foundation for a lasting relationship, but it’s a definite plus.”
“Attraction aside for a minute,” Gabriella said. “What else do you know about the guy?”
“He takes his responsibilities seriously. He wants to do what’s best for his people, even when that means making unpopular decisions. When he talks about his family, you can hear the genuine affection in his voice. And when he asks a question, he actually listens to the answer. He’s attentive and charming—maybe too charming. And he’s considerate. When he thought that Riley was going to be with us today—” she slanted another look at Hannah “—he had a special lunch prepared for her.”
“It sounds like you actually like him,” Gabby noted, surprise in her voice.
She sighed. “I think I do.”
“Why is that a problem?” Hannah wanted to know.
“Because it’s not something I can put on my list of reasons not to marry him.”
Marissa had been taught, at a very early age, that a princess had to have standards. So she never went out in public unless her outfit was coordinated, a minimum amount of makeup was applied and her hair was neatly groomed. But she didn’t believe in spending an inordinate amount of time on her appearance, and she’d never been the type to primp in an effort to impress a man.
But as she dressed for dinner at the palace Monday night, she was conscious of the king’s comment about the lack of color in her wardrobe. Though he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true, the criticism had still stung. So she took extra care with her makeup, adding a touch of smoky shadow to her eyelids, an extra coat of mascara and a slick of gloss just a little bit darker than her usual shade.
Assessing the results in the mirror, she decided that the differences were noticeable but not drastic. The biggest change, and thankfully not one that anyone else could see, was the unexpected tangle of knots in her stomach. A tangle of knots that had nothing to do with going to dinner at the palace and everything to do with the identity of her date.
She’d offered to drive herself so that she could leave whenever she was ready, but he insisted on sending a car, refusing to listen to her argument that it was impractical for his chauffeur to drive from the palace to pick her up and take her back to the palace. Not that she minded having someone else do the driving for her—it was simply a luxury to which she wasn’t accustomed.
A quick glance at the clock revealed that she had three minutes before Thomas was expected to arrive. She used those minutes to spray a quick spritz of perfume, double-check the contents of her jeweled clutch (ID, emergency cash, cell phone, lip gloss) and slip her feet into her shoes.
As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door.
“You’re punctual,” she said, opening the door.
The smile she had ready for Thomas faltered when she saw the king standing in the foyer, wearing formal evening dress—a black dinner jacket and trousers with a white collared shirt and black bow tie—and looking even more handsome than any man had a right to look.
“So are you,” he noted, appreciation glinting in his eyes as they skimmed over her.
“Your Majesty.” She curtsied automatically. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Is it not customary for a man to pick up his date?”
“Customary but not necessary,” she said.
“I decided that I wanted to walk into the dining room with you, so that everyone knows we’re together.”
“What do you mean ‘everyone’?”
“Well, Harry, specifically.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there,” she mused.
“Not a very interesting one,” he assured her.
“Perhaps I’ll have to ask the prince for his interpretation of events.”
“Okay, if you must know, I invited a lady friend to attend a gala event in London last year. As we were coming from different directions, we agreed to meet at the venue. Unfortunately, I got tied up on a conference call and arrived just as she was leaving.”
“With Prince Harry,” she guessed.
He acknowledged this with a short nod.
“Did her defection break your heart or bruise your ego?”
“Neither, really,” he admitted. “But it was a lesson learned.”
“Do you really think I’m the type of woman who would go home with someone other than the man who invited her?”
“I didn’t think you were the type of woman who would go home even with the man who invited her, at least not on a second date,” he teased. “But now you’ve given me hope for the evening.”
Marissa felt her cheeks flush. If only he knew…
Dante had invited Marissa to be his date for dinner because her presence would round out the table and because he wanted to spend time with her. His reasons were no more complicated than that. But as he watched her across the table, chatting comfortably with the French ambassador—in French, of course—and flirting casually with Prince Harry, he realized that he was seeing yet another side of the multi-faceted princess.
For the most part, she chose to downplay her royal status. She had come into a substantial trust fund on her twenty-fifth birthday, but she maintained a modest lifestyle. Her condo was in a secure building in an exclusive neighborhood, but she lived alone, without any staff to attend to her. She drove her own car—a late-model Japanese compact—and even shopped for her own groceries.
And yet, as much as she might try to pretend she wasn’t royal, when the occasion warranted, she slipped into the princess role as gracefully and effortlessly as any other woman might slip into a cloak. He found it fascinating to watch the transition, and realized her adaptability was just one more reason that she would fit easily into his world.
The only question, as far as he could tell, was whether or not she wanted to. Not that he was going to make the mistake of bringing up that topic of conversation again. At least not just yet.
