going to actually meet with you,” she said, her tone playfully accusatory. “So kind of you to spare me a moment or two.”
His mouth barely quirked at the corners. “I took one look at you and felt the need of a little liquid courage, I’m afraid,” he admitted, though his tone belied his words.
“You’re kidding,” she said, truly incredulous. “Is it women in general that bother you? Or just this particular princess?”
“It isn’t the woman. It’s the situation.” His glance in her direction said that he wasn’t used to this sort of challenge and wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Doesn’t this situation bother you?”
“Not a bit,” she said with all honesty. After all, she wasn’t the one who was going to have to marry him. And if anyone thought she would sign on for that duty, they could think again. Marriage had never been her goal.
“Then, ‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din,’” he muttered, mostly to himself.
She frowned. She was getting the distinct impression that he thought a conversation with his own alter ego would be more stimulating than any chat he might have with her. Prince or no prince, she wasn’t going to let him get away with that.
“If you’re going to start spouting Rudyard Kipling, you’d better watch out. I just might give you some Emily Dickinson in return.”
His eyes widened as he looked down at her. “What? A princess with an education in literature? This is something new.”
A flush of pleasure surged through her as she saw an actual spark of interest ignite in his gaze. “Ah,” she said wisely. “So the real problem is finally revealed. You have no respect for princesses.”
“Not true. My very favorite sister is a princess.”
“Family never counts, though, does it?” she noted, wrinkling her nose.
“On the contrary, family is the only thing that counts.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. This was certainly a different way of looking at things than she was used to. But she supposed royalty had to think that way. Family was, after all, their claim to fame. “I guess you’re very proud of yours, aren’t you?”
“Of course. Aren’t you proud of yours?”
She made a face. “Not in the way you’re talking about. After all, family is just something you’re handed at birth. What you do with it is what counts. The sort of person you become.”
He held her slightly away so that he could take a good look at her face. “I’ve heard a lot about the woman you’ve become, Princess, but no one had warned me you were a philosopher.”
She wanted to ask just what he had heard, but then she remembered they weren’t really talking about her. Before she could think of anything else to say, the music faded. The dance was over and she sighed with relief, turning her head to look for Freddy. It took a moment to register the fact that the prince hadn’t let go of her, and when the music began again, and his arms seemed to tighten around her, she realized her ordeal had not yet come to its logical conclusion.
But another thought pushed that disappointment aside. She hadn’t let it fully sink in yet, but she was dancing with the crown prince of Nabotavia! Despite the circumstances, this was a dream come true. Her concentration in her art history studies was in Eastern European Art of the Twentieth Century, with an emphasis on Nabotavia. For the last two years she’d read everything she could get her hands on about the plucky little country, studying its history, immersing herself in its art work. She’d tried to keep current on the fight to oust the radicals, though there hadn’t been much in the local press. And now here she was with the prince.
Her heart gave a little leap, but she stilled it. She had to remain calm. After all, a princess of the next-door country wouldn’t think this was any big deal, now would she?
Stay calm. Stay natural. Think of something to say.
“Have you changed your opinion of dancing?” she asked as they swayed to a rhythmic arrangement of a classical tune.
“No,” he told her. “But I am in the process of revising my opinion of you.”
Something in his tone, something in the way he was looking down at her, sent a riff of sensation cascading down her spine and she almost gasped aloud.
Wow. Where had that come from?
But she already knew the answer. The music was creating a sumptuous background to the night, along with the shimmering lights and the richly dressed crowd. That helped. The scent of candles and gardenias filled the air, creating a scene for magic, a backdrop for fairy tales. A girl could lose her head in a setting like this.
But even more important was the spectacularly handsome man who held her. At first she’d been impressed with his looks and his royal bearing. But now something else was throwing her off her stride. Suddenly she was conscious of the flesh-and-blood man beneath the regalia, and that sense of awareness flooded her with a feeling a little too intense for the circumstances.
Blinking, she swallowed hard and stared at his tux lapel. This prince was also a man, a very muscular man, with wide shoulders and a masculine scent that was suddenly filling her head. His hand on her skin seemed to sizzle. His warm breath tickled her ear. His hard thigh grazed the inside of her leg as they made a turn and an aching longing seemed to curl like smoke up through her body.
She bit down hard on the inside of her lip. If she didn’t stop this impossible swoon, she was going to melt into a puddle of ridiculous eroticism right here on the dance floor. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself back into sanity, hardening her resistance, coming up for air.
You will not fall for this man, she told herself fiercely. Now stick with the program and fend off all feelings of fatal attraction.
There. She sighed with relief. She’d done it. And though it seemed like forever since she’d swooned, he was looking at her as though he were still waiting for an answer to his statement, so it couldn’t have lasted as long as she’d thought.
Now, what had he said? Oh yes.
I am in the process of revising my opinion of you.
It was certainly a statement that needed a response of some kind.
Chapter Two
“So you arrived tonight with a skeptical opinion of me?” Shannon asked, her firm tone masking her wobbly confidence. “And just where did you form it? We haven’t seen each other for ten years.” Or so she’d been told in the short lecture on facts Greta had given her just hours before.
“Over ten years,” Marco agreed. “The last time I saw you I believe was the night we danced at your debutante ball when you were sixteen.”
“Really?” Oh-oh. Now she’d done it. This was her worst fear, that he would bring up the past, a past she knew absolutely nothing about.
“You don’t remember?”
She shook her head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve got amnesia for anything that happened before I turned twenty-one.” Hah! A master
