Falling for the Princess (7 page)

Logan lifted his head. The shock and desire in her parted lips and in her wide eyes reflected his own.

Who knew?

He lifted a corner of his mouth in as much of a smile as he could manage right now. While his heart still pounded and blood still rushed in his veins.

“How did you do that?” she whispered.

“That wasn't me, sweetheart, that was you.” He curved his palm where it lay blissfully snared against her thigh. Then, regretting the necessity, he withdrew it.

“No.”

He nodded.

“No.” She refused to believe. “That was you. It had to be. Because if it was me it would have…”

“Would have what?”

“Happened before,” she said with a confused frown. “I have to go.” She reached for the door handle.

“Leave it. I'll get your door.” He couldn't tell her that the plunge into the conflagration that just touching his lips to hers had caused was new and different for him, too. He'd been there before. But not like this, blindsided by the chemistry, insensible to anything else.

“It's okay.” She raised her hand. About to signal a doorman? “One of the—”

“I'll get it.” He cut her off. “It's what I do when I bring a woman home from a date.”

“Oh.”

Though she was like no other woman and this was like no date he'd ever been on before. He was out and walking around the front of the car before she could change her mind. Opening her door he reached for her. She didn't take his hand. “Afraid of me, Princess?”

She straightened to her full height. Even in her heels she was only somewhere between his chin and his nose. But somehow she managed to look down her nose. “Yes, Logan. I think I am.” A gentle breeze swept a tendril of hair across her lips. She reached for it before he could and tucked it behind her ear, denying him that excuse of touching her further.

Her candor surprised him. He'd expected her to bluff her way out with royal composure. Not to admit that she was unsettled. Afraid of him. He reached for the hands she'd kept from him. “Don't be.” Soon they would be someplace where they had time to explore what sizzled between them. Where he had time to explore
her.

“I don't see how I can't be. That…” She inclined her head toward the car, the jerky movement a far cry from
her normal gracefulness. “That. You. What happened. The way I forgot about everything.”

“That's what's supposed to happen when you kiss someone.” Admittedly it didn't always. And almost never so completely and so quickly.

“In books.”

“In life.” There was a faint tremor to the hands he held. Again the conflict. Soothe away the tremors or make her tremble all over? For him.

“Not to me.”

“Ever?”

She shook her head. Her eyelids dropped, shielding her gaze. In the distance the tower clock chimed.

That it hadn't happened before, but had happened with him, pleased him inordinately.

“I stay in control. It's who I am. It's everything.” She said the words with a vehemence that was perhaps meant to convince herself as well as him.

He waited until she looked back at him, caught and held her gaze. So serious, so wary. “I can respect that. I like control, too. But there are times when it's overrated and times when it's just plain wrong.” He dropped his voice. “Like when making love.” Her eyelids lowered. And he knew that, like him, she, too, was imagining what that might be like between them. He'd never expected things to get this far this fast between them, like fireworks bursting into life at the touch of a match, flaming gloriously, belying a simple exterior.

She took a step back from him, gave a small shake to her head, but tellingly left her hands in his and her eyes on his face—searching for something. Confirmation, reassurance, promise? He didn't know which or how much of any he could give her. He just knew that against reason and judgment he wanted—almost desperately—to make
love with her. And when they did there would be nothing controlled about it.

Dropping one hand, he led her to her door and she turned to him. “Good night.” She was struggling to put back in place the barriers they'd broken through tonight. She might not know it but they were broken for good. Some fences couldn't be mended.

“Good night? You're not inviting me in?” He kept his tone light, teasing. He didn't want to frighten her with the sudden intensity of his desire for her, and he didn't want her to realize his weakness for her. She still had some figuring out to do. For that matter, if he was sensible, so did he.

The crown prince's warning and his concerns for his daughter rang in Logan's ears. If they took this further the potential for hurt grew exponentially. And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

“No.” Her eyes darted to the various staff standing discreet distances away, and doing their best to appear invisible. “It wouldn't be appropriate.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. Kissed her jaw once. Then whispered in her ear, even as he inhaled one last breath of her scent and spoke on impulse, “No. I'd make sure it was anything but appropriate.”

R
ebecca finally had it figured out by the time she finished her shower the next morning. She ought to have—she'd spent enough hours tossing and turning through the night thinking of Logan and their…situation. His kisses and what they did to her. She dried herself off, hopping as she patted the towel beneath her foot. He was so unlike any other man she'd known that he kept her off balance.

Planting her feet firmly on the cool marble she looked sternly in the mirror, willing conviction and strength into her expression. Sometimes you just had to look like you were in control to convince other people you were and even to believe it yourself. It wasn't, however, a strategy that was working today.

Because of the unpredictable impact Logan had on her thought processes, on her senses and even on her body, she would have to keep him at a distance emotionally. Which
shouldn't be too hard because he didn't strike her as the sort to encourage deep emotions.

