The Princess and the Bodyguard (5 page)

“When are you planning on getting started?” Peter asked once they exited the building.

“I’ve already ordered some of the things I’m going to need—tables, sewing machines—and a bunch of other stuff you couldn’t possibly be interested in. A team of workers will begin in the morning with the painting and to update the lighting to what I’ll need, and I’ll be interviewing for staff beginning next week.”

“Yeah, about that.” Peter stopped with his hand on the car door, but didn’t immediately open it for her. Instead, he braced for a verbal explosion. “I’ll need to see all the applications of those you’d like to interview, ahead of time.”

“They’ll be on your desk tomorrow.”

“What, no temper tantrum?” He regretted the words immediately. The easy, relaxed smile slipped from her face, replaced by a look he’d never seen before. Not answering, she turned her back to him and waited until he opened the car door. Then she slid inside, across the seat, and fixed her attention on some point outside her window.

“I’m sorry, Rachel. That remark was uncalled for.”

“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

That
was the problem. He knew enough about human nature to understand the good-hearted barbs tossed her way over the years by the members of her family had too often found their mark. Rachel hadn’t been a self-confident girl when he met her. From what he’d heard over the years about the late queen, he figured he understood why. He also realized that no one in the family—with the possible exception of her brother Philip—realized how truly thin her skin had been. No bloody wonder she’d fallen prey to the vermin she had in the past.

Now, despite avoiding being alone with her, and trying very hard to get pictures of her gloriously naked body rising over him out of his mind, he knew he needed to make amends.

“You’ve just signed a lease. The Couturier House of de la Croix has been born. Let’s celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

She looked at him with such wide, hope-filled eyes that he thought he might not be the only one who felt a certain attraction.

“Yeah. How about Francine’s?” he said, naming a popular café frequented by the young professional crowd. Although he’d not been there in a couple of years, members of his staff said it had the best espresso and the best chocolate cake in all of Boisdemer. Well, except for the palace.

“Thank you, Peter. That sounds perfect.”

Rachel’s pleased smile was worth any personal discomfort he might feel spending time alone with her. He hoped.

* * * *

She tried not to smile too broadly the moment she stepped into the café. Francine’s had changed during the three years since she’d last come. Redecorated in soft earth tones, its open tables had been replaced by intimate clusters of loveseats, easy chairs, and booths.

Rachel could tell by the look on Peter’s face he wasn’t pleased, though she had no idea if his scowl was due to personal or professional considerations. He waived the hostess off and walked toward a settee in the corner. “I like to be able to keep a bit of an eye on the door and my back to the wall,” he explained as he waited for her to sit.

“You’re awfully cautious.”

“The nature of the beast, I guess.”

A waiter came to the table, and Rachel ordered a plain café au
lait
. Peter opted for an espresso. Neither wanted the chocolate torte, the featured dessert of the day.

So far, their conversation sounded entirely too much like bodyguard to princess. Rachel wanted to bring it to a more personal level. The lighting barely existed, the music was soft blues, and not even a full cushion separated them.

She didn’t really know how to lower the barriers he had erected between them. So she seized on the obvious.

“How do you feel about your sister marrying my brother?”

His smile flashed and did strange things to her insides. “That was a hell of a shock, getting that call from Michael telling me to get my ass home from vacation because my family, whom I hadn’t seen in a decade, had arrived in Boisdemer.”

Then he slowly sobered. “I hadn’t seen Catharine since she was twelve. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve had the opportunity to get to know her. I like her, a lot. And I think Philip is perfect for her.”

“She’s not much older than I am, and I think she’s amazing. And Jamie is so adorable. She’s a good mom.”

“Yeah, she is. What were you thinking about?”

Rachel wondered if she would ever get used to the way Peter jumped from topic to topic. Usually, she had no trouble following him. This time, she was lost.

“When?”

