Falling for the Princess (11 page)

L
ogan woke with a princess in his bed. Definitely a first. An X-rated fairy tale. His own new spin on
Lady and the Tramp.
He studied her face, softened and vulnerable with sleep. And he remembered the passion that flared between them last night. Perhaps he should have treated her with more respect, more reverence, but that choice hadn't been one he could make, nor had it been one she seemed to want.

Who knew that someone so quietly elegant could inflame and return such need and desire?

When she'd first hinted at her question yesterday in the rose garden, he'd known an onslaught of emotion. Recognized it for the double-edged sword it was, full of possibilities and pitfalls. When it looked like she might turn away he'd known there was only one answer. Any other would be unthinkable.

She had chosen him. He was humbled yet wanted to beat his chest and roar his euphoric victory.

From the time of her question, he'd been consumed by thoughts of her. Not that she hadn't already taken up an undue amount of mental space. Not that he hadn't already had fantasies. But suddenly the possibilities were real and imminent. And the pitfalls enormous.

She stirred beside him, her lips full and gently curving as though her dreams were pleasant.

Last night as he'd sat alone, he'd played his guitar—it was what he did when he needed to think. He had time to consider, to wonder—the whys of what she was asking, and whether she knew what she was getting into, and whether she was as innocent and guileless as she seemed or was in fact toying with him.

He almost hoped it was the latter. That would be simpler.

He'd put down his guitar and strolled to his window. And instead of the city view he'd seen her car. She sat in it for the longest time and he watched for the longest time, and smiled as he imagined her arguing it out with herself. She'd come this far, would she take that final step?

In the end, it occurred to him that there could be other reasons for her presence there, troubles or concerns. His mind had been so firmly on its single track that it had taken too long to think of that. So he'd called her.

Gone to her.

The sweet guilt and uncertainty on her face had given him her reason for being there.

And so they'd walked. He didn't want her feeling guilty, and he didn't want her uncertain. Because what was about to happen would change things between them, complicate them.

And as much as he ached to know her, he didn't want to
lose what they already had. More than an understanding, closer to friendship. She was a glittering jewel and she sparkled for him. She was like no one he'd known before.

He looked at her now and could only hope that she woke with regrets, agreeing that it shouldn't have happened and adamant that it couldn't happen again. That they would do their best to carry on just as they had been. It might just be possible.

They could have no future, they didn't belong in each other's worlds.

Somewhere in the night she'd talked about going back to the palace. He'd pulled her toward him and convinced her that his bed was a far better place to be.

But that was then.

He made to slide from that same bed, thinking for the first time in hours with his brain, and one that wasn't completely addled with desire.

This could be awkward. Mornings after a first time always held that potential. Particularly when it was a liaison that could have no future.

A delicate hand flattened itself low on his abdomen. Her lips curled softly upward and her eyes opened, something shy and vulnerable shining in them. Hopes and dreams. And expectations. He was going to have to hurt her. They had to wind back the clock. And he had to be the one to tell her.

She'd said only that she wanted him to teach her things and he'd agreed. He'd never have been able to refuse because hell, she turned him inside out with desire. But she was a princess. It kept coming back to that. That and the fact that, for all the royal hauteur she displayed, inside was someone far more vulnerable, someone who might think she only wanted to learn the ways of desire, but someone
who deserved, and he suspected needed, to be cherished. One who believed in fairy tales and happy ever afters.

Her hand slid tentatively lower.

He had to tell her. Now. His throat ran dry.

Long lashes dropped to screen her eyes as the hand slid lower still to wrap around the hard length of him. And he knew that he was a thousand kinds of bastard because he couldn't stop himself from reaching for her. She rolled toward him.

He was so doomed.

He wanted to watch her in the soft morning light. He wanted to see her naked beauty, her hair swinging, her eyes glazing over with passion, he wanted to grip the curve of hips as she rode him.

He wanted to satisfy her, to give her this one simple plea sure.

And so he said nothing. And then as she moved over and onto him knew that in the onslaught of sensation speech wasn't possible.

But he could give her tenderness, and completion, this woman of beauty and uncertainty who deserved so much better than him.

 

She lay pressed against him, her hair draped across his shoulder, spilling onto the pillow, and he could have sworn their hearts beat exactly in tune, gradually slowing. He had no idea what she was thinking, probably that was for the best. He hardly knew what he thought himself, other than the awareness that he'd gotten into a mess from which he needed to extricate himself. But it was the most divinely blissful mess he'd ever been in.

“I'd like—” she said quietly, then said no more.

He turned his head. She was watching him and before he knew it he'd pressed a gentle kiss to her softly parted
lips, then pulled back. “What would you like?” Right now he'd give her the world.

She caught her bottom lip in her teeth. “I'd like to make you breakfast.”

That wasn't what he'd been expecting. “Sure.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“I haven't done it often. You might have to help me. Which I know sort of defeats the purpose. Only this one time, though. After I've done it once I'll be fine for the next time.”

Just like last night.

And then as though realizing what she'd said she caught her lip again, looked away.

A woman in his bed, and not just any woman but a princess, and not just any princess, but Rebecca, and she wanted to cook for him—with his help. Maybe other magic had gone on last night than that which had occurred between the sheets.

“Sure.” Breakfast, and then he'd tell her.

“I'll just shower first. Will you wait for me?” She waited for his nod and then slid from the bed. His gaze stayed glued to the pale length of her back, the sweetly rounded behind as she walked from his room. She glanced back over her shoulder and a slow sweet smile curved her lips.

He didn't wait for her. He joined her in the shower. Joined with her.

