by Cara Colter
“Well, of course not that dance precisely, but that video captures the spirit of what we want to do with this portion of the dance piece.”
“It’s too personal,” he said firmly.
“It’s for a dream sequence, Your Highness. This kind of dancing is very much like acting.”
“Could we act more reserved?”
“I suppose we could. But where’s the fun in that? And the delicious surprise? You know, you do have a reputation of being somewhat, um, stodgy. This would turn that on its head.”
“Stodgy?” he sputtered. “Stern, remote, unapproachable, even snobby I can handle. But stodgy? Isn’t stodgy just another word for prudish?”
He looked at her lips again, and again his eyes were an open book to her.
Meredith had to keep herself from gasping at what she saw there, something primitive in its intensity, a desire to tangle his hands in her hair, yank her to him, and find out who was really the prude, who was really stodgy.
But he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, instead.
Was she relieved? Or disappointed by his control?
Relieved, she told herself, but it sounded like a lie even in her own mind.
“We’ll modify the routine to your comfort level,” she said. “Now, let’s just see where you’re at right now. We can try and tweak the routine after that.”
She turned her back to him, gathering herself, trying to regain her sense of professionalism. She fiddled with her equipment and the “bridal waltz” came on again.
She turned back to him and held out her hand. “Your Highness?”
It was the moment of truth. She had a sudden sense, almost of premonition. If he accepted the invitation of her hand everything was going to change.
He must have felt it, too, because he hesitated.
Meredith took a deep breath.
“Your Highness?”
He took her hand.
And Meredith felt the sizzle of it all the way to her elbow.
CHAPTER THREE
“THIS IS HOW WE WOULD open the number,” Meredith said, “with a simple three-step waltz, just like the one in the video.”
Prince Kiernan moved forward, trying not to think of how her hand fit so perfectly into his, or about the softness of her delicately curved waist.
He was also trying not to look at her lips! The temptation to show Miss Meredith Whitmore he was no prude, and not stodgy, either, was overwhelming. And since he didn’t appear to be convincing her with his stellar dance moves, her lips were becoming more a temptation by the minute.
“Hmm,” she said, “Not bad exactly. I mean obviously you know a simple three-step waltz. You just aren’t, how can I say this? Fluid! Mind you, that might just work at the beginning of the number. It would be great to start off with a certain stand-offishness, an armor that protects you from your discomfort with closeness.”
Was she talking about the theatrics of the damned dance or could she seriously read his personality that well from a few steps? The urge to either kiss her or bolt strengthened.
He couldn’t kiss her. It would be entirely inappropriate, even if it was to make a point.
And he didn’t have to bolt. He was the prince. He could just say he’d changed his mind, bow out of his participation in the dance.
“But right here,” she said, cocking her head at the music, “listen for the transition, we could have you loosen up. Maybe we could try that now.”
Instead of saying he’d changed his mind, he subtly rolled his shoulders and loosened his grip on her hand. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the hand on her waist, so he flexed his fingers slightly.
“Prince Kiernan, this isn’t a military march.”
Oh, there were definitely shades of Dragon-heart in that tone!
He tried again. He used the same method he would use before trying to take a difficult shot with the rifle. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly.
“No, that’s tighter. I can feel the tension in your hand. Think of something you enjoy doing that makes you feel relaxed. What would that be?”
“Reading a book?”
She sighed as if it was just beginning to occur to her he might, indeed, be her first hopeless case. “Maybe something a bit more physical that you feel relaxed doing.”
He thought of nothing he could offer—everything he could think of that he did that was physical required control, a certain wide-awake awareness that was not exactly relaxing, though it was not unenjoyable.
“Riding a bicycle!” she suggested enthusiastically. “Yes, picture that, riding your bike down a quiet treelined country lane with thatched roofed cottages and black-and-white cows munching grass in fields, your picnic lunch in your basket.”
He changed his grip on her hand. If he wasn’t mistaken his palm was beginning to sweat, he was trying so hard to relax.
She glanced up at him, reading his silence. “Picnic lunch in the basket of a bicycle is not part of your world, is it?”
“Not really. I’m relaxed on horseback. But then that’s not part of your world.”
“And,” she reminded him, a touch crankily, “horses are the reason why you’re in this position in the first place.”
Again, he felt that odd little shiver about being spoken to like that. It could have been seen as insolent.
But it wasn’t. Adrian had warned him, after all. But what he couldn’t have warned him was that he would find it somewhat refreshing to have someone just state their opinion so honestly to him, to speak to him so directly.
“In the pictures of you in the paper,” she went on, “your horses seem absolutely terrifying—wild-eyed and frothy-mouthed.” She shuddered.
“Don’t be fooled by the pictures you see in the papers,” he said. “The press delights in catching me at the worst possible moments. It helps with the villain-of-the-week theme they have going.”
“I think it’s ‘villain-of-the-month’,” she said.
“Or the year.”
And unexpectedly they enjoyed a little chuckle together.
“So, you’ve seriously never ridden a bike?”
