Falling for the Princess (3 page)

She wouldn't think about her brother Rafe's whirlwind romance with Lexie, his wife. The woman he'd fallen head over heels in love with. Nothing Rafe did was ever ordinary.

She knew better than to let Logan get under her skin, and yet he had. She gently slapped her hand on the table. Time to forget about him. It was over. He was gone.

Voices drifted from the room behind her. The lilting accent of Colleen, the proprietor, and someone quieter, a man whose deeper voice didn't carry so well.

Sensation tingled from her scalp and down her spine. Slowly, Rebecca turned her head. Logan lounged against the side of the open ranch slider. He wore jeans and a navy blue T-shirt and had yet to shave. He held two steaming mugs in his large hands. Dark glasses hid his eyes but a grin tugged at one side of his mouth. So male, so appealing, so…antagonizing. If only he wasn't Logan. Much as she wanted to, she didn't leap from her chair. Instead she turned back to the view. “What are you doing here?”

He strolled into her line of sight, placed a mug in front of her then hitched a hip onto the railing. “I'm staying here. It's so restful, don't you think?”

She frowned. “You followed me here last night.”

“I think you'll find, Princess, that I booked in yesterday an hour or two before you.”

“How did you know I was coming here?”

“This is you being stealthy?” He looked about them, shaking his head. “Put it this way, if you ever decide to take up a false identity or go on the run, get someone else to advise you.”

Rebecca closed her eyes and counted silently. When she reached ten she opened them again. “Nobody, except palace security and possibly my father, if he's asked to stay briefed, knows I'm here. And I can't believe that either of them told you where I am.”

“Rafe knows, too. He stayed here a year or so ago.” Rafe, for reasons she couldn't fathom, was good friends with Logan. “I visited him while he was here and decided if I was ever back in the country…” He sipped his drink. “Colleen makes the best coffee. I remember that, too.”

“What are you doing here—” she tapped the table “—now, annoying me?”

“I thought I'd see if you'd had time to consider my suggestion.”

“It's like talking to a brick wall.” Except brick walls didn't watch her with such casual nonchalance. A non cha-lance that nevertheless concealed an unnerving intensity, and an implacable force of will. “I gave you my answer last night.”

“You thanked me for your meal and left.”

“I walked out on you.” She spoke calmly, fighting a most unroyal urge to shout. Five minutes with this man and a lifetime of training went out the window.

“You needed time to think about it.”

“I knew my answer by the time you'd finished your explanation.”

“You can't possibly have thought it through properly. It's the perfect solution. I was sure you were smart enough to figure that out, even if it took you a few hours.”

“Truly, you're astounding.”

He grinned. “Why, thank you.”

“It wasn't a compliment.”

“Insults, compliments, it's all in the interpretation. Now, back to my suggestion.”

“You can't for one minute think I'd choose to endure your company just—”

“
Endure
seems a harsh word. I thought we might even manage to have fun, particularly if we mainly do things that don't require us to talk to each other. We can attend things like the rowing regatta, where we'll sit side by side. You can occasionally lean over to whisper in my ear.”

She tried to figure him out but had no idea whether he might actually be serious or was just trying to get a reaction from her. She'd seen him do that before, say
deliberately provoking things guaranteed to garner a response.

She wasn't playing that game with him.

“You go right on deceiving yourself, Logan, but trust me when I say I choose my words carefully to express precisely what I mean. And spending any amount of time in your company, particularly if I was supposed to look like I was enjoying it, would be a supreme test.”

“My apologies.” He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. “Go on.”

He watched her closely, his dark eyes intent and looking anything but apologetic. She doubted he knew how. “I wouldn't choose to
endure
your company for any length of time in order to try to deceive my father that way.” Rebecca wrapped her hands around her mug of—she glanced down at it—hot chocolate. Oh. “Thank you.”

He ignored her thanks. “Your father has no qualms about trying to force you into marrying someone of his choosing.”

“He'd never actually force me.”

“No?”

“He might try to urge or maneuver me in certain directions.”

“Sounds mighty similar to forcing.”

In truth, the subtle pressures her father brought to bear did at times feel that way. But it wasn't a truth she'd admit to Logan. “No,” she said lightly, “I'm used to him. I know how to deal with him. And with any other man who tries to force me, subtly or unsubtly—” she looked pointedly at Logan “—into doing things his way.”

“By running away?”

She paused. “In this case, some time away from San Philippe seemed the best option. It gives us both time to
think.” Enough time, she was hoping, that her father would forget his schemes altogether.

