Читать книгу The Man Behind the Mask - Christine Rimmer - Страница 2

I was, once again, a prince. Once again, I was bound by all the dragging obligations and careful courtesies that being a prince entailed.

But still I dared to look at the American again. She gazed at me as if all that she was, all that she had been, or ever would be, was mine. It stunned me how powerfully I wanted to take what she offered. I longed, if not for the refuge of madness, at least for the mask. For the comfort of shadows.

Or I had until that moment.

Until the redheaded American with the wide, honest eyes.

And so in a moment of purest insanity, I held out my hand. I knew she would trust her hand to me, without hesitation. With no coyness.

And she did.