The Princess Predicament. Lisa Childs
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him out in the dark. Charlotte would not have been so cowardly, as cowardly as Gabby had been when she’d allowed her father’s pronouncement at the ball to stand instead of immediately speaking up. And when she had finally gathered her courage and her anger, this man had stopped her from talking to the king. She should have been angry with him. But she only felt relief when he had finally opened his eyes. The three minutes he’d been unconscious had seemed like a lifetime to Gabby.
“Charlotte?” he repeated but his tone was different now, as if he suspected that she might actually be her bodyguard.
That was nearly as ridiculous as Charlotte striking him. “It all happened so fast that I have no idea who it could be. After hitting you, he ran out the door. All I saw was that he was dressed in black pants and a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled tight around his face.”
“It was a man?”
She nodded. “Tall and thin with no curves. But I suppose it could have been a woman.” At all those fashion shows and movie premieres, she had met many tall, thin women. “But not Charlotte.”
“No,” he agreed, but tentatively, as if he debated taking her word for it.
“You don’t trust me?” she asked, wondering if she should be offended or amused. Certainly it wasn’t good to be thought a liar but that wasn’t the issue for her.
Most people didn’t consider her clever enough to be able to pull off any deception. The public believed she was an empty-headed heiress. They weren’t being cruel or unfair. Because she was naturally shy and introverted, nerves got the better of her during interviews, and she usually babbled incoherently—earning the nickname of Princess Gabby.
“I’m not even sure who you are,” he admitted, his dark eyes narrowing with suspicion as he studied her face.
He really believed she might be Charlotte Green. Again she was flattered instead of offended. Most people might mistake the former U.S. Marshal for her—from a distance. Along with already having the same build and coloring, Charlotte had had plastic surgery so their faces looked alike, too. Except Charlotte had a beauty and wisdom that came with being six years older and so much more worldly than Gabriella. Her bodyguard was tough and independent while Gabby was anything but that.
Charlotte would not have been passed off tonight from one fiancé to another—publicly humiliated during the ball. What was worse was that the man who had traded Gabriella to the highest bidder like a brood mare at auction was her own father.
She expelled a ragged breath of frustration. “I wish I was Charlotte,” she admitted. “Then I wouldn’t be engaged to marry a stranger. I wouldn’t have had people trying to kidnap me since I was a baby just so they could get to my father. No one would even care who I am.”
“I would care,” he said, with a charm of which she had not thought him capable.
She had thought him tough and cynical and dangerous and ridiculously handsome and sexy. She’d thought entirely too much of Whitaker Howell since he had stepped inside the palace ten weeks ago. She had also talked about him, asking the men he’d served with in Afghanistan to tell her about him. And the more she’d learned, the more fascinated and attracted she had become.
Now he was lying on her bedroom floor with her straddling his hard, muscular body while she leaned over him. Her fingers were still in his hair. No longer probing the wound, she was just stroking the silky blond strands.
He must have become aware of their positions, too, because his hands clasped her waist—probably to lift her off. But before he could, she leaned closer. She had to know—and since he would probably never be this vulnerable again, she had only this chance—so she pressed her mouth to his to see how he would taste.
Like strong coffee and dark chocolate—like everything too rich and not good for her. Instead of pushing her away, his hands clutched her waist and pulled her closer. And he kissed her back.
No. He took over the kiss and devoured her—with his lips and his teeth and his tongue. He left her gasping for breath and begging for more. And instead of ignoring her, as he had earlier, he gave her more. He kissed her deeply, making love to her mouth—making her want him to make love to her body. She leaned closer, pushing her breasts against his chest.
He reached for the zipper at the back of her dress, his fingers fumbling with the tab before freezing on it. “We can’t do this,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. “I—I need to report the intruder—need to lock down the palace and grounds …”
She would have been offended that he thought of work instead of her … if she couldn’t feel exactly how much he wanted her.
“We have guests staying overnight,” she reminded him. “You can’t disrupt the whole palace looking for what was probably a member of the paparazzi who passed himself off as either a guest or part of the catering staff. He was probably snooping in my rooms or waiting with a camera to get some compromising photos.” And if he hadn’t given himself away, he might have gotten some good shots—of her and Whit.
“I still need to report the breach of security,” he insisted. “And I need to make sure you have protection. Where the hell is Charlotte?”
“I gave her the night off,” she said.
“And she took it?” he asked, his brow furrowing with skepticism of her claim.
“She thought I’d be safe.” Because Gabriella had sworn she wouldn’t leave her rooms.
His dark eyes flashed with anger. “She thought wrong.”
“I will be safe,” she said softly, her voice quavering with nerves that had her body trembling, as well. “If you stay with me …” She drew in a deep breath and gathered all of her courage to add, “…all night…”
SHE AWOKE ALONE in the morning—her bed empty but for the note she found crumpled under her pillow. She had obviously slept on it.
Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the paper and silently read the ominous warning: “You will die before you will ever marry the prince …”
Whitaker Howell had not left her that note. So the intruder must have. He or she hadn’t been just an opportunistic guest looking for a souvenir or a member of the paparazzi looking for a story. The intruder had broken into her rooms with the intent of leaving the threat. Or of carrying it out … with Gabriella’s death.
Chapter Two
Present day …
For six months Princess Gabriella St. Pierre had been missing—vanished from a hotel suite in Paris. A hotel suite that had become a gruesome crime scene where someone had died. For six months Whit Howell had been convinced she had been that someone. He had believed she was dead.
Just recently he’d learned that Gabby was alive and in hiding. Her life had been threatened. And instead of coming to him for protection, she had left the country. She hadn’t trusted him or anyone else. But then maybe that had been the smart thing to do. Her doppelgänger bodyguard had been kidnapped in her place and held hostage for the past six months.
If Gabriella hadn’t gone into hiding …
He shuddered at the thought of what might have happened to her. But then he shuddered at the thought of what still could have happened to her since no one had heard from her for six months.
Could someone have fulfilled the prophesy of that note? The man, who had accidentally abducted the bodyguard in Gabby’s place, claimed that he hadn’t written it. Given all the other crimes to which he’d confessed, it made no sense that he would deny writing a note. But if not him, then who? And had that person followed through on his threat?
Whit had to find Gabby. Now. He had to make sure she was safe. He knew where she’d gone after leaving the palace. Her destination was on the piece of paper he clutched so tightly in his hand that it had grown damp and fragile.