The Trouble With Princesses

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “When I see her, she’ll hear a great deal more,” Ariadne threatened.

  Mercedes’s smile diminished slightly. “You’re not really angry, are you? You and Rupert have made up your differences, so all is well in the end.”

  And though she knew she ought to be cross, Ariadne couldn’t muster even the slightest twinge of outrage.

  “No, I’m not really angry,” Ariadne admitted. She tipped her head back and gazed up into Rupert’s eyes, seeing her own feelings of joy reflected back. “How can I be when I’m with the man I love once again?”

  Rupert smiled. “And I can only express my gratitude, Mercedes. You and my sister have done what no one else could have. You got two proud, stubborn people to humble themselves and admit to what they could not live without—each other.”

  Then he bent and pressed his lips to Ariadne’s, much to her great delight.

  Almost instantly, she forgot about their audience, far too enraptured by the heady passion of Rupert’s kiss to think of anything but him.

  She was sliding her arms around his neck again when she became dimly aware of a pronounced bout of throat clearing coming from a short distance away.

  “Shall we leave the two of you tae yerselves,” Daniel remarked, his voice warm with laughter, “or would ye care to continue this in one of the bedchambers? We’ve several from which you can choose, and of course, Ariadne already has a bedroom of her own.”

  “Daniel, of all the things to say!” Mercedes admonished. “They aren’t even yet married.”

  Unchastened, Daniel laughed. “That hasn’t seemed to stop them so far.”

  Fairly caught, Rupert broke their kiss. His and Ariadne’s eyes met and suddenly they were laughing too.

  After a minute, Mercedes joined in.

  Rupert kept Ariadne close inside his arms. “So what shall it be?” he asked her. “Shall we kick them out or go upstairs?”

  “Or we could have luncheon,” Mercedes suggested with a gentle smile. “The moment Cook heard that Rupert had arrived, she sent the kitchen maids into a frenzy. She’ll be most put out if we refuse to eat her offerings.”

  “Luncheon?” Daniel remarked, his eyes alight at the idea. “I could do with a meal.”

  “You are always ready for a meal,” Mercedes remarked indulgently.

  Daniel patted his flat stomach. “’Tis what comes from years of soldiering. I ne’er knew when we’d get decent food, so I learned not to pass it up.”

  “Well, liebling?” Rupert gazed down at Ariadne. “What do you say? Which one first, luncheon or love?”

  Ariadne sighed. “I suppose it will have to be luncheon, since I’ve met Mercedes’s cook and I don’t want to be on her bad side. If we’re not careful, she’ll serve us haggis.”

  The others laughed.

  A slow smile curved Ariadne’s mouth, her heart filled with so much happiness she felt as if it had swelled to twice its normal size. “Besides, what will a small delay hurt, when we have a lifetime ahead of us to love each other?”

  “You’re right, my dearest. This is only the start of our forever,” Rupert said.

  Then he leaned down and sealed their future with a kiss.

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  Tracy Anne Warren’s new contemporary romance,

  The Last Man on Earth

  Available from Signet Select in January 2014

  “You no-good, low-down, scurvy dog!”

  The door to Zack Douglas’s office flew back on its hinges, striking the wall with explosive force. Madelyn Grayson stood framed in the entrance, hands on her hips, her blue eyes bright with rage.

  Zack looked up from the storyboard he’d been making changes to and arched one dark eyebrow.

  “You self-serving piece of scum!” she continued. “You underhanded bottom-feeder! You trough-dwelling, swill-eating pig!”

  Zack leaned back casually in his leather executive chair and let her insults run off him, harmless as rain. “Good afternoon to you too, Maddie.”

  What a firecracker, he thought, watching her practically crackle with anger as she walked toward him shaking one well-manicured finger his way.

  “Don’t you dare good afternoon me, you lowlife. Not after the stunt you pulled today. You must think you’re pretty clever, engineering things the way you did. And don’t call me Maddie. The name is Madelyn or Ms. Grayson to you.”

