Sleeping With Beauty

“Why Did You Call Me That?”

She Demanded.

Dan was completely taken aback. “What? Why did I call you Princess? I don’t know. You just seem—”

She boldly met his eyes. “Don’t ever call me that.”

“Why?”

“I—I don’t remember. But I don’t like it.”

“Fine. But I’ve got to call you something.” Dan refused to delve into the princess thing. Tomorrow hopefully, he wouldn’t be calling her anything at all. “How about Angel?”

A slow, soft smile broke over her face. “You think I’m an angel, Dan?”

That smile gripped him and he lost himself, lost his mind and his control for a moment. “I think you’ve got the face of an angel. I’m not sure about the rest of you—” his traitorous gaze traveled the length of her “—yet.”

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Sleeping with Beauty

Laura Wright

MILLS & BOON

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LAURA WRIGHT

has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently, she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theatrical production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811 Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at [e-mail].

To my Dan…

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Prologue

Princess Catherine Olivia Ann Thorne sat pole straight between her father and her aunt Fara at the head table, watching the people of Llandaron eat, drink, dance and be merry. Tonight, missing only the eldest brother, Alex, they celebrated the return of her younger brother Maxim and his wife, Fran, from their month-long honeymoon. The family celebrated the couple’s fantastic news of their pregnancy.

And they celebrated love.

Music drifted up from the twelve-piece orchestra, encircling the brightly lit room. Scents of roast lamb and summer heather joined in the dreamy rotation, creating a blithe, warm atmosphere in the ballroom.

But inside Cathy a cold heaviness dwelled.

Her gaze moved over her brother and new sister-in-law as they danced, so close, eyes locked, mouths turned up into intimate smiles.

Anyone could see how desperately in love they were. And it wasn’t that Cathy begrudged them such happiness. Not in the least. She loved her brother with all her heart, and thought the world of Fran. She just wanted to feel a little of that happiness—a little of that love—for herself.

“Your tour of Eastern Europe has been extended another month, Catherine.”

Cathy’s stomach clenched at her father’s words. She’d only returned from Australia three days ago, yet her social secretary had her scheduled to leave for Russia at the beginning of next week.

And now, another month was being tacked on.

“You look pale, Cathy dear,” Fara remarked, the beautiful old woman’s violet eyes narrowed with concern.

The big, white-haired bear of a man touched his daughter’s gloved hand. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, Father.” Actually, no, Father. The mask of composed princess fought the restive, reckless woman who resided deep in Cathy’s heart. Over the last several months something inside her, in her mind and soul and blood, had started to wilt. Frustration built day by day, tour after tour. Granted, she loved the visits, and especially her charity work, but she was exhausted.

Cathy stood up, dropped her silk napkin beside her untouched plate. “I’m very tired. If you’ll excuse me, Father, Fara.”

She barely waited for them to nod. With a grace she was born and bred to, she glided out of the room, into the empty hall and up the stairs, her lavender ball gown swishing against her unsteady legs. Months of supervised, heavily guarded travels, dictated protocol, and hounding press made her need for privacy akin to her need for air. The quiet, albeit temporary, sanctuary of her bedroom sounded like heaven.

But the way to her room was blocked.

“That mane of amber curls and those wide amethyst eyes.”

Perched on the landing stood a portly woman, gnarled with age and garbed in a long tank dress of red and purple, ropes of tangerine beads hanging from her neck. Cathy didn’t recognize her.

“You are every bit as beautiful as I told your mother you’d be, lass.”

Cathy gripped the banister. “You knew my mother?”

“Aye. I knew the late queen.” The woman’s thin lips twisted into a cynical smile. “When you were just a speck in your mother’s belly, I asked Her Royal Highness to allow me to read your future. But she refused my gift. Laughed at me, she did.”

The woman’s anger sat like a spoiled child between them, immobile unless appeased. A strange surge of unease coursed through Cathy. “Who are you?”

The old woman ignored the query. “I gave the king and queen my gift regardless. Aye, I told them that you would be beautiful and kind and clever. I told them that you would be spirited and brave.” Her large brown eyes darkened. “I told them that if they did not take great care of you…”

Cold fingers inched up Cathy’s spine as the woman’s voice trailed off. But she refused to show her fear. She forced on her finest royal countenance and said, “I think you should finish the story.”

The old woman’s yellow smile widened. “I told your father and mother that if they did not take great care, they would lose ye.”

“Lose me?” she exclaimed.