“Curious.”

“What's so curious about it?”

“It just doesn't seem to tally with that snippet on the internet this morning.”

She shouldn't let him play her like this but she asked anyway. “What snippet?”

“He's holding an impromptu ball in your honor.”

He was? There had been no talk of one before she'd left. Her father was fond of making unilateral decisions but when they concerned Rebecca he always consulted her. Almost always. Doubt gnawed at her. He just might feel strongly enough about this and would have been able to persuade himself that it was for her own good, that she'd enjoy it, just as she had the surprise parties he'd thrown for her as she was growing up. “That's no big deal,” she said with a blitheness she didn't feel. “He held one for me when I turned eighteen.” Eight years ago.

“Yes, but he wasn't specifically inviting San Philippe's and Europe's most eligible bachelors to that one. Was he? Marcia What's-her-name, the gossip columnist at the
San Philippe Times
is comparing it to the Cinderella story. Perhaps there's some poor bachelor out there as we speak, sitting in front of the fire amongst the cinders, polishing his half-brother's shoes and just waiting for a chance to go to the ball and win the heart of the fair princess. If only he had something to wear.”

She almost smiled at the image he conjured. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure you're wrong. My father has said nothing about a ball to me. And inviting eligible bachelors would be far too crass.” But still the doubt niggled at her. She
had
told her father she'd start at least considering potential suitors when she got back from this trip. She'd
meant it to buy herself time, not for her father to go ahead and start organizing balls on her behalf.

“I suppose you're right.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, scanned the screen for a few seconds and shook his head. “Marcia What's-her-name must have it all wrong. But it's right here in black and white. Actually, in color. Isn't technology marvelous.”

“Show me.”

“Surely you know better than to believe half of what you read in the press.”

“Show me.” She held out her hand.

He slid the device back into his pocket. “You'll only get upset. No doubt she'll print a retraction tomorrow.”

But Rebecca knew that Marcia Roundel not only had excellent sources, but was also careful not to raise the ire of the royal family.

Colleen came out carrying two plates of breakfast and set them down on the small table.

“Thank you.”

Rebecca hadn't ordered breakfast and certainly wouldn't have ordered the great stack of pancakes that had just been set before her. She opened her mouth to speak.

“This looks fabulous.” Logan spoke before she could. And Colleen smiled so broadly at him and then Rebecca that she didn't have the heart to tell her she didn't want the breakfast. Usually she ate little more than a croissant or fruit and yogurt. But she could try a few mouthfuls.

“This is your doing, I take it?”

“She makes the best pancakes.”

“Why is everything superlative with you? Last night's crayfish and wine were the best, her coffee's the best and now her pancakes are the best.”

For a second his face clouded, the expression quickly
replaced by his usual self-assurance. “Try them and then disagree with me. I dare you.”

“You have brothers, don't you? It's such a male thing, thinking if you dare someone to do something they couldn't possibly not accept the challenge. Rafe and Adam used to do it all the time.”

“Three. I have three brothers. All younger than me. And daring them still works almost every time.”

It was easy to imagine him in a houseful of competitive males. Rebecca looked at the stack of blueberry pancakes in front of her. “It won't be hard for you to be right this time—I've never eaten pancakes.”

Logan gasped. “I knew you'd try to make me feel sorry for you. Poor little rich girl. Poor spoiled princess. But truly? No pancakes?”

“Crepes, yes. Pancakes, no.”

“Crepes.” He made a dismissive grunt as he pulled his chair around the table so that they sat practically shoulder-to-shoulder. He smelled good. Better even than the pancakes. Something fresh and masculine. Not meaning to, she watched the play of muscle in his arms as he reached for the jug of maple syrup. Closing large deft fingers around the small handle, he passed it to her. “You have to have maple syrup. And lots of it.” For the first time since she'd seen him yesterday his focus was on something other than her. Rebecca made no move for the syrup.

He turned to look at her, his expression deadly serious. And then suddenly he smiled, a flash of white teeth, and it was like the sun coming out. Once again she pictured him as a boy with his three brothers, all of them intent on their breakfasts. She imagined laughter and arguments. Without thinking she smiled back at him.

The connection lasted no more than a second. They were
so close, both smiling, gazes locked. It was a fragment of perfection. Related to nothing, just its own small thing.

Something curious flashed in Logan's eyes, but then he blinked, the expression vanished and he leaned back in his seat, moved a little away from her. And she felt the loss. “I take my pancakes seriously.”