  Holding back a grin, he took a moment to enjoy the sight of her. She was wearing a plain, pearl gray skirted suit that would have looked dowdy on anyone else, but seemed only to increase her attractiveness. Her breasts rose and fell beneath a long, tidy row of ivory-colored shirt buttons, the effect as sexy as a tight tee on a Hooters girl.

  He lifted his eyes so he didn’t get caught staring and noticed the wisps of red hair that had come loose from the librarian’s bun she always kept it in. He pictured threading his fingers into the whole luxurious mass, popping and pulling at the pins until her hair came free around her shoulders. After that he’d go to work on those shirt buttons . . .

  Careful, he warned himself, interrupting the thought. Don’t get distracted.

  “So, Madelyn, what terrible crime have I committed now?”

  He was quite familiar with her less than glowing opinion of his character. She didn’t approve of him or his reputation, the more titillating particulars of which had spread like a raging viral infection through the office grapevine within hours of his arrival at Fielding and Simmons, one of New York City’s leading advertising agencies, some eight months before. Generally he found her reactions amusing. There was nothing quite like watching Madelyn Grayson—all neatly starched, five feet seven inches of her—get completely worked up.

  Especially when it was over him.

  She glared. “As if you don’t know.”

  “Sorry.” He shrugged. “I’m at a loss.”

  “Stop with the innocent act! What you did was sneaky and conniving, and I deserve an apology.”

  “I rarely give apologies, and certainly not for wrongs I didn’t commit. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  She planted her hands on the edge of his desk. “Specific? You want specific? Specifically, it’s about your parading that overgrown jock through my fashion event, knowing he would monopolize everyone’s attention. It was totally contemptible!”

  “Karl Sweeney is a sports superstar. He can’t help the way his fans behave.”

  “Exactly my point. You knew how people would react and deliberately chose that time of day to leave the building.”

  “If you mean I deliberately chose lunchtime to take a client to lunch, and deliberately decided to walk through the lobby on the way out of the building, then you’re right. That’s exactly what I did.”

  “Yes, but you set it up. You timed your exit from the building so you and your basketball star would just happen to meet up with Fielding at the perfect moment. A moment designed to get you an invitation to the executive level for lunch.”

  His eyes widened. “Is that what I did? Engineered lunch for myself in the executive dining room with our CEO? Whoa, that was genius!” He paused, his eyes moving beyond her for a moment. “You might want to close the door, by the way. We’re starting to attract an audience.”

  Madelyn whirled around and saw one of the copywriters walking ever so slowly by in the corridor. She pinned him with a frosty glare, then shut the door. She turned back to Zack. “Now, you were saying?”

  “I wasn’t, actually, but look—the meeting with Sweeney ran a lot longer than expected, okay? He insists on providing his own creative input and his agent and I managed to work out an arrangement that keeps us all happy, especially Sweeney. We decided to conclude our discussion over lunch, and couldn’t help but notice your fashion show in the lobby on our way out. It’s only natural that Sweeney wanted to stop for a closer look.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said sarcastically. “It was all Sweeney’s idea.”

  “Once he got a look at the implants on some of those run
way models, I couldn’t pull him away.”

  She crossed her arms defensively over her own very real breasts. “While you, of course, shielded your eyes.”

  Madelyn was well aware of Zack’s penchant for eyeing anything in a skirt, especially a tight one.

  “A man can’t help but look at what’s put right in front of him,” he said with a straight face. “Anyway, one thing led to another, Fielding showed up, and you know the rest. There was nothing calculated or premeditated about it. Nice job, by the by, on the campaign you put together for Evan. Very slick. It should double his sales.”

  “It’ll triple his sales. I suppose you expect me to thank you for the compliment now, right?”

  He stood, and came around the front of his desk to stand beside her. “Only if you want to. I’m not always the villain you make me out to be. The comment was honestly meant.”