“Aye.”

Deportment all but dropped away. “What are you talking about?”

“Cathy, you up there?”

The call shot between Cathy and the woman, breaking the trance that seemed to hold them both captive. Whirling around, her heart pounding in her chest, Cathy saw Fran coming up the steps, her blond hair bouncing about her shoulders.

“What’s wrong, Cath?” Her sister-in-law’s deep brown eyes were filled with apprehension.

“This woman. She’s—”

Fran cocked her head, glanced past her. “What woman?”

Cathy stilled, her pulse pounding a feverish rhythm in her blood. Slowly, she turned. The woman was gone.

On legs that had gone from unsteady to leaden, Cathy lumbered up the stairs, saying nothing, Fran following closely behind her. Cathy tried not to wonder where the old woman had disappeared to, or if there had been a woman at all. She tried not to think that perhaps she’d gone crazy.

As they entered the bedroom, Fran asked softly, “Are you all right, Cath?”

Cathy sat on her bed, shoulders falling forward. No, she wasn’t all right. She was completely and totally overwhelmed. She turned to Fran and explained, “I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman who’s rarely been alone, rarely known happiness and never known love. I’m so bloody tired of living on other people’s terms.” She searched her new sister’s eyes. “Do you understand what that’s like, Fran?”

Fran sat down beside her, took her hand. “Yes, actually I do. Until I met your brother, I hadn’t lived at all.”

“Why is that, do you think? Were you afraid to live or—”

“I think I was afraid to believe that love existed for me.” A soft smile graced Fran’s mouth, the smile of a woman who now knew differently. “I’d been hurt pretty badly, and I didn’t want to feel that kind of pain again. But your brother offered me a second chance.”

Cathy sighed. “I’d like a first chance—to live. I think I deserve one.”

“Of course you do.”

Seven years of thoughts, plans, midnight fantasies and heartfelt hopes danced through Cathy’s brain. Was she brave enough? Weary enough? Desperate enough to grab hold, to take what she wanted?

Perhaps the old woman had come with a warning, not just a story from the past. A warning from her mother and maybe even from Cathy herself, that if she continued on this path, living in unhappiness, not really living at all, she’d truly be lost.

A shadow of apprehension grazed her heart, but she brushed it away. “You’re my sister now, Fran. Can I count on you?”

Fran squeezed her hand. “Just tell me what I can do.”

“Help me pack.”

One

Mosquitoes nibbled on her neck, unseen animals made sounds she didn’t recognize and the package of oatmeal she’d consumed an hour ago sat like a steel plate in her stomach.

But Cathy had never felt happier in her life.

Three days ago, dressed in typical college-backpacking-across-Europe grungewear, armed with a fake passport she’d paid dearly for and an American accent she’d learned to flawlessly imitate during her many years of travel, Cathy had followed through on her seven-year-old plan and left Llandaron for her own tour of the United States.

True to her word, Fran had helped Cathy pack and get to the airport. And as the burden of giving the king his daughter’s runaway note was a great one, Cathy thought it best not to tell her sister-in-law where she was headed.

During the entire flight to New York, Cathy had worried about her father’s reaction. But once she’d arrived in the Big Apple, she’d forced herself to let go of her concerns. Regardless of his anxiety over her whereabouts he would have to understand that in her current state of mind, she was of no use to him or to the people he wanted her to visit.

From New York, she’d taken another flight to Dallas, then another to Denver, then a cab to the hiking company’s office, enjoying her freedom every step of the way.

Her plans for the trip had gone off without a hitch, and she was certain that no one had followed her.

She grinned. She was fairly certain of it anyway.

To her right, the morning sun filtered through a stand of fragrant pine, as though eager to spotlight the needled path she walked. To her left, shards of silvery-white water cascaded down a canyon to a rushing river. The gentle slap of water against rock lulled her, yet drove her farther, up into the majestic mountains. The Colorado Rockies were just as beautiful as her old friend from finishing school had told her they would be.

A perfect place for a weary princess to escape.

As requested, the hiking company had dropped Cathy off at the base of the mountains, where the trails began, climbed and spread. Armed with a full backpack of supplies, a walking stick, pepper spray and an emergency beeper, she hiked deep into the mountains. Each night she followed the map to one of the hiking company’s sparse little cabins. She ate what was packed for her, slept on the hard, thin mattress that was provided and never complained.

She embraced her freedom, the adventure and the survival.

