The Wedding Party And Holiday Escapes Ultimate Collection. Кейт Хьюит
irritated that it was he who’d come for her. Tough luck. If she wanted to be Adam’s wife, she’d have to learn to hide that flash of her eyes that revealed those emotions. And if she wanted to marry into his family, she’d do well to learn that more often than not royal considerations overrode personal ones. His presence here was a case in point. If it had been up to him, he would have spent the day playing polo and the evening dancing with the charming divorcée he’d met at a charity gala last week.
But Rafe’s father, Prince Henri Augustus Marconi, claiming failing health and impatient to secure the family line, had, in a fit of regal autocracy, decreed that it was Adam’s duty to marry—and marry well and soon—and that the heiress Alexia Wyndham Jones was the perfect candidate.
Rafe had at first thought the announcement a joke. His sister, Rebecca, had been shocked at their father’s methods, though not his choice. She liked Alexia. Adam, being Adam, had let nothing of his thoughts show, except to say he wasn’t able to get away from San Philippe. And somehow Rafe, still atoning for his latest scandal, and possibly his burst of laughter, had ended up here playing babysitter and escort.
Not long after the dinner was finished Alexia had claimed a headache and excused herself, leaving him without even the distraction of watching her as he made conversation with one after another of her mother’s guests. He’d almost wished he could use the same excuse as she had just to get away from the endless pretension.
At the throaty rumble of an engine, he looked out his window to see a Harley Davidson carrying two leather-clad riders disappear into the night.
He removed his cufflinks, dropping them onto the antique dresser, and flicked a glance at his watch. The other good thing about catching up with Tony was that his friend had been able to fill him in on the best Boston night spots. If he couldn’t be in his own country, he could as least make the most of being here.
Ten minutes later he slid behind the wheel of the car that had been arranged for him and pulled out of the garage and onto the Wyndham Joneses’ driveway.
And a mere thirty minutes later, Rafe stood by Tony on the mezzanine level of the recommended club, watching the throng on the dance floor below him and wondering if coming here hadn’t been a mistake. He could have been in any one of a dozen exclusive nightclubs around the world. Here, conversation was near impossible. One a.m. and the place heaved with dancers and the beat of the music. Artificial smoke swirled about the dance floor, colored lights cast eerie illumination on the faces, bodies and limbs of the dancers.
There was only one thing—one person—who piqued his curiosity. His attention kept returning to her, and he couldn’t figure out why. She was familiar and yet not. Black hair, cut into a precise bob, swayed around her face as she moved to the music. The haircut and her darkly made-up eyes brought to mind Cleopatra. She danced opposite a tall, brawny man, dark hair, dark skin, possibly South American, who moved almost as well as she did. And yet, with her eyes often closed and her partner continuously scanning the crowd, she looked more as if she were dancing alone.
There was something entrancing, an innate sensuality, about the way she seemed aware of only the music and her own body—a svelte body sheathed in a subtly shimmering black dress that was almost nunlike compared to some of the outfits here tonight. But though it revealed little skin other than that of her graceful arms and a generous but still disappointing portion of her long legs, it molded lovingly to her curves and her slender waist.
Rafe wasn’t the only one who noticed. From his elevated position he could see that she drew more than her share of admiring—drooling—glances.
“Who’s that?” He almost had to shout in Tony’s ear to be heard.
Tony followed his gaze. “The blonde? An actress, I think. Or maybe a singer? Wasn’t she on the cover of the tabloids last week? The press are always after her.”
Rafe saw the woman Tony meant, a Barbie doll clone. “No. Cleopatra. Over to the right a little.”
Tony frowned. “Don’t know. I’ve seen her here a couple of times. Asked her to dance once. She turned me down flat, then turned her back on me. Seems to prefer them six foot four and burly.”
Rafe watched as a man with the loudest red shirt he had ever seen tried to cut in with Cleopatra. Tall and Brawny looked at his partner and she gave her head the faintest shake. He said something to Red Shirt, who scowled and then turned back to his cluster of laughing, and clearly inebriated, friends.
Rafe kept his gaze on the woman. There was something tantalizingly familiar about her. He had a good memory for faces and yet he couldn’t place her.
“It happened just like that for me, too,” Tony said dolefully.
Rafe laughed. “It’s all in the execution.”
“You think she’ll dance with you? You’re good, buddy, but you’re not that good. She’s different. Not interested.”
Rafe seldom turned down a challenge, and after the boredom of the evening and the potential boredom of tomorrow, a day spent babysitting “Precious,” he relished the fillip of Tony’s unspoken dare even more. “Watch and learn, my friend. Watch and learn.”
On the dance floor, he scarcely noticed the patrons parting to let him through. He fixed his gaze on Cleopatra as he approached her from the side. Slender, toned arms were raised above her head. Her eyes were closed. Dark, curling lashes kissed her cheeks. A small, secretive smile played about her cherry-colored lips. She managed to look both vulnerable and untouchable.
Naturally making him want to touch.
Intrigued and appreciative, he felt an undeniable pull of attraction. She would dance with him, she had to. He wanted to learn how she would move when they danced together, he wanted to know the color of her eyes, he wanted to know the fullness of that smile. He wanted—
Like a bucket of cold water over his wants, recognition slammed through him.
Alexia.
Followed by denial. It couldn’t be. Demure, boring Alexia was at home in bed with a headache.
He moved closer. She turned away, obscuring his view. But it was her. He knew it with absolute certainty. The porcelain skin, the almost stubborn jaw, and that something else, something hidden that he couldn’t define.
He now also knew Tall and Brawny’s role. Bodyguard. What he didn’t know was what the hell she was doing here and, more important, what he should do about it. Did he leave her or get her out of here? She wasn’t his responsibility. Yet. And chances were she’d get through the evening without a scandal.
Another of Red Shirt’s group staggered her way.
Rafe flicked a glance at her partner, saw recognition of him dawn in Tall and Brawny’s eyes. He signaled with a tilt of his head for the bodyguard to take care of Alexia’s next would-be dance partner. The larger man nodded and stepped aside.
Two
Trying not to clench his jaw, Rafe watched Alexia dance. This woman who moved so sinuously and sensuously, lost in the music, was not the same bland woman who’d sat demurely through dinner.
She was playing some kind of game with them all.
He had no time for women who played games, women who pretended to be one thing when they were something else altogether. He was still dealing with the fallout from his last encounter with such a woman.
He was standing, arms folded, when Alexia finally opened her eyes. Her gaze alighted first on his chest, then snapped to his face. He caught the flash of horror, watched the horror schooled into a bright, false smile. “Sorry, I don’t dance with other men.” As if she might still get away with it. Without waiting for his response, she turned and slipped into the swirling crowd.
She didn’t get far. He caught up with her at the edge of the dance floor as she tried to get past a cluster of tipsy women, one of them wearing a bridal veil, all of them shrieking with laughter.