For now, he was simply going to enjoy being with her.
After dessert and coffee in the parlor, when the guests started to take their leave, Dante turned to Marissa.
“Shall we take a walk in the garden?”
She had seemed comfortable and relaxed through most of the evening, chatting easily with the other guests, but the prospect of leaving the group to be alone with him gave her pause.
“It’s late,” she said. “I really should be getting home.”
“Not so late,” he assured her.
“I have an early meeting at the school board tomorrow.”
“A short walk,” he cajoled. “It’s too beautiful a night to waste.”
“All right.” She relented and followed him out to the terrace.
She paused at the top of the wide stone steps, and he offered his arm to help her navigate the descent. She smiled as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“A king and a gentleman,” she noted.
“When the occasion warrants,” he told her.
But the feelings that stirred in his belly weren’t very gentle manly when he caught a glimpse of the long, lean leg revealed by the slit up the front of her dress.
The dress itself had been a pleasant surprise to Dante. It was a strapless column of pale lavender silk that lightly skimmed the length of her body. It was feminine and elegant, and she truly looked beautiful in it.
On her feet she wore silver slingbacks that showed just a hint of her hot-pink toes and matched the silver clutch she carried. Her hair was swept up in some kind of twist, and the diamonds at her ears and looped around her wrist winked in the moonlight.
“Did
I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?” he asked when they’d reached the bottom of the steps and he managed to tear his gaze away from her legs. “You look good in color.”
“Well, there isn’t a great selection of formal wear in beige,” she said, tongue-in-cheek, as they started along the flagstone path.
“And I’ll bet you bought this dress because you thought the color was understated.”
“It is.”
“No,” he denied. “It’s intriguing. Just a hint of purple—and maybe a hint of the woman who’s wearing it.”
“You’re reading a lot into the color of a dress,” she mused.
“I just can’t help wondering why you try so hard not to draw attention to yourself.”
“Maybe because I got far too much attention growing up simply by virtue of the fact that I was Prince Cameron’s younger sister. He liked to party and he liked women, and the paparazzi loved him for it. And when I entered the social scene, they automatically gravitated toward me, assuming I would generate the same kind of headlines. I lost friends and boyfriends because there’s no privacy or intimacy in a crowd. So I made a point of dropping off of the radar, and the paparazzi got bored and moved on.”
Sadly, he could understand what she’d been through and why she’d made the choices she’d made. “And yet,” he mused, “the media always seems to know when you’re at a cultural event or charitable function.”
She smiled, just a little. “I have no objection to putting myself in front of the camera for a good cause, but I’m not interested in peddling some designer’s fashions for the style pages.”
“Smart and savvy,” he mused.
She led him into a private garden with fountains and columns and the scent of roses in the air.
“The first time Rowan proposed to Lara, it was in this garden,” she told him.
“The first time?”
“They had an interesting—and quite public—courtship.”
“I don’t remember hearing about that.”
“It was a lot of years ago now,” she told him. “But it was a very big deal at the time—the prince regent of Tesoro del Mar falling in love with a nanny from Ireland.”
“I didn’t think a royal was allowed to marry a commoner without relinquishing his position in line to the throne.”
“Not then, although Rowan has since changed the law. At the time, he had to hold a referendum to ensure the public approved before he could marry her.”
“What if he’d lost the referendum?”
“I think he would have given up his title before he would have given up Lara.” She sighed, perhaps just a little wistfully.
“Why didn’t your cousin revoke the provision that allows your mother to arrange your marriage?”
“Because it’s one of those laws that has been on the books but unused for so long that no one even thinks about it anymore.”
“What if you refused to go through with a marriage your mother arranged?”
“I wouldn’t,” Marissa admitted.
“Because the controversy would put you right in the center of the media spotlight,” he guessed.
She didn’t deny it.
“That’s your biggest objection to getting involved with me, isn’t it?”
“It’s a factor,” she admitted.
He stopped in the middle of the path and turned to face her. He tipped her chin up, saw the wariness battling with desire in the golden depths of her eyes.
She thought he was going to kiss her again. She wanted him to kiss her again, maybe as much as he wanted to kiss her. But while he might be eager to indulge in the sweet flavor of her lips, he didn’t like to be predictable.
So instead of lowering his head to kiss her, he stroked his finger along the line of her jaw…to the full curve of her lower lip…across her cheek…to trace the outer shell of her ear.
She held herself still, but didn’t manage to suppress the instinctive shiver that proved to Dante she was not immune to his touch.
“I’m going back to Ardena at the end of the week,” he told her.