“Back in my office, when I showed you the second letter. After you read it, you told me you weren’t going to crawl into a corner and whimper like a child. And then you went white as a ghost. You thought of something, and I want to know what.”

He was good. She’d almost forgotten the moment. His reminder brought it front and center. She waited while the server set their drinks before them. Then she opted for honesty.

“Saying those words to you reminded me of this weird nightmare I have sometimes, that’s all.”

She picked up her cup, sipped, and tried to forget that he stared at her. After another moment she set her cup down, unnerved.

“
Merde
! I don’t like to talk about my nightmares, all right?”

The silence, heavy and expectant, began to nibble at her control. Finally, Peter sighed.

“For about five years after my father died, I had this dream every few weeks. We’d be arguing over nothing, like we always did, our voices getting louder and louder. And then he would collapse, clutching his chest, and I’d just turn and walk away. Damn dream stripped me bare, emotionally, every time.”

“It didn’t really happen that way, did it? Your father’s death?”

Her attention totally focused on him, so she caught his slight wince. “No. He died in his sleep. Only forty, and then suddenly—gone. He and I fought—man, did we fight. And I thought, at the time, our fighting must have been the biggest cause of his death. I
did
walk away. After the funeral. But my point is, I know what it’s like to be tortured by nightmares—and regrets.”

For a long moment, Rachel felt torn. Part of her wanted to hug him. There’d been such stark pain on his face. But she was afraid, so desperately afraid of rejection.

He’d shared something with her that she doubted he’d shared with anyone else. He’d given her a piece of himself, and she wanted to return the favor.

“I don’t know where the dream comes from, or what it means. I’ve been having it for more than a year. In the dream, I’m curled up in a corner somewhere, it’s cold and filthy and I can hear scratching. I’m trying to be as small as I can be so they don’t notice me. But I don’t know who
they
are. And then I wake up. Sometimes, shaking and crying.” Recounting it now made her shiver.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She felt Peter’s concerned gaze and the brush of his hand across her cheek. Unable to do anything else, she turned toward that touch, all the hunger she’d ever felt for him flooding her bloodstream.

The thought that he shared in this hunger shimmered through her. The look in his eyes, as he stared into hers, spoke volumes. In that moment, everything paled, became nothing more than echoes of reality. The soft tones of the music playing over the café’s sound system gave way to a heavy exotic beat, the pounding of desire. The need to taste him, to finally,
finally
, put her mouth on his was overwhelming. Even as she leaned forward, she watched him struggle for control, struggle to pull himself out of the sensual haze that had enveloped them both. Fear of rejection disintegrated. When he moved that bare fraction of an inch back, she tossed out all dignity and begged.

“
Please
.”

* * * *

The ragged sound of her whispered plea singed the edge of his control. This was insane, something he’d promised himself he’d never do, and to hell with the longing for her that had, over the years, become woven deep into his soul. And then he looked into her eyes and knew he’d lost the struggle.

One taste. Just one taste
. Reason fled. He cupped her face, he moved a tiny bit closer. In that part of his mind that registered everything, he saw that no one watched them, and that Rachel strained to move closer to him. And then his mouth took hers, his tongue delving deep, frantic to taste all of her. If there could only be this one kiss, it had to be enough to last a lifetime.

Coffee and sex.
She tasted like coffee and sex, and he didn’t give one good damn about anything else in the entire world but tasting more of her. Barely aware that he’d pulled her closer, he felt her arms slide around his neck, became aware of the hard buttons of her nipples pressing into his chest, and knew they’d branded him with a mark that would be with him forever. Hands reveled in the silky texture of hair he’d pictured too many times on his pillow, and his penis, always at half mast when near Rachel, throbbed in answer to a call old as time.

Slowly, torturously, he weaned his lips from hers and forced himself to sit back.

He never should have touched her. He needed distance, and he needed it now. “I never should have done that, Your Highness. My behavior was completely out of line. I apologize.”

