The Star Princess (17 page)

Ché held a Corn Nut between two fingers, brought it to his sexy lips. He watched her as he chewed and swallowed. Only he could make an erotic show of eating Corn Nuts. Or maybe that was because she knew what else he could do with his hands and mouth.

She practically swallowed in unison with him. "What do you think?"

"They are quite good." He lifted the bag as if toasting her. "May I have another?"

"One Com Nut? You are so freaking polite! Go— eat them all." His charming ways made her want to give him a hug, which helped take the edge off wanting to slug him or jump in bed with him, which was how she felt the rest of the time. "You haven't had a meal since last night. Any other guy would be ripping apart that bag, picking up the phone to order pizza, running across the street to the Thai place, or ransacking my refrigerator."

His tone was sardonic. "An intelligent man would already know that there is nothing of nutritional value in your refrigerator."

"I can't tell if you're insulting my taste in men, or only my ability to shop for groceries."

"Your taste in men," he clarified.

"No fair! You only met Cole."

"It was enough."

She snorted. "Cole's a nice guy."

"I have no doubt of that. But having always left the stocking of food to the kitchen staff, how can I in good conscience criticize your dearth of supplies?"

She couldn't help laughing. Excitement ran high. They were having fun again. When times were good with Ché, they were really good. But when they were bad…

Ché set the bag of Corn Nuts on the table. "Great Mother," he muttered.

Ilana followed his gaze down to the open newspaper. For a few blissful moments she'd forgotten all about the article. Reality had returned to slap her in the face.

Chapter Eleven

"Royal advisor?" Ché asked, looking up after reading the text.

"They mean Linda Hurst, my assistant. I share her with my partners, but she mostly works with me. She's on the SILF payroll. Which isn't saying much, it isn't a very impressive payroll. Though as a small studio, we're lucky to have one at all."

"Hmm. And 'fickle foot?"

"Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a beautiful and fictional young woman named Cinderella who lived with a stepmother and a couple of evil stepsisters. They made her dress in rags and do all the housework." Ilana wrinkled her nose. "One day the local prince held a ball… "

Ché tried his best to follow Ilana's torrent of words. She was standing close enough for him to catch her scent, a light floral perfume, clean skin, and a hint of the smell that was hers alone. The memory of running his lips over her firm, slippery skin brought back the almost constant ache of arousal to his loins. He shifted uncomfortably. Earth clothing was rather restricting in fit, he'd come to find out. To make matters worse, he was afraid his jeans had shrunk after his saltwater swim.

"… and when the prince saw that the glass slipper fit Cinderella's foot, he knew he'd found his true love."

"Then 'fickle foot' refers to your reluctance to marry."

"Yep. But lack of enthusiasm is more accurate. It's not that I don't want to get married, I just don't want to now. I wish everyone would leave me alone about it. That's something you can relate to, I'm sure."

"Very much so." They exchanged a glance of acute understanding, of sudden solidarity. Unexpectedly, the paparazzi and their own meddling families had made them fighters on the same side of the line.

Ilana crossed the room and fetched him a towel. She offered it to him, and he used it to scrub his hair dry. "You live in the public eye, Ché. You're the expert. What do I do about this? How do I fight back?"

"By living as normal a life as possible."

Tucking strands of hair behind one ear, Ilana searched his face. Her voice broadcast her skepticism. "Do you? Live a normal life?"

"Within my area of the palace, my private residence, I try." He draped the towel over his shoulders, hanging on to each end with his fists as he thought of his future, his arranged marriage, his increasingly important role in the leadership of the Federation. He wondered if he'd ever achieve the level of intimacy, of normalcy in the personal life, he'd only recently begun to admit that he desired. "It has not been easy of late."

His attention fell to the newspaper. "It seems my bad luck has chased me here."

"Or it collided with mine."

Their gloom was mutual. Ché tapped a finger on the photograph. "It makes us appear as lovers, but one cannot see my face. This is what intrigues them. That is why the photographer came here today."

"And they're going to keep coming until they find out who you are."

"Which I do not want any more than you do."

"The interest in me is going to get worse before it gets better."

