for the investment of time, tactics and diplomacy. He’d had to employ plenty of both, not the least of which had been keeping Anna safe and the Alpha team apprised and on the lookout for Striksky when he’d gotten word that the prince had been on his way to the States a couple of weeks ago.
Then there was the adoption and that business with Marcus Dumond’s attorney when he’d ferreted out the truth of Striksky’s role in Sara’s death. And finally, keeping the prince’s suicide hush-hush and arranging for his body to be shipped quietly back to Asterland’s embassy last week had been as tricky as any litigation he’d ever handled. He was damn glad that was behind him and that explaining Ivan’s demise was the government of Asterland’s problem now.
So, no it wasn’t the time that bothered him. It was the emotional investment he hadn’t bargained for. It was the emotional investment that came with the highest price tag.
To cut his losses, he’d kept his distance from Anna. Hell, as much as possible, he’d kept his distance from Royal, flying to Dallas, or Houston and even a couple of trips to Georgia to tidy up some legal ends at the Hunt aircraft plant. Much to his friends’ dismay, he’d also kept his own counsel where Anna was concerned. Seeing her like this though—hovering on the ragged edge of a nightmare, clinging valiantly to a pride that she didn’t realize her vulnerability undercut—the cost of his bid to stay away from her climbed a little higher.
He’d been skirting her like a wolf circling a fire, avoiding all but the most necessary encounters. And even though Ivan was no longer a threat, when her alarm had sounded a few minutes ago, his heart had pumped into overdrive. He’d rammed the gas pedal on his truck to the floor and flown across town to get to her.
He could see now that she was safe. She was safe, but she was far from all right. Her green eyes were wild with residual fear. He had little doubt that if she could manage to pry her fingers off the door, they’d be trembling like leaves in a windstorm.
He’d seen her like this before—on the night the Alpha team had stolen her out of Obersbourg, then a week ago when he’d broken the news that Striksky was dead. He hadn’t been able to turn his back on her then. As much as his better judgment warned him against it, he couldn’t do it now, not and live with himself—a characteristic that may yet prove to be his fatal flaw where Anna was concerned:
Steeling himself against the urge to fold her into his arms and hold her until her trembling stopped or until he initiated something they’d both be sorry about later, he very gently pried the slim fingers that had gone white off the door. Knowing he’d regret it, he opened it wide enough to accommodate his shoulders and slipped inside.
After shutting the door behind him and disarming the alarm panel, he turned back to her. “You got any of that sissy mint tea you managed to get Harriet hooked on?”
Her lips trembled only slightly as she gave him the small smile he’d been hoping for.
“I think I can scare some up.” Brushing her hair back from her face, she headed for the kitchen.
He’d congratulated himself a hundred times for deploying Harriet Sherman—“Tank” to those who had worked with her before she’d retired from the military—next door to Anna in the role of watchdog in the guise of nosy neighbor, motherly confidante and baby-sitter. With Harriet nearby the past four months, he’d slept a little easier knowing Striksky had very quietly launched a worldwide search for Anna. In this last dark week since Striksky, faced with international humiliation when his underhanded scheme had failed, had committed suicide not five miles from Royal, he’d been doubly glad to have Harriet in place to help Anna through that ugly mess.
It was obvious to him now, however, that she was still struggling with the backlash. Standing in the arched doorway of her small kitchen, he set his jaw, told himself he’d stay long enough to make sure she was steady again. Then he’d get the hell out of the combat zone.
In the meantime, he had to work hard at snuffing out a hundred intimate details that made up the immediate moment: Like the fact that he was alone with her—something he’d managed to avoid until now. Like the fact that it was the middle of the night, the hour of shared beds, shared warmth and shared bodies. Like the damnable itch on the palms he clenched as tight as his jaw to keep from reaching out to touch her milk-white shoulder. A shoulder that was bare beneath the thin silk strap of her short, clingy nightgown. Skin that radiated a honey scent, which beckoned, enticed and clung to the midnight air like fragrance on a rose.
He knew what that skin felt like beneath his fingers, against his tongue. He knew how she tasted. What it felt like to lose himself deep inside her—like drowning in heated silk, like sinking into sweet, tight oblivion. And every night since she’d been in Royal—her safely tucked away in her apartment, and him wherever his nocturnal wanderings took him—he’d remembered every intimate detail of the love they had made.
He bit back a low growl of frustration at the turn of his thoughts. Yet when he saw that her hands were still trembling violently in the aftermath of her nightmare, he took two stalking strides toward her.
“Sit,” he demanded and made himself grip her shoulders at arm’s length. In a no-nonsense motion, he guided her to a chair and sat her down. “How often does this happen?”
She sat as still as a block of wood, her hands clutched tightly in her lap. “Just...not often.”
Not often, my ass, he thought with a dark scowl. He’d bet his portfolio this was a nightly occurrence. Swearing as much at the clench of sympathy he felt in his chest as at his body’s reaction to the way her deep breath stretched the pale-blue silk tight over the softness of her breasts, he turned back to the counter and slammed around filling the teakettle.
When he’d set it on to boil and settled himself, he turned back to her. Leaning his hips against the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands under his armpits, where they wouldn’t lead him into trouble.
“You don’t lie worth a damn, Your Highness.”
Immediately regretting the angry edge he’d let creep into his voice, he worked at gentling his tone. “You want to talk about it?”
Eyes downcast, she gave a small, tight shake of her head.
Fighting a crushing awareness of her vulnerability, he stared at that tumble of blond hair a long time before he was able to speak again. “You’ve been through a lot, Anna. Maybe you ought to consider seeing someone...a doctor or someone to help you through this.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” she bristled, lifting her chin and gracing him with a valiant, aristocratic smile. “Besides, how would it look? A von Oberland in therapy? It wouldn’t do. Appearances at all costs you know. Wouldn’t want the world to get wind that the royal blood was anything but true blue.”
He narrowed his eyes, studied her long and hard. A little starch looked good on her. It was a sign she was still fighting. Suddenly he didn’t feel so bad about baiting her with the “Your Highness” crack, even though anger had provoked it. The fact was, like it or not, he had a lot of anger built up inside where Princess Anna was concerned. He’d held it in check for four years, but ever since he’d brought her here, he’d felt it escalating.
It seemed like forever instead of mere months that he’d been fighting feelings he didn’t want to admit to and blaming her for being the cause. He’d done his duty. He’d gotten her out of Obersbourg, then watched from afar, made sure she was safe. Just like he’d made sure she was set up in this apartment in his own building, that she was absorbed into the small community of Royal as