“Oh, sure, I have, but it’s not a favorite pastime. I was probably on my first pony about the same time most children are given their first bicycles. Am I missing something extraordinary?”
“Not extraordinary, but so normal. The wind in your hair, the exhilaration of sweeping down a big hill, racing through puddles. I just can’t imagine anyone not having those lovely garden variety experiences.”
He was taken aback by the genuine sympathy in her tone. “You feel sorry for me because I’ve rarely ridden a bike down a country lane? And never with a picnic lunch in the basket?”
“I didn’t say I felt sorry for you!”
“I can hear it in your voice.”
“Okay,” she admitted, “I feel sorry for you.”
“Well, don’t,” he snapped. “Nobody ever has before, and I don’t see that it should start now. I occupy a place of unusual privilege and power. I am not a man who inspires sympathy, nor one who wants it, either.”
“There’s no need to be so touchy. It just struck me as sad. And it occurred to me that if you’ve never done that, you’ve probably never played in a mud puddle and felt the exquisite pleasure of mud squishing between your toes. You’ve probably never had a few drinks and thrown some darts. You’ve probably never known the absolute anticipation of having to save your money for a Triple Widgie Hot Fudge Sundae from Lawrence’s.”
“I fail to see your point.”
“It’s no wonder you can’t dance! You’ve missed almost everything that’s important. But what’s to feel sorry about?”
He was silent. Finally, he said, “I didn’t know my life had been so bereft.”
She shrugged. “Somebody had to tell you.”
And then he chuckled. And so did she. He realized she had succeeded in making just a little of the tension leave him. But at the same time, they had just shared something that took a little brick ou
t of the wall of both their defenses.
“Well,” he said dryly. “Imagine doing a bike ride with an entourage of security people, and members of the press jumping out in front of you to get that perfect picture. Kind of takes the country lane serenity out of the picture, doesn’t it?”
“The peaceful feeling is leaving me,” she admitted. “Is it a hard way to live?”
“I don’t have a hard life,” he said. “The opposite is probably true. Everyone envies me. And this lifestyle.”
“That’s not what I asked,” she said quietly. “I wondered about the price, of not knowing if people like you for you or your title, of having to be on guard against the wrong photo being taken, the wrong word being uttered.”
For an astounding moment it felt as if she had invaded very private territory. It annoyed him that the one brick coming out of the wall seemed to be paving the way for its total collapse.
For a moment he glimpsed something about himself being reflected back in her eyes.
He was alone. And she knew it. She saw what others had not seen.
He reminded himself that he liked being alone.
He allowed the moment to pass and instead of telling her anything remotely personal, he said, “How about fly-fishing a quiet stream? For my relaxing thing that I think about?”
Ah, he was shoving bricks back in the wall. Thank goodness!
“Perfect,” she said. The perfect picture. Impersonal. “That kind of fishing even has a rhythm, doesn’t it? See? Hold that picture in your head, because the way you are moving right now is much better.”
Of course the minute she said that, it wasn’t!
“I’ve fished on occasion,” she said. “Nothing as fancy as fly-fishing. A pole and a bobber on a placid pond on a hot day.”
“Really? I’ve always found women make scenes when they catch fish.”
She rapped him with sharp playfulness on his shoulder. He was so startled by the familiarity of the move he stumbled.
“What a terrible stereotype,” she reprimanded him. “I can’t stand that fragile, helpless, squeals-at-a-fish stereotype.”
“So, you’re not a squealer?” he said, something like a smile grazing his lips.
She blushed, and it was her turn to stumble. “Good God, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He studied her face, and his smile deepened with satisfaction. He drew her closer and whispered in her ear, “Now who’s the prude?”
But he didn’t quite pull it off. Because she was blushing. He was blushing. And suddenly a very different kind of tension hissed in the air between them. He narrowly missed her toe.
With a sigh, she let go of him, moved a few steps away, regarded him thoughtfully.
“Adrian, I mean Prince Adrian, did not have these kinds of inhibitions.”
“Adrian could use a few inhibitions in my opinion.”
She sighed again. She was exasperated already and they’d been at this for all of fifteen minutes. “Are you going to be difficult every step of the way, Your Highness?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’m up for a challenge,” she told him stubbornly.
“I’m afraid of that, too.” He said it lightly, but he was aware he was not kidding. Not even a little bit.
Meredith marshaled herself.
“Okay, let’s start again.” She moved closer to him, held up her hand. He took it.
“Deep breath, slide your foot, forward, one, two, right, one, two…slide, Your Highness, not goose-step! Look right into my eyes, not at your feet. Ouch!”
“That won’t happen if I look at my feet,” he said darkly.
“It’s an occupational hazard. Don’t worry about my feet. Or yours. Look into my eyes. Not like that! I feel as if you’re looking at something unpleasant that got stuck to your shoe.”
He scowled.
“And now as if you are looking at a badly behaved hound.”
He tried to neutralize his expression.
“Bored, reviewing the troops,” she pronounced.
“I am not bored when I’m reviewing the troops!”
She sighed. “Your Highness?”
“Yes?”
“Pretend you love me.”
“Oh, boy,” he muttered under his breath.