"I told the reporter that I was your advisor. And that I am from Latvia."

"From the soccer game last night. Good. It'll help explain the accent. And Latvia is a very small country— no one here knows much about it, including me. We'll research what we can, but it gives us room to make mistakes. Plus, saying that you work for me will be a great deterrent for them."

He smiled. "You are eager for my protection now."

"I wouldn't go that far," she retorted. "But I'll say this: If I were rich and you weren't, I'd offer you a job."

"Why not a trade? My abilities as a bodyguard for yours as a tour guide."

Her eyes flashed. "Are you serious? If you are, I'm game."

"I came here for adventure, Ilana. To see and do things as far removed from my life on Eireya as possible. I say posing as your temporary bodyguard qualifies." He rubbed his chin. "But I would have to stay here to be effective," he mused aloud.

Her face came alive. "Perfecto."

Great Mother! What had he proposed? If the palace got wind of this, that he was lodging with Ilana Hamilton, unchaperoned, the scandal would sweep the Federation.

Danger be damned! What harm would come of it? A little impetuosity might be just the thing he needed to come to terms with his recent and frustrating lack of enthusiasm about his life and the obligations that went along with it.

"We'll get you some contact lenses," Ilana offered. "I could bleach the ends of your hair. Maybe an earring. It would have to be the left ear… unless you want to pierce both— "

He held up his hands. "I do have to go home at the end of this, Ilana."

"I guess that means a tattoo is out. Body art," she clarified at his obvious puzzlement.

"I already have all the body art I desire."

"Really?" she breathed.

Her sharp curiosity flattered him. "Really."

Her wide blue eyes scanned his exposed chest and stomach, his arms and shoulders, but he knew she would not find anything there. "I didn't know the Vash— "

"The Vedlas do."

She swallowed. Then she recovered with a saucy smile. "I don't think your family would be too happy about this plan. Their perfect prince, under the direct and corrupting influence of an Earth-dweller."

"I am sure they would see it differently: a B'kah princess undergoing education and enlightenment under the guidance of a Vedla prince."

Her smirk gave way to a genuine laugh. He found it extraordinarily easy to smile around her. "Then I think we'd better keep this arrangement to ourselves," she suggested.

"I intend to. As planned, I will check in with Hoe every standard week via direct comm call. But I never intended to divulge all the details of my travels." Now, it seemed, he'd be revealing even less.

Several hours after dinner, Ilana found herself drinking mineral water spiked with a lime at a bar backing up to giant mirrors that periodically transformed into glass boxes displaying nearly naked male and female dirty dancers. In the dance area beyond, above a clear ceiling, more dancers rolled and slithered over each other in highly suggestive acrobatics.

She didn't have to sweet-talk her way into Reach like the people waiting outside in line would have to. The brother of her former roommate Tara was part-owner of the place. Reach was a heavily guarded dance club, and currently considered the "only place to party" in LA. Ilana didn't care so much for the reputation as she did the exclusivity the club boasted. Actors and other industry types frequented the place. Security was tight. Paparazzi would be shot on the spot— or at least thrown out by bouncers wearing secret-service headsets whose sheer mass made the average World Federation wrestler look like a bulimic leprechaun. It was the perfect place to bring Ché.

She'd offered to be his tour guide, hadn't she? So why not start with total cultural immersion?

Ilana returned from the dance floor, where she'd danced first with a male acquaintance, and then with a few unknowns who'd asked. She was breathless, damp, and having fun. Reuniting with the glass of mineral water she'd left on the bar, she looked around for Ché. Without sunglasses he blended into the crowd, but only as well as a tall, extremely hot-looking guy with confidence oozing out of every pore could. He looked wealthy, in an understated, truly elegant way, and powerful— in bed and out. Dressed in brown pants and a crisp, black, collarless shirt with the top two buttons undone, he wore a replica of an outfit Ilana remembered from a recent GQ magazine cover. Hats off to the Vedla tailor.

Languidly Ché leaned his elbow on the bar, sipping from a small glass of something expensive, she'd bet. He liked beer, but instinctively knew where and when to drink it. The guy put the "s" in suave. But he wasn't decadent, she decided. He was sophisticated. She was beginning to understand the difference.

