The Jaguar Prince

by Karen Kelley

  Cheeks coloring, she shifted her gaze to his face. “Please, Nav? Pretty please?” Her brows pulled together. “You can’t imagine how much I hate the teasing.” Her voice dropped. “The poor Kat can’t find a man pity.”

  He understood how tough this wedding would be for her. Kat had tried so hard to find love, wanted it so badly, and always failed. Now she had to help her little sister plan her wedding and be happy for her, even though Kat’s heart ached with envy. Having a good friend by her side, pretending to her family that she’d found a nice guy, would make things easier for her.

  Yes, he was pissed that she wanted only friendship from him, but that was his problem. He shouldn’t take his frustration and hurt out on her.

  He clicked the dryer on and turned to face her. “When do you need to know?”

  “No great rush, I guess. It’s two weeks off. Like I said, I’ll probably leave Monday. I’ll take the train to Toronto, then on to Vancouver.”

  “It’s a long trip.”

  “Yeah.” Her face brightened. “It really is fun. I’ve done it every year or so since I moved here when I was eighteen. It’s like being on holiday with fascinating people. A train’s a special world. Normal rules don’t apply.”

  He always traveled by air, but he’d watched old movies with Kat. North by Northwest. Silver Streak. Trains were sexy.

  Damn. He could see it now. Kat would meet some guy, fall for him, have hot sex, end up taking him rather than Nav to the wedding.

  Unless…

  An idea—brilliant? insane?—struck him. What if he was the guy on the train?

  What if he showed up out of the blue, took her by surprise? An initial shock, then days together in that special, sexy world where normal rules didn’t apply. Might she see him differently?

  If he analyzed his idea, he’d decide it was crazy and never do it. So, forget about being rational. He’d hustle upstairs and go online to arrange getting money transferred out of the trust fund he hadn’t touched since coming to Canada.

  It had been a matter of principle: proving to himself that he wasn’t a spoiled rich kid and could make his own way in the world. But now, principles be damned. Train travel wasn’t cheap, and this was a chance to win the woman he loved.

  Unrequited love was unhealthy. He’d break the good buddy limbo, stop being so fucking pathetic, and go after her.

  But first, he had to set things up with Kat so she’d be totally surprised when he showed up on the train. “Yeah, okay.” He tried to sound casual. “I’ll be your token good guy. I’ll fly out for the wedding.”

  “Oooeeee!!” She flung herself into his arms, a full-body tackle that caught him off guard and almost toppled them both. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She pressed quick little kisses all over his cheeks.

  When what he longed for were soul-rocking, deep and dirty kisses, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue. Groin to groin.

  Enough. He was fed up with her treating him this way. Fed up with himself for taking it. Things between them were damned well going to change.

  He grabbed her head between both hands and held her steady, her mouth inches from his.

  Her lips opened and he heard a soft gasp as she caught her breath. “Nav?” Was that a quiver in her voice?

  Deliberately, he pressed his lips against hers. Soft, so soft her lips were, and warm. Though it took all his willpower, he drew away before she could decide how to respond. “You’re welcome,” he said casually, as if the kiss had been merely a “between friends” one.

  All the same, he knew it had reminded her of the attraction between them.

  She would be a tiny bit unsettled.

  He had, in a subtle way, served notice.

  Token good guy? Screw that.

  He was going to be the sexy guy on the train.

  And here’s a sneak peek at UNDONE, the historical romance anthology featuring Susan Johnson, Terri Brisbin, and Mary Wine. Turn the page for a preview of Susan’s story, “As You Wish.”

  Fortunately for the earl’s pressing schedule, the night was overcast. Not a hint of moonlight broke through to expose his athletic form as he scaled the old, fist-thick wisteria vines wrapped around the pillars of the terrace pergola. The house to which the pergola was attached was quiet, the ground floor dark save for the porter’s light in the entrance hall. Either the Belvoirs were out or already in bed. More likely the latter, with only a single flambeau outside the door.

  He’d best take care.

  Kit had described the position of Miss Belvoir’s bedchamber—hence Albion’s ascent of wisteria. Once he gained the roof joists of the Chinoiserie pergola, he would have access to the windows of the main floor corridor. From there he could make his way to the second-floor bedchambers, the easternmost that of Miss Belvoir. Where, according to Kit, she’d been cloistered for the last month, being polished by her stepmother into a state of refined elegance for her bow into society a few weeks hence.

  Which refinements, in his estimation, only served to make every young lady into the same boring martinet without an original thought in her head or a jot of conversation worth listening to.

  Hopefully, there wouldn’t be much conversation tonight. If he had his way there wouldn’t be any. He hoped as well that she wouldn’t prove stubborn, but should she, he’d stuff his handkerchief in her mouth to muffle her screams, tie her up if necessary, and carry her down the back stairs and out the servants’ entrance. It was more likely, though—with all due modesty—that his much-practiced charm would win the day.

  Pulling himself over the fretwork balustrade embellishing the pergola, he stood for a moment balanced on a joist contemplating which window would best offer him ingress. His mind made up, he brushed himself off, navigated the vine-draped timbers, and reached the window. Taking a knife from his coat pocket, he snapped open the blade, slipped it under the lower sash, and pried it up enough to gain a finger hold.

  Moments later, he stood motionless in the dark corridor. The stairs were to the right, if Kit’s description was correct. After listening for a few moments and hearing nothing, he quietly made his way down the plush carpet and up the stairs. A single candle on a console table dimly illuminated the hallway onto which the bedrooms opened. Pausing to listen once again and distinguishing no undue sounds, he silently traversed the carpeted passageway to the last door on his right.

