Prince Joe

by Suzanne Brockmann

  ''First I climbed down to the ground and got this," Joe said, his husky voice soft and seductive, warmly intimate. "It's proof I was actually there."

  He was still holding the flower out to her, but Veronica couldn't move, her mind barely registering the words he spoke. A black band was across his forehead, holding his long hair in place. He was wearing black pants and a long-sleeved black turtleneck, with some kind of equipment vest over it, even though the spring night was quite warm. Oddly enough, his feet were bare. He wasn't smiling, and his face looked harsh and unforgiving. And dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

  Veronica gazed at him, her heart in her throat. As he stepped closer and pressed the flower into her hand, she was pulled into the depths of his eyes. The fire she saw there became molten. His mouth was hard and hungry as his gaze raked her body.

  And then his meaning cut through.

  He'd climbed down to the ground... ? And back up again? Ten stories?

  "You climbed up the outside of the hotel and no one stopped you?" Veronica looked down at the flower, hoping he wouldn't notice the trembling in her voice.

  He crossed to the sliding door and pulled the curtain shut. Was that for safety's sake, or for privacy? Veronica wondered as she turned away. She was afraid he might see his unconcealed desire echoed in her own eyes.

  Desire? What was wrong with her? It was true, Joe Catalanotto was outrageously good-looking. But despite his obvious physical attributes, he was rude, tactless and disrespectful, rough in his manners and appearance. In fact, he was about as far from a being a prince as any man she'd ever known. They'd barely even exchanged a civil conversation. All they did was fight. So why on earth could she think of nothing but the touch of his hands on her skin, his lips on hers, his body... ?

  "No one saw me climbing down or up," Joe said, his voice surrounding her like soft, rich velvet. “There are no guards posted on this side of the building. The FInCOM agents don't see the balcony for what it is—a back door. An accessible and obvious back door."

  "It's so far from the ground," she countered in disbelief.

  "It was an easy climb. Under an hour."

  Under an hour. This is what he'd been doing with his time, Veronica realized suddenly. He should have been working with her, learning how to act like Tedric, and instead he was climbing up and down the outside of the hotel like some misguided superhero. Anger flooded through her.

  Joe took a step forward, closing the small gap between them. The urge to touch her hair, to skim the softness of her cheek with his knuckle, was overpowering.

  This was not the scenario he'd imagined when he'd climbed up the side of the hotel and onto her balcony. He'd expected to find Veronica hard at work, scribbling furiously away on the legal pad she always carried, or typing frantically into her laptop computer. He'd expected her to be wearing something that hid her curves and disguised her femininity. He'd expected her hair to be pinned up off her neck. He'd expected her to look up at him, gasping in startled surprise, as he walked into the room.

  And, yeah, he'd expected her to be impressed when he told her he'd scaled the side of the hotel in order to prove that FInCOM's security stank.

  Instead, finally over her initial shock at seeing him there, Veronica folded her arms across her delicious-looking breasts and glared at him. "I can't believe this," she said. "I'm supposed to be teaching you how to fool the bloody world into thinking you're Prince Tedric and you're off playing commando games and climbing ten stories up the outside of this hotel?"

  "I'm not a commando, I'm a SEAL," Joe said, feeling his own temper rise. "There's a difference. And I'm not playing games. FInCOM's security stinks."

  "The President of the United States hasn't had any qualms about FInCOM's ability to protect him," Veronica said tersely.

  "The President of the United States is followed around by fifteen Finks, ready to jump into the line of fire and take a bullet for him if necessary," Joe countered. He broke away, pulling off the headband and running his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. "Look, Ronnie, I didn't come here to fight with you."

  "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

  It wasn't, and she knew it as well as he did. "No."

  Veronica laughed in disbelief at his blunt candour. "No," she repeated. "Of course not. Silly me. Whatever could I have been thinking?"

  "I can't apologize," Joe said tightly. "Because I haven't done anything wrong."

  "You've wasted time," Veronica told him. "My time. Maybe you don't understand, but we now have less than twenty-four hours to make this charade work."

