The Prince's Proposal. Sophie Weston
She cast a languorous look across the room. ‘I want him. Get him for me.’
Francesca shook her short brown hair vigorously. ‘Get him yourself,’ she retorted. ‘What am I? A retriever?’
‘You’re the one in charge of book signings and evening talks,’ pointed out Jazz smugly. ‘And this is your subject. Go and make him an offer he can’t refuse. The man’s a dish.’
Francesca gave her a wicked grin. ‘Dishes are your department. I just do figures and boring science books. And I can’t even see the man.’
‘At least that means you’ll keep your hands off him. By the look of it, that will have rarity appeal tonight,’ said Jazz drily.
Francesca tried not to wince. ‘You want him, you do the luring,’ she said firmly.
Jazz laughed aloud and stopped smouldering in the man’s direction. ‘I wish. That man is going to be hot, hot, hot. The publishers wouldn’t be interested in a new independent like us. They’ll concentrate on the big book chains.’
‘Well, he doesn’t have to do everything exactly as his publisher says, does he?’ demanded Francesca, revolted. ‘Is he a man or a mouse?’
‘He’s a writer who wants to sell his book,’ said Jazz practically. ‘If the publisher’s PR people tell him to paint himself green and juggle babies, he’ll do it. He wouldn’t look at us. It’s hopeless.’
Francesca was not a pushy person. But she was sufficiently her father’s daughter to dislike being told anything was hopeless. And Barry had dented her ego as well as her heart.
Well, there was not much she could do about a broken heart, she thought. It would just have to heal in its own time. But all the ego needed was to go all out for something—and get it, of course. Tonight was not her night for being a good loser.
‘Oh, won’t he?’ she said militantly.
Jazz watched with well-disguised satisfaction as she plunged into the crowd in the general direction of the Crown Prince of Montassurro. Even without her glasses, there was a reasonable chance that she would connect with him, thought Jazz. Three months of working together had taught her that Francesca on a mission was nearly unstoppable. She smiled, well-pleased with her strategy.
Francesca set off on a spurt of pure adrenalin. It took barely three steps for it to wear off.
She was too small for this sort of crowd, she thought wryly. She tried to suppress the urge to keep jumping for air. It felt as if everyone was twice as tall as she was. Taller and more confident and a whole lot more knowledgeable. And all talking over the top of her head.
‘So what else is new?’ muttered Francesca, unheard. She pinned on a bright, impervious smile.
Exit adrenalin. Enter pure will power. I can do this thing. And then maybe, just maybe, this won’t be the worse day of my life after all.
She plunged into the drum-filled darkness.
It was like searching for extraterrestrial intelligence. Of those that managed to hear her shouted enquiry, no one knew where Conrad Domitio was, even if they recognised the name. Most of them were having too good a time even to pretend that they were interested.
Francesca cursed all crown princes and paused to take stock.
Then, ‘Did you say Domitio?’ said a tall man behind her.
She swung round. And had to look up. And up.
It was too dark to make out much, of course, even if she had not been missing her glasses. But she had the overwhelming impression of strength. More than strength.
She blinked and said in a little confusion, ‘Yes. Do you know him?’
The man hesitated.
Francesca tried to focus her eyes. It was hopeless. But there was something about the man that made her really want to see him. Ridiculous, of course.
She shook her head and said with determined practicality, ‘Because if you do I really want to talk to him.’
The man bent towards her. ‘What?’
She caught a hint of some outdoorsy smell, cedar or wood smoke, faint as a half-forgotten memory. And as powerful. She was taken aback. When had she last noticed a stranger’s scent? It made her feel somehow feral, animal in a way she did not quite like.
He took her elbow. ‘Let’s go somewhere where we can hear ourselves talk.’
He took her out onto a small balcony. The dark, seething room fell away like a suffocating cape. It was raining but an awning kept the worst of it off them. And he turned her towards him.
An impression of strength? She must have been out of her mind. This man had more than strength. He was like rock. Warm, magnetised rock. And he knocked all the breath out of her just by being there. Something inside began to vibrate, imperceptibly, in response to that magnetism.
‘Cold?’ he asked.
Francesca shook her head. She did not trust herself to speak.
His voice sent little trickles of awareness up and down her spine. It startled her. She did not usually react to complete strangers with that sort of physical response.
This is rebound time. Barry’s gone and you haven’t had time to find your feet. Don’t do anything stupid.
He pushed the glass door shut behind them. The party noise modified somewhat. The drum throb stayed. So did the abrasive guitars. But the conversation died down to a background hum.
Even without her glasses, she could make out the way he moved. It was slow, smooth as oiled machinery, almost lazy. And yet there was such purpose there. Yes, definitely an outdoors man, she decided.
And then he turned and said, ‘So why are you looking for Conrad Domitio?’
And she felt as if she had walked into a wall.
She stared up at him. Wishing she were taller. Wishing like mad that she was wearing her glasses and the dark features were more than a blur. Wishing that she could be calm. For some reason the adrenalin seemed to be back in charge again. It was making her pulses gallop crazily.
The bright, impervious smile wavered. ‘I—I want to invite him to a book signing,’ she said literally, shaken.
‘A book-signing?’ He sounded lazy.
So why didn’t he feel lazy? He felt watchful and wary. It was as if there he was, watching and criticising and formulating acute observations right here and now in his head. He was just not going to share them with anyone. It was unsettling. And very, very sexy.
If only I could see his face properly. I’m getting new glasses first thing tomorrow.
‘Er—yes.’ Francesca made valiant attempts to pull herself together. Except for a slight ringing in the ears she managed it, too. ‘I’m a bookseller.’
She realised quite suddenly that it was the first time she had said it. It felt good. She stood taller and her pulses slowed a little.
‘Rather a new bookseller. I bought into an independent bookshop a few months ago.’
‘So you’re trying to prove your mettle,’ he said thoughtfully.
That hadn’t occurred to her. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Is it fun?’ He sounded genuinely interested.
She widened her eyes at him. It did not make her see any better but at least it hid the fact that she was as blind as a bat.
‘So far.’
‘You’re very cautious.’ He was so close that she could hear the smile in his voice, in spite of the heavy rock beat in the room behind them.
A laugh was surprised out of Francesca. She grinned up at him. ‘OK. So far it’s a blast. How’s that?’