Читать книгу Taming the Prince - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 8

By the time their jet took off from LAX, it was past one-thirty, so backed up was the air traffic. The moment the wheels left the ground, Shane reminded himself he’d be trapped in this little metal bucket for sixteen hours with only a few infrequent breaks, and told himself to relax. Better yet, he thought, sleep. It had been one helluva day—hell, two helluva days—and God knew he was close to exhaustion. But something kept him wide awake—gosh, he couldn’t imagine what—so he remained wide-awake, assessing his situation instead.

He replayed everything in his head that Marcus had told him the day before, correlating it with everything the two of them had discussed the last time they spoke. But much of it still made no sense to him. Adopted. That, of course, was what was spinning fastest and foremost in his brain. Marcus and Shane had been adopted as newborns, his brother had told him yesterday, because their mother had been unable to conceive. Neither parent had ever seen fit to tell the boys, evidently. The opportunity had never arisen. There had never been any cause. The timing was never right. Take your pick of lame excuses. But Marcus had assured him that their father had verified it when he’d asked for the facts. Still doubtful, however, Shane had tried to call their mother to hear her version of things. But he’d been unable to reach her, and she hadn’t returned his call by the time he left his apartment. He’d had to leave a message for her instead.

Adopted. It didn’t seem possible, but in hindsight, it explained so many things. Deep down, he believed what his brother had told him. But he hadn’t had time to process it all. Adopted. Shane still wasn’t sure how he felt about it. On one hand, it changed nothing about his life. On the other hand, it changed everything.

But even that was the least of his worries right now. Because in addition to having been adopted as a newborn, there was a chance—a reasonably good one, evidently—that Shane and Marcus had been born in Penwyck to its rulers, and that they had been switched at birth with a different pair of fraternal twin boys born at roughly the same time. The mother of those boys, then a recently widowed friend of the queen’s, had died in childbirth, and the queen had arranged for them to be adopted by a wealthy American couple—Joseph and Francesca Cordello.

Somewhere along the line, though, everything had gone awry. The queen’s brother-in-law, Broderick, disgruntled that his brother had inherited the throne instead of him, had instigated a switch of the twins, replacing Owen and Dylan Penwyck with the orphaned boys, and sending the infant princes off to be adopted by the Cordellos in Chicago instead. At least, that was what Broderick was claiming. Queen Marissa, who had known of her brother-in-law’s intentions, thought she’d thwarted the plan before it could be carried out, but now, apparently, she had reason to think otherwise. Now, apparently, she had reason to think that maybe the boys she had raised as her own were not her own, and that the American Cordello twins might very well be.

Frankly, the whole situation made Shane’s head spin. Even after having had two days to mull it all over, he was still trying to figure out the whys and wherefores and what-the-hells. That was another reason why he had agreed to this trip to Penwyck—just to have explained to him once and for all, hopefully with audiovisual aids, what the hell was going on. He honestly couldn’t believe that he and Marcus were the missing heirs to the throne. His gut told him no, and his gut was never wrong. Queen Marissa, too, seemed to think it unlikely, though she did grant there was a possibility. That was why she had insisted on Shane’s and Marcus’s coming personally to Penwyck, so that they could administer a DNA test on them, in the queen’s presence, just to make sure the Cordello twins weren’t, in fact, the Penwyck twins. Or vice versa.

Or whatever.

Oh, man, did Shane have a headache now. And he was already exhausted, before his trip had even begun. Sixteen hours, he marveled again. And all of it stuck on a little jet with an escort who seemed disinclined to do anything more than rigorously read big books and sip tea.

The jet might be small, he noted, but it lacked nothing in comfort. He and the prim-and-proper Miss Wallington were the only two passengers on a vessel that was outfitted for a dozen more, and one of the flight attendants had pressed a Scotch and water—damned good Scotch, too, he mused as he enjoyed a second sip—into his hand within moments of him sitting down. Obviously the service was going to be excellent. And the decor was posh and luxurious, reminding him more of a five-star hotel than a jet—not that he had much experience with five-star hotels, not since he was a child at any rate—with oversize seats and plush carpeting down the aisle and pink-tinted lighting to make things easy on the eyes. And his traveling companion…

Well. He certainly had no complaints there, either. Talk about easy on the eyes. When Marcus had called him that morning to go over final preparations for the trip, he’d said the queen was sending an envoy to meet him at LAX who would accompany him to Penwyck. Shane had immediately pictured some doddering old stuffed shirt with a walruslike handlebar mustache decked out in an overly decorated uniform of the Empire. Even when Marcus had said the envoy was named Sara Wallington, Shane had altered his description only slightly, making the stuffed shirt a stuffed blouse, instead. The rest of the description had remained pretty much the same, right down to the mustache, though it hadn’t been quite so walruslike on the female version.

