The Prince's Love-Child. Sharon Kendrick
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of questions.’
His eyes glittered. ‘One of us has to.’
Hers glittered back. ‘I’m a flight attendant, actually—but thank you for not making the assumption.’
‘Assumptions are such a bore, don’t you think?’ he questioned carelessly.
It was something about the way he spoke—some unknown quality underlying the velvet accent of his voice—which Lucy had difficulty recognising at first, because she had never heard it before. And then he gave her a silent clue in the proud way he was holding his head—in the dismissive little curve of his sensual mouth as a woman wearing so little that she might have been one of those belly-dancers started ogling him from the other side of the room.
It was privilege, Lucy realised. A sense of self-worth bordering on arrogance which radiated from him in a way which was almost tangible. Haughty, but with a devilish glitter to his eyes, he managed to be both gloriously touchable and yet impossibly remote at the same time.
‘You’re the Prince,’ said Lucy slowly, and she felt the slightest pang of disappointment. Just her luck to find someone who could have whisked her off her feet and then discover he was out of bounds! ‘Aren’t you?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You knew?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘No. I’ve just guessed. Someone said there was going to be a prince here, but I didn’t believe them.’ Her eyes were candid. ‘What a bore for you—that everyone knows about you in advance.’
‘The perfect catch for the ambitious society hostess,’ he observed drily.
‘Yes, quite.’ So, was that arrogant? Or merely honest? Lucy expelled a sigh and gave him a small, regretful smile. She certainly wasn’t going to fill the stereotypical role of hanging around and being starstruck. ‘Well, it was nice meeting you—’
‘But we haven’t, have we?’ he said suddenly. ‘Met, that is. Perhaps we should remedy that?’ His smile was irresistible, and so was his voice, and he took her hand in his without warning. ‘I’m Guido.’
‘Lucy,’ she said breathlessly. His touch was sending her senses haywire. ‘Lucy Maguire—but you’d better let me go—I don’t want to monopolise you.’
‘Liar,’ he taunted softly, his fingers continuing to curl possessively around her narrow wrist. ‘You know we both want to monopolise each other.’
‘How outrageous!’ she murmured, but she didn’t move from the spot.
They talked all night. She was simultaneously lulled and stimulated by his quicksilver mind and sexy accent. He came from the Principality of Mardivino, but he had long ago rejected princely privilege. ‘Perhaps you find that disappointing?’ he mocked.
‘I thought you weren’t into making assumptions,’ she returned crisply. ‘Because that was an extremely arrogant one.’
‘You sound like a prim schoolteacher,’ he observed sultrily. ‘Even if you do not look like one.’
Lucy raised her eyebrows but said nothing—certainly not anything that was going to lead into the tantalising land of sexual fantasy.
‘So, what do princes do?’ she questioned. ‘When they’re not being princes?’
‘Oh, they wheel and deal,’ he murmured, drifting his gaze over her freckle-spattered face. ‘Just like other mortals.’
She didn’t think so. Other mortals did not have the faces of dark fallen angels. ‘A-anything in particular?’ she stammered—because when he was looking at her like that it was difficult to breathe, let alone to speak.
‘Property,’ he said succinctly.
He offered to give her a lift back to her hotel, but Lucy refused—though she let him flag her down a cab. She wasn’t sure she trusted his unique brand of sexy charisma enough to be alone in a car with him—or maybe it was that she didn’t trust herself not to respond to it.
He leaned into the cab and handed her his card.
‘Why don’t you ring me when you’re next in town?’ he suggested softly.
Lucy smiled politely and took the card, but the smile was edged in a frost he appeared not to notice. She got the distinct impression that he felt he was bestowing an enormous favour on her by giving her a contact number. Bloody cheek!
She didn’t bother ringing. His arrogance had disappointed her, yes—but it was more than that. He was a prince, for heaven’s sake—and thus completely out of her reach. Only someone with a streak of masochism would willingly subject themselves to such inevitable rejection.
But Guido, of course, had never before been ignored by a woman.
At first he simply couldn’t believe that she wasn’t going to bother to ring. But after several weeks he had no choice but to do so.
Why, he couldn’t even remember her surname!
But that, of course, did not pose any real problem. Guido had left his life as a working prince behind a long time ago, but very occasionally he used his title. He still had to exist with all the drawbacks of having it, he reasoned—so why not enjoy some of the benefits?
And Pervolo Airlines seemed only too happy to release a few facts about one of their stewardesses to a prince!
He found out when she was next flying and settled back in his seat in First Class, anticipating her reaction with a certain degree of relish, feeling himself grow deliciously hard as he saw a pair of long, long legs slinking down the cabin towards him.
Lucy had noticed him, of course—it would have been difficult not to, even if they hadn’t already been briefed by the Purser that there was a Royal prince on board.
But she had no intention of reacting to the look of appreciation which had softened the ebony eyes. She had no desire to be just another notch on a handsome, privileged man’s bedpost, and she was perceptive enough to know that this man could be a real heartbreaker.
She reached him, her face set in an unflappable, official smile. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Can I get you a drink before take-off?’
He had been expecting…what? That she would blush and stumble over her words? Look regretful or uncomfortable? Suddenly he laughed, and his pulse began to race.
‘No, you can have dinner with me tonight instead,’ he murmured, and some of his arrogance dissolved as he stared up at her. ‘Please.’
Lucy would have defied anyone to resist that look, or the one-word plea she guessed he hadn’t had to make very often in his life. So she went for dinner with him, and then—after not much of a fight—to bed. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, and to hold him off any longer would have been hypocritical and self-defeating.
But, despite the passion of the night which followed, an instinctive feeling of self-protection made her noncommittal towards him the next morning. She was determined not to seem pushy, or to act as if it would be the end of the world if he didn’t ask to see her again, and her very coolness seemed to fascinate him.
She guessed he’d never encountered it before, and to a man with an appetite jaded by exposure it was fresh and exciting fare. Soon it would no longer be fresh, nor exciting, and it would pale, but she was prepared for that—or at least that was what she told herself over and over again.
Apart from a minor blip at the very beginning, they now met up once every couple of months and it was perfect—for what it was. They had dinner, sometimes saw a film, and once or twice he had taken her to the theatre. But she had never met any of his friends, nor he hers. It was a complex game they played, with its own set of unspoken rules. As if she had been given her own separate compartment in his life—the one marked ‘mistress’—and as long as she accepted that, then she was okay. The moment she started wanting more, then it would be over.
So