voice deepened. “If you succeed in making me spontaneously combust, that would be a good start.”
“And a fitting end.”
He hooted with laughter. She shuddered, pressed her thighs together, trying to ameliorate the throbbing ache deep between them. “Go ahead, give me your best shot.”
“I’d rather do my worst. Pity you’re dozens of miles away.”
“Are you alone?”
His sudden question aborted the flow of her venom, yanked sexual awareness to the forefront. “Y-yes…”
“Where?”
“I-in my bedroom.”
“Describe it for me.”
She tossed a frantic look around. “Uh…it’s big. Huge.”
“Details, woman.”
“You’ve been inside the palace. You know the dimensions and the general style of an average room here.”
“Your bedroom isn’t an average room. And I haven’t been…inside it. Yet.”
She latched on the first part of his statement, skirted the provocative part like she would a land mine. “Actually, it’s way below average.”
“Explain.” She cursed herself for getting into that, fell silent. He growled, “Bene. Be prepared for an inspection visit.”
“I thought I was supposed to pursue you now.”
“My visit will be in pursuit of answers, not your delectable body.”
“My room is a mess, okay?” she blurted out.
“You’re untidy?” She heard his surprise, then his disbelief. “Even if you are, you have a dozen ladies-in-waiting cleaning up after you.”
“I’m not a paragon of personal organization,” she hissed. “But if you think I’m allowed to be ‘untidy,’ just because I’m a princess, maybe you haven’t met Antonia, my bambinàia.”
“I have. A formidable woman. Is she still your nanny?”
“I call her nanny, but don’t you think I’ve outgrown the need for one? She’s my so-called lady-in-waiting now, but she’s more like a mother to me. And not only hasn’t her job description as my nanny ever included picking up after me, but her method of turning little girls into princesses was something close to what the U.S. Special Forces use in training Navy SEALs.”
Silence expanded after her words died away. Then he inhaled. “So you haven’t been pampered and coddled, mia bella unica?”
She swallowed past the sudden barbed tightness in her throat.
That kindness. When she’d thought it an impossibility. It was probably her imagination. Maybe a glitch in the line.
But she hadn’t imagined him calling her his unique beauty. “Your view of my life isn’t just rosy, it’s fluorescent fuchsia.”
She expected him to laugh his hardest this time. And again, he did the last thing she expected him to do.
His tone became a gentle stroke, smoothing her frayed nerves, soothing her rawness. “I stand corrected. But your parents have a lot to answer for. You were born for pampering and coddling.”
She almost snorted. “No, thank you. I’m glad they didn’t agree with you. I would have grown up a thoughtless, useless brat.”
“Pampering and coddling don’t have to mean spoiling. Used right, by firm, loving parents, they can be fortifying, nurturing, stabilizing. There’s nothing better to contribute to the development of a balanced character and the maintenance of a healthy psyche.”
She almost blurted out And what would you know about that?
She burrowed back into the mattress with relief that the words hadn’t exited her lips. He would have taken them in the worst way possible, and she would have felt even worse.
She meant only to marvel at his insight into something he hadn’t experienced. But then again, she shouldn’t wonder. His uncanny knowledge of the mechanisms that made humans tick was behind his almost frightening success.
He was going on. “But your parents decided it the best course of action to be tough on you, so instead of a thoughtless, useless brat, you’ve grown up a merciless, shameless siren.”
After another silent beat, she sat up. “Hello? Are you taking another call? Shall I wait on the line until you finish talking to whomever it is you just called all those far-fetched things?”
“You see? Shameless.” Before she could answer, he went on. “But since you’re not untidy, why is your room a mess?”
Dio, the man forgot nothing, couldn’t be distracted. Figured.
She gave in. “Because it hasn’t seen a coat of paint in over fifteen years. Name any sign you can imagine of long neglect in such an old building, and it’s here. Distintegrating wood paneling, leaking ceiling and peeling paint, just to mention the surface stuff.”
An edge entered his voice. “The rest of the palace is in good condition. How is it possible your living quarters haven’t been given priority in maintenance and renovations?”
“My living quarters aren’t part of the national monument area of the palace.”
“You’re the princess of Castaldini.” He sounded indignant.
“You should see the king’s quarters.”
The silence lengthened beyond her ability to bear it this time. Especially when she could almost hear that warp-speed mind of his streaking to conclusions. It was another thing to prove how much Castaldini needed him.
At last he inhaled. Then, after a long pause, slowly exhaled. The nuances of the sounds didn’t transmit male awareness and triumph this time, but contemplation, deliberation, and if she could possibly believe it, thoughtfulness, consideration. It seemed her sensory capacity had converged on her sense of hearing. She was picking up more through his breathing and tones than from his words. And whether she was picking up right or wrong, it moved her, messed up her insides. Then—of course—he made it far worse.
“What are you wearing, Clarissa?”
His whisper, the total unexpectedness of the question, made her heart skip over a few beats like a little girl would over squares in hopscotch. She wet her aching, parched lips. “Clothes.”
“Really? Whatever happened to fig leaves?” Her lips twitched. How did he engage her sense of humor, when she wanted to murder him? “What do you sleep in?”
“What do people sleep in? But I’m no longer in my pajamas.”
“You’re not ‘people.’ And if I become the future king of Castaldini, I’ll issue a royal decree prohibiting you from wearing pajamas. A body like yours shouldn’t