But Sara Wallington was in no way walruslike. To put it mildly. No, she was, in fact, one of the most beautiful women Shane had ever laid eyes on. She was also, unfortunately, he was fast realizing, one of the most refined. Dammit. With her crisp, cultivated accent, and her pale red hair twisted up into some kind of bun, and her sea-green eyes currently hidden behind a pair of small, oval-shaped, wire-rimmed reading glasses that she’d donned immediately after sitting down and unfolding the huge tome she currently had open in her lap, she might very well be the owner of this jet, so princesslike was her demeanor.

Still, he didn’t think he was the only one who’d felt the little sizzle of heat that had arced between them during their initial encounter. Prim and proper Miss Wallington might be, but there was interest—and more—lying beneath her cool, pink-sweatered facade. And Shane couldn’t wait to explore and find out just what that more might be.

He stifled a groan. Just what he needed. Trapped in close quarters for sixteen hours with a beautiful woman who was obviously interested in him, too, and she was exactly the kind of woman he should avoid. She couldn’t be some flashy, fun-loving, devil-may-care hedonist who had as much experience as he had himself and might be amenable to a little short-term fooling around once they arrived in Penwyck—or even before they arrived in Penwyck, he thought further with a lascivious glance at the washroom at the front of the cabin—and then ride off into the sunset with a cheery “Cheerio.” No, she had to be some delicate, pearls-wearing, pink-sweater-encased, chaste-looking little nun who would doubtless find it unseemly to break into a sweat. At least, into the kind of sweat that Shane had in mind for the two of them.

She for sure looked like the kind of woman who would want a man to stick around for a while. And not the kind of man Shane was, either. No, Miss Sara Wallington would no doubt want some guy in tweeds and button-downs and riding boots, a man who could say words like poppycock and bumbershoot with a straight face, a man who would feel more at home viewing pictures in an art gallery while sipping champagne than digging in the dirt on a construction site while anticipating his first Rolling Rock of the evening. A man who would want the same things she probably wanted out of life—commitment, kids, cocker spaniel and the thatched-roof cottage with a cobblestone fence.

Ah, well, Shane told himself philosophically. It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to occupy his mind right now, what with all this missing-princes-and-switched-at-birth-and-heir-to-the-throne business going on in his life. Not that it was his mind, necessarily, he’d been thinking of engaging with Miss Pink Sweater over there. Miss Pink Sweater who didn’t seem to be any more interested in sleeping than Shane was. Unfortunately, her condition obviously hadn’t come about because she was preoccupied by the same lusty thoughts that were trying to preoccupy Shane at the moment. No, it was more because Miss Pink Sweater over there was too busy reading her big book. And daintily sipping her tea. And totally not even noticing he was there.

Dammit.

The problem was, Shane didn’t want to occupy his mind with all those other things right now. Maybe not ever. How the hell was a man supposed to react to the news that he might be the heir to a royal throne in a country he’d hardly thought about before? King Shane? Gee, that didn’t sound like the appropriate moniker for a blue-collar construction worker whose closest brush with nobility had been his childhood visits to White Castle. There had to have been a royal foul-up somewhere. Still, he hadn’t quite been able to turn down Queen Marissa’s royal command when she’d insisted he come to Penwyck to join his brother, Marcus, until they could get to the bottom of the mystery.

Hey, if nothing else, Shane thought, he could have a nice little vacation and spend some time with his brother. No matter that he didn’t have any vacation time coming. He was pretty sure he’d lost his job anyway, by taking off the way he had yesterday. Mr. Mendoza hadn’t looked as if he’d believed the story about King Shane any more than Shane believed it himself.

Inevitably, his gaze stole across the aisle to linger on Sara Wallington again. She really was beautiful, he thought, no matter how tightly she bound herself. The loose sweater and tailored skirt had done nothing to hide her curves, and a few errant wisps of silky hair had fallen from their confinement, giving her the look of a woman who might just be able to let herself go wild once in a while if given the right kind of provocation. Her profile, in the soft light raining down from above her, was elegant and fine, her skin creamy and flawless, touched with just a hint of pink on her high cheekbones. But it was her mouth that caused Shane to feel most restless. Full and delicious looking, all he could do was wonder how she would taste if he touched his lips to hers.

Her head snapped up suddenly then, and she turned to look at him, her gaze falling directly onto his. Her expression was slightly alarmed, as if she’d somehow known what he was thinking about—or maybe she’d been thinking about it, too? he couldn’t help wondering—and the pink on her cheeks darkened some when she saw him gazing back at her so resolutely. Instead of calling him on it, however, she only smiled—albeit with a bit of starch.