The word survival nicked her on the ear, made her pause midstep on the precarious stretch of narrow trail. Instinct gripped her sharply. She cocked her head to one side, listened.

She’d heard something.

Ten feet below, water smacked against rock. High above, birds twittered gaily in the swaying trees. She’d heard it all before.

Yet, there was something else.

Before she could examine the sound further, all thought suddenly froze in her brain. Barreling out of the woods came a horse and rider. Black stallion and shadowed man, heading straight for her. Time seemed to slow as river and hooves pounded.

Cathy’s heartbeat hammered in her chest, stumbling as she tried to think. She could only stare, motionless, as the snorting stallion drew nearer, nearer, then reared.

Cathy scrambled to get out of its way. Left, then right. Dust and pine needles flew and crackled. But in her haste, her foot caught on a rock still wet with dew.

Down she went, her backpack slipping off her shoulders, tumbling away, over the ravine. A scream escaped her throat as she saw only rock—her last thought on the old woman’s prediction.

“I told them they would lose ye…”

Then the ground rose up to claim her.

A violent blast of curses echoed through the mountain air. Gut tight, Dan Mason jumped off his now-lame horse and scrambled over to the woman. He touched her hand, but she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Where the hell had she come from anyway? he wondered, gaze flickering up and around. These paths were always clear. Especially at 6:00 a.m., when a man was looking to run from the demons of the night before, month before—years before.

As gently as a man used to dealing with hard-core criminals could manage, he rolled the woman to her back, brushed aside strands of long tawny curls and touched the base of her throat. A strong, steady pulse beat against his fingers. He leaned close, felt her easy breath against his jaw.

He shook his head, released a weighty sigh.

With the eyes of a deputy U.S. marshal, he assessed her condition. She didn’t appear to have any broken bones. She did, however, have a ruthless bruise on her forehead, a bruise that, thankfully, swelled outward.

As his gaze moved over her heart-shaped face, those marshal eyes turned into the eyes of a man. He couldn’t help it. He was base, a needful bastard. And she looked like an angel. Cupid-bow lips, satin skin, long neck. Then there was that firm chin that hinted at a real stubborn streak.

His gaze flickered downward. Thin gray sweatshirt, worn jeans and man-killer curves.

He inhaled sharply, called himself a depraved idiot and forced his game face back on. All in all, she was a typical hiker with typical hiking gear. Except for the boots. No mistaking. Those were top of the line. The woman had money.

The river roared from its bed ten feet down, snatching his attention like a fire alarm, spitting up spray. A muscle jumped in Dan’s jaw. She could’ve gone over the edge.

He leaned toward her, whispered sharply, “Lady, wake up.”

He got nothing. Nothing but one helluva sweet scent.

“Lady, can you hear me?”

A soft moan slipped from those pale-pink lips. She moved slightly, her face twisting, no doubt in pain. Pain was good, he thought. But getting her to wake up was better.

In a tone more suited to press criminals than soothe victims, he urged her on, “You’ve got to wake up now. Open your eyes and look at me.”

At that, tawny lashes fluttered, then opened. Eyes the color of violets stared up at him, made his chest constrict.

“Can you hear me?”

Blinking drunkenly, she nodded.

“You out here alone?”

Confusion swept her angel face as she uttered hoarsely, “I don’t know.”

“Do you feel dizzy? Sick to your stomach?”

“A little.”

He frowned. He knew something about head wounds. And this sounded like a concussion. “Your head hurt?”

“Aches.” Her responses came out as uneasy whispers. But it was the look in her eyes, the confusion, the fear that had his teeth clenching in undisguised anger.

He could see another woman, his partner, his fiancée, face pale, lips parted, staring up at a six-foot-five heavily muscled fugitive who was supposed to be on the other side of her gun.

Had Janice looked like this woman? Frightened, desperate?

Dan’s jaw threatened to crack. That horrific night had happened over four years ago, for chrissakes. How many times was he going to go through it, relive it? He hadn’t been there for her, case closed—couldn’t’ve been there for her. He’d been tied to that hospital bed, a bullet lodged in his thigh.

And hell, the bastard was behind bars where he belonged now anyway. Granted, a little more bruised and beaten than when he’d last faced a cell. Something Dan had seen to, something that had gotten his ass suspended and sent up to a mountain cabin to think about what he’d done, and if all went according to plan, feel remorse for it.

He grunted. His superiors were going to be waiting a long time for that to happen.