  Sunlight streamed in through a modest side window, highlighting the strong lines of his jaw, and the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow. He’d taken off his suit jacket, leaving him in a white shirt and a pair of tailored, charcoal gray pinstripe pants. At thirty-two, he was impossibly handsome, beautiful even, with a smile that could melt ice, and hearts. A woman would have to be dead to be immune to his charms. And Madelyn was very much a living, breathing female, though she did her best not to acknowledge it in his presence.

  His kind words left her feeling churlish. She cleared her throat. “The fact remains that you took shameless advantage of the situation.”

  He leaned against his desk. “If you’re talking about the invitation to dine upstairs, what would you have had me do? Refuse Fielding and drag away his favorite sports hero? Just between you and me, I’d like to keep my job.

  “Look, Madelyn, you do great work, keep the clients happy, and earn the company a bundle. That’s what’s important and what everyone will remember. Not the fact that you missed out on lunch in the penthouse.”

  He lowered his voice as if to share a secret. “To be honest, you’re better off. A meal up top is nothing but a lot of dry talk and heavy food.” He tapped a fist on the center of his chest, mimicking heartburn. “A little of that French stuff goes a long way.”

  “Maybe so, but I deserved the chance to decide that for myself. I was entitled to that invitation.”

  Today was supposed to be my day, not yours. Why was it lately that he was the one receiving all the accolades?

  “You’re right,” Zack agreed. “You were entitled. And likely you would have received it if Larry Roland didn’t turn into a quivering puddle every time one of the top brass looks at him for more than two seconds in a row. But that’s bosses for you. You’ll get another chance; don’t worry.”

  He smiled broadly, flashing her a glimpse of his perfect white teeth. “Are we square now?”

  A weak, traitorous need to say yes ran through her. She choked it down.

  Square? With Zack Douglas?

  Her fiercest competition?

  Her chief rival?

  The only person who stood between her and the promotion that by rights would have been hers by now if he hadn’t come along?

  The man who’d been an aggravating thorn in her side from the instant he’d walked through the door?

  The man who exuded charisma as if it were fine cologne and didn’t mind taking advantage of the fact?

  No, she’d never be square with him.

  Still, the outrage that had propelled her into his office moments ago had largely evaporated. “I’ll consider a truce; it’s the best I can offer. A very short, very temporary truce.”

  “That’ll do,” he said. Then in a move that surprised them both, he reached out and gave the curl lying against her cheek a gentle tug, his fingers brushing her skin. “For now,” he added.

  Sensation burned like a line of fire where he’d touched.

  “Wha . . . what was that?” she said, stepping quickly back and lifting a hand to tuck the loose hair behind her ear.

  “Loose curl,” he murmured, meeting her eyes.

  “Oh.” She took another step away. “Well, I should get back to work.”

  “We both should. Glad we had a chance to talk this out, Red.”

  Red? She blinked and opened her mouth to correct him but found herself at a loss for words. She turned and yanked open the door.

  Once she’d gone, Zack returned to his chair. What had he been thinking, playing with her hair like that? Touching her? At least he hadn’t given in to the impulse to kiss her, an idea that had definitely crossed his mind. But kissing a woman like Madelyn Grayson could have serious repercussions. The sort that might lead to long-term complications a man like him didn’t need. God knows, the failure of his one and only marriage years ago had taught him that lesson well. Never let a woman get too close—that was his motto. Enjoy them, appreciate their beauty, then wave good-bye before they have a chance to curl their claws around your heart and squeeze.

  But enough of that. He and Madelyn worked together, end of story. Besides, if the rumor mill was right, she was all but engaged to some rich international financier. He’d seen the guy’s picture—tall and blond with a perfect toothpaste-ad smile—sitting on her office credenza. According to the other women in the office, blondie was as close to a knight in shining armor as any flesh-and-blood man could get.