Rachel blinked a couple of times, and the sight of her eyes, once heavy with passion and now clearing slowly and edging into hurt, sliced him to the bone. Then she lifted her chin, and when she spoke, a chill laced her words. “Thank you for taking pity on me. I think it’s time we left.”

Rachel was wrong. It wasn’t time, Peter knew. It was far, far too late.

* * * *

From across the street, the stalker watched. Sheer luck found her driving past the building on Rue
Villeneuve
when the runt and her lapdog had emerged. Following them for the short distance had been easy. Too dangerous to go into the café. It didn’t matter. She could wait and watch. The lapdog didn’t worry her. He was a suit and was useless. The pampered and the rich thought they knew everything, thought themselves in control.
Pure crap
.

She
knew everything.
She
had control. She’d already waited a long, long time to wreak her vengeance. But the waiting, the planning, was nearly over. Fate had kindly offered this new opportunity to strike. And she would strike. Soon.

She watched as they came out of the café, the runt acting like a queen and the lapdog scowling in fury. Good, they tried to protect her. It meant they took the threats seriously. Better, the lapdog didn’t seem too happy with his job. That meant his heart would not be in it.

Yes, just a little longer now, runt. The world will be a better place when you are gone. Soon, you will be expunged.

Hannah didn’t know quite what to make of the evening.

The setting exuded beauty. But then so did the entire palace. The tour Alex had taken her on had left her reeling. More expansive than she’d imagined, she saw countless breathtaking rooms, pieces of art she’d only ever viewed in magazines, and seemingly endless space. Alex had beamed with pride as he’d taken her from room to room. Justifiably so. Built in the sixteenth century, and added onto every century since, this palace had always been home to the de la Croix family. The walls of the long hall leading to the ballroom formed a sort of gallery, lined with portraits of Alex’s ancestors. The last painting, closest to the entrance to that grand chamber, depicted a very beautiful woman. Piercing violet eyes, delicate, almost elfin features, and black hair styled in a classic upsweep with a glittering tiara on top, Hannah didn’t need to be told this was Alex’s late wife.

“She’s stunning,” Hannah had said. “Sophie favors her strongly.”

“Yes, she was very beautiful. Many days, Hannah, after she died, my heart felt heavy with failure. We never connected, she and I. Never even really became friends.”

“That’s sad. She looks lonely.”

“Oh, she was never ‘lonely.’ She loved being queen, and was most happy when left to her own wing of the palace. When there would be a formal event here, I would meet her at this exact spot, and we would enter together. We would share two dances—the first and the last—and as soon as we left the hall, she would go her own way, with her entourage in trail. I make it a habit to speak of her only in a complimentary fashion, especially in front of the children. But you need to know, Hannah, that in my eyes, your beauty far outshines hers.”

It had been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. She kissed him lightly, then evaded his arms when he would have deepened the embrace.

The second half of the tour had been as much a tribute to modern amenities as the first had been to history. The kitchen amazed her, so large and gleaming. The chef, a man named Robert who’d been lured away from a famous five-star restaurant in Paris, proved the antithesis of the fabled temperamental masters of cuisine. After snapping his fingers and seeing to it they had been fed a small lunch, he invited Hannah to come and visit any time. The gymnasium was modern and serious as any she’d ever sweated in, and she delighted in the discovery of not only an indoor pool, but an outdoor one, too.

“I’m especially pleased that this is your first day here, Hannah. Tonight we’re having an informal family dinner. I try to get everyone together in this way at least twice a week,” Alex boasted.

“It is one of the best ways to ensure that a family remains a family,” she said in agreement.

Sloppy Joes made for an informal family dinner. Hot dogs were an informal family dinner. The only thing informal about
this
dinner, Hannah decided, was the location.

She could well understand why the family preferred to have their “informal” meals in the solarium. Beautiful, fresh, and fragrant, it gave the illusion of dining al fresco.