The Prince's Pleasure. Robyn Donald
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road rules.
Once they’d drawn up outside what had used to be a Victorian merchant’s house, now converted to flats, she said sincerely, ‘Thank you very much for everything you’ve done.’
The words stumbled to silence when he looked at her with cool, dispassionate irony, his angular features clamped into an expression of aloof withdrawal. Tension sparked through her, lifting the hair on her skin. Delayed shock, she thought protectively.
Swallowing, she continued with prickly determination, ‘I don’t like to think of what might have happened if you hadn’t come along.’
‘Don’t think of it. Your scream would have brought someone running. I did nothing,’ he said negligently and got out, swinging around the front of the car to open the door for her. ‘But promise me one thing.’
Clinging to the door, she braced herself. He was too close, but even as the thought formed he stepped back and she pulled herself upright on quivering legs.
‘What?’ she asked, her throat tightening around the words so that they emerged spiky with caution.
His smile was a flash of white in the darkness—sexy, knowledgeable and implacable. ‘That from now on you will call the doorman when you leave the hotel.’
‘From tomorrow I’ll be driving my own car, but I promise I won’t go walking alone at night,’ she responded quickly, groping in her bag for her keys. In her turn she smiled at him. Keep it impersonal, she warned herself, angry because she was so acutely conscious of him, tall and lethally masculine, his dark energy feeding some kind of hunger in her. ‘And I don’t work at the hotel,’ she added.
His eyes narrowed. ‘I saw you—’
‘Handing out snacks,’ she agreed. ‘I’m on the emergency roster and I was called in tonight because flu is laying the staff low.’ It seemed days ago now, as though the telephone call had summoned a different woman.
For someone who wanted to keep things on an impersonal level, she was failing miserably. Get out of here, she told herself silently. Now!
Walking carefully past him, she went up the steps to the front door, unlocked it and turned, to flinch back with dilating eyes at the tall, dominant silhouette that blocked out most of the light.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said harshly, hands closing around her upper arms. Warm, strong, unthreatening, they gave her support and steadiness. Frowning, he said, ‘You’re too pale. You’ve had a shock, and you should have someone to make sure you’re all right.’ His arms closed around her, pulling her into the hard warmth of his body.
In spite of the warnings hammering her brain, Alexa let herself lean on him, accepting the male comfort he offered with a purely female gratitude.
‘You were brave,’ he said on an unexpected note of gentleness. ‘I saw you gauge your options and decide that screaming and fighting back offered the best chance. Quick thinking, and a refusal to accept being a victim. Do you know how to defend yourself?’
‘No. I’ve always thought I should do s-something about it, but I’ve never s-seemed to have the time.’ She stopped her stammered explanation to drag in a quick, shallow breath. It was dangerously sweet to be cosseted. Forcing a brisk note into her voice, she pulled away, both relieved and disappointed when he released her instantly. ‘I’m sorry I interrupted your evening.’
He frowned, the dim light emphasising his brutally handsome features. ‘It was nothing. Can I ring someone for you?’
‘It’s really not necessary—I’m a bit shaky, but a good night’s sleep will fix that.’ Alexa suddenly remembered his coat, still keeping her warm. ‘Oh, your jacket!’ She set her bag down on the balustrade and struggled to get out of it, hauling at the material so recklessly that her shirt lifted free of her waistband.
The Prince’s hands skimmed the silken skin on either side of her waist, then jerked back as though the touch burned him. Alexa’s breath froze in her throat. She stared up into eyes that glittered in the light of the street lamps, into a face as hard and tough as a bronze mask.
For the space of several heartbeats neither moved until Alexa regained her wits enough to leap back and hand over the jacket. Both were careful not to let their fingers touch.
‘There,’ she said in a strained, hoarse voice. ‘And don’t say it was nothing.’
His mouth compressed. In a voice that could have splintered stone, he said, ‘I don’t lie. Go inside.’
Taut with a forbidden excitement, Alexa opened the door and escaped into the hall. ‘Goodbye.’
His dark head inclined. ‘Goodbye, Alexa Mytton.’
Incredulous, she thought she heard an echo of aloneness that mirrored her own. She looked up sharply, but his hard face revealed nothing except self-contained assurance. Heart hammering, Alexa pushed the door closed with an abrupt thud.
She listened until the sound of the car engine was lost in the noise of other vehicles, and then walked along to her flat, thinking that of all the idiotic things to suspect in Prince Luka loneliness was probably the most unlikely.
Yet he was far from the playboy prince she’d imagined, a handsome surface-skimmer, all machismo and conceit. He’d changed from a warrior, quick-thinking, formidable and exceedingly dangerous, to a man who offered aloof kindness and an inherent protectiveness that still surprised her.
Luka Bagaton was a complex, deeply interesting man. ‘S-sexy, too,’ she said aloud.
In the chilly security of her own flat she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, wincing at the feverish gleam in her pale eyes and the hectic flush along her cheekbones.
She had every right to feel jumpy and restless, but she wasn’t going to be able to sleep like this. Still trembling inside, she made herself a cup of milky chocolate, took it across to her computer and sat down to log on, searching for Luka Bagaton on the internet.
An hour later she switched off the computer and got up, stretching muscles that had locked as she’d read about Prince Luka of Dacia.
‘No wonder he’s so self-contained,’ she said, picking up the empty mug of chocolate.
At eighteen his father had succeeded to a princedom on the verge of being invaded by a country across the narrow strait separating the island of Dacia from Europe. Then, amazingly—and probably desperately—he’d married the only child of the dictator who’d threatened his country. His ploy had worked—Dacia had kept a limited independence. A year later the only child of the union had been born.
‘I hope they fell in love,’ Alexa said, yawning. ‘Otherwise it would have been hell for them both.’
Ten minutes before she had to leave for work the next morning, Alexa’s bell pealed. Her brows drew together as she pushed proof sheets into an envelope and went out to answer the chiming summons.
She opened the door to a man carrying a huge bunch of Peruvian lilies, delicately formed and fragile in shades of copper.
‘Miss Alexa Mytton?’ the messenger asked. At her nod he held them out.
Alexa automatically took the lovely things, looking down at the envelope with her name written across it in bold, very definite letters. Her heart jolted as she said, ‘Thank you.’
Back in her flat she arranged them in a glass vase in front of the window, admiring the way the autumn sunlight glowed through the silky, almost translucent petals. Had he chosen them to match her hair?
Only then, overcoming a kind of superstitious reluctance, she opened the envelope. I hope you are feeling much better this morning, he’d written, signing it with an arrogant ‘L’.
A swift shimmer of excitement took her by surprise. They were lovely, she thought, touching one of the lilies with a gentle forefinger.
Oh, all right, he’d probably said to someone,