The Wedding Party And Holiday Escapes Ultimate Collection. Кейт Хьюит
him.
He’d lowered his hand as she turned, sliding it down the skin of her arm so that it now cupped her elbow. He leaned closer so she’d hear him over the music. “No.” She stiffened at his refusal. “You’re asking for trouble being in this place. My responsibility is to get you safely back to my country. The demure Alexia Wyndham Jones whom the people will love. Possibly their future princess. Someone they can look up to, bearing in mind that they’re more conservative than you Americans. Not someone who dresses like, like…”
He faltered under the indignant heat of her gaze.
“Like what?” Her hands went to her hips, shaking off his touch. A mutinous expression tightened her lips. In truth there was nothing anyone could object to in what she was wearing. Anyone, apparently, except him. He couldn’t put his finger on just what it was that bothered him. But it did bother him, and that was good enough for him. “Surely you don’t need me to spell it out for you?” Damn, he sounded like his father. Master of the guilt trip.
Sudden resignation sagged through her body, and he almost felt bad for it. After all, he’d been known on more than one occasion to skip out on official duties to have a little fun. And he knew what it was like to get busted.
But that was different.
Alexia was only twenty-two, and as well as being an heiress to millions, she might one day sit on the throne beside his brother. From what he knew of her, she’d led a cloistered existence. There was no end of trouble she could get into here. Very public trouble. The world was too full of predators, the press too greedy for gossip. Part of the reason her candidacy as a partner for Adam had been approved was her perceived innocence. Rafe glanced at the bodyguard hovering near her side. “Alexia and I need to have a little chat. A private chat.”
The bodyguard looked at Alexia, she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It’s okay, Mario. I may as well get this over with.”
As the bodyguard moved a little farther off, Rafe leaned closer. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“Pardon?”
She’d heard him; she was just looking to delay answering, subtly challenging his right to even ask.
He leaned closer still—another millimeter and his body would be pressed against hers. Those lush, cherry-colored lips were clamped together. He caught her scent, something with an underlying zing of fresh citrus, and he felt the heat of her body radiating from her. Pushing a lock of the ridiculous dark hair—nowhere near as attractive as her natural auburn—behind her delicate ear, he put his lips close. “We’ll talk in my car.”
She tensed. “We don’t need to talk.”
Another patron passed too close, knocking into Rafe, who knocked into Alexia. His grip tightened around her.
Suddenly, flashes went off, blinding in their brightness. Rafe pulled Alexia hard against his chest, shielding her face and turning so his back was to the continuing pop of the flashes.
Damn. The paparazzi were supposed to be banned from this place. Tony had assured him of the impenetrable security.
He glanced back over his shoulder. There the leeches were, three guys with cameras pointing them in the direction of the blonde actress. Unfortunately, Alexia and he, although behind the actress, were in their line of sight.
“Clearly, we do need to talk.”
Only moments too late, the club’s bouncers strode through the crowd toward the cameramen. Barbie and her entourage were shrieking in outrage, but Rafe got the feeling the outrage was as much an act as her last Oscar-nominated role.
Rafe looked down into wide green eyes belatedly filled with concern. He felt the press of breasts against his chest, felt Alexia’s slender fragility within the circle of his arms. She was smaller than he’d realized, and shorter, even with her death-defying heels. The top of her head was tucked neatly beneath his chin.
He felt other things, things he shouldn’t feel for his brother’s proposed bride. The protectiveness was okay, it was the pleasure and possessiveness that bothered him. He told himself that they were almost automatic responses when he held a woman in his arms. It didn’t mean anything except that he had to let her go. He loosed his hold on her, putting a safer distance between them.
One of the actress’s party made a lunge for a photographer’s camera. A punch was thrown, then another.
Rafe shepherded Alexia away from the tussle. Worry creased her forehead even as the bouncers quickly separated the opponents and dragged the guy who’d thrown the first punch away with the photographers.
“Do you think we’re in the shots?” She bit her bottom lip.
At least she realized how it would look if pictures of the two of them in a nightclub, standing close, got into the papers at home. Or if they were implicated in the brawl, which, given the way the press liked to play with the truth, wouldn’t surprise him in the least. The public of San Philippe would be curious. Adam would be furious. And if anything happened to jeopardize his father’s plans, Rafe would be in the firing line. He just needed to get this one simple job done. Get Alexia back to San Philippe—without a scandal—and wash his hands of her. How hard could it be?
He shook his head. “I’m scarcely known here, and you, fortunately, hardly look like yourself. Even if we’re in the background, they weren’t after us. We’ll be cropped out.”
“Fortunately?”
“Don’t sound offended. You deliberately tried to disguise yourself. For good reason. So, yes, fortunately.” He didn’t add that in other respects it was most unfortunate. The figure-hugging dress, her long legs, the satiny skin of her arms, the curl of her lashes, her scent. All most unfortunate. Where was the boring—safe—Alexia? “How did you get here?” His question sounded harsher than he meant it to.
“Motorbike,” she answered, with a glimmer of defiance.
He hid his surprise. “You rode?” That had been her on the bike?
Her chin lifted. “With Mario.”
“In that dress?” He had a sudden vision of the dress riding high up a creamy expanse of thigh.
“I changed at a friend’s apartment.”
He looked at Mario. The other man moved closer. “Take the bike home.”
Mario nodded.
“Where’d you get him, anyway?” he asked as they watched Mario’s departing back.
“He’s one of our drivers. He also has security, bodyguard-type training. And he’s the best dancer of the firm’s drivers.”
Rafe glared at her. “Undoubtedly a reliable way to choose your security for the evening.” He silently counted the hours—eighteen—till they’d be safely back in San Philippe and he’d be done with her.
Lexie sat quietly as they drove in the muted silence of Rafe’s Aston Martin to the Wyndham Joneses’ estate. Why him? She’d encountered good friends at the nightclub before who’d failed to recognize her. And yet Rafe, whom she’d met only a handful of times, had known her.
The purpose and urgency that had infused him as he’d all but picked her up and bundled her into his car had gone. He drove the powerful machine with relaxed effortlessness, his hands curled lightly around the distinctive three-spoked steering wheel. But she sensed his underlying tension, and it was in her interests to placate him. She wanted him to see that she really was suitable for his brother. Serene, regal, dignified.
“Nice car.” She smoothed her palms over the soft black leather of her seat.
He said nothing.
“It’s a Vantage, isn’t it? A V12?” She exhausted her knowledge of the car.
“I wouldn’t know.” His usually undetectable accent, foreign and vaguely French, colored his words.
So