Falling for the Princess Page 8

  “What do you think about, Princess, when you’re trying to look interested in something that holds no interest for you? What are you thinking about now?”

  Him. His shoulder so close to hers. His jaw, strong and masculine. “I try to find something of interest in what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s usually possible.” Usually. But not always. Occasionally the distractions were too great.

  He nodded toward the podium. “I take it there would have been bloodshed if just one of the esteemed rose breeders had been given the privilege of addressing a royal audience.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Isn’t it taking political correctness a little too far?”

  “This is nothing,” she said quietly. “The royal secretaries devote significant portions of their days, their lives even, to making sure people are treated evenly. That no one is seen to receive undue favor without warrant, and that those who warrant it are given it.”

  The scent of roses drifted on the warm breeze. The third speaker was an internationally respected expert but he was no orator, his voice an unfortunate monotone.

  “It’s a challenge, isn’t it? One of those impossible fairy-tale tasks set by kings in order that no one actually be able to win the hand of his daughter. Given the choice I’d rather brave the fire-breathing dragon. This one feels more like trying to drain the undrainable well.”

  “The worthy ones always managed it.” As a young girl she’d daydreamed about her own knight in shining armor, someone who’d slay dragons for her or tirelessly drain the well.

  Logan slid his sunglasses on and settled a little deeper into his seat. Speaking of daydreams… She leaned closer, caught a hint of his scent, far more tempting than that of roses. “Do not go to sleep again. It’s broad daylight.”

  He tapped the side of the sunglasses. “No one will be able to tell.”

  Maybe he was teasing her; after all, this was supposed to be important to him. The trouble with Logan was that she couldn’t be sure. She nudged him with her elbow, hoping the movement was subtle enough to avoid detection by anyone watching. “It’ll be over soon.”

  “Not soon enough. Are you a patron of the rose breeders’ association?” He settled lower still.

  “No.” She nudged a little more forcefully.

  “Then it doesn’t matter so much.” He crossed his long legs in front of him at the ankles.

  “It matters. It always matters.”

  He shook his head. “How do you do it, sit through these things so serenely? So…awake? Forty minutes and I’m more than ready to make a run for it.”

  “Coffee and training. Don’t forget you insisted on attending. And trust me, if you fall asleep you’ll definitely make the papers but not for the reasons you’re wanting.”

  He sat a little straighter, but then shuddered as the speaker droned on. “How do you bear it?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “And you can’t even quit.”

  No. She couldn’t quit. Though the thought had never occurred to her. It was who she was. You couldn’t quit being yourself. It left you purposeless. With no identity. Didn’t it?

  “We’re definitely going to be doing something off my list next. The ballet and a rose garden back-to-back is too much like torture.”

  “You wanted this.”

  “I know. That makes it worse,” he said with such feeling she almost felt sorry for him.

  “Next is polo. That’s yours.”

  “Better. Horses, competition, sweat, noise. It couldn’t get much different.”

  “The rose breeders are fiercely competitive. There have been accusations of theft and sabotage in the past.”

  “Now, that would be more interesting.” The speaker sat down to polite applause. Another stood. “How much longer will this go on?”

  “It’ll get faster now. The next few speakers aren’t quite so fond of the sound of their own voices.”

  He stifled a yawn. “That woman in the front row, the one with the enormous hat.”

  Rebecca knew instantly who he was referring to. Her hat, smothered in apricot silk roses, was possibly the largest sun hat she had ever seen. And she’d seen a lot of hats. The two people seated on either side of her were leaning subtly outward to avoid hitting it. “Mrs. Smythe-Robinson. She loves all things royal, knows more about us than I do even, and her second love is gardening.”

  “I thought maybe she was planning on making a run for it, that the hat was camouflage. You know, crouch down amongst the bushes and tiptoe for the exit.”

  Rebecca stifled her smile at the thought of the portly Mrs. Smythe-Robinson, a stickler for protocol, doing any such thing.

  “But if she’s not going to use it, I say we do. I’ll create a diversion, you get the hat, it’s big enough for both of us, and we make a run for it.”

  Laughter hiccupped within her. She oughtn’t to be laughing. These things were not supposed to be funny. But it was such a change to be sitting with someone who didn’t take them seriously and didn’t even pretend to.

  “I thought you needed to be seen with my father.”

  “Photographers snapped us arriving together. Your father’s here. The right connections will be made.” A slide show, set to orchestral music, began playing on the screen to the side. “What do you say? On three?” he asked.

  She focused on her duties, her responsibilities—now was not the time to let him distract her. “There’s a ribbon to cut.”

  He sagged back into his seat. “The ribbon cutting is your job, I take it?”

  She nodded. “It’s a hereditary role.” And she didn’t need to ask how insignificant that would look to someone who ran a multinational corporation he’d founded after dropping out of college. “I took over after my mother died.” The mother whose grace and warmth had added elegance to whatever she did. The mother who’d died when Rebecca was a child.

  His hand closed around hers. Was that sympathy? “So you’re pretty handy with knives and scissors,” he said half a minute later.

