rose from the bed, slipped her feet into satin slippers and pulled on her blush-pink silk dressing gown. Before she could let herself weaken, before she gave up without even trying and returned to her bed, she hurried through the sitting room of the apartment that had always been considered hers when she visited the Prince’s Palace.
Silently, she emerged into the corridor outside her rooms. She closed her door with great care. Then she took off at a run down the wide, arching hallways, her soft slippers making no sound on the marble floors.
Fortune smiled upon her, at least a little. She saw no one, which meant that no one waylaid her, no one asked her what in the world she thought she was doing, wandering the palace hallways so very late at night.
When she reached the door to Alex’s suite, her courage failed her. She stiffened her spine and retied the sash of her robe and gave the beautifully carved door three sharp raps with her knuckles.
Nothing. No answer.
She knocked again. And then, pausing to send furtive glances down the hallway in both directions, she knocked a third time. She pressed her ear to the heavy door.
Not a sound within. He wasn’t there.
Or, more likely knowing him, he was there, but he wasn’t answering.
Hah. If he thought she could be put off so easily, he should prepare for a surprise. Lili had a hairpin and she knew how to use it. In fact, she thought as she stuck the two pin ends in the keyhole and twisted them in a manner both precise and effective, she was a lot more capable than many gave her credit for.
The simple lock turned and the door swung silently inward. For the first time in too long, Lili allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction.
The high-ceilinged antechamber, dimly lit by wall fixtures, was deserted. Lili tiptoed inside and silently closed and locked the door behind her.
“Alex?” she whispered. “Are you there?” And then she drew back her shoulders and tried again, louder. “Alex, I mean it. We have to talk.” She waited. “Alex? Alex!”
Nothing.
She straightened her robe and flipped her hair back over her shoulders with both hands and marched into the dim sitting room. “Alex?”
No one was there.
So she turned to the hallway that led to his bedroom. When she got there, the door was shut.
As if a closed door could stop her now. She grasped the latch. Unlocked. She pushed the big door inward upon the darkened room—the room where Alex had carried her that bright April morning, the room where he had …
No. She wasn’t going to think about it. She wasn’t going to remember. She had more important things on her mind right now than the wonder and beauty that had occurred in this room—and the cold, heartless way he’d dismissed her afterward.
“Alex …”
Only silence greeted her. She flipped the wall switch and stared at the wide, empty, unmade bed. The tangled sheets and covers spilled to the floor. Apparently, Alex had not been able to sleep, either.
But where was he now?
The door to the bath stood wide. She marched over there and looked in.
No one.
Lovely. She’d worked up her courage to confront him, even gone so far as to break into his apartment. And he didn’t even have the good grace to be here so that she could tell him exactly what she thought of him.
What now?
Suddenly, she felt like a balloon with a slow leak. She returned to the massive carved bed and hoisted herself up onto it. “Oh, Alex …” She blew out a discouraged breath and let her shoulders slump. “What am I going to do with you?” She stared down at her little satin slippers and wondered if he would be back soon.
You just never knew with Alex. You could never predict the choices he might make. It was very annoying.
With another long sigh, she let her gaze wander. The room was large and well-appointed. Her glance caught on the night-table photo of Alex and that American friend of his—the one who had been with him in Afghanistan when he was captured, the one who had not made it back. In the photo, Alex and his friend sat together in a dusty open Jeep. They both wore desert fatigues and carried rifles.
They were also both grinning, the sunlight refracting off the lenses of their aviator sunglasses. Lili stared at Alex’s image and wondered if she’d ever seen him grin like that. Judging by the square, flat-topped buildings in the background and the desert terrain, she guessed the picture must have been taken during that ill-fated trip to Afghanistan. Taken before either Alex or his friend had any idea what was going to happen to them.
She didn’t know the details of Alex’s capture and imprisonment. But she did know it had lasted four years. Four endless years during which he must have suffered terribly, during which his friend had lost his life. Four years until, somehow, six months ago, he’d managed to escape.
Lili flopped back onto the tangled sheets and stared up at the coffered ceiling. All right, she felt a tiny bit … abashed. Looking at that picture reminded her that Alex did have his reasons for being Prince Cold, Mean and Unresponsive. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what he must have endured during his time as a prisoner. She needed to be more understanding, to keep in mind what he’d been through when she wanted to call him unflattering names and slap his expressionless face.
Lili kicked off her slippers. They plopped to the bedside rug. She promised herself that she would try to be nicer to him. She would keep in mind the awfulness of what he’d survived. From this moment on, she’d make more of an effort to be understanding and patient and not to burst into tears or let her temper get the better of her.
She was so busy telling herself that she would really try and treat Alex more kindly that she didn’t hear the outer door open or even notice that a light in the sitting room had popped on. She remained stretched across the tousled sheets on her back, her arms spread wide and her bare feet dangling over the side.
The last thing she expected was to hear Alex say, “Lili, it’s almost four in the morning. What in hell are you doing here?”
She popped to a sitting position with a shocked little squeak. “Eek! Alex, you scared me.”
He was dressed in a sweat-drenched T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a similarly sweaty pair of frayed gray sweatpants. In fact, everything about him was sweaty—his more-granitelike-than-ever face, his close-cropped, thick brown hair, his muscular arms and deep, broad chest.
There were scars on his arms and on his neck, pinkish-white and rough against his tanned skin. She started to feel real sympathy for him.
And then he muttered darkly, “I’ll do a lot more than just scare you if you don’t tell me why you’re in my rooms.”
Softly, she reminded him, “You wouldn’t talk with me yesterday.”
“That’s because there was nothing to say.”
I am not going to start shrieking at him. I am not going to slap his smug, cold