“Was there something you wanted, Mr. Cordello?” she asked softly.

Oooo, loaded question, Shane thought. What would she do if he answered her truthfully? he wondered. “No, nothing,” he lied instead. “I think I have everything I need.”

“Excellent,” she replied. “Should you think of something…” Her voice trailed off before she finished the remark, as if Shane should know how she’d intended to finish it.

“If I think of something?” he prodded her, a spark of hope flickering to life somewhere inside him. Maybe they were on the same wavelength.

She smiled that cool, starchy smile again, and what little spark he’d felt firing suddenly sputtered and died. “Feel free to summon one of the attendants,” she finished crisply.

He smiled back, a smile, he felt certain, that was every bit as stiff as hers was. “I’ll do that,” he assured her. Somehow he refrained from adding Your Highness, even though that was exactly the sort of response she seemed to command.

She smiled yet another perfunctory smile, then dropped her gaze back to the book she had opened in her lap. It was a big, thick hardback, probably a textbook, and Shane realized then that she must be a student. Certainly she looked young enough to be, but there was something in her carriage that made her seem like a much older woman, so he hadn’t until now realized that she was probably pretty close to his own twenty-three. He told himself not to bother her, because she so clearly wanted to be left alone, but reluctant to consider the prospect of sixteen hours of silence, and still feeling restless for some reason, and still not wanting to think about that possible-prince business, he jump-started their conversation—what little they’d enjoyed so far—again.

“Are you a student?” he asked her.

Very slowly she lifted her head and turned to look at him again. “Of sorts,” she said evasively.

“UCLA?” he asked.

She shook her head, but said nothing to enlighten him, as if she didn’t want to tell him what school she attended.

“USC?” he tried again.

And again she shook her head. Then, clearly reluctant to divulge even a vague direction to her place of learning, she told him, “I attend a small private college near Santa Barbara.”

Woo, now they were gettin’ somewhere, Shane thought. That was just so specific. “But you’re not American, obviously,” he said, wanting to know more about her, even if she was evasive and starchy and refined and wearing a pink sweater.

“No, I’m from Penwyck originally,” she told him. Adding nothing more to enlighten him.

“You grew up there?”

“Yes,” she said. And nothing more.

“So…” he tried again. “What brought you to the States?”

“That small, private college near Santa Barbara,” she told him.

“You couldn’t major in your specialty in Penwyck?”

When she smiled this time, it was in a way that made Shane think she knew something he didn’t know, and that she got great pleasure in the knowing of it. “You could say that,” she said. Evasively. Starchily. Refinedly. Pink sweaterishly.

Shane narrowed his eyes at her. Just what was she trying to hide? he wondered. What could she possibly be studying here that she couldn’t study in her homeland? Especially since she looked like the kind of woman who would major in English or library science or home ec. Surely they had those things in Penwyck.

“So,” he began again.

“Mr. Cordello, I don’t wish to be impolite, but I do have finals next month and quite a bit of work to do before they arrive. Since I’m obligated to miss my classes for the rest of this week, I thought the least I might do was take advantage of our flight to get in some study time.”

In other words, Shane translated, Leave me the hell alone.

He lifted both hands, palm out, in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry,” he said, finding it hard to feel apologetic. “Don’t want to distract you from your studies. I’ll just, um—” he glanced at the call button on the arm of his seat “—summon the attendant. How will that be?”

And before Miss Pink Sweater, Finals-to-Study-For Wallington could say another word, one of the flight attendants appeared at Shane’s side, obviously ready at his beck and call. And although she was by no means a princess—unlike some people, he thought morosely—the attendant was quite…fetching. Fetching in the dark, curvy way he liked for women to be fetching, too, and not wearing a pink sweater and pearls. Fetching enough that she might very well make the next sixteen hours more bearable. If Shane played his cards right.

Sara read over page 548 of Detente and Diplomacy for a New Millennium for perhaps the sixteenth time and tried not to notice how tantalizing was the sound of Shane Cordello’s rough, rich laughter. It was much more appealing than the flight attendant’s laughter—which Sara found much too high-pitched and much too obvious—that was certain. And Sara should know. She’d been listening to both of them laugh for the better part of fourteen hours now.

Of course, there had been a few breaks in the hilarity during that length of time, periods when Sara and Mr. Cordello had slept with dubious success, and periods when the jet had landed to refuel and restock, and periods when the cabin crew had taken breaks. But for the most part, Shane Cordello and Fawn the flight attendant—honestly, Sara thought, as if anyone on board actually believed that was her real name—had gotten on swimmingly. And if there had been moments when Sara had found herself grinding her teeth and swallowing her irritation, well… It was only because Fawn had one of those tittering laughs that could drive any sane person to drink.

