The Princess and the Bodyguard (9 page)

“Mm...Alex…harder.”

He levered himself up, so that he leaned over her, and began to put more force into his thrusts. “How’s this?”

“Wonderful. Let me try…ah, yes.”

Ah yes, indeed. She’d moved her back so that she pushed harder against him, and the slight change in angle seemed to suck his cock even deeper into her while her inner muscles squeezed him more.

“I’m very close, Hannah. Come for me. Take me with you.”

As it always did, the way her wild, wet sheath tightened and then convulsed around him thrilled him. The sensation felt gentler, but similar to the caress of her wet, sucking mouth on his cock. The scent of sweat and sex teased his nostrils as he gave himself over to his orgasm. Riding the tide of spasms, he leaned his weight on the gasping, groaning woman under him.

“Now that’s what I call a good morning,” he whispered in her ear. Her laughter came soft and sleepy under him.

“You’ve managed to distract me twice, now.”

Grinning, he replied, “That’s not difficult.”

“I know. But I wanted to talk about the clothes.”

“If there’s a problem, love, then really, Helene is the one—”

“Helene insists that the clothes are free, that wearing them is like advertising for the shop owner.”

Clever daughter-in-law. “So what is the problem?”

“The designer is insisting on an entire wardrobe. Alex, I don’t need an entire wardrobe. A couple of outfits to wear to accompany you to the military college today, and the finance symposium on Monday, fine. And a dress to wear to your Ambassadors’ Ball Saturday night. I can accept those. I don’t blame you for wanting to have me dressed properly when we’re seen out in public together. But, I don’t need an entire wardrobe. Good Lord, the woman wants to make me panties. I had no idea people had panties made for them!”

He wanted to laugh, but knew he shouldn’t. His Hannah was not a woman used to having anything done for her or given to her. He’d managed a few conversations with Catharine and had been given a very clear picture of the kind of life his woman had led before coming to his country. Well, she would to have to get used to being spoiled from now on.

But there had been a thread of something else in her protests, and he wanted to put an end to that right now.

“You can appear with me in public however you choose, Hannah, and I would be simply delighted you’re there. The clothes are a gift for you. Something I wanted you to have. If you’re that uncomfortable with them, I’ll tell Helene to have them taken away. I only want you to be happy.”

Her eyes melted with emotion. He caressed her cheek and placed a gentle kiss on her lips.

“I guess I should just have said thank you. Thank you, Alex, for the outfits. I knew they couldn’t have been free.”

“The cost means nothing to me, Hannah. And yes, I know it means nothing to you, as well. It pleases me to give you things.”

“Then let me give you something in return.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I can’t invite you all over to my place for dinner. But perhaps there’s a way I can serve you a taste of Canada here.”

This was the first thing she’d ever really asked of him—well, except that he not lie to her again. Judging by the expression on her face, he’d be surprised if she didn’t have her plans fine-tuned down to the last detail.

“You want to plan, and host, an evening? I don’t see why not.”

“Even if it’s something totally different from what you’re used to?”

“Even if. Whatever you want to do, love, is fine by me. Shall I issue a royal decree?”

He loved the sound of her laughter. He loved it even more when she pushed him flat on the bed and climbed on top of him.

“I don’t need a royal decree. I only need the keys to somebody’s car.”

* * * *

Rachel spent about a half hour examining the work that had been completed on her shop. The painting was finished, and the first worktables installed. The electrical upgrading had been completed, so the sewing machines could be installed at any time. The workroom boasted lots of light, and she already began to imagine what she could do to turn this into a cheery workspace. Satisfied, she gathered up her files, set them in her case, and took a final look around the place.

“Lunch the next item on your agenda?” Peter’s question broke into her mental planning.

“At the Concorde Hotel. My first interview.” Rachel wanted to say more, but Peter had been stiff and non-communicative since leaving the palace. She decided that after lunch, she’d see what buttons she could push to get a warmer—make that hotter—reaction out of him.

Cardinia wasn’t a large city. It took only a few minutes for Peter to negotiate noontime traffic. At first, she’d been hopeful when she’d come down the steps earlier to find him waiting for her with the Mercedes. Knowing that he intended to drive, she hoped the privacy would have encouraged intimacy. So far, it hadn’t happened, but unless she missed her guess, his tension was growing by the moment.

The restaurant at the Concorde Hotel was truly one of the most beautiful in Europe. Rachel loved the gold and peach décor, the profusion of plants, and the delicate looking ceiling fans. The chairs, white wicker with high backs and plush cushions, always put her in mind of some tropical paradise. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the squawk of a macaw.

“Have a good lunch. I’ll be at the table next to you. Pretend I’m not there.”

“You’re not sitting with us?”

“You and Madame
Montand
don’t need a man hovering all over your fashion talk.”

Before she could protest, the maitre d’ led her through the heart of the restaurant to a table in the back. Peter sat at a table fairly close to them, where a “reserved” sign had been.

Jeanne
Montand
got to her feet and held out her hand.

“I’m so pleased you agreed to this interview, Your Highness.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Rachel shook the woman’s hand and then sat. Madame
Montand
appeared a handsome woman, but the color of the suit she wore—a dull purple—didn’t compliment her complexion at all. A fashion editor should show more personal fashion sense.

A waiter appeared immediately and gave a slight bow to Rachel.

“You don’t mind, I hope, if I have a cocktail?” the other woman asked.

Which would be her second, at least, judging by the already empty glass on the table. “Not at all. I’ll have some water, please.”

“Amazing that you’re not tempted to indulge, even when those around you are having a drink. Ah, well. That is good.”