  "I'm well aware of the time we have left," Joe said. "I've looked at those videotapes Mac Forrest sent over. This is not going to be hard. In fact, it's going to be a piece of cake. I can pose as the prince, no problem. You've gotta relax and trust me." He turned and picked up the telephone from one of the end tables Veronica had pushed aside to clear the living-room floor of furniture. "I need you to make a phone call for me, okay?"

  Veronica took the receiver from his hand and hung the phone back up. "No," she said, icily. "I need you to stop being so bloody patronizing, to stop patting my hand and telling me to relax. I need you to take me seriously for one damned minute."

  Joe laughed. He couldn't help himself. She was standing there, looking like some kind of hot, steamed-up-windows dream, yet sounding, even in anger, as if she was trying to freeze him to death.

  "Ah, you find this funny, do you?" Her eyes were blue ice. "I assure you, Lieutenant, you can't do this without me, and I am very close to walking out the bloody door."

  She was madder than hell, and Joe knew the one thing he shouldn't do was keep laughing. But damned if he couldn't stop. "Ronnie," he said, pretending he was coughing instead of laughing. Still, he couldn't hide his smile. “Ronnie, Ronnie, I do take you seriously, honey. Honest."

  Her hands were on her hips now, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. "You are such a....a jerk!" she said. "Tell me, is your real intention to... to... foul this up so royally that you won't have to place yourself in danger by posing as the prince?"

  Joe's smile was wiped instantly off his face, and Veronica knew with deadly certainty that she'd gone too far.

  He took a step toward her, and she took a step back, away from him. He was very tall, very broad and very angry.

  "I volunteered for this job, babe," he told her, biting off each word. "I'm not here for my health, or for a paycheck, or for fame and fortune or for whatever the hell you're here for. And I'm sure as hell not here to be some kind of lousy martyr. If I end up taking a bullet for Prince Tedric, it's going to be despite the fact that I've done everything humanly possible to prevent it. Not because some pencil-pushing agency like FInCOM let the ball drop on standard security procedures years ago.''

  Veronica was silent. What could she possibly say? He was right. If security wasn't tight enough, he could very well be killed. She couldn't fault him for wanting to be sure of his own safety. And she didn't want to feel this odd jolt of fear and worry she felt, thinking about all of the opportunities the terrorists would have to train their gunsights on Joe's head. He was brave to have volunteered for this mission—particularly since she knew he had no love for Tedric Cortere. She shouldn't have implied otherwise.

  "I'm sorry," Veronica murmured. She looked down at the carpet, unable to meet his eyes.

  "And as for taking you seriously..." Joe reached out and with one finger underneath her chin, he lifted her head so that she was forced to look up into his eyes. "You're wrong. I take you very seriously."

  The connection was there between them—instant and hot. The look in Joe's eyes was mesmerizing. It erased everything, everything between them—all the angry words and mistrust, all the frustration and misunderstandings—and left only this basic, almost primitive attraction, this simplest of equations. Man plus woman.

  It would be so easy to simply give in. Veronica felt her body sway toward him as if pulled by the tides, ancient and unquestioning. All she had t
o do was let go, and there would be only desire, consuming and overpowering. It would surround them, possess them. It would take them on a flight to paradise.

  But that flight was a round trip. When it ended, when they lay spent and exhausted, they'd be right here—right back where they'd started.

  And then reality would return. Veronica would be embarrassed at having been intimate with a man she barely knew. Joe would no doubt be smug.

  And they would have wasted yet another hour or two of their precious preparation time.

  Joe was obviously thinking along the exact same lines. He ran his thumb lightly across her lips. "What do you think, Ronnie?" he asked, his voice husky. "Do you think we could stop after just one kiss?"

  Veronica pulled away, her heart pounding even harder. If he kissed her, she would be lost. "Don't be foolish," she said, working hard to keep her voice from shaking.

  "When I make love to you," he said, his voice low and dangerous and very certain, "I'm going to take my sweet time."

  She turned to face him with a bravado she didn't quite feel. "When?" she said. "Of all the macho, he-man audacity! Not if, but when I make love to you.... Don't hold your breath, Lieutenant, because it's not going to happen."