  He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous notion.

  No, he’d done the right thing.

  The wise thing.

  Especially since he hadn’t told her about the Takamuri account. Once Madelyn found out about that she’d be furious, leaving them both back at square one.

  Shrugging off what he couldn’t change, he picked up his pen and resumed work on his storyboard.

  Read on for a sneak peek at the next

  historical romance from Tracy Anne Warren,

  The Bedding Proposal

  Coming soon

  London, England

  October 1817

  I should never have come here tonight, Lady Thalia Lennox thought as she forced herself not to flinch beneath the leering stare of Lord Teaksbury. She didn’t believe he had met her eyes once since they had begun conversing.

  Old lecher. How dare he stare at my breasts as if I’m some doxy selling her wares. Then again, after nearly six years of enduring such crude behavior from men of her acquaintance, one would think she would be well used to it by now.

  As for the ladies of the Ton, they generally looked through her as if she were some transparent ghost who had drifted into their midst. Or, worse, they pointedly turned their backs. She had grown inured to their snubs––for the most part, at least.

  Still, she had hoped tonight might prove different since her host, the Marquess of Elmore, had known his own share of personal pain and tended to acquire friends of a more liberal and tolerant persuasion. But even here, people saw her not for the person she was but for who they assumed her to be.

  Ordinarily, she tossed aside invitations such as the one for tonight’s supper party––not that she received all that many invitations these days. But she supposed the real reason she had come tonight was a simple enough one.

  She was lonely.

  Her two friends, Jane Frost and Mathilda Cathcart––the only ones out of all her acquaintances who had stuck by her after the divorce––were in the countryside. They had both invited her to join them at their separate estates, but she knew her attendance at the usual autumn house parties would put each woman in an awkward and difficult position. Plus, neither of their husbands approved of their continued association with her, so their friendship was limited to occasional quiet meals when they were in Town and the exchange of letters.

  No, she was quite alone and quite lonely.

  Ironic, she mused, considering the constant parade of lovers she supposedly entertained––at least according to the gossip mavens and scandal pages that still prattled on about her. Given their reports of her behavior, one would imagine her town house door scarcely ever closed for all the men going in
and out––or perhaps it was only her bedroom door that was always in need of oil for the hinges?

  Her fingers tightened against the glass of lemonade in her hand as she wondered why she was dwelling on such unpleasantness tonight. Better to put thoughts like those aside since they did nothing but leave the bitter taste of acrimony in her mouth.

  A hot bath and a good book—those were what she needed this evening, she decided. Those and to tell the old reprobate still leering at her to take his eyes and his person somewhere else.

  If only she hadn’t given in to the temptation to wear this red gown, perhaps she wouldn’t have ended up being ogled by a loathsome toad like Teaksbury. But she’d always loved the dress, which had been languishing in the back of her wardrobe for ages. And honestly, she was tired of being condemned no matter what she wore or how she behaved. In for a penny, in for a pound, she’d thought when she made the selection. Now, however, she wished she’d stuck to her usual somber dark blue or black, no matter how dreary those shades might seem.

  Ah well, I shall be leaving shortly, so what does it really matter?

  “Why, that’s absolutely fascinating,” Thalia said with false politeness as she cut Teaksbury off midsentence. “You’ll have to excuse me now, my lord. After all, I wouldn’t want to be accused of monopolizing your company tonight.”

  Teaksbury opened his mouth, no doubt to assure her that he didn’t mind in the least, but she had already swung around on a flourish of crimson skirts and started walking in the opposite direction.

  She’d made it about a quarter of the length of the room when a tall figure suddenly stepped into her path, blocking her exit. She gazed up, then up again, into a boldly masculine face and a pair of green-gold eyes that literally stole the breath from her lungs. The man sent her a dashing, straight-toothed smile, candlelight glinting off the burnished golden brown of his casually brushed hair in a way that only increased his appeal.