  “Just some of my many talents. Timing is very important.”

  “Don’t belittle your skills or responsibilities. I know you work with schools and hospitals and that both the local fashion and tourist industries credit you with their recent upsurges in business, and that The Princess Foundation has raised a huge amount of money to benefit many charities.”

  “I do my job.”

  “You do. And you do it well. And I owe you an apology.”

  “An apology?” She smiled. “That’s not a word I’d have thought would often pass your lips.”

  He matched that smile, his own wry. “It’s not. Because I try never to be in the wrong. And generally I’m successful. But I came here with preconceived notions of royalty and I let them color my opinion of you. I even said as much to you. Which you took with remarkably good grace. Which made it all the worse as I came to realize how wrong I was. So, yes, I apologize.”

  “Thank you.” What else could she say?

  “There’s that good grace again. The one that almost makes me feel worse. You could try gloating?”

  “Gloating’s not really my style.”

  “I’ve noticed. It’s one of the many things I admire about you.”

  “Are you up to something? Is there an agenda here I’m not seeing?”

  Logan laughed. “Not at all. It’s just…you’re different from any other woman I’ve known. And I have to admit I like those differences. The whole serenity thing you have going…it’s nice to be around. Very tranquil. I don’t have a lot of tranquility in my life.”

  “So tranquil you fall asleep?”

  His smile flickered. “That wasn’t a reflection on the company. What I meant was that when I’m with you the things that drive me ease. They just don’t seem quite so important. It’s almost a relief.”

  “I’ll add that to my list of skills.”

  “There are other skills and talents I’d like to explore further,” he said a few moments later. The
hand around hers tightened. His thumb stroked. Now that he’d given up fantasies of escape apparently he’d turned to other fantasies, other ways of disconcerting her.

  The innuendo was clear. But she had no other talents. Not of the sort she thought he was referring to. But perhaps she could learn. As she looked away she became aware that the press photographers were paying at least as much attention to Logan and her as they were to the man at the podium. She smiled at him, hiding her uncertainty, and then returned her gaze to the speaker. Though she kept part of her attention on Logan, aware of his hand, aware of the potential for him to drift to sleep. And wondering whether she had the nerve to put the exhilarating idea still percolating in her head to him.

  He, she was certain, was more than talented.

  Twenty minutes later she’d cut the ribbon—precisely—and the guests were finally permitted to stroll the new walk. The small crowd stood with an enthusiasm that owed as much to being allowed out of seats that had become progressively more uncomfortable as it did to the desire to see and smell and enjoy the blooms and the walk. And, of course, to be seen in return.

  As she and Logan meandered the cobbled path, he maneuvered them so that they fell a little behind the main group clustered around her father and the rose breeders. They strolled up a gentle rise and paused. Not too far away a lake glittered, and several small rowboats wended their way across its surface. “It looks so serene,” Rebecca murmured. “I watch the boats every time I come here.”

  “Ever been in them?”

  “No. It’s not really the thing.”

  “The thing?”

  “The right look.”

  “But you’d like to?”

  “Maybe. I’ve never rowed a boat. It looks fun.”

  Mrs. Smythe-Robinson detached herself from the main group and puffed back up the path toward them. “Speaking of fire-breathing dragons,” Logan whispered.

  As she approached, the older woman pointed to a rosebush covered in apricot blooms. “This is the one Spriggs developed. I’m not sure it’s his best.”

  “The floribunda,” Logan said with creditable enthusiasm.

  Rebecca hid her surprise. He’d been listening?

  “No, no. It’s a grandiflora.”

  “You’re right, of course.” He deferred politely to her.

  Mrs. Smythe-Robinson smiled, set her sights on someone else and bustled away. Rebecca and Logan walked on. “Was she right?”

  “Not according to what Spriggs himself said less than half an hour ago,” Logan said.

  “Very diplomatic of you.”

  “She didn’t look like the type of woman I’d want to argue with. No chance of winning regardless of the rights and wrongs. And with some people even when you win you lose.”

  “You know who she is?”

  “As it happens, yes. Her husband heads the government committee on foreign investment in San Philippe.”

  “And won’t you need that committee’s approval?”

  “I already have that committee’s approval. But she still didn’t look like the type of woman I’d want to argue with.”

  “There’s a type?” She pulled away from him on the pretext of smelling a luscious cream bloom. In reality she needed distance so that she didn’t lean in instead.

  “Most aren’t worth the effort.”

  She looked up from the bloom. “Shall I take that as a compliment because you have no problem arguing with me?”

  He offered his arm and she slid her hand over it. “Yes. But arguing with you has other benefits. I like seeing you get heated up, you make this indignant little huff. It’s discreet, and kind of cute, but still a huff.” He placed his hand over hers, holding it in place.

  “I do not.” She tugged at the hand but it was clamped against unrelenting muscle.

  “See. Just like that one. And there’s a most entrancing lift to your breasts when you do it.”

  “I did not huff.” She kept her voice calm despite wanting to grit her teeth. “And even if I did, you shouldn’t be looking at my breasts.”