  He smiled a very small, very infuriating smile and let his eyes wander down her body. "Yes, it is."

  "Ever hear the expression 'cold day in hell'?" Veronica asked sweetly. She crossed the room toward her suitcase, found a sweatshirt and pulled it over her head. She was still perspiring and was still much too warm, but she would have done damn near anything to cover herself from the heat of his gaze.

  He picked up the telephone again. "Look, Ronnie, I need you to call my room and ask to speak to me."

  "But you're not there."

  "That's the point," he said. "The boys from FlnCOM think I'm napping, nestled all snug in my bed. It's time to shake them up."

  Careful to keep her distance, careful not to let their fingers touch, Veronica took the phone from Joe and dialled the number for the royal suite. West picked up the phone.

  "This is Ms. St. John," she said. "I need to speak to Lieutenant Catalanotto."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," West replied. "He's asleep."

  "This is urgent, Mr. West," she said, glancing up at Joe, who nodded encouragingly. "Please wake him."

  "Hang on."

  There was silence on the other end, and then shouting, as if from a distance. Veronica met Joe's eyes again. "I think they're shaken up," she said.

  "Hang up," he said, and she dropped the receiver into the cradle.

  He picked up the phone then, and dialled. "Do you have a pair of sweats or some jeans to pull on over those shorts?" he asked Veronica.

  "Yes," she said. "Why?"

  "Because in about thirty seconds, fifty FInCOM agents are going to be pounding on your door— Hello? Yeah. Kevin Laughton, please." Joe covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked at Veronica who was standing, staring at him. "Better hurry." He uncovered the phone. "Yeah, I'm still here."

  Veronica scrambled for her suitcase, yanking out the one pair of blue jeans she'd packed for this trip.

  "He is?" she heard Joe say into the telephone. "Well, maybe you should interrupt him.''

  She kicked off her sneakers and pulled the jeans on, hopping into them one leg at a time.

  "Why don't you tell him Joe Catalanotto's on the line. Catalanotto." He sighed in exasperation. "Just say Joe Cat, okay? He'll know who I am."

  Veronica pulled the jeans up and over her hips, aware that Joe was watching her dress. She buttoned the waistband and drew up the zipper, not daring to look in his direction. When I make love to you... Not if, when. As if their intimate joining were already a given—indisputable and destined to take place.

  "Yo, Laughton," Joe said into the telephone. "How's it going, pal?" He laughed. "Yeah, I thought I'd give you a little firsthand demonstration, and identify FInCOM's security weak spots. How do you like it so far?" He pulled the receiver away from his ear. "That good, huh? Yeah, I went for a little walk down in the gardens.” He met Veronica's eyes and grinned, clearly amused. "Yeah, I was struck by the beauty of the flowers, so I brought one with me up to Ms. St. John's room to share with her, and—"

  He looked at the receiver, suddenly gone dead in his hands, and then at Veronica.

  "I guess they're on their way," he said.

  Chapter 7

  “I need more coffee," Veronica said. How could Joe be so awake? She hadn't seen him yawn even once as they'd worked through the night. "I think my laryngitis idea might work-after all, we've been giving the news media reports that Prince Tedric is ill. You wouldn't have to speak and—"

  "You know, I'm not a half-bad mimic," Joe insisted. "If I work on it more, I can do a decent imitation of Prince Tedric."

  Veronica closed her eyes. "No offense, Joe, but I seriously doubt you can imitate Tedric's accent just from listening to a tape," she said. "We have better things to do with your time."

  Joe stood and Veronica opened her eyes, gazing up at him.

  "I'm getting you that coffee," he said. "You're slipping. You just called me 'Joe.'"

  "Forgive me, Your Royal Highness," she murmured.

  But he didn't smile. He just looked down at her, the expression in his eyes unreadable. "I like Joe better," he finally said.

  "This isn't going to work, is it?" she asked quietly. She met his eyes steadily, ready to accept defeat.

  Except he wasn't defeated. Not by any means. He'd been watching videotapes and listening to audiotapes of Prince Tedric in all of his spare moments. It was true that he hadn't had all that many spare moments, but he was well on his way to understanding the way Tedric moved and spoke.

