tonight, she’d been fed up and tired of searching, half convinced her apparently overly selective nature would ensure she’d die alone and childless, a disappointment to her father for bringing shame upon her people.
And then this man had come along. Right now, lying so still in bed next to him, with every nerve ending in her body ablaze, she felt alive. More alive than she had in weeks, months. And hopeful, too. As if her destiny might not be unobtainable after all.
As she studied him, he opened his eyes and looked at her, his bright blue gaze compelling and magnetic.
“Mornin’ Maria,” he said, favoring her with that smile that made every nerve in her body thrum.
Entranced, she smiled back. “Good morning yourself.”
She thought about asking him if he wanted breakfast, but it was too soon to go all domestic. Her stomach growled in response to the thought, making his smile widen.
“Come here,” he told her. “I want to make sure what we shared last night wasn’t a dream.”
All thoughts of food were forgotten as she complied.
Later, after they’d both showered and dressed—she in the same clothes she’d worn the night before—he took her hand and lightly kissed the back of it.
Now, she thought, now would be the time to learn his name.
“Let’s go to breakfast,” he said, holding out his hand. “There’s a great little café within walking distance.”
She nodded, slipping her fingers into his. “What shall I call you?” she teased, since he hadn’t seemed inclined to give her his name.
Surprise flickered across his handsome features. “Ryan,” he told her. “Of course. You can call me Ryan.”
“Okay, Ryan.” She squeezed his hand. “Let’s go have breakfast.”
He locked up as they stepped out onto the porch.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, a small crowd of people surrounded them. There were cameras and microphones, and despite Ryan’s attempts to shield her, bright lights were shone in her face, at her, blinding her as the people called out questions in rapid-fire sequence, each one trying to be heard over the other.
Paparazzi? “What the...?” Maria whirled, holding back an instinctive snarl. Her dragon tried to surge to the front, to take over, but she’d spent her entire life training and knew how to hold back her inner beast.
“Ryan?” She clutched his hand, hoping he’d have an explanation.
“Who’s the new woman, Ryan?” One man shouted. “Can you give us a name?”
New woman? Maria blinked.
“TMZ here,” yelled another. “Care to make a statement or answer a couple of questions?”
Ignoring them, Ryan shepherded her back up the stairs and into the house. Once inside, he methodically began closing all the blinds, one by one. He didn’t seem fazed or even bothered, almost as if he was used to this sort of thing.
Maria, however, could barely catch her breath. She stood frozen, shocked and stunned, watching him.
When he’d finally finished, he turned to face her. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, flashing that boyish grin. “I’d hoped that wouldn’t happen. Now that the paparazzi know where I’m staying, they’ll be staking out the place.”
Pulse still pounding, she held her hand to her throat, trying her best to contain her agitation. “Paparazzi? Why on earth were they here? What did they want?” She inhaled deeply. “Or maybe the better question would be, who are you, really? If you have paparazzi, then you must be someone famous. What did I miss?”
For the space of a heartbeat, he held her gaze. Once again she felt that tug of attraction. This time, she ignored it.
Finally, he dropped his gaze and dragged his hand through his hair. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“No.” Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried not to despair. For once, just once, she wanted something to work out. “Who are you?” Hoping her expression didn’t reveal her nervousness, she waited for him to answer.
Instead of immediately answering, he got up and went into the kitchen. “Would you like a water or a glass of orange juice? Sorry, I don’t have any coffee. I haven’t had time to stock the house.”
“What I’d like,” she said, staying put between the couch and the door, wondering if the crowd of reporters still milled about outside, “is an explanation.”
“Just a sec.” When he returned, he brought with him two bottles of water. “Here,” he handed one to her. Though the feeling of dread intensified with every second he delayed answering, she accepted and took a small sip.
“Well?” she prompted. “I’m beginning to think I might have made a terrible mistake.”
Beginning to think might have been an understatement. In fact, the longer she sat there, the more every instinct screamed at her to leave. As one of the last remaining female Drakkor, two things had been drilled into her since childhood. The first had been her destiny. The second had been the need for anonymity. Whoever he was, Ryan appeared to embody the opposite.
“A mistake?” The small lines at the corners of his bright blue eyes crinkled when he smiled. Where before she’d found his assured self-confidence attractive, now it worried her.
Every movement casual, he perched on the edge of the couch, looking even more handsome.
“Here.” He handed her a magazine from under a stack of several on the coffee table. “This will do a much better job of explaining than I can.”
Stunned, she stared. “Your face is on the cover,” she said faintly, feeling sick. Now she understood why he’d seemed vaguely familiar. Even though she generally avoided pop culture, she’d have to have been living under a rock not to recognize this face, this man. Especially with the words Ryan Howard—America’s Most Eligible Billionaire Bachelor emblazoned across the front.
“Thank you.” She put the magazine down without reading it and swallowed hard, avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry. I’ve made an awful blunder. Don’t worry about escorting me back. I can find the way. In fact, I’ll just let myself out.”
And she did just that, feeling both relieved and perversely peeved when he made no move to stop her.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, more flashbulbs exploded and the paparazzi materialized, shouting questions, asking her name. Instead of answering, she kicked off her high heels and, barefoot in the sand, began to run.
Heart pounding, Maria ran, easily settling into the familiar rhythm. Before long, the paparazzi fell behind, abandoning the chase. Though she missed her running shoes, and the heels she carried kept bumping her leg, she kept on until the reporters were completely out of sight before she slowed to a walk. She’d lucked out; she hadn’t hit anything sharp or dangerous, like shards of glass or the jagged edge of a broken seashell.