Ilana took her mineral water and squeezed through the crowd milling around the bar until she could find an opening to sidle up to Ché. But his attention was on Barrie, a tall, slender, ultra-hip cinematographer who had fortunately been one of the ones to answer her cell phone when Ilana attempted a last-minute roundup of single women to dangle under Che's nose.

Ché leaned over and said something in Barrie's ear. Ilana's friend laughed, looking utterly taken. Che's newly gray eyes were a little bloodshot from his colored contact lenses— an after-dinner purchase— but that didn't stop him from making some very intense eye contact with Barrie.

That was the way it was with Che: When he spoke to you, you felt like you were his sole focus.

Go for it, girl, Ilana thought, trying to feel smug about matching Ché up on the first night she tried. But then she'd known when she made the bet with Ian that it wouldn't be difficult to drop the prince into someone's bed. She was going to win the wager with time to spare. Only she hoped Ché wouldn't abandon his deal to scare off the paparazzi as easily as Ilana had lured him off the Vash path.

She inhaled deeply and smiled at those around her. She had always been a magnet for people, and here at Reach it was no different. Ilana, the party girl. Yeah, she supposed she was, sort of. Inside, she felt too driven for the label, too goal-oriented. For as long as she could remember, she'd dreamed of crafting original films for the masses while earning enough money doing it to live near the beach. Oh, and to be able to eat, too, if there was any money left over.

Conversation spun all around her. Ilana tried to listen and act interested in what her acquaintances were saying, but it was Barrie and Che's voices she wanted to hear. What were they talking about? Ché appeared alternately concerned and amused at what Barrie was telling him.

Oh, well. She couldn't possibly have believed she'd be the only woman Ché would treat that way. In twenty-four hours with him, their conversations had ranged from bitter arguing, to passionate debating, to sexy banter, and everything else in between. She was full of life when she talked to him, fully engaged, even when she wanted to scream and pull her hair out. Ché was a charmer of the worst kind. He had the knack, the ability to captivate a woman. Lucky him. Hell, lucky Barrie.

Ilana poked at the lime in her glass and fought a baffling surge of possession that made her want to break up the pair's grating little tete-a-tete.

A big, warm hand landed on the small of her back. A low, very familiar accented voice tickled her ear. "I would like to dance with you."

She turned her head. Gray eyes watched her. She missed the gold. "Dance with Barrie. You were doing so well with her. What happened?"

Ché appeared puzzled. "Nothing has happened."

Craning her neck, Ilana glanced past Ché. Barrie smiled at her and gave her a thumbs-up. Encouraging her to go off with Ché, Ilana thought incredulously, turning away. This was not the plan. She needed Ché to be with Barrie. Or Chessie, Linnea, or Debra. She had a bet to win.

"I did not think you were shy, Ilana," Ché teased.

"Shy? Hell." She put down her drink. "Let's go."

She had the feeling Ché was smiling behind her back as he followed her through the crowd to the dance floor.

Lights and music pulsed. The press of bodies forced them close together. Ché took her wrists and lifted her hands to his shoulders. She was aware of his scent, and his body heat. "No one else is slow-dancing," she said, smiling slyly when he slid his arms around her waist.

"I know how to hold a woman," he said.

She tipped her chin up. Her mouth was inches from his. It was the only way they could hear each other above the beat. The gentle press of his stomach against hers was… distracting. But for now, she'd leave the dirty dancing to the people gyrating on the glass floor above their heads. "Barrie's an amazing dancer. She can teach you all the moves. Ask her. She'll be flattered."

"Barrie suggested that I invite you to dance."

Was Barrie nuts? If it had been Ilana, she'd have kept Ché for herself. What was going on here? Ilana had made it very clear when she'd had the chance to brief each of her friends that Ché was single and not hers.

Oh, well. She leaned closer to Ché. Who was she to complain about holding on to a hard, hot body? "So, what were you guys talking about?"

"Ian's wedding," he said.

"Are you serious?" It was the one topic he wanted to avoid, and Barrie was the last person she'd expect to show interest. "What did she want to know? Did she read something in the news?"