 

Bright morning sunlight gleamed on the kitchen's dark granite surfaces and shined in Rebecca's hair as she measured ingredients into a bowl, humming to the song playing on the radio. Logan sat at the breakfast bar watching her. She'd had a change of clothes in her car, claiming that a princess was always prepared. He'd
brought the bag up for her this morning. A blue sleeveless top in some kind of silky fabric and the jeans that she really ought to wear more often. She had a figure made for jeans.

She didn't want him to do anything to help her. Except tell her how to do everything.

She'd sought…instruction last night, too. Asking him what pleased him, seeming almost uncertain about what best pleased her even, but taking delight in finding out. A quick and enthusiastic learner.

She'd wanted to make pancakes, like they'd had their first breakfast together. Logan sipped the coffee he'd made. There was something wrong with the concept and it took him a while to figure out what was sending the whispers of unease along his spine.

The domesticity, the remembrance of their first breakfast, it spoke of something more permanent than either of them had signed up for. Fear shafted through him. Fear that he could like this too much, that it filled something in him he hadn't realized was empty.

But she seemed so happy, so relaxed, that he wanted her to have this morning. Besides, she knew, just as well as he did, what they did and didn't have.

And if he was honest, he wanted it for himself, too.

Frowning in concentration, she measured ingredients.

The fact he wanted it, too, was what convinced him to move out of the kitchen. He opened his laptop on the dining table, forcing himself to read through emails and check the markets rather than watch her. Watch her hands, watch her face, watch everything about her.

She didn't understand, wouldn't because she'd had so little experience of relationships, how they worked and how they ended. How you had to not let yourself be drawn in. You had to keep a part of yourself separate and walled
off. A part that watched, from a remote—safe—internal distance.

“Who taught you to cook?” She looked over her shoulder, a smudge of flour on her jaw.

“I taught myself.”

She threw a puzzled glance his way. “Are your parents both still in Chicago?”

“In a manner of speaking. They're buried there.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” She rested the wooden spoon in the mixing bowl and took a step toward him, her face crestfallen.

“It's okay.” He held up his hand in a stop gesture. “I don't need your sympathy.” And when he saw her stiffen ever so slightly at his words, he had to try to soften them. “It was a long time ago.”

She turned back to the bowl, began stirring. “How long?”

“I was nineteen. My brothers were seventeen and fifteen.”

“But you have three brothers.”

“The twins were fifteen.”

She stopped stirring. “What did you do? What happened to you all?”

“Jack and I were old enough to take care of the twins. And we had my grandparents close by.” Though to be honest his grandparents had been more of a hindrance than a help—always criticizing, always negative. It was, he knew, their way of trying to help. It just hadn't been a particularly helpful way. “Anyway, my mom had done all the cooking when we were growing up and I mean all of it. She loved cooking, saw it as her role. It was her way of showing her love for us. Consequently there was a steep learning curve including lots of disasters and as many take-out meals as we could afford. But we got there.”

“So, you're close to your brothers?”

“Yeah.” It was something of a cliché but they'd made it through the tough times together, not without their share of drama, but those same tough times had brought them closer, made them stronger. They didn't live in each other's pockets, apart from the twins, but they were all there for each other. He watched Rebecca ladling batter into the pan, hoped she was done with the personal stuff and started thinking about ways of distracting her if she wasn't. He had to pull his own thoughts back into line. The here and now. That's where they should be. “When bubbles form and burst, you can turn them,” he said.

“Do you want children?” She didn't look up.

Okay. Not done with the personal stuff. Not by a long shot.

She looked up now, biting her lip. “Sorry. I should never have asked that. It's like because we've…” She waved her hand in the air. “I've forgotten where the boundaries are.” She turned back to the pan, a delicate pink blush rising up her cheeks. “And just so you know, it's not like I was thinking that because we…slept together I'm now wanting to be the mother of your children or anything.” She glanced at him again. Biting her lip again but this time it looked like she was doing it to stop from laughing. “I'm making this worse, aren't I?”

He nodded because for a moment dread had welled up. But his first reaction, before the dread had swamped it, had been a flicker of something more primal, something almost the opposite of dread.

“Honestly, don't worry, and stop frowning. Once you're gone and things get back to normal and Dad gives me the space to live my own life, I'm going to find my own nice man and do with him all the things we—” She pressed
elegant flour-dusted fingers over her lips. “That's so not the thing to say, either. What have you done to me?”

Apparently only things she was already planning on doing with somebody else. “It's no big deal,” he said, trying to get this conversation back to a semblance of normality, trying to be okay with the thought of her with another man. “Yeah, I'd like kids someday. When I'm not so driven by the business, when I meet the right woman and the time is right.” And that was enough talking about him and some imaginary future. “How about you?”

Rebecca set plates on the counter. “I used to think, no. That I didn't want to bring children up the way my brothers and I were brought up—by a succession of nannies and staff, no matter how kind and well-educated they were, and constantly in the public eye, but…”

“But?”

“Since Rafe married he's been finding ways to keep out of the limelight when it suits him, which is more and more often these days. And Lexie's pregnant. Which is great news for them but for me, too, because it means that instead of third in line to the throne, I'll be fourth. And then if they have other children and Adam marries and has children I get further and further down the line of succession.”

“You don't mind?”

“Mind? No, I've been looking forward to it for years. It means that interest in me—what I'm doing and wearing and saying, and who I'm seeing—will fall off. My life will become more my own. And I sometimes wonder if then perhaps I can be a mother. A normal one. If maybe I could have children and they could have a chance at a life that approaches normal. We could cook pancakes together.” She smiled, but the smile dimmed. “But I'm not even sure I'll know how to be a mother. I have so few memories of
my own. And—” she looked up “—that's way more than you wanted to know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dumped all that on you. I don't even know where it all came from. What I should have said was, yes. Just yes, or maybe. One day. What's really weird about all of this is that usually I know the right things to say and, more importantly, I usually know when to stop talking.”