  "I can do this," Joe said. "Hell, I look just like the guy. Every time I catch my reflection and see my hair this way, I see Ted looking back at me and it scares me to death. If it can fool me, it can fool everyone else. The tailor's delivering the clothes he's altered sometime tomorrow. It'll be easier for me to pretend I'm Tedric if I'm dressed for the part."

  Veronica gave him a wan smile. Still, it was a smile. She was so tired, she could barely keep her eyes open. She'd changed out of her jeans and back into her professional clothes hours ago. Her hair was up off her shoulders once again. "We've got to work on Tedric's walk. He's got this rather peculiar, rolling gait that…"

  "He walks like he's got a fireplace poker in his pants," Joe interrupted her.

  Veronica's musical laughter echoed throughout the quiet room. One of the FInCOM agents glanced up from his position guarding the balcony entrance.

  "Yes," she said to Joe. "You're right. He does. Although I doubt anyone's described it quite that way before."

  "I can walk that way," Joe said. He stood, and as Veronica watched, he marched stiffly across the room. "See?" He turned back to look at her.

  She had her face in her hands and her shoulders were shaking, and Joe was positive for one heart-stopping moment that she was crying. He started toward her, and knelt in front of her and— She was laughing. She was laughing so hard, tears were rolling down her face.

  "Hey," Joe said, faintly insulted. "It wasn't that bad."

  She tried to answer, but could get no words out. Instead, she just waved her hand futilely at him and kept on laughing.

  Her laughter was infectious, and before long, Joe started to chuckle and then laugh, too.

  "Do it again," she gasped, and he stood and walked, like Prince Tedric, across the room and back.

  Veronica laughed even harder, doubling over on the couch. The FInCOM agent was watching them both as if they were crazy or hysterical—-which probably wasn't that far from the truth.

  Veronica wiped at her face, trying to catch her breath. "Oh, Lord," she said. "Oh, God, I haven't laughed this hard in years." Her eyelashes were wet with her tears of laughter, and her eyes sparkled as, still giggling, she looked up at Joe. "I don't suppose I can talk you into doing that again?"

  "No way," Joe said, grinning bac
k at her. "I draw the line at being humiliated more than twice in a row."

  "I wasn't laughing at you," she said, but her giggles intensified. "Yes, I was," she corrected herself. "I was laughing at you. I'm so sorry. You must think I'm frightfully rude." She covered her mouth with her hand, but still couldn't stop laughing—at least not entirely.

  "I think I only looked funny because I'm not dressed like the prince," Joe argued. "I think if I were wearing some sequined suit and walking that way, you wouldn't be able to tell the two of us apart."

  "And I think," Veronica said. "I think... I think it's hopeless. I think it's time to give up." Her eyes suddenly welled with real tears, and all traces of her laughter vanished. "Oh, damn..." She turned away, but she could neither stop nor hide her sudden flow of tears.

  She heard Joe's voice, murmuring a command to the FInCOM agents, and then she felt him sit next to her on the sofa.

  "Hey," he said softly. "Hey, come on, Veronica. It's not that bad."

  She felt his arms go around her and she stiffened only slightly before giving in. She let him pull her back against his chest, let him tuck her head in to his shoulder. He was so warm, so solid. And he smelled so wonderfully good...

  He just held her, rocking slightly, and let her cry. He didn't try to stop her. He just held her.

  Veronica was getting his shirt wet, but she couldn't seem to stop, and he didn't seem to mind. She could feel his hand in her hair, gently stroking, calming, soothing.

  When he spoke, his voice was quiet. She could hear it rumble slightly in his chest.

  "You know, this guy we're after?" Joe said. "The terrorist? His name's Diosdado. One name. Kind of like Cher or Madonna, but not so much fun. Still, I bet he's as much of a celebrity in Peru, where he's from. He's the leader of an organization with a name that roughly translates as 'The Cloud of Death.' He and a friend of his—a man named Salustiano Vargas—have claimed responsibility for more than twelve hundred deaths. Diosdado's signature was on the bomb that blew up that passenger flight from London to New York three years ago. Two hundred and fifty-four people died. Remember that one?"