  “I’ve tried not to. Believe me, I’ve tried. But like I said, they’re entrancing. And I like seeing the conflict within you, the repressed passions. Even when you sound calm, like now, your eyes give you away. They flash silvery fire. A fire that could be better directed. A fire that must be all-consuming when you make love.”

  She did her best to hide the reaction he so clearly watched and waited for. It wasn’t easy. Curiosity about what making love with him would be like flared. And Logan talking about making love, here, was too much. “Enough.” Finally she freed her hand. Now she just needed to wrest control of the conversation back. “You’ve had your fun but you can’t say that type of thing here. No matter how bored you are.” Because he was entertaining himself at her expense. She was sure of it.

  Logan guided them down another narrow side path farther away from the small crowd.

  She spoke quietly. “One of the things you need to learn about royal—”

  With a hand on her shoulder he turned her to face him and covered her lips with his and what she’d been about to say fled her mind. Her awareness slid into the sudden vortex of sensation, the feel of his lips against hers, soft and warm and seeking, his hands on her shoulders anchoring her close to the hard strength of his body. He’d been talking about making love and now his lips were on hers and her traitorous body primed by his earlier words and the images he’d sown leaped in response as his tongue teased. His grip on her tightened, something in this kiss changed, heat flared. And that quickly she knew there was nothing academic about her desire for him to tutor her. It was all physical. A compulsion that sprang from the repressed passions he’d alluded to.

  Her sun hat tumbled to the ground. And still it was several seconds before Logan broke the kiss and stepped back. His gaze darkened, then he blinked and bent to sweep up her hat, giving Rebecca precious seconds to regroup before he was again looking at her. “You were saying?” he asked.

  She could read nothing in his gaze. Nothing of the confusion that assailed her. Nothing of the arousal that flooded her. She bit her lip. Hard. “Why did you do that?” she asked, watching his lips, full of sensual promise.

  “Stop so abruptly? Because we were at our five seconds.” The lips quirked.

  She was losing control. She had to focus. Not on his lips but on his words. She looked at his ear instead. “Not stop. Start. When I was in the middle of trying to say something to you.” Darn it, he even had nice ears, curving ridges and hollows that invited touch.

  “Because I thought it was going to be a lecture, and—” he winked “—because I can.” How real was his nonchalance? The teasing light in his eyes that she’d grown accustomed to wasn’t there. And there’d been something far from nonchalant in the kiss. But she had so little to compare it to, and was far from trusting herself to interpret Logan’s state of mind. “It’s been the best part of the day so far,” he said easily.

  “Oh.” Had it? Would that it had anything like the impact on him that it did on her. She knew she’d relive it later tonight. Maybe then she’d be able to sort out what it had meant to her.

  Liar, a little voice whispered. The kiss had, without a doubt, been the best part of her day, too. And it had promised so much more. A promise that called to her, pulled at her. Logan was a window of opportunity. A window to another world.

  He glanced ahead to where the approved press photographers lurked. “And it’ll make a nice shot for the papers. We may as well give them something they can use, something that works for us, otherwise they’ll find something of their own that may not suit our purposes so well.”

  “Like you yawning?”

  “Precisely.”

  It was all about his plan, his goals, nothing more. He was so much more focused than she was. So much more in control. But perhaps that was a good—safe—thing. “Warn me next time.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can be ready.” So she didn’t melt unthinkingly i
nto his arms.

  He appeared to give her request some thought then shook his head. “I prefer the element of surprise. I like the way you’re kissing me back before you even realize what you’re doing.”

  He was standing so close still. She ought to step away. Ought to, but connection, or maybe fear, or maybe desire, held her there. She wouldn’t examine which.

  “Besides,” he said, “I was completely within the rules. Less than five seconds. And there haven’t been any others today.”

  Rules. Rules and plans and appearances. How real was anything they shared?

  He lifted her hat, placed it on her head, studied her for a second and then adjusted the angle so it was more to his liking. His arms framed her face, creating a strange intimacy between them, shutting out the rest of the world. She was about to thank him, politely, when he swooped in and planted another kiss on her lips—quick but gentle. “Technically that one may have been outside of the rules.” He stepped back, took her hand and they started walking.

  If no real sentiment was engaged didn’t that mean her own secret plan was even more viable?

  Thoughts and possibilities pursued her. For five minutes they walked in silence. All her life she’d been schooled in how to comport herself in public. But she’d had no guidance in private matters.

  A father and two brothers had been a great help in all things royal. But that was where their help ended. Hearts and hormones weren’t discussed—at least not in front of her. She’d become good friends with Rafe’s wife, Lexie. But it was still a relatively new friendship. Not the sort of deep sisterly connection she hoped they’d one day share.

  No, any next step into the unknown was hers alone.

  Could she ask Logan for more? Ask for an amendment to their agreement. A special clause. Because she wanted to know so much more. And Logan was the one who could teach her. He certainly had the…skills, and he wasn’t from here, wouldn’t be staying here. “Do you…”

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you…like…kissing me?” It wasn’t the question she’d been going to ask, but it would lead her to the answer she sought without revealing too much of her vulnerability.