She nodded, but he thought he caught a flicker of disappointment in her eyes—or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
“I’d like you to come with me,” he told her.
“Why?”
“Because I want the citizens of Ardena to get to know you before you are introduced to them as their new queen.”
For about three seconds, she was absolutely speechless. And then she said, “If that’s your idea of a proposal, it could use some work.”
He grinned. “I promise you, I’ll do better when I’m ready to put the ring on your finger. For now, I was only trying to reassure you that my intentions are honorable.”
She frowned. “You hardly even know me. How do you know you want to marry me?”
“Because you don’t want to marry me.”
“Are you really that perverse?”
He chuckled at the obvious bafflement in her tone. “If you think about it, it makes perfect sense.”
“Sorry, but I don’t see it.”
“I haven’t had a serious or exclusive relationship with anyone in the past several years, so in my efforts to find a wife, I’m having to start at square one. There are a lot of women who would willingly line up to be my bride, but most of them are more interested in my title and my wealth than me. But you’re already a princess and you have your own income, so I don’t have to wonder about your agenda.”
“Then maybe the question shouldn’t be ‘why would you want to marry me?’ but ‘why would I want to marry you?’”
“Apparently I’m quite a catch,” he told her.
“That whole ‘ruler of your own country’ thing doesn’t really impress me,” she warned.
“So tell me what does.”
“Well, I did notice that you made an effort to keep the ambassador’s wife entertained during dinner,” she admitted. “You realized that she wasn’t comfortable joining in the discussion about international politics, so you engaged her in a conversation about books and movies.”
“I wasn’t really enjoying the discussion about politics, either,” he said lightly.
She tilted her head, studying him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m trying to figure you out.”
“I’m not that complicated.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” she admitted. “My first impression was of arrogance and entitlement, which was what I expected. After all, you’re royal and rich and charismatic. But during the time that I’ve spent with you, I’ve realized that you’re also insightful, charming and surprisingly self-effacing.”
“So you do like me?”
She smiled. “I have enjoyed your company over the past couple of days.”
“But?”
“But I think you’re shortchanging yourself by seeking a marriage with political benefits rather than pursuing a romantic relationship.”
“I’m not opposed to romance,” he told her.
“I’m sure you’ve been responsible for some grand romantic gestures over the years.”
His gaze narrowed. “And yet you still sound skeptical.”
She shrugged. “It’s easy when you’ve got a secretary who can order favorite flowers for your companion du jour, or make all the necessary reservations for a romantic candlelit dinner in Venice or Paris or Beijing, depending on the cuisine you crave, of course.”
He didn’t let his gaze shift away, knew that doing so would be an admission of complicity and provide the princess with yet another round of ammunition to use against him. Instead, he only said, “I would take you not to Paris but Bretagne—there’s a little café on Rue Vieille du Temple that serves the most exquisite crepes.”
“Okay, I’m impressed that you remember what I ate at brunch the other day,” she admitted. “But I’m still not going to pack my bags and hop on a plane.”
“I bet your mother would approve of your decision to ta
ke a trip with me,” he said.
She narrowed her gaze on him. “Except that I haven’t decided to take a trip with you.”
He didn’t know what else he could do or say to change her mind; he only knew that he had to because he’d promised his mother that he would find a way to get the princess to Ardena. Kidnapping seemed a little extreme and not likely to win him any points. Putting a bug in her mother’s ear might be less criminal, but would undoubtedly win him even fewer points.
Now that he knew the origin of her distrust of the media, he understood why she would be reluctant to accompany him when he went home. Because the moment she stepped off the plane in the company of the king of Ardena, the press would be all over her.
But, as he suddenly recalled, she had no objection to putting herself in front of the camera for a good cause, and he just happened to have a good cause that needed some attention.
“Okay, I’ve tried bribery and blackmail,” he acknowledged, “which leaves me only with begging.”
“Why would you be begging?”
“Because I need your help.”
She still looked wary. “My help with what?”
“With the upcoming charity auction for the pediatric wing at Mercy.”
“What can I do?”
“Attend the event as my guest.”
She turned away. “I don’t think so.”
He stepped in front of her again. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t see how my attendance would be the least bit helpful.”
“You underestimate your appeal, Princess.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“We’re two years behind schedule on this project,” he admitted. “But if this auction brings in the kind of money that I think it can, we could finally push forward with our plans.”
“I’d be happy to make a donation—”
“I don’t want your money. I just want a few hours of your time.”
Her hesitation gave him hope. And while his invitation had been borne of desperation, he was pleased he’d followed the impulse, confident that her desire to remain in the background would succumb to her genuine desire to help a truly worthwhile cause.
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