“Ouch,” she said as her foot crunched under his toe. Well, it wasn’t really his fault. What a shocking thing to say to a prince.
Pretend you love me.
Oh, God, what had made her say that? As if the tension in the air between them wasn’t palpable enough!
Thankfully, the prince had no gift for pretense. He was glaring at her with a kind of pained intensity, as if she was posed over him with a dentist’s drill. It was making her want to laugh, but not a happy laugh.
The nervous laugh of one who might just have to admit defeat.
Meredith had never met anyone she couldn’t teach to dance. But then, of course, anyone who showed up at her studio wanted to learn.
And the truth?
She’d never been quite so intimidated before.
And not solely by the fact that Kiernan was a prince, either.
It was that he was the most masculine of men. He oozed a certain potent male energy that made her feel exquisitely, helplessly feminine in his presence. Her skin was practically vibrating with awareness of him, and she was on guard trying to hide that. Twice she had caught him staring at her lips with enough heat to sizzle a steak!
Unfortunately her job was to unleash all that potent male energy, to harness the surprising but undeniable chemistry between them, so that it showed in dance form. If she could manage that, she knew her prediction—that he would bring down the house—was entirely correct.
But Kiernan seemed as invested in keeping control as she was in breaking through it to that indefinable something that lurked beneath the surface of control.
“Maybe that’s enough for the first day,” she conceded after another painful half hour of trying to get him to relax while waltzing.
He broke his death grip on her hand with relief that was all too obvious.
“Same time tomorrow,” she said, packing her gear. “I think we’ll forget the waltz, and work on the next section tomorrow. I think you may find you like it. Some of the moves are amazingly athletic.”
He didn’t look even remotely convinced.
And an hour into their session the next morning neither was she!
“Your Highness! You have to move your hips! Just a smidgen! Please!”
“My hips are moving!”
“In lock step!”
Prince Kiernan glared at her.
Meredith sighed. “You want them to move more like this.” She demonstrated, exaggerating the movement she wanted, a touch of a Tahitian fire dance. She turned and looked back at him.
The smoldering look she had wanted to see in his eyes while they were dancing yesterday was in them now.
It fell solidly into the be careful what you wish for category.
“Your turn,” she said briskly. “Try it. I want to practically hear those hips swishing.”
“Enough,” he said, folding his arms over the solidness of his chest. “I’ve had enough.”
“But—
“No. Not one more word from you, Miss Whitmore.”
His expression was formidable. And his tone left absolutely no doubt who the prince was.
Prince Kiernan was a beautifully made man, perfectly proportioned, long legs, flat hips and stomach, enormously broad shoulders.
But the way he moved!
“I’m just trying to say that while your bearing is very proud and military, it’s a terrible posture for dancing!”
“I said not one more word. What part of that don’t you understand?” His tone was warning. “I need a break. And so do you.”
He turned his back on her, took a cell phone from his pocket and made a call.
She stared at his broad back, fuming, but the truth was she was intimidated enough not to interrupt him.
>
When he turned back from his call, his face was set in lines that reminded her he would command this entire nation one day. He already shouldered responsibility for much of it.
“Come with me,” he said.
Don’t go anywhere with him, a voice inside her protested. It told her to stand her ground. It told her she had only days left to teach him to dance! They had no time to waste. Not a single second.
But Prince Kiernan expected to be obeyed and there was something in his tone that did not brook argument.
Meredith was ridiculously relieved that he didn’t seem to need a break from her, only from dancing. He had already turned and walked away from her, holding open the ballroom door.
And Meredith was shocked to find herself passing meekly through it, actually anticipating seeing some of his palace home. She had always entered the palace grounds, and the ballroom directly through service entrances.
He went down the hallway with every expectation that she would follow him.
She ordered herself to rebel. To say that one more word that he had ordered her not to say.
But for what purpose? Why not follow him? Things were going badly. They certainly couldn’t get any worse.
They hadn’t even shared a chuckle this morning. Everything was way too grim, and he was way too uptight. Except for the warrior about to ravish maiden look she’d received after demonstrating how hips were supposed to move, the prince’s guard was way up!
As it turned out, all she saw of the interior was that hallway. Still, it was luxurious: Italian marble floors, vases spilling over with fresh flowers set in recessed alcoves, light flooding in from arched windows, a painting she recognized, awed, as an original Monet. She had a cheap reproduction of that same painting in her own humble apartment.
The prince led her out a double French-paned glass door to a courtyard, and despite the freshness of the insult of being ordered not to say another word, something in Meredith sighed with delight.
The courtyard was exquisite, a walled paradise of ancient stone walls, vines climbing them. A lion’s head set deep in one wall burbled out a stream of clear water. Butterflies glided in and out of early spring blooms and the warm spring air was perfumed with lilacs.
A small wrought iron table set with fine white linen was ready for tea. It was laid out for two, with cut hydrangeas as a centerpiece. A side table held a crystal pitcher, beaded with condensation from the chilled lemonade inside it. A three-tiered platter, silver, held a treasure trove of delicate pastries.
