any special treatment when he was in the military; he’d carried his own weight.
“We’ll see,” he said as the waitress arrived with a breakfast fit for a king. “You just might be surprised.”
She had her doubts and she didn’t make any effort to hide them, but Lorenzo wasn’t worried. Digging into the ham and eggs and hashbrowns he’d ordered, he could already see himself dressed as a cowboy. A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. His mission was a serious one, but he had to admit, this was going to be fun.
“The mall is the other direction,” Eliza told him thirty minutes later when he pulled out of the diner parking lot and turned left. “I thought you wanted to get some western clothes.”
“I do,” he said. But instead of turning around, he drove slowly down the street, reading the signs of every business they passed. “Here we go,” he said suddenly, grinning as he turned into the parking lot of a used-clothing store.
Eliza took one look at it and said, “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he teased, and got out to open her car door for her.
The shop was everything he’d hoped it would be. Crowded and musty, it was packed full of everything from used Levi’s jeans to old prom dresses from the fifties. And somewhere in all those old castoffs was his disguise.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Eliza said when he moved to a rack of used jeans and started going through them. “I thought you’d buy something new.”
“And look like a drugstore cowboy? I don’t think so. I want to look like the average John Wayne on the street, and I can’t do that in new clothes.” Glancing up from the jeans he was checking out, he arched a brow when he saw her smile. “What’s so funny?”
“There was nothing average about John Wayne. That’s why he was John Wayne.”
He couldn’t disagree with that. “Okay, poor choice. Let’s try for a hired hand who doesn’t have two nickels to rub together. That means I need worn jeans and faded shirts that are frayed at the cuffs.”
“And something to drive around in besides a brand-new Tahoe SUV,” she pointed out dryly. “It doesn’t fit the image.”
“Good point,” he replied. “We’ll take care of that later. Right now, let’s work on the clothes.”
With her help, it didn’t take long to find exactly what he was looking for. The shop even had an old, scuffed pair of cowboy boots that were just his size. When Eliza looked aghast at the idea of him wearing someone else’s used boots, he laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ruin my feet. I just want to see how they look.”
He disappeared into the small dressing area, only to emerge a few minutes later in his disguise. Settling the used and abused black Stetson hat he’d picked out on his head, he opened the dressing room door to find Eliza waiting for him outside. “Well?” he asked, spreading his arms wide. “What do you think?”
Stunned, she blinked, wide-eyed. “I don’t believe it.”
She’d always heard that the clothes made the man, but she’d never quite understood what the phrase meant until now. She’d covered the Sebastianis for years in her column, and during that time, she must have seen dozens of photos of Lorenzo in his military uniform tuxedos, and suits that came right out of Saville Row. And in each of those pictures, he’d always looked every inch the duke.
There was no sign of that man now. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but even his posture had changed. With the scarred cowboy hat set low on his head, concealing his sandy-brown hair, the pointed old boots on his feet and the faded clothes molding his lean body, he looked like he’d just walked in off the range.
“Incredible,” she said, amazed. “I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes.”
Pleased, he grinned and tipped his hat back slightly, and just that easily, he changed the image again. He still looked like a hardworking cowboy, but now he had the look of a rogue, a flirt. With nothing more than a crooked grin, he set Eliza’s heart pounding.
Shocked, she pressed a hand to her heart before she realized it, drawing a curious look from Lorenzo. “Are you all right?” he asked with a sudden frown. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, and blushed to the roots of her hair. “You just surprised me. I never thought you’d be able to pull it off.”
“I told you I could,” he said with another grin that made her heart trip. “Now, what about you?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You can’t dress like that when I look like I just walked off a roundup,” he explained. “You’re too citified. We don’t look like we belong together.”
Eliza wouldn’t have described her black wool slacks and black and white sweater as citified, but she had to admit, he had a point. “I’ve got jeans in my suitcase. I’ll change.”
“You need a flannel shirt,” he insisted, grabbing one off the rack. “And a sheepskin coat. It’s cold out.”
Eliza had never had a sheepskin coat in her life—the western style had never suited her. But even as she started to tell him no, she made the mistake of touching the one he held out to her. “Oh! It’s so soft!”
“C’mon,” he urged, grinning. “Try it.”
Her eyes met his, and she couldn’t resist the sparkle of fun she saw there. This was a side of him she hadn’t even known existed. “Oh, all right. But I probably won’t buy it. After we find the prince, I’ll have nowhere else to wear it.”
“So wear it to the grocery store,” he said with a grin as he held it open for her to slip her arms in. “It’s a used coat, Eliza. Have fun with it.”
“Easy for you to say,” she retorted sassily. “You look like the Marlboro man. I look like…” She glanced in the mirror and groaned “…a redheaded Olive Oyle being hugged by a sheep.”
Any other man would have laughed, but Lorenzo was truly amazed that she thought she looked anything like Pop-eye’s girlfriend. Did she truly not see how pretty she was?
“Why do you do that?” he asked in puzzlement, stopping her when she would have turned away and shrugged out of the coat. “Look at yourself.” And not giving her time to object, he turned her back to the mirror, then stepped behind her, holding her in front of him with his hands on her shoulders.
“Look at you,” he said again, this time huskily. “You’re not skinny like Olive Oyle. You have the slenderness and grace of a young Katharine Hepburn. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see the passion and fire in your eyes? Look at your bone structure, the line of your throat. You’re beautiful and you don’t even know it. Look.”
In the mirror, she watched as he pulled her fiery curls up off her neck, then cradled her face between his hands. His eyes met hers, and with nothing more than a look and the touch of his hands, he made her feel beautiful for the first time in her life.
And it shook her
