Her Gypsy Prince

“You’re not all bad,” she said softly, her words barely covering the carnival tunes, the tent music. “It’s just that the Swindle…”

“I’m aware of it.” The comment came out gruffer than he’d intended.

He was still recovering from her unknowing come-on.

She straightened up and peered inside the tent again, probably to avoid the tension between them. “At any rate, you don’t seem too evil.” When she looked back at him, hope brimmed over in her gaze. “Are you?”

Carlo could only chuff at that. If only she knew.

He moved away a few feet, the expectation in her eyes digging into him. “Go home, Elizabeth, before someone on your committee catches you here.”

“But…”

“It was nice meeting you, even for just a night.” He started to walk away.

“Carlo?”

The sound of her voice wrapping around his name halted him. He imagined her gentle, cupped hands holding his essence, sheltering him like a nest cradling a wounded eagle.

When he didn’t answer, she spoke again.

“Good night.”

She sounded so forlorn. It was all he could do to stop himself from turning back around and dragging her against his body to show her how bad he really could be.

Yet, instead of looking at her again, he resumed his pace, telling himself that his memories of a woman in a flowered sundress standing in the light of a carnival tent would be enough.

One sleepless night later, he admitted to himself that it wasn’t.

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