“I picked up on that.”

He turned his attention to his own breakfast. “Try them or not. It makes no difference to me.” Suddenly defensive, as though in smiling at her he, too, had revealed a weakness, he shifted his chair and opened the paper Colleen had brought out with their meals. “There'll be others after me, you know, if you don't take up my offer,” he said as he turned the front page.

Rebecca ignored him and tried a mouthful of syrup-drenched pancakes. They were every bit as good as she'd been led to believe. But she wasn't going to tell Logan that. He was far too sure of himself as it was. She ate almost the entire plateful before she gave up, defeated.

“What do you think?”

“They were fine.”

He smiled. Not his earlier, almost boyish smile. This one knowing, unsettling and far too smug. “They were better than fine, but that's not what I was asking about.”

“You can't mean your…suggestion?” What did she have to do or say to get through to him?

“That's exactly what I mean.”

“Nothing you've said since last night has convinced me to change my mind.”

He shook his head. “You haven't thought it through.”

“Logan, you don't even like me.” And she didn't care for him. He was too different, too unpredictable and unsettling.

“That's why it's the perfect solution.”

She hadn't expected him to disagree with her, but still it hurt—just a little.

“You don't like me, I don't like you. If you were to try my idea with one of the other candidates on your father's list they'd undoubtedly take it wrong. They'd see it as an opportunity to get closer to you. Whereas our arrangement will be strictly regulated and strictly business.”

He might have a point. But it wasn't enough.

“I have motives but they're not ulterior. And I have no feelings that can be hurt. Call me—” he stood and placed a business card on the table between them “—when you change your mind.”

Rebecca didn't even have time for a royal putdown before he'd gone. Leaving a strange absence. But she didn't let herself breathe a sigh of relief until five minutes later when a solitary figure walking away from the B & B came into view on the beach, the long easy stride instantly recognizable.

Then, not touching his card, she left not only the table, but also the B & B.

And on her way out ordered herself to leave all thoughts of Logan Buchanan behind.

“Y
es. I think it could be serious.” Rebecca crossed the fingers of her free hand. “Dad, I'm losing the signal. I'll tell you more about it later.” As the water taxi motored toward the mainland, Rebecca turned off her phone and dropped her head into her hands.

One day. For one day she'd thought she was back in control. Admittedly a day that she'd spent looking over her shoulder half expecting Logan Buchanan to stroll out from behind the nearest tree.

Because Logan had been right, and he'd known it. Her father was hosting a ball in her honor. Under various pretexts, eligible bachelors from all over Europe had been invited. He'd denied that that was what he was doing but the denial didn't hide the facts of the guest list. And every one of the men her father considered suitable husband material for her and suitable son-in-law material for himself was on that list.

She'd received mail this morning. Colleen, far too efficient, had couriered Logan's card to her with a note that she'd left it on the table. Rebecca had thrown it out then turned around and retrieved it from the trash after Eduardo had called her. The son of a prominent San Philippe senator, Eduardo wanted to escort her to the ballet when she returned home. She'd been out twice with Eduardo several years ago. It wasn't an experience she cared to repeat. She'd formulated a diplomatic, but resolute, refusal. But mere minutes after she declined Eduardo's offer her father had called with his “wonderful” news. He also told her to expect a call from Simon Delacourte, who wanted her to accompany him to the opening of his latest jewelry store in Venice. Rebecca could think of only one way out. She told her father she was seeing someone. And when he'd asked who, she'd said Logan.

So now she just had to tell Logan himself.

Slowly, she dialed the number on the card. It was a lousy choice but he was the lesser of two evils. “It's Rebecca,” she said when he answered.

“Rebecca who?”

She hung up. He knew who she was. He had to. She stared at the phone. The lesser of two evils was still evil. A second, better, thought occurred to her. She could buy her self time by just pretending to her father that she was dating Logan. Her father didn't need to know that she wasn't really, and Logan didn't need to know at all.

The perfect solution.

Ten minutes later her phone rang. “Logan here.”

“Logan who?”

He laughed. “Logan Buchanan, the man you're dating.”

She watched the churning wake stretching behind the boat. “I'm not dating you.”

“Funny, because I just had the strangest phone call from
your father. He wants to see me as soon as I'm back in San Philippe. Apparently there's a talk he likes to have with all men who want to date his daughter.”

Rebecca groaned.

“The call came through just a minute or two after you hung up on me.”

