Counterfeit Princess. Raye Morgan
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barely got the word out when the door slammed shut and the driver of the limousine began to cruise toward the highway.
“Princess,” Marco said, bowing slightly from where he sat. “I’m honored that you have agreed to join me in a ride to see the lights of the city.”
She gaped at him, outraged. “I have done no such thing and you know it.”
His gaunt, shadowed face showed no reaction. “We need to talk.”
“You may need to talk. I need to get some sleep. Turn this thing around and take me back right now!”
His jaw tightened. “Iliana, be reasonable. We need to get some things settled between us.”
She looked at him helplessly. She was stuck and she knew it. And all for nothing. She couldn’t settle anything. She wasn’t in the position to make promises. Or even to tell simple truths. He was going to ask all sorts of things she couldn’t answer. Now what?
She made one last pathetic attempt to change his mind.
“I really can’t go with you. I have a headache. I need to get home. And anyway, Greta and Freddy won’t know what’s happened to me.” She looked back longingly toward the fading lights of the hotel where those two were still chatting with old friends.
“My man Jordan will stay behind and fill them in,” the crown prince said reassuringly. “I’ll make sure you get home in one piece.”
Home! That was another problem. She couldn’t let him drop her at the little house in the modest suburb where she actually lived. And if he took her out to the princess’s ranch, it would be daybreak before she made her way home again.
She turned to look at him, dismayed. He was certainly making her life difficult. Her chin came up and her eyes flashed. “I insist that you turn this car around and take me back,” she said, surprising herself with how imperious she sounded.
Her manner appeared to surprise him, too. He actually seemed to look at her for the first time and really see how upset she was.
“I’m sorry, Iliana,” he said quietly. “I can’t do that. We must talk and we don’t have much time. This has got to be settled right away.”
She stared at him and realized she was at a crossroads. She could throw a tantrum until he got so disgusted with her he dropped her on the closest street corner. Or she could tough it out, do what she could to avoid answering direct questions, and hope for the best. With a sigh, she opted for the latter.
“All right, Your Royal Highness,” she said, settling back into the plush cushions. “Since I’ve been shanghaied, I guess I might as well make the best of it. Let’s talk.”
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