Tempted By The Royal

“You look…incredible.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Then she curtsied, because it seemed appropriate. “You look quite like Prince Charming yourself.”

“Prince Charming, huh? That’s quite a reputation to live up to.”

“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 ensure that he would be heard.

The tiny chef spun around, her brows drawn together in a scowl that immediately smoothed out when she identified the speaker. “Your Highness,” she said, her lips curving into a wide smile.

The words and quick curtsy might have been formal, the embrace they shared after was not. Eric kissed both of the woman’s cheeks, as Molly had learned was the European fashion, though with more enthusiasm than she thought was typical.

When he drew back, the chef’s cheeks were flushed—whether from the heat of the kitchen or the pleasure of Eric’s attention—Molly didn’t want to guess.

“There must be a full moon tonight—the royals are all coming out of the woodwork,” she teased.

“Please do not place me in the same category as my cousin.”

“My apologies, Your Highness.”

Her apology sounded more teasing than contrite and, judging from the way Eric’s eyes narrowed, he knew it. But he only drew Molly forward. “Genevieve, I’d like you to meet Molly Shea. Molly, this is the incomparable Mademoiselle Fleury, chef extraordinaire and proprietor of Tradewinds.”

Molly shook the proffered hand, and though the other woman’s smile was warm, she sensed that she was being as carefully measured as the ingredients for a soufflé.

“It’s always a pleasure to meet a friend of a friend,” Genevieve said.

“Likewise,” Molly murmured.

She felt Eric’s hand on her waist, his fingers curling over her hip. “Do you have a table for us?” he asked.

Genevieve rolled her eyes and turned to Molly. “He comes in at seven o’clock on a Saturday night and expects that I will have a table?”

Molly shrugged apologetically.

The chef shook her head. “You take too much for granted, Your Highness.”

“Because I know you would never disappoint me,” Eric said.

Genevieve sighed. “Paolo will make up the table on the balcony, so that you can have some privacy.”

He smiled and kissed both of her cheeks again. “Merci, mon ami.”

“C’est toujours mon plaisir.”

A few minutes later, Molly and Eric were escorted up a carved stone staircase. The restaurant was in a prime location overlooking the sparkling turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. The atmosphere on Genevieve’s private balcony was enhanced by the soft music floating up from the dining room below and the scents of jasmine and vanilla emanating from the pots of flowers set around the ledge.

The table was covered with a neatly pressed linen cloth that was as blue as the sea; the crystal sparkled and the silver gleamed in the flickering light of a trio of candles.

Molly couldn’t help but be impressed by the hastily assembled scene—and a little wary about the romantic ambience. They were casual acquaintances who had been one-time lovers and she hoped, for the sake of their child, that they might develop a friendship of sorts, but she wasn’t looking for anything more than that.

There was no doubt, however, that this scene had been set for romance, and it made her wonder how many other women he had brought here—how many dates he’d impressed with a replica of this very same setting. It shouldn’t matter; she told herself it didn’t matter. This—whatever this was between them—wasn’t a date.

But she couldn’t help but ask, “Come here often?”

“I enjoy my privacy as much as a good meal, and Genevieve is kind enough to accommodate me in both respects.”

“And is obviously discreet enough not to blink when you introduce her to your…friends.”

He grinned. “I do trust Genevieve. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise. But if you think this is part of my usual seduction routine, you’d be wrong. Because the truth is, I haven’t dated enough since the accident to even have a routine.”

“And before?” she queried.

“As both of my brothers can attest, there has never been a shortage of women eager to be seen on the arm of a prince. So yes, I dated, and probably more than my fair share. But finding a woman willing to stand by a man who was at sea more than on land was difficult. I can’t even remember how many relationships sank when I shipped out, but it was enough that I gave up even trying to make anything work beyond the period of my leave.

“And after I resigned my commission, I didn’t meet anyone who made me even think beyond the short-term. Until you.”

“We didn’t even have short-term,” she reminded him. “We had one night.”

“We could have more.”

Molly shook her head, with sincere regret. “But I appreciate the tour,” she said.

She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he let the matter drop, as he seemed to do, because he only said, “Then you’re pleased with what you’ve seen of the country so far?”

“I think it would be more appropriate to say I’m both amazed and dazzled.”

He smiled. “As I said before, you are welcome to stay on after the wedding to enjoy a real vacation.”

She shook her head regretfully. “As tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid nothing here seems real. It’s like a postcard-perfect world and a zillion miles away from the realities of my life.”