“Oh.” She bit back the words she wanted to utter.

“Care to enlighten me, girlfriend?”

“Don't call me that.”

“Sweet thing? Punkin?
Ma chérie?
”

She could always call her father back and tell him she'd broken up with Logan.

“Is that your teeth I can hear grinding?”

Rebecca unclenched her jaw. “I'm sorry, Logan. I've made a mistake.”

“I knew you'd see the error of your ways.”

“Not that mistake—decision,” she corrected herself. “I made one this morning when I was speaking to my father. On the spur of the moment I told him that—”

“Where are you?”

“In Russell, in the Bay of Islands.” Or she would be in a matter of minutes when the water taxi docked.

“Are you going to be there for the whole day?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Good. I'll be there in two hours. We need to have this conversation in person. Stay where you are. Read a magazine or a book or something. I'll call you when I get there.”

“No. Don't—” But it was too late. He'd hung up.

She didn't have to stay. She could just phone him back. A text came through from Eduardo suggesting they get together to discuss a charity they both sat on the board of, the pretext transparent. She didn't leave and she didn't
phone Logan back. Instead she wandered around Russell, trying to enjoy the anonymity as she waited.

Her broad-brimmed sun hat shaded her face as, two hours later, she stood on the main wharf watching yachts and launches and fishing boats coming and going in the harbor. A few feet away two boys dangled fishing lines into the water. Her phone rang. Already she recognized the number. “I'm on the wharf.”

“I know.” The voice sounded from both her phone and from behind her.

She stayed where she was, looking out over the water as Logan come to stand beside her, casting his shadow over hers. “So this relationship we're having…?” Was that smug amusement she heard in his tone?

“I told my father I was dating you in the hope he'd cancel the ball. Apparently it's too late for that. I didn't know he'd phone you.”

An old-fashioned sailing ship with rigging and square sails slid through the water toward the wharf. Men scurried over the decks and up the rigging. The ship wasn't sleek and shiny like the other boats around but it had its own charm and beauty. If she focused hard enough on it she could almost forget about the man at her side.

“It doesn't work that way, Princess. Telling him that gets you what you want but there's nothing in it for me. Plus it's a stopgap measure. With no public appearances it'll only buy you a couple of weeks at best.”

“You think I don't know that. I was desperate.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“So it would seem.” The sailing ship—
Shanghai,
according to the faded green lettering on its side—drew up to the wharf with a grace and precision she wouldn't have thought possible from such an old craft.

“It doesn't have to be a measure taken in desperation.”
Logan's voice was low and thoughtful. “You know where you stand with me. After a lifetime of subtlety and under-handed political maneuvering I'll be an uncomplicated change. I also make you look good. We're an intriguing contrast. My rugged looks with your delicate—”

“I'm still going with desperation, pure and simple.” She turned to face him. Rugged? Not exactly, but there was something elementally masculine about him. He was nothing like the few men she'd dated, who all had a far more polished veneer of sophistication. Logan was tanned with a lean muscular strength. He had a look about him that said he was a man who made his own way in the world.

“Suit yourself,” he said easily. “Desperation works just as well for my purposes.”

A man on the
Shanghai,
with arms like Popeye, threw a rope to a teenager on the wharf. The throw went wide and Logan reached for her as she stepped out of the way and came up against him. For just a second his arm tightened around her waist, his shoulder cushioned her head and her body pressed flush against his, her back to his chest. For a second, everything within her stilled. They stepped apart at the same time and turned to watch the teen secure the heavy rope around a bollard. Rebecca used the precious minute to regain her equilibrium after the unintentional intimacy. By that time more people had gathered around them. Touching a hand to her back, Logan guided her out of the small crowd.

Farther along they stopped and watched as out in the harbor a speedboat towed a parasailor. How would it feel soaring high and fast? Too perilous for her tastes and yet here she was contemplating doing something that in its own way was just as daunting.

“I have a list of occasions I need to be seen with you
at,” he said, all business. “You're welcome to add more of your own. Within limits.”

“Within limits?” Oh, how the balance of power had changed.

“Yes. I don't want you getting all demanding and expecting too much. I won't do the opera and I won't go shopping with you or make nice to your sycophantic friends.”

Could she push him in the water? She might lack his strength but she'd have the element of surprise on her side. He could insult her all he liked but she wasn't having him insult her friends. “My friends aren't sycophantic.”

“I'm pleased to hear it, for your sake. But I still don't want to have to make nice to them. One spoiled woman is enough.”

