accept the crown from his father.
A tiny computer voice announced that he had mail. The post was from his sister and only remaining sibling. His fingers tightened as he highlighted the e-mail. If Anastasia found out where he was, word would spread all over Europe—and America—by morning. Anastasia, much as he adored her, had never kept a secret in her life.
Luc! the post screamed. Wherever are you? Count Broussard is in an absolute frenzy over your disappearance.
Luc frowned at the screen. Count Broussard, royal counselor and personal advisor to the crown prince, was the main reason he had eluded his entourage of bodyguards and come to America.
From the time he was a boy and more so since Philippe’s death, the count had hovered over Luc like an overprotective mother—or a vulture. Luc could make no decision, go nowhere, do nothing without Broussard’s input—and frequently his disapproval. Nothing Luc did was right in the eyes of the royal advisor. Even his father had noticed and agreed with Luc’s decision to spend some time alone, away from the pressures of the palace, the press and the count.
Shaking off a sense of unease, Luc continued reading.
That wicked old Peter won’t tell me anything, and Father only shoos me away like some annoying insect. I will surely perish if I do not hear from you soon.
Anastasia’s flare for the dramatic triggered a smile. Next to Broussard, his little sister was the last person who could know his whereabouts. She loved to talk, especially to the Montavian press.
The next post was from his valet and confidant, the dependable Peter. Newsy and warm and full of humor, the post made Luc wish for home. One paragraph, written to bedevil, reminded Luc that Lady Priscilla was still miffed at him. He laughed aloud and dashed off an answering note.
Lady Priscilla, Count Broussard’s daughter, was a constant source of agitation and teasing between the two men. Luc’s father, as well as the count, would like nothing better than to see a match between the crown prince and Lady Priscilla. Time was passing. The unspoken pressure to marry an appropriate woman and produce a male heir grew stronger all the time.
He splayed four fingers through his unruly hair. He had no desire to settle down with one woman.
His thoughts went to the endearing bag lady he’d met in the lobby, Carly Carpenter. She was nothing at all like Lady Priscilla. But he had a suspicion that beneath the oversize shirt, floppy skirt and hiking boots there could be a lovely woman.
He shook his head, smiling. Perhaps not. Either way, his interest had been piqued. He had enjoyed the contradiction of her snappy attitude and bag-lady looks with her sexy drawl and full, lush mouth. A man could fantasize about a mouth like that.
Suddenly he was looking forward to Carson’s birthday party.
Carly had tried resting in her cute country-style room, but she wasn’t tired. She was, however, fighting an annoying bout of depression. She, who did not believe in allowing her emotions to run her life and who hadn’t even cried over her breakup last month with Lester, was in danger of becoming morose.
Lester the Molester, as she’d called him after threatening to amputate both his hands if he didn’t keep them out from under her skirt, was not worth her tears. Her career, however, was.
Sad to think that her job had been her life and now she didn’t even have a job. Maybe she’d never work again. Maybe she was washed up at the age of twenty-eight and would spend the rest of her life living in boxes behind Burger King, investigating half-eaten sandwiches and cigarette butts.
No, her sweet sister, Meg, wouldn’t let that happen. She’d wine and dine good old Eric, give him a few of her pretty pouts and hot looks, and soon enough Carly would be back to work.
Maybe. And then again, maybe Meg’s charm wouldn’t work this time.
Carly snapped off Court TV and looked at her watch. Nearly time for the evening’s entertainment, a diversion at least from her worries. She hitched her camera strap over one shoulder and headed down the hall toward the stairs.
Nearing room six—the drugstore cowboy’s room—she paused. Would Luc Gardner attend the barbecue?
Before she could think better of it, Carly lifted a hand to knock and ask. Hearing a tap, tap, tap, she hesitated and then decided against disturbing him. Silly idea anyway. Even if she was only being friendly.
The tapping continued, and true to her nosy inclinations, she pressed an ear to the door. Not that she was interested in him otherwise. But her instinct had been titillated by that accent of his and she aimed to find out more about him. What was he doing in there? Typing? Doing computer work? Was he a workaholic businessman who couldn’t leave his job behind even for a vacation?
Sheesh. She was a fine one to ask that.
Suddenly the tapping stopped and chair rollers clatered against the wood floor. Before she could be caught snooping, Carly rushed down the curving stairs. On the very last step she twisted her ankle and was forced to hop on one foot across the wide wraparound veranda.
Though she had yet to learn her way around the ranch, it didn’t take a detective to follow the scent of mesquite smoke. Stomach growling, ankle throbbing, she limped down a red brick walkway that snaked around the house to the wide backyard.
A recreation area of sorts sprawled out in all directions. She spotted a swimming pool at one end, horseshoe pits and a volleyball net at the other. In the center was a smoker the size of a tanker and enough men in cowboy hats to fill Dodge City. The women were outnumbered ten to one.
She should have been giddy at the opportunity to hang out with so many of the opposite sex. But not Carly. She was resigned to the hideous truth that men did not find her attractive. There were women with beauty and there were those with brains. She would never fit into the first category, so she darn well intended to claim the latter.
“Carly.” The effusive welcome committee, Teddi Benedict, danced toward her. Carly had visions of gypsies circling a campfire, tambourines a-jingle. “Come and meet everyone. Supper is almost ready.”
Over the next few minutes Carly was pulled from cowboy to cowboy for introductions. Head swimming with names like Slim and Dirk and Heck, her thoughts went to the one cowboy who looked more like Rodeo Drive than a real rodeo.
She glanced around. No sign of the intriguing Luc.
Teddi led her toward an enormous shade tree where a man and a small boy stood apart from the crowd. The ugliest dog on the planet sat between the two, never taking his spooky but adoring eyes off the child.
“And this,” Teddi announced with glee, “is my big brother, Carson, the birthday boy.”
“Happy birthday, Mr. Benedict,” Carly said. “Thank you for inviting me to your party.”
A tall, dark cowboy with black eyes and a blacker expression glowered at her.
“Welcome to Benedict Ranch,” he growled.
Carly blinked. Mr. Carson Benedict, birthday or not, was not a happy camper.
“And this little man is Gavin,” Teddi went on, indicating a smaller spitting image of Carson Benedict, complete with boots and hat and a belt buckle that covered his entire belly.
The
