did have a sort of innocent charm. An act, he was certain. Americans would do anything to gain a royal title. His ex-fiancée had taught him a painful yet valuable lesson. “Christina, the ring has been in my family for generations, centuries, actually. I prefer to remain near it.”
“You can lock me in a room, in the tower even, place a guard outside my door. I’m not going anywhere, Your Highness. I promise.”
Her promises meant nothing to him. Besides, he could not risk having his mother see a guard standing watch over one of the guest rooms. She would know something was wrong. And if she found out about the ring…The wedding invitations would be in the mail by tomorrow afternoon. “You are staying here. With me.”
She started to speak, then stopped.
Didier frowned. “Your Highness—”
“Good night, Didi.”
“Didier,” Christina said, “thanks for your help.”
“The pleasure was mine. Happy birthday, Your Highness.” Didier bowed, then left the bathroom.
Some birthday. A trip to the salt mines of Siberia would be better than this. Anything would be.
But Richard was here with Christina, who wore the royal engagement ring. If the news got out, he would be married to her by this time next week.
Married to a stranger. An American, no less. Under the guise of the legend and true love. No way. He had to get the ring off her finger. Now. Richard grabbed Christina’s hand.
“Ow.”
He released her hand. He shouldn’t have been so rough. “I’m…I only wanted to try the oil.”
She studied him, her arched brows drawn together. Two small lines formed above the bridge of her nose. “Look, I want to get this ring off as badly as you do.” With a slight hesitation, she offered her hand. “Oil me up, Your Highness.”
Disrespectful, but kind of cute. Perhaps another time, another place. Absurd. Unknowingly or not, she had been drawn into the legend. After he removed the ring, Richard never wanted to see Christina Armstrong again.
Tilting the bottle, he poured oil on her finger, set the bottle on the counter and reached for the ring. His large hand engulfed her small, delicate one. As he rubbed the oil around the gold band, she jerked away.
Her cheeks rosy, she stared at him. “I can do it myself, Your Highness.”
“No. I will.”
Defiance flickered in her eyes, but she held out her hand anyway. At least she knew how to obey. Slowly, he rubbed on the oil, making sure he didn’t miss a spot. He had not noticed before, but her fingernails were painted a pale pink with white tips. Just like his mother used to wear before his father died.
But a French manicure did not make a princess.
“What is this?” Christina asked.
Once again, she forgot to address him as “Your Highness.” “Oil.”
With her right hand, she picked up the bottle. Her eyes widened. “It’s…massage oil?”
She needed a lesson in royal protocol. “Yes.”
“Figures.” She set the bottle on the counter. “Do you usually keep a large supply of massage oil on hand, Your Highness? Or did we just luck out tonight?”
She was the most aggravating woman he had ever met. He continued rubbing. “It was a gift.”
“I’m sure it was.”
Ignoring her suggestive tone, Richard reminded himself she was an American and did not know better. He tried moving the ring, but it still would not budge. Unwilling to give up, he added more oil. His fingers glided over hers, the friction of their skin warmed the oil oozing between their hands.
Soft. Even the coldness of her iced hand could not hide how satiny her skin felt beneath his fingertips. The smell of vanilla drifted up. No wonder Didier had wanted to stay and help. This was quite enjoyable. Richard stared at her reflection in the mirror until she blinked and looked away.
So did he.
He should not be enjoying this. This was not a game or foreplay. Christina’s skin was not soft. Any woman’s hand would feel soft with a bottle of massage oil rubbed on it.
He tried the ring again.
Nothing.
He needed to think of something—a new tactic. Maybe he needed to work on her swollen knuckle. Yes, he would try that.
Letting the oil act as a lubricant, Richard massaged her knuckle. This would certainly do the trick. Christina did have long, elegant fingers. Moving to another knuckle, he wondered if she ever painted her nails red.
His gaze locked with hers.
“Uh, Your Highness,” she said, her cheeks flushed, “that’s the wrong finger.”
Richard let go of her hand as if it were a stick of dynamite ready to blow. He couldn’t explain his lapse nor why he felt as if he were ten years old and his mother had caught him playing with his great-great-grandfather’s jewel-encrusted sword.
“I’ll try it.” Christina pulled on the ring. “It’s still stuck, Your Highness.”
And so was he.
As long as the ring was on Christina’s finger, he was stuck with her.
She washed her hands. “My finger’s really swollen. I don’t think it’s coming off tonight, Your Highness.”
They had been at it so long. Too long. Richard noticed the dark circles under Christina’s eyes. “We will wait until morning to try again. You must be tired.”
The edges of her mouth turned up slightly. “I am, Your Highness, but if you wish to continue, I understand. I know you want your ring back.”
The genuine tone of her voice surprised him, as did her willingness to continue even though she was exhausted. He was used to people wanting things from him. Few ever offered to give anything in return.
“No, we shall wait.” He noticed her gown, now wrinkled and showing signs of the long evening. She could not sleep in it. “I will find you something to wear.”
She wiped her hands on a towel. “My dress is fine, Your Highness.”
The tight-fitting bodice pushed her breasts up and tapered to a V that accentuated her hourglass curves. “Actually, it is lovely, but I am sure the designer did not intend it to be worn to bed. Come with me.” Richard opened the mahogany armoire in his bedroom. He searched through the clothes and pulled a button-down hunter-green pajama top from the hanger. “Wear this.”
She ran her fingertips over the fabric. “It’s silk, Your Highness.”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“No, it’s
