His Thirty-Day Fiancée. Catherine Mann
“I prefer to go solo.”
“We wouldn’t want you to get lost on your way.” He stopped just at her earlobe as if to share a secret.
Had he touched her? His breath against her skin left her light-headed. He cupped the other side of her head. Hunger gnawed deep within her as she ached to lean into his cradling touch.
Then he backed away, his hand teasing a tempting trail and his black workout clothes rustling a lethal whisper. “Just through that door, Ms. Kate Harper.”
Duarte gestured right, both of her earrings dangling from between his fingers.
Duarte had been waiting for this moment since the second he’d learned which tabloid scumbag had blown apart his family’s carefully crafted privacy. He held Kate Harper’s earrings in his hands along with her hopes of a new scoop. He’d been alerted she might be on the premises and determined her hidden cameras’ locations before they’d left the balcony.
He’d spent his whole life dodging the press. He knew their tricks. His father had drummed into his sons at a young age how their safety depended on anonymity. They’d been protected, educated and, above all, trained. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades from his work out—a regimen that had been interrupted by security concerns.
One look at the intruder on the screen and he’d decided to see how far she would go.
In that form-fitting dress, she personified seduction. Like a pinup girl from days past, she had a timeless air and feminine allure that called to the primal male inside him. Good Lord, what a striking picture she would make draped on the white sofa just behind her. Or better yet, in his bed.
But he was an expert at self-control. And just calling to mind her two-bit profession made it easier to rein in his more instinctive thoughts.
Kate Harper perched a hand on her hip. “I can’t believe you knew who I really was the whole time.”
“From the second you left the party.” He’d been sent pictures of her when he’d investigated the photojournalist who cracked a cover story that had survived intense scrutiny for decades.
Background photos of her portrayed something very different: an earthy woman in khaki pants and generic white T-shirts, no makeup, her sleek brown hair in an unpretentious ponytail as opposed to the windswept twist she wore now. A hint of cinnamon apple fragrance drifted his way.
Her bright red lips pursed tight with irritation. “Then why pretend I’m a call girl?”
“That’s too high-class for the garbage you peddle.” He pocketed her earrings, blocking thoughts of her pretty pout.
His family’s life had been torn apart just when his father needed peace more than ever. Too much stress could kill Enrique Medina faster than any extremist assassin from San Rinaldo.
“So the gloves are off.” She folded her arms over her chest, rubbing her hands along her skin. From fear or the cold ocean wind blasting through the open French doors? “What do you intend to do? Call your security or the police?”
“I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind seeing more than gloves come off your deceitful body.” Duarte closed the balcony doors with a click and a snick of a lock.
“Uh, listen, Prince Duarte, or Your Majesty, or whatever I’m supposed to call you.” Her words tumbled faster and faster. “Let’s both calm down.”
He glanced over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow.
“Okay, I will be calm. You be whatever you want.” She swiped back a straggling hair with a shaky hand. “My point is I’m here. You don’t want invasive media coverage. So why not pose for just one picture? It can be staged any way you choose. You can be in total control.”
“Control? Is this some kind of game to you, like a child’s video system where we pass the controller back and forth?” He stalked closer, his feet as bare as hers on the carpet. “Because for me, this isn’t anywhere near a game. This is about my family’s privacy, our safety.”
Royals—even ones without a country—were never safe from threats. His mother had been killed in the rebellion overthrowing San Rinaldo, his older brother severely injured trying to save her. As a result, his father—King Enrique Medina—became obsessed with security. He’d constructed an impenetrable fortress on an island off the coast of St. Augustine, Florida, where he’d brought up his three young sons. Only when they’d become adults had Duarte and his brothers been able to break free. By scattering to the far corners of the U.S., they’d kept low profiles and were able to lead normal adult lives—with him on Martha’s Vineyard, Antonio in Galveston Bay and Carlos in Tacoma.
Kate touched his wrist lightly. “I’m sorry about what has happened to your family, how you lost your mother.”
Her touch seared at a raw spot hidden deep inside, prompting him to lash out in defense. Duarte sketched his knuckles over her bare ears. “How sorry are you?”
He had to give her credit. She didn’t back down. She met his gaze dead-on with eyes bluer than the San Rinaldo waters he just barely remembered.
Kate pulled her hand away. “What about a picture of you in your ninja clothes lounging against the balcony railing?”
“How about a photo of you naked in my arms?”
She gasped. “Of all the arrogant, self-aggrandizing, pompous—”
“I’m a prince.” He held up a finger. “But of course every one knows that now, thanks to your top-notch journalistic instincts.”
“You’re angry. I get that.” She inched behind the sofa as if putting a barrier between them, yet her spine stayed rigid, her eyes sparking icicles. “But just because you’re royalty doesn’t give you a free pass along with all these plush trappings.”
He’d left his father’s Florida fortress with nothing more than a suitcase full of clothes. Not that he intended to dole out that nugget for her next exposé. “Can’t blame a prince for trying.”
She didn’t laugh. “Why did you let me in here? Am I simply around for your amusement so you can watch me flinch when you flush my camera?”
Kate Harper was a woman who regained her balance fast. He admired that. “You really want this picture.”
Her fingers sunk so deep in the sofa that her short red nails disappeared. “More than you can possibly know.”
How far would she go to get it?
For an immoral moment he considered testing those boundaries. His identity had been exposed already anyway, a reality that drained his father’s waning strength. Anger singed the edges of his control, fueling memories of how soft Kate’s skin had felt under his touch when he’d pulled her onto the balcony, how perfectly her curves had shaped themselves to his chest.
Turning away, he forced his more civilized nature to quench the heat. “You should leave now. Use the door directly behind you. The guard in the corridor will escort you out.”
“You’re not going to give me my camera back, are you?”
He pivoted toward her again. “No.” He slid his hand in his pocket and toyed with her earrings. “Although, you’re more than welcome to try to retrieve your jewelry.”
“I prefer battles I have a chance of winning.” Her lips tipped in a half smile. “Can I at least have a cigar to hock on eBay?”
Again she’d surprised him. He wasn’t often entertained anymore. “You’re funny. I like that.”
“Give me my camera and I’ll become a stand-up comedian—” she snapped her fingers “—that fast.”
Who was this woman in an ill-fitting gown with an anklet made of silver yarn and white plastic beads? Most would have been nervous as hell or sucking up. Although, perhaps she was smarter than the rest, in spite of her dubious profession.