“Has your absence from the restaurant been a problem?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“And it annoys you, at least a little, that all the gears are continuing to turn with the most important cog removed from the machine.”

She laughed at his analogy—and because it was true. “It’s silly, I know, but you’re right.”

“It’s not silly at all,” he denied. “We all like to feel as if we have a purpose in life, a reason for being, and it can be difficult to accept that we aren’t as essential as we believed.”

She knew he was referring to his own life now, to the career that had abruptly been ended by his injury.

“Do you ever accept it?” she asked, aware that she was prying but unable to stop herself. “Can you ever find another purpose?”

There was more than a touch of wryness in his smile this time. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

They continued to talk while they ate. The meal began with some kind of chilled soup that was a little bit spicy, followed by a main course of grilled sea bass—apparently one of Genevieve’s personal specialties—served with garlic lemon green beans and wild rice, and finished with an assortment of pastries, including slices of a baklava unlike anything Molly had ever tasted.

Through it all, Eric made her feel so comfortable and at ease that when he asked if she wanted to take a walk on the beach after dinner, she didn’t even consider refusing.

He left a pile of bills on the table that she guessed more than paid for the meal they’d shared. Then, after a quick stop in the kitchen to thank Genevieve for the incredible meal, they walked toward the water. The sun was only starting to set and the sky was a riot of glorious color. Eric took her hand to help her down the narrow steps that were a public access to the beach, and he didn’t let go when they reached the bottom. She didn’t protest or tug her hand away. It seemed silly to even consider doing so when they’d shared much deeper intimacies.

They hadn’t gone far, however, before she realized that Fiona’s sandals weren’t very practical on sand, so Molly kicked them off and was pleased when Eric discarded his shoes and socks to walk barefoot with her. They strolled along the water’s edge, sometimes talking, sometimes not, but he never let go of her hand.

They were almost back at the stairs when he stopped abruptly.

“Look,” he whispered close to her ear.

And her breath caught as she watched the sun complete its descent beyond the horizon.

“I have never seen a sunset like that,” she breathed the words quietly, almost reverently.

“And I have never seen anything like you framed by the sunset,” he said.

Then his mouth covered hers.

Just like the first time he’d kissed her, his lips were warm and firm, confident in their mastery. There was no tentativeness, no hesitant searching for the right angle, no questioning of her response.

And like the first time, there was no hesitation in her response.

It had been weeks—and yet, it somehow felt as if it was only yesterday. The warm strength of his arms around her wasn’t just familiar, it was right. And the explosion of sensations made her mind spin, her heart pound and her body yearn.

He found the pins that held her French twist in place and slipped them free so that her hair spilled into his hands. His fingers sifted through the tresses, caught the ends to tip her head back, changing the angle and deepening the kiss.

She sighed; he groaned.

She wanted him—there was no denying that fact. But she couldn’t let herself get caught up in the moment, the romance, the fantasy. There was too much at stake now.

Her system jangled with unacknowledged wants, unsatisfied desires, but she forced herself to take a step back.

“I want to go back to the palace now,” she said, though she knew the words were a lie.

What she really wanted was for him to kiss her again, until reality faded away and there was nothing but the two of them. She wanted to make love with him again, to experience the fulfillment she’d only ever known in his arms. But she knew that couldn’t happen, not while there was such a huge—and growing—secret between them.

Eric clenched his hands into fists to resist the urge to grab hold of Molly and shake some sense into her. What was it about this woman that she was so determined to deny what was between them?

“Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

“It was just a kiss, Eric. I hardly think we need to dissect and analyze every insignificant little detail of it.”

His nails dug into his palms. “Maybe it’s not necessary,” he allowed, somehow managing to match her casual tone despite the fury in his blood, “but I’m curious as to which part you think is most insignificant—your tongue in my mouth, your breasts plastered against my chest or your hips rocking against mine.”

Her eyes narrowed even as her cheeks flushed with color. “So I responded to you physically. That doesn’t mean I want to fall back into bed with you.”

“Oh, you want to,” he said, confident it was true. “But for some reason, you’re afraid to give in to the chemistry between us.”

“I just don’t want to make a big deal out of something that isn’t,” she insisted. “And right now, I really want to go back to the palace so I can go to bed alone.”

There was more going on, something beneath the surface but he was damned if he could figure it out.

He pulled on his socks and shoved his feet into his shoes, not caring that both were full of sand. The only thing that mattered now was getting Molly back to the palace so he could get away from the woman who was slowly driving him insane.

