Tempted By The Royal. Michelle Celmer
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“I have no doubt you’ll manage.”
He smiled, and the slow, sensual curve of his lips made her pulse leap.
She knew how those lips tasted—their tangy masculine flavor. And she knew how they felt—nibbling her throat, nuzzling her breasts, skimming over her heated skin. Talk about heat—just the memories of the night they’d spent together had her temperature climbing toward the roof.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, leading her to the door beyond which he promised, “Your chariot awaits.”
Her chariot was actually a sleek and sexy sports car unlike anything she had ever seen before.
“It’s a Saleen S7 Twin Turbo,” he told her, as if that was supposed to mean anything to a woman who drove a perfectly nice but unexceptional Saturn. “It has a seven-hundred-and-fifty horsepower V8 engine and can go from zero to sixty in less than three seconds.”
“We’re not going to do that, are we?” she asked, more than a little apprehensively.
He chuckled. “No. And it’s not actually mine—it belongs to my brother Marcus. He was always into fast cars and fast women—before he met Jewel, anyway. Besides being an attention-getter, it’s a heck of a lot of fun to drive.”
And it was, she found, fun to ride in.
Maybe he didn’t take it from zero to sixty in less than three seconds, but he did go fast, zipping through the streets such that everything was a blur through the window.
He drove into the town of Port Augustine, a seaside village bustling with tourists and commerce. As he navigated his way through the city streets, he proved to be a fabulous tour guide, knowledgeable about the island’s history and geography.
He parked in a public lot, but it was only when he donned the baseball cap and mirrored sunglasses that she remembered he was a prince and that this was his country and the disguise—lame though it was—was probably necessary if he didn’t want to be recognized.
“Ashamed to be seen with me?” she asked, only half joking. Because while she was confident that she looked her best in her borrowed dress, she didn’t doubt that a prince was used to escorting much more beautiful and glamorous women than she would ever be.
“On the contrary,” he said. “I am always pleased to have the company of a gorgeous woman. But if you are seen with me, I’m afraid you may be hounded by the local paparazzi for the rest of your stay in Tesoro del Mar.”
“So the disguise is for my benefit?” she asked skeptically.
“And mine,” he admitted. “Because I don’t want to share a single minute of the time we have together with anyone else.”
“If you wanted to blend in, you might have chosen a less conspicuous vehicle,” she pointed out.
“But I wanted to impress you, too.”
She couldn’t help but smile at that.
“Do I look like an American tourist?” he asked her now.
She noted the Texas Rangers logo on the cap and figured it had been a gift from Scott—or perhaps he’d just borrowed it from his friend. But if his intention was to blend in, she didn’t think he would ever manage that. Even with the hat pushed down over his thick, dark hair and those deep, compelling eyes covered with the reflective lenses, he wasn’t a man who could walk around without attracting attention. He was too tall, too compelling and far too sexy for Molly’s peace of mind. Not that she intended to admit any of those thoughts to the prince.
“Maybe from a distance,” she said. “And only so long as you don’t say anything, because no one hearing you speak would ever mistake you for a Texan.”
“I’ll let you do all the talking,” he promised, slinging a companionable arm across her shoulders.
“My high school Spanish is more than a little rusty,” she warned.
“Everyone here speaks English. Though Tesoro del Mar is officially a bilingual country—with Spanish and French as its two official languages—English is just as common and is taught in all of the schools.”
He was proud of his homeland, she could hear it in his voice when he talked about the country and its people. He was a man who would have felt it was an honor and a privilege to serve in the navy, to do his part to keep his country safe, and she could only imagine how devastated he’d been to have that opportunity taken away.
The more she got to know him, the more facets she saw. He was a prince, a soldier, a hero. But mostly he was a good man, a man her baby would be proud to know was its father.
They walked along the streets of Port Augustine, browsed in the shops, drank espresso at an outdoor café, then walked some more before returning to the car.
“Getting hungry yet?” Eric asked as he drove toward the north coast.
“I am,” she admitted. “I didn’t think I’d want to eat for a week after the lunch Fiona and I had by the pool, but all that walking changed my mind.”
“All part of my plan,” he told her, “so that you can fully appreciate the experience of Tradewinds Ristorante. I promise you, Genevieve is a culinary genius.”
“You must be a frequent customer if you’re on a first-name basis with the chef.”
“She used to work at the palace,” he explained. “Her father still does. In fact, Marcel is the one who put together the sample menu for Fiona and Scott’s wedding.”
“So why did his daughter leave?”
“She wanted to succeed on the basis of her own work, build her own reputation.”
“Obviously she has,” Molly said, noting that the line of customers waiting to be seated extended outside of the door. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Please,” he chided. “My title is all the reservation I need.”
“I thought you were incognito today.”
“Not while my stomach is rumbling.” But instead of leading her to the front of the line, he guided her around to the back of the building and through an unmarked door.
She recognized the sounds of a busy kitchen—the clang of pots being shifted from prep area to burner to service counter, the rhythmic thunk of a blade chopping and dicing, the whir of a blender pulverizing. And the scents—mmm…the air was rich with flavors that were tangy and spicy and tart and sweet.
“What are you doing with that?” A woman’s voice rang with authority through the din, silencing all other murmurs of conversation.
The junior cook to whom the question had been directed flinched as he turned to face his boss’s wrath. “I was adding the béarnaise sauce.”
“Those potatoes are charred,” she pointed out in a cool voice, lifting the plate from the counter to inspect the offending spuds more closely. “And if you thought you could cover that up with the sauce, you were wrong.”
“But the order is for Prince Cameron and he does not like to be kept waiting.”
“He would like it even less if something came out of this kitchen that was not prepared to my exacting specifications.” And with that, she dumped the contents of the plate into the garbage.
The young apprentice flushed. “Of course, Mademoiselle.”
“You will apologize to His Highness for the wait and offer a round of complimentary drinks to his table while I prepare his meal properly.”
This directive was met with a brief nod before he hurried out of the kitchen to do his boss’s bidding, while the dark-haired woman set to work, muttering under her breath in French.
“The only thing missing is the crack of a whip,” Eric commented, loudly enough to