Rachel kept her smile in place, despite the dig.

“You are even younger looking in person than in your photographs, Your Highness. Ah, to be young and wealthy. You are so fortunate. And of course, the coastal weather here is so moderate and moist. You are wise to take precautions when you relax on the beach. Alas, in my younger days, I indulged my love of the sun and now, many years later, that love has come back to haunt me.”

“I believe it’s healthy to have some sun everyday. If I’m going to be out in it for more than a half hour, however, I wear a hat and sunscreen.”

Rachel had spent enough time with people to know the lady sitting across from her wasn’t paying any attention to her words at all. Which seemed very strange because this woman’s boss, the owner and publisher of Haute Mode, had practically begged Rachel for this interview.

The waiter brought their drinks—Madame
Montand
had ordered a vodka and tonic—and then stood by expectantly, waiting to receive their lunch orders. Rachel had lost her appetite, but she requested a salad. The other woman selected the seafood crepes, then gave Rachel a solemn look.

“Now, my assistant and I have a bit of a wager between us. The young boy seems to think that your designs—what we’ve seen of them—have strong hints, shall we say, of Dolce & Gabbana. But I know Yves Saint Laurent when I see it. I am not sure which of the newer designers in that house is doing the work. There is always gossip, of course. And gossip reports that the young Parisian they hired about three years ago won the privilege of leading this new venture. And how clever, too. Who knows, the ploy might very well work. Will you be modeling for the new line, Your Highness, or just fronting for it?”

Before Rachel could answer, Peter appeared at their table. Wearing an expression that brooked no argument, he said, “I’m sorry, Your Highness. There’s an emergency. We need to leave.”

“Now? But I’ve only begun to ask—”

Madame
Montand
sputtered to a stop, and the poor woman actually seemed to whither from the look Peter shot her. Rachel barely had time to mumble an apology before he grabbed her arm and hustled her out the door.

Frightened, not knowing what was happening, Rachel did her best to keep up with Peter’s rapid, longer stride.

Within seconds, they got into the Mercedes and pulled away from the curb.

Rachel clung to her seatbelt, wide-eyed, heart racing as Peter maneuvered the car in and out of the traffic, taking turns at amazing speed. She didn’t want to ask any questions, in case she broke his concentration. But once the traffic thinned and they were on the highway that would take them to the farm—or France—she dared to speak.

“Peter? What is the emergency?”

“I was trying to stop a murder.”

Rachel’s heart almost stopped. “What?”

“That fucking bitch. One more word out of her mouth and I’d have strangled her, I swear to God.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She had a tape recorder and was taping that entire so-called interview. Suggests you’re an alcoholic. Hints you do nothing but lay on a beach all day. And then the kicker. Are you the front for an Italian designer, or a French one?”

Relief that no immediate danger threatened flooded her. Then she inhaled deeply.

“I had figured out her agenda. I wanted her to step into it a bit deeper before I set her straight. Firmly, but politely. Now, she can run a story that is not true. ‘When faced with allegations, Her Royal Highness fled the scene.’ Your way of handling her worked out much better, Mr. Jones. Thank you very much,” she said, an edge of sarcasm in her tone.

“Maybe I can have her stopped at the border and thrown into the slammer. Give her a day to rid herself of the vodka. See how she likes that.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I’m tempted.”

“I wish you had left me to handle her myself. I am capable, you know.”

Not France, Rachel thought as he took the fork in the road that led to the de la Croix family farm.

“Handle her? You weren’t handling her. You just sat there smiling at the bitch, letting her think you were some empty-headed bimbo.”

Rachel’s amusement disappeared. “Bimbo? Bimbo? How dare you! Empty-headed? Bah! I do not know why I am wasting my time thinking about you! You think the answer to every situation is a punch in the face? I would have given that bitch a put-down that would have been legendary, but no, you think I am empty-headed and that you have to take care of me!”

The guard must have seen them coming, for the gate swung open as they approached. Still, only luck kept them from nicking the thing on their way through.

The sudden forward jerk of the brakes jarred her, but Rachel wasted no time in throwing off her seatbelt and opening the car door. She was so angry she didn’t know what she might to do, but getting away from Peter seemed like a really good idea.

“You know damn well—Rachel, damn it, get back here—you know damn well I didn’t mean I thought you were—Oh, fuck!”

Just three more steps and she could slam the door—but he snatched it out of her hands, followed her inside the house, and slammed it for her. Then he grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. Unable to stop herself, she shot her right fist out.

She never saw him move, but he blocked her punch, then had both her wrists in one of his hands and her pinned to the wall with his body.

“That’s it. That’s the last straw. Damn it to hell!”

Then his mouth took hers, hot, hungry and hard, while his free hand began yanking her skirt to her waist.

She was drowning in the taste of him, in the pure thrill of having his tongue in her mouth and his hard body pressing hers against the wall. He let go of her arms and she clamped them around his neck. She felt his palm caress her panty-covered bottom. Then he lifted her.

“Wrap your legs around me, baby.”

She did and couldn’t stop her hips from rolling forward to meet his probing touch. He moved the thin strip of satin out of the way and plunged his fingers into her. The sound of his growl vibrated into her belly.

“You’re so wet for me.”

His mouth fastened on her neck, licking and biting. She moved her head and captured his lips for a long, deep kiss. “It’s not your fingers I need.”

“What do you need, baby?”

“Your cock. In me. Now.”

His fingers slipped out of her. She felt his movements, heard the rasp of his zipper. Then he stopped and swore.

“Shit. How could I be so—”