“Let’s go,” he said.

She followed silently.

Not a word was spoken as they walked back to the car. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Eric thought that if he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand women.

He knew that was a standard complaint of men around the world, but never had he understood it as he did now. Never had he known a woman like Molly who seemed to delight in sending out mixed signals. One minute she was in his arms, her lips soft and warm beneath his, her body yielding to his, and the next she was pushing him away as if she couldn’t stand his touch.

Mi Dios.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he guided the little sports car around the steeply winding curves of Ocean-view Drive. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks, but Eric’s own mood was too dark to allow him to pay heed to the vagaries of the sea.

He kept his gaze focused on the road, but he was conscious of Molly seated beside him. He was conscious of the tension in every inch of her body, of the quiet intake of every breath she took, of her subtle and unique scent. And mostly he was conscious of the desire that still thrummed in his blood.

He wanted her—more now even than the first time because he knew how incredible they could be together. And while she’d been kissing him on the beach, he’d been certain she wanted the same thing.

Until she said, “I’m ready to go back to the palace now,” in a tone that made it clear she didn’t mean to the privacy of his rooms.

And he could respect that. He had no intention of forcing his attentions on a woman who made it clear that she wasn’t interested. Except that Molly hadn’t made anything clear—she’d only made his head spin in circles and his body ache with wanting.

Still, he wasn’t going to waste any more time chasing after this woman. She knew what he wanted and he would just have to trust that she would let him know if she ever decided she wanted the same thing.

The touch of her hand on his arm made him jolt.

The fierce grip of cool, clammy fingers eradicated any illusions that she was giving him a signal to do anything but pull over to the side of the road. Now.

His gaze swung over, noting the pallor of her skin, the panic in her eyes.

He whipped the car onto the soft shoulder, the tires spitting up gravel.

She flung open the door before he’d completely stopped and raced over to the guardrail. Eric was right behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her up so that she could heave over the barrier. And she did—tossing her grilled sea bass back into the ocean.

“Okay?” he asked, when the spasms in her stomach had finally stopped.

She nodded.

Now that the crisis had passed, he was suddenly aware of his arm banded around her ribs, just below the soft curves of her breasts. Of her cute little derriere pressed against his groin. Of her hair, swirling in the wind, tickling his throat, teasing him with the scent of her shampoo. And the sudden stillness of her body that alerted him to the fact that she was just as acutely aware of the intimacy of their positions.

He lowered her feet back to the ground and loosened his hold.

Her fingers curled around the top of the guardrail, gripping the metal barrier as she continued to look out at the sea, looking—he suspected—anywhere but at him.

He returned to the car to retrieve a bottle of water from the first aid kit he habitually carried. “It’s not cold but it’s wet,” he said, twisting off the cap and offering it to her.

She accepted it with a quietly murmured thanks and tipped it to her lips to rinse her mouth, then swallowed a few tentative sips.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still not meeting his gaze.

“There’s no need to apologize,” he told her. “Though you might have warned me you have a tendency toward motion sickness.”

“I don’t usually,” she said, sounding more than a little defensive.

He frowned. “Are you blaming my driving?”

“No,” she said. “Maybe it was the fish.”

Except that Eric had eaten the same thing she had for dinner, and he knew there was nothing wrong with the way it had been prepared.

“I don’t mean that it wasn’t cooked properly,” she said, knowing Genevieve wouldn’t have let the plates out of her kitchen otherwise. “But maybe there was some kind of spice or seasoning that doesn’t sit well with me.

“Or maybe I just had too much sun today,” she suggested as an alternative. “I spent a few hours by the pool with Fiona earlier.”

Which he already knew, of course. He had a clear view of the pool from his windows, and he’d found his gaze straying outside all too frequently because she was there. He also knew she’d spent more time in the shade than the sun and that she’d been wearing a hat.

Yeah, she had all kinds of excuses, as if she was desperate for him to pick one—any one—to believe. And Eric had a sudden, sinking feeling that he knew the real reason for her bout of illness.

And though the possibility made him feel a little queasy, it wasn’t anything he was prepared to ignore.

“Or maybe you’re pregnant.”

Chapter Eight

Molly wanted to laugh.

Her sister was always complaining about the cluelessness of men in general and of her husband in particular. No one could accuse Eric Santiago of being clueless—she’d gotten sick once, and he assumed he had all the answers.

Unfortunately for Molly, they were the right answers.

“You’re not denying it,” he said.