On a pained sigh, the woman in front of him let her lids close. All questions, all memories dropped to the back of his mind for more pressing and present matters.

This woman needed a doctor. But how was he going to contact one? Her pack had fallen over the crag, had to be a mile downstream by now. He didn’t have a cell phone.

Truth was, he hadn’t wanted any contact with the outside world. And now this woman was forcing his hand.

Options were few. Town was a full day’s ride away.

With a sharp sigh, he gathered her small frame into his arms, snatched Rancon’s reins and headed back to his cabin.

Two

Thumbnail sketches of flowered hillsides and rocky coastlines and one dangerously handsome man with dark, probing eyes drifted in and out of her muddled brain, warring with the sting over her left eyebrow and the dull pounding in her skull.

From far off she heard a moan. A feminine sound, but low and gravel-like. She wanted to run toward the woman, embrace her, whisper soothing words. But where was she?

“You need to wake up.”

The male voice slashed through the fog of her mind. The sting turned sharp as she strained to do as she was commanded. She tried to move, tried to shake her head. But her limbs felt heavy, water-filled. All she wanted to do was sleep, just sleep.

“I know you hear me,” came the masculine growl once again. “Open your eyes or there’s going to be trouble.”

She felt fingers, strong and cool at the base of her throat. She inhaled sharply at the touch, taking in the scents of pine and leather and sweat and…male…

With great effort, she forced her eyes open. Inches from her was a man—a ruthlessly handsome man with mussed black hair, piercing eyes, obstinate jaw and previously broken nose that she’d seen…

When?

Muscles tense with fear, she stared into those brown eyes of his, dark as chocolate, melted, hot chocolate, and uttered a hoarse “Who are you?”

The man’s hard gaze moved boldly over her face, hovered near her mouth, then lifted to her eyes and narrowed. “You first.”

Confused, she felt her forehead crease, but she didn’t argue with him. For, a more alarming predicament was rising up, biting her on the ear. When she opened her mouth, fully expecting her name to slip out easily, thoughtlessly…nothing emerged.

Terror twisted in her belly, shooting off balls of anxiety that had no direction, no catcher. She began to shake. Her throat went dry as a summer wind. She shut her eyes, willed herself to concentrate, to relax. This was ridiculous. The truth was there, on the tip of her tongue, who she was and where she’d come from.

Moments passed.

Nothing came.

She lifted her eyelids. “I don’t know who I am.”

A curse, ripe and hot, fell from his lips.

There had to be a logical explanation for this whole situation, she reasoned, must be. She just had to think, take a moment and concentrate.

Forcing a calm tone she hardly felt, she asked, “Are we lovers? Married?”

He snorted. “No.”

“Friends, then? Acquaintances—”

“No.”

Nervously, she looked around the room. She was in a small bedroom, sparsely furnished with just the bed, an old dresser and rocking chair. Above, the ceiling sported scores of rustic wood logs, while the large windows in front of her peered out over imposing mountains.

A log cabin.

And none of it rang one tiny bell of recognition.

“This is your house?”

He offered only a curt nod.

She shifted nervously under the covers. “This is your bed?”

“Yes.” An almost imperceptible glimmer of danger passed through his eyes. “I only have the one. Thought you’d be more comfortable here than on the couch.”

“I…appreciate that.”

With another quick nod, he stood. “You should probably get some rest.”

Without thought, she reached out, grabbed his wrist. “Wait. Please.”

He glanced down, frowned. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry.” Blushing, she released her grip on him. “I just want to know what happened—”

“Later. Rest now.” He turned, started for the door.

“Can you at least tell me your name?” she asked.

He stopped but didn’t turn around. “Dan.”

“Dan what?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

And with that, he left the room. Left a woman with no memory and a million questions staring after him.

As twilight arrested and called in the day, Dan hauled in the wood he’d chopped that morning and dropped it beside the fireplace.

Physical labor of any kind was his saving grace. If his mind dropped back to the past or shot into the future, he’d just grab the ax and have at it. Sometimes mucking out Rancon’s stall emptied his mind as well.

But not tonight.

The mystery woman with her violet eyes, I-need-you voice and fancy accent was sleeping in his bed, between his sheets—had been for the past four hours—and the thought was slowly but surely making him nuts.

He was now entirely over the fact that she could be a criminal or a spy or some such bull. Now his suspicious nature had turned into something far more dangerous: desire. With just a glance, that woman had his blood pumping and his curiosity piqued—two things he hadn’t felt in a very long time.