Joe gazed at her across the top of his mug as he sat on the other side of the conference table in Tedric’s royal suite. “Never?” he said. He took a sip of coffee, still watching her, his dark eyes mysterious, unreadable. “Old Ted never opens the door for anyone?”
“If he were with a king or a queen, he might open the door,” Veronica said, glancing down at her notes. And away from those eyes. “But I doubt you’ll be running into any such personages on this tour.”
“What does Ted do when he’s all alone?” Joe started to put his mug down on the richly polished oak tabletop, but stopped as if he were afraid to mar the wood. He pulled one of Veronica’s file folders closer and set his mug down on top of the stiff manila. “Just stand there until a servant comes along to open the door? That could be a real drag if he’s in a rush to use the head.” He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow on the table, as he continued to gaze at her.
“Your Highness, an Ustanzian prince never rests his elbows on the top of a table,” Veronica said with forced patience.
Joe smiled and didn’t move. He just watched her with half-closed bedroom eyes that exuded sexuality. They’d been working together all night, and not once had he let her forget that she was a woman and he was a man. “I’m not a Ustanzian prince,” he said. “Yet.”
Veronica folded her hands neatly on top of her notes. “And it’s not called a ‘head,’” she said. “Not john, not toilet, not bathroom. It’s a water closet. W.C. We went through this already, remember, Your Highness?”
“How about I call it the Little Prince’s Room?” Joe asked.
Veronica laughed despite her growing sense of doom. Or maybe because of it. What was she going to do about Joe Catalanotto’s thick New Jersey accent? And what was she going to do about the fact that this man didn’t, for even one single second, take anything they were doing seriously?
And to further frustrate her, she was ready to drop from exhaustion, while he looked ready to run laps.
“My mother’s name is Maria. She was an Italian countess before she met my father. My father is King Derrick the Fourth, his father was Derrick the Third,” Joe recited. “I was born in the capital city on January 7, 1961…You know, this would be a whole lot easier on both of us if you would just hand me your file on this guy, and give me a videotape so I can see firsthand the way he walks and stands and…”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant.” A FInCOM agent by the name of West stood politely to one side.
Joe looked up, an instant Naval Officer. He sat straighter and even looked as if he was paying attention. Now, why couldn’t Veronica get him to take her that seriously?
“At Admiral Forrest’s request, Mr. Laughton requires your consultation, sir, in planning the scheduling of the tour, and the strategy for your protection,” West continued. “That is, if you wish to have any input.”
Joe stood. “Damn straight I do,” he said. “Your security stinks. Fortunately those terrorists took the night off, or I’d already be dead.”
West stiffened. “The security we’ve provided has been top level—”
“What I’m saying is your so-called top-level security isn’t good enough, pal,” Joe countered. He looked back at Veronica. “What do you say you go take a nap, Ronnie, and we meet back at…” He glanced at his watch. “How’s eleven-hundred hours? Just over two hours.”
But Veronica stood, shaking her head. She wanted desperately to sleep, but unless she attended this meeting, the visit to Saint Mary’s would be removed from the tour schedule. She spoke directly to the FInCOM agent. “I’d like to have some input in this meeting, too, Mr. West,” she said coolly. “I’m sure Mr. Laughton—or Admiral Forrest—won’t mind if I sit in.”
Joe shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Princes don’t shrug, Your Highness,” Veronica reminded him as they followed West out into the corridor and toward the conference room.
Joe rolled his eyes.
“And princes don’t roll their eyes,” she said.
“Sheesh,” he muttered.
“They don’t swear, either, Your Highness,” Veronica told him. “Not even those thinly veiled words you Americans use in place of the truly nasty ones.”
“So you’re not an American,” Joe said, walking backward so he could look at her. “Mac Forrest must’ve been mistaken. He told me, despite your fancy accent, that you were.”
Joe had talked about her with Admiral Forrest. Veronica felt a warm flash of pleasure that she instantly tried to squelch. So what if Joe had talked with the admiral about her. She’d talked to the admiral about Joe, simply to get some perspective on whom she’d be dealing with, who she’d be working closely with for the next few weeks.
“Oh, I’m American,” Veronica said. “I even say a full variety of those aforementioned nasty words upon occasion.”
Joe laughed. He had a nice laugh, rich and full. It made her want to smile. “That I won’t believe until I hear it.”
“Well, you won’t hear it, Your Highness. It wouldn’t be polite or proper.”
Her shoe caught in the thick carpeting, and she stumbled slightly. Joe caught and held her arm, stopping to make sure she had her balance.
Veronica looked really beat. She looked ready to fall on her face—which she just about did. Joe could feel the warmth of her arm, even through the sleeve of her jacket and blouse. He didn’t want to let her go, so he didn’t. They stood there in the hotel corridor, and FInCOM Agent West waited impatiently nearby.
Joe was playing with fire. He knew that he was playing with fire. But, hell. He was a demolitions expert. He was used to handling materials that could blow sky-high at any time.
Veronica looked down at his hand still on her arm, then lifted enormous blue eyes to his.
“I’m quite all right, Your Highness,” she said in that Julie Andrews accent.
“You’re tired as hell,” he countered bluntly. “Go get some sleep.”
“Believe it or not, I do have some information of importance to add to this scheduling meeting,” she said hotly, the crystal of her eyes turning suddenly to blue flame. “I’d truly appreciate it if you’d unhand me so we could continue on our way, Your Highness.”
“Wait,” Joe said. “Don’t tell me. A prince never offers a helping hand, is that it? A prince lets a lady fall on her face, right?”
“A prince doesn’t take advantage of a lady’s misfortune,” Veronica said tightly. “You helped me—thank you. Now let me go. Please. Your Excellency.”
Joe laughed. This time it was a low, dangerous sound. His hand tightened on her arm and he drew her even closer to him, so that their noses almost touched, so that Veronica could feel his body heat through the thin cotton shirt and dark slacks the tailor had left him with after the early-morning fitting.
“Babe,