“Spoiled?”

“Admit that much at least. You're a princess, how could it be otherwise?”

Who knew? Maybe he was right. But it didn't win him any points. “Do you even think this can work?”

“Of course it can,” he said with the assurance that seemed inherent in him. Did he ever doubt himself?

“But we're so different.”

“That's the beauty of it. Won't it be refreshing to be with someone different? There needn't be any pretense, except in public. And who you can be honest with in return. You can say what you actually think. Nothing will offend me. Nothing will go further than me. It won't damage political relations or cause a diplomatic uproar. Try it.”

It was almost tempting. But she'd had a lifetime of keeping her thoughts hidden. And much as she might get some kind of pleasure from pointing out to Logan just how overbearing he was being, not to mention insulting, she wasn't going to do it. She couldn't.

He nudged her with his elbow. “Go on. You can do it. I'll bet you've got a long list of fancy words you'd like to call me. Tell me I'm insufferable and deplorable. You know you want to. I've never been called names by a princess.”

“That's the difference between you and me. Good manners. Breeding, some might say.”

He looked sharply at her, then guided her out of the way of a kid on bicycle heading straight for them. “What do you know about me?”

They strolled to the other side of the wharf. “I know you're a successful entrepreneur, your primary business is systems design but you have diversified business interests in many countries. But not, I think, New Zealand. And I know you're a friend of Rafe's—which, trust me, is not in itself a recommendation. I also know you think monarchy is an outdated and elitist concept. And that's everything. Apart from the fact that you think extremely highly of yourself. So all in all I know very little. Which is all the more reason to make what you're proposing and I seem to be considering ridiculous.”

“You've gone past the stage of considering if you've told your father you're seeing me.”

“But only just past it. I'm definitely still in the ‘perhaps I've made a mistake and should back out' stage. Is there more I should know before I get any further into this?”

“You mean am I going to give you the reason or excuse you need not to do this? No. I'm certainly not the type of man you've dated before. My background's not great, very common, very poor, in fact, but there's nothing seriously unsavory in it. Nothing that will reflect badly on you.”

“I'm pleased to hear it.”

“So, let's get this show on the road. We need some where private where we can discuss the terms of our arrangement.”

“Terms? There are going to be terms?”

“Of course. Think of it as setting out our mutual agreement.”

“That's insane. We're only going to be pretend dating.”

“But we both need to be clear on what we expect. Because it's not dating. I want all the parameters in place. It's for your own protection as well as mine.”

A middle-aged woman on the wharf ahead of them nudged her partner and pointed at Rebecca. As her partner lifted a camera, Logan deftly turned Rebecca around.

He took her hand and walked her toward the land end of the wharf. “I thought you'd want people getting shots of us.” She'd half expected to be ambushed by photographers the instant Logan had appeared at her side.

“I do. But not until you've said yes unequivocally. Not until you've admitted to yourself that this is what you need and want to do. After that there will undoubtedly be photos. Lots of them.”

“So you're not going to just bully me into this by making it seem the only option?” Did he know he still held her hand? His larger, calloused fingers engulfed hers, his self-assurance evident in even his grip. He was clearly too used to taking control, and she would have to be vigilant about protecting her own interests. No one else was going to do it for her.

“It's not your only option but it is your best option. I've thought it through from both of our points of view. It has to be a win-win situation or it'll never work. But the sooner it starts the sooner it's over. Where are you staying?”

Rebecca sighed. He was right. Delaying beginning only delayed the end. Once they broke up she would be given space and privacy and most importantly time. “Friends have a place on one of the islands.”

“George and Therese? I thought they were in South America.”

Of course he knew them. Though Therese was one of Rebecca's best friends, George was one of Rafe's. And if Rafe knew them, then odds were that Logan did, too. “They are.”

“I'll come out there with you now. A little privacy while we get this hammered out will be a good thing. I want our public appearances carefully planned.”

“And no more than necessary.”

“My thoughts exactly. See, we're on the same page already. We'll be able to make this work.”

For the first time a flicker of hope replaced the desperation. Maybe they really could make it work.

One hour later, shaded by an enormous market umbrella, they sat on sun loungers by the pool. Though summer was officially over, it lingered on in the balmy temperatures. Rebecca, wearing shorts and a loose blouse, sat more upright than Logan with a notepad on her lap and a pen in her hand. Logan had a notepad, too—she'd given it to him. The difference being that his was lying on his face to block the light.