His smile made her feel like the only piece of chocolate decadence at a Weight Watchers meeting. Chocolate that was starting to melt under his intense stare full of longing, desire, need. His gaze lingered, practically caressed, making her feel like a desirable woman.
And she resented it. Resented how she felt her own resolve weakening.
But she couldn’t help herself.
This man could steal any woman’s heart if he set his mind to it.
But not her heart, she reminded herself.
To be honest, she preferred his majestic scowl to the come-hither curve gracing his lips.
Lips made for nibbling, tasting, kissing.
Wait. They were only lips. Princely lips she didn’t want to have anything to do with. So what if his less-than-appealing personality didn’t diminish his sex appeal?
She wasn’t interested. Period.
And if she told herself that enough, she might eventually believe it. Not that it mattered, of course. She was simply overreacting, letting her imagination and hormones run wild.
The prince hadn’t propositioned her; he hadn’t said one word. Teasing—that’s what he was doing—teasing her to get a reaction. Those bedroom eyes meant nothing. Nothing at all.
Besides, Prince Richard didn’t like her; he was angry at her. She wore his ring. Maybe not actually wore, but the ring was on her finger. Didn’t he remember?
His smile widened, deepening the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Apparently, he’d forgotten about the ring. Temporary insanity. Or…
No, it couldn’t be.
But he was staring and smiling at her. A seductive smile designed to make any woman swoon. Maybe he did want to touch her, kiss her, make love to her.
Maybe she was blowing this out of proportion. Or maybe she had something on her face. She touched her cheek. “Is anything wrong, Your Highness?”
“No.” He took a step closer.
Christina gulped, feeling way out of her league. Especially with him wearing those pajama bottoms. His green silk pants left just enough to her imagination to make her want to see if what was under the fabric was as perfect as his defined abs, his wide shoulders and his not-overmuscled, but not-an-ounce-of-flab chest.
Typical vain man. Prancing around his bedroom like a Chippendale dancer. Okay standing, not prancing. “Can’t you put your top on?”
“You are wearing it,” he said.
The intimacy of wearing a matched set, something she imagined happening when she married someday, made her swallow hard. “I…”
“Are you offering me yours?”
“No.” She paused long enough to see his smile widen further. Uh-oh. His adorable dimple was back. “Don’t you have another pair?”
“Normally, I do not sleep in pajamas.”
Just what she needed to hear to send her imagination into overdrive. And into overdrive it went. What would it feel like to run her hands over the golden hair covering his Michelangelo-sculpted chest? To have his strong arms pick her up and carry her to the giant bed, a bed made for lovers?
Stop. Right now.
She shouldn’t be thinking like that. Not here, locked in a room—make that bedroom—with a half-naked, gorgeous prince. Christina wrapped her arms around her waist and inched away from the bed.
His bed.
Show him the ring. That will erase the smile from his face, the desire—make that lust—in his eyes.
But she couldn’t do anything except stare back entranced, hypnotized by the prince’s piercing gaze, by his incredible physique. She wanted to touch him, to see if he was real.
He took another step toward her. “Silk suits you, Christina.”
A compliment? Her pulse raced, speeding faster than the winning car at Indy. She stepped back and bumped into the wall. Trapped. Nowhere to go. She should be more worried than she was. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Her words sounded husky. Nothing like her normal voice. What was wrong with her? Nerves? She wet her Sahara-dry lips.
“When we are alone, you may call me Richard.”
Richard? She wouldn’t; she couldn’t.
He closed the distance between them. Her pulse broke the land-speed record. She glanced at the bed, then back at him. “Where, er, where should I…?”
Words failed her. The nearness of him left her tongue-tied.
“Where should you sleep?” He finished the question for her.
She nodded, not trusting her own voice. Not trusting herself.
His eyes twinkled with anticipation. “Where would you like to sleep?”
Talk about a loaded question. Her answer could get her into more trouble. Christina merely shrugged, fighting the urge to tremble as he moved even closer.
“The bed is big enough for two.”
No, it wasn’t. All she needed to make her trip to San Montico a complete disaster was to wake up and find herself tangled in the sheets, legs entwined, her head against his bare chest. Her father had told her to obey Prince Richard, but she didn’t think this was what he had in mind. Christina pressed her sweaty palms against the wall. “I’m used to sleeping alone.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Not really alone,” she admitted. “I mean, I sleep with Francis.”
“Frances?”
“My cat, and it’s Francis with an i.”
“You have a male cat.”
“No.” Christina couldn’t think straight, not with Prince Richard so close. Don’t think about him. Think about Francis. “She’s female, but I promised my grandfather I would name my first pet after Frank Sinatra. I myself felt compelled to name her after a character in Shakespeare, which gave me quite a dilemma.”
“So you came up with Francis.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t easy.” Neither was this. Richard’s spicy scent filled her nostrils. So earthy, so sensual, so male. Forget about him. “It was dumb luck I found a minor character named Francis in King Henry IV, Part 1. Did you know he’s the only character in the entire Shakespearean canon named Francis?”
“I did not.” Prince Richard reached for her collar, straightening it. His warm fingers brushed her skin, sending a shiver of sensation down her spine. “Francis is a lucky kitty.”
So am I. Christina bit