She dropped the towel and reached for the body lotion. In their remaining weeks together, an insistent voice whispered, maybe he could teach her…things, show her…things. Things that weren't deep and meaningful or emotional, but things that were shallow and physical. Things no one had ever thought to show a princess and things a princess had never thought, or dared to ask. They would have their scheduled dates and there would be private moments.

Like last night.

She could ask him to…tutor her.

She smoothed the scented lotion on her legs and remembered the touch of Logan's palm on her thigh in the darkness. Gently abrasive and fiercely seductive. Banishing the recollection she pulled silk underwear on—and was reminded again.

She caught her reflection, the uncertainty on her face, in the full-length mirror. She turned to the side, stood straighter. It was a long time since she'd really looked at herself. She wasn't tall and willowy like the model girlfriends her brother dated or the type of women Logan had gravitated toward when she'd watched him socially. But there was nothing overtly wrong with her, nothing that makeup and well-tailored clothes couldn't compensate for. And she had to hope that within the confines of their agreement, what she could offer him in return was enough.

She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and examined the effect. Maybe she could pretend for a time to be normal, to be the type of woman a man like him, who, despite phenomenal financial success, still enjoyed life's simple pleasures, might go out with.

Because clearly the woman she actually was, a princess
whose life was governed by rules and protocol, was not that type of woman.

She tried to imagine herself in jeans and a T-shirt.

She'd always been curious about what life outside the confines of her role might be like. Logan, more than any other man she knew, could give her a taste of that. If in doing so she kept her father's matchmaking at bay and helped Logan achieve what he wanted in San Philippe, then it was, as he'd called it, a win-win situation.

Her phone rang. Logan's number showed on the screen. As if she'd conjured him. Had he been thinking of her?

“I need to see you again,” he said when she answered. “Soon.”

Her heart gave a girlish flutter at his use of the word
need.
Ridiculous. She wasn't a teenager. She was supposed to be mature and dignified. At all times. Rebecca looked away from the bright hope in her reflection. Away from the fact that she wore only her underwear while she was speaking to him. A concept that seemed almost scandalous and, well, just a little bit exciting. As were his words.

“We could go out to dinner tonight,” she suggested.

“It needs to be something your father will be present at.”

The glimmering bubble of delusion burst. Rebecca turned away from the mirror. “Ah.”

“I have an unscheduled meeting with leBlanc Industries next week. And one of the members of the board of directors and the main opponent to leBlanc signing with me will be there. He's an ardent royalist believing firmly in tradition and connections. If I've been seen with you
and
your father, it'll help my cause.”

She was a means to an end for Logan. She had to remember that. This was business for him. “He's careful about being seen to sanction individuals.”

“But he'd do it for you?”

“He might, yes.” He would if she asked.

“I'm not asking for an audience with him, just to be seen with you, at something he's at.”

This was their agreement. Rebecca pushed aside her disappointment and mentally sifted through what she could remember of her schedule, specifically events at which her father would also be present. “There's not much coming up that you could attend.”

“I don't care what it is. It just needs to be soon.”

Walking through to her bedroom, she called up her schedule on her organizer. “There is one thing on this Thursday afternoon, and it's semipublic so my father won't be too concerned about you being there,” she said hesitantly, “but I don't know that it's your kind of thing.”

“Whatever it is. Count me in.”

 

“Thank you. I think.” Logan spoke the words through partially gritted teeth and Rebecca smiled.

He sat by her side under the white silk canopy shading the temporary stage. A “new rose” walk in the San Philippe botanical gardens was being dedicated today and each of the seven rose breeders who'd developed one of the feature roses in the walk had been invited to explain the genesis and naming of each flower. They were passionate about their craft and their blooms. And each one of them strove to outdo the others, to demonstrate his or her depth of skill and knowledge, part science, part art, part magic.

But all seven of them speaking, it was too much, even for her. Most of the guests did their best to look riveted but many were fidgeting. And those were just the ones Rebecca could see from her elevated position. Doubtless there were those fighting sleep in the back rows warmed by the sun and lulled by the speakers.

Which reminded her of Logan. Worried, she glanced at him. His eyes were open though a little glazed. Sensing her scrutiny, he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. His scent tempting, beguiling, making her want to close her eyes and inhale deeply. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“I was wondering how the Cubs will do this season.”

Figured he wouldn't be contemplating the subtleties of rose breeding. Not that she blamed him. She'd like to see a baseball game one day. See what all the fuss was about. She imagined sitting next to Logan at a game as opposed to the opening of a rose walk, and didn't need any special knowledge to know it would be an entirely different experience,
he
would be a different man. Keyed up, sitting forward in his seat. “If it keeps you from snoring I guess it's a good thing.”

“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 at
tending. 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?”