  It shouldn’t be locked. Servants required access if the bell pull by the bed was rung. For a brief moment he stood utterly still, wondering what in blazes he was doing here, about to abduct some untried maid in order to seduce her. As if there weren’t women enough in London who would welcome him to their beds with open arms. Considerable brandy was to blame, he supposed, along with the rackety company of his friends who had too much idle time on their hands in which to conjure up wild wagers like this.

  Bloody hell. He felt the complete absence of any desire to be where he was.

  On the other hand, he decided with a short exhalation, he had bet twenty thousand on this foolishness.

  Now it was play or pay.

  He reached for the latch, pressed down and quietly opened the door.

  As he stepped over the threshold he was greeted by a ripple of scent and a cheerful female voice. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

  His first thought was that he was unarmed.

  His second was that it was a trap.

  But when the same genial voice said, “Don’t worry no one’s at home but me. Do come in and shut the door,” his pulse rate lessened and he scanned the candlelit interior for the source of the invitation.

  “Miss Belvoir, I presume,” he murmured, taking note of a young woman with hair more gold than red standing across the room near the foot of the bed. She was quite beautiful. How nice. And if no one was home, nicer still. Shutting the door behind him, he offered her a graceful bow.

  “A pleasant, good evening, Albion. Gossip preceded you.” He was breathtakin
gly handsome at close range. Now to convince him to take her away. “I have a proposition for you.”

  He smiled. “A coincidence. I have one for you.” This was going to be easier than he thought. Then he saw her luggage. “You first,” he said guardedly.

  I understand you have twenty thousand to lose.”

  “Or not.”

  “Such arrogance, Albion. You forget the decision is mine.

  “Not entirely,” he replied softly.

  “Because you’ve done this before.”

  “Not this. But something enough like it to know.”

  “I see,” she murmured. “But then I’m not inclined to be instantly infatuated with your handsome self or your prodigal repute. I have more important matters on my mind.”

  “More than twenty thousand?” he asked with a small smile.

  “I like to think so.”

  He recognized the seriousness of her tone. “Then we must come to some agreement. What do you want?”

  “To strike a bargain.”

  “Consider me agreeable to most anything,” he smoothly replied.

  “My luggage caused you certain apprehension, I noticed,” she said, amusement in her gaze. “Let me allay your fears. I have no plans to elope with you. Did you think I did?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.” He wasn’t entirely sure yet that some trap wasn’t about to be sprung. She was the picture of innocence in white muslin—all the rage thanks to Marie Antoinette’s penchant for the faux rustic life.

  “I understand that women stand in line for your amorous skills, but rest assured—you’re not my type. Licentiousness is your raison d’être I hear: a very superficial existence, I should think.”

  His brows rose. He’d wondered if she’d heard about Sally’s when she mentioned women standing in line. She also had the distinction of being the first woman to find him lacking. “You mistake my raison d’être. Perhaps if you knew me better you’d change your mind,” he suggested pleasantly.

  “I very much doubt it,” she replied with equal amiability. “You’re quite beautiful, I’ll give you that, and I understand you’re unrivaled in the boudoir. But my interests, unlike yours, aren’t focused on sex. What I do need from you, however, is an escort to my aunt’s house in Edinburgh.”

  “And for that my twenty thousand is won?” His voice was velvet soft.

  “Such tact, my lord.”

  “I can be blunt if you prefer.”

  “Please do. I’ve heard so much about your ready charm. I’m wondering how you’re going to ask.”

  “I hadn’t planned on asking.”

  “Because you never have to.”

  He smiled. “To date at least.”

  “So I may be the exception.”

  “If you didn’t need an escort to Edinburgh,” he observed mildly. “Your move.”

  “You see this as a game?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And I’m the trophy or reward or how do young bucks describe a sportive venture like this?”

  “How do young ladies describe the snaring of a husband?”

  She laughed. “Touché. I have no need of a husband, though. Does that calm your fears?”

  “I have none in that regard. Nothing could induce me to marry.”

  “Then we are in complete agreement. Now tell me, how precisely does a libertine persuade a young lady to succumb to his blandishments?”

  “Not like this,” he said dryly. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  “We strike our bargain first. Like you, I have much at stake.”

  “Then, Miss Belvoir,” he said with well-bred grace, “if you would be willing to relinquish your virginity tonight, I’d be delighted to escort you to Edinburgh.”

  “In the morning. Or later tonight if we can deal with this denouement expeditiously.”

  “At week’s end,” he countered. “After the Spring Meet in Newmarket.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not acceptable.”

  He didn’t answer for so long she thought he might be willing to lose twenty thousand. He was rich enough.

  “We can talk about it at my place.”

  “No.”

  Another protracted silence ensued; only the crackle of the fire on the hearth was audible.

  “Would you be willing to accompany me to Newmarket?” he finally said. “I can assure you anonymity at my race box. Once the Spring Meet is over, I’ll take you to Edinburgh.” He blew out a small breath. “I’ve a fortune wagered on my horses. I don’t suppose you’d understand.”

  This time she was the one who didn’t respond immediately, and when she did, her voice held a hint of melancholy. “I do understand. My mother owned the Langley stud.”

  “That was your mother’s? By God—the Langley stud was legendary. Tattersalls was mobbed when it was sold. You do know how I feel about my racers, then.” He grinned. “They’re all going to win at Newmarket. I’ll give you a share if you like—to help set you up in Edinburgh.”

  Her expression brightened, and her voice took on a teasing intonation. “Are you trying to buy my acquiescence?”

  “Why not? You only need give me a few days of your time. Come with me. You’ll enjoy the races.”

  “I mustn’t be seen.”

  Ah—capitulation. “Then we’ll see that you aren’t. Good Lord—the Langley stud. I’m bloody impressed. Let me get your luggage.”

  BRAVA BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2010 Karen Kelley

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-5785-7