Of course, Sara realized she had only herself to blame. She had, after all, fairly chased Mr. Cordello into Fawn’s clutches by treating him so shabbily since meeting him. But she hadn’t been able to help herself. He confused her, made her feel things she wasn’t used to feeling, things she didn’t want to feel. In doing so, he’d raised her defenses, as well. And when Sara’s defenses were raised, she wasn’t the most accommodating person in the world. No, actually, she was the most fearful. And her fear always made her behave badly.

Oh, when would they be landing? she wondered, checking her watch. It was now nearing 3:00 p.m. Thursday, West Coast time, so they must be within two hours of Penwyck. Absently, she adjusted the time on her watch to reflect the Meridian Time Zone, which would now put them at 10:45 p.m. Penwyck time.

She’d probably do well to try and sneak in another nap before they landed, she thought, since she would no doubt have little opportunity to really sleep until dawn. Once the jet landed—in the dead of night, she couldn’t help reminding herself morosely—she and Mr. Cordello would be met by members of the Royal Intelligence Institute. But she was under royal edict to stay with Mr. Cordello herself until she could hand-deliver him to Queen Marissa and his brother. Those two would almost certainly be in bed asleep by the time they arrived, which meant that Sara would be obligated to keep an eye on Mr. Cordello until morning. They could eat a proper meal at the palace, she thought, then exchange pleasantries until Her Majesty joined them. Or, if Mr. Cordello wanted to sleep himself, Sara could… She sighed heavily. She supposed she could stand in the doorway of his room and watch him sleep. Because she had promised Queen Marissa she would not leave the man’s side until he was safely delivered to Her Majesty.

Sara reached for her cup of Earl Grey, then decided that she’d consumed enough tea on this flight to float the entire India Company, and that a glass of champagne would be most welcome now. She pushed the buzzer to summon the attendant—oh, what rotten luck, it was Fawn on duty, and now the poor thing would be forced to end her conversation…and effusive tittering…with Shane Cordello—in an effort to order a drink. And although poor Fawn did her best to hide her irritation at being so put-upon as to perform her job, it seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for Sara to finally get her drink.

Honestly. Good help was so hard to find these days.

As Fawn—the darling girl—retreated to the minibar, Shane Cordello returned to his seat opposite Sara’s. He was wearing a smile that was much too smug for her liking, but he didn’t seem too much the worse for wear. He did look tired, though, Sara noted, his hair rumpled—adorably so, she couldn’t help thinking—and faint purple crescents smudging his eyes. She doubted she looked much better, having worn the same clothes for more than twenty-four hours now, but somehow, he didn’t make her feel as if she should be discomfited by the fact. His own white T-shirt and jeans were as rumpled as his hair, but on him, somehow, the look worked to his advantage.

All in all, Sara thought, with his untidy clothes and his tousled hair and his heavy-lidded eyes, and his day’s growth of dark beard, he looked like a man who wanted to collapse into bed…with a willing woman…and get absolutely no sleep while he was there.

A strange, languorous heat wound through her as she envisioned him doing exactly that, with—oh, dear—herself cast in the role of the willing woman. Immediately, Sara banished the graphic image from her brain. But remnants of it lingered, scorching the edges of her mind, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t banish it completely.

“So, Miss Wallington,” Mr. Cordello began in that luscious voice, smiling his delicious smile, “how much longer ’til we get there?”

Sara lifted her champagne to her mouth for a quick—but substantial—sip. “Not too, I should think,” she told him when she completed the action, the velvety liquid warming her throat, her chest, her belly and points beyond. Oh, no, wait, she thought. It wasn’t the champagne warming those points beyond. No, it was Shane Cordello’s smile that was doing that. Oh, dear. “No, ah…no more than an hour or two I would imagine,” she managed to add in a voice that she was relieved to realize didn’t make her sound too awfully feeble-minded.

His smile seemed to grow even more dangerous somehow, and Sara couldn’t help thinking that he had almost certainly picked up on that points beyond business. Probably because of her not too awfully feeble-minded voice.

His verbal response, however, wasn’t quite in keeping with that dangerous smile. “Wanna play Twenty Questions?” he asked.

Sara arched her brows curiously. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Cordello lifted his shoulders and let them drop in a shrug that she supposed he meant to look casual, but somehow it didn’t. “Twenty Questions,” he repeated. “It’s a game my brother and I used to play as kids to pass the time on long car trips.” His expression went a bit grim when he added, “Or to drown out the noise of our parents’ shouting at each other there at the end.”

Tactfully, Sara pretended she hadn’t heard that last part, and focused on the first part instead. “You and your brother must be very close. Being twins and all, I mean.”

“Actually, our closeness has less to do with being twins than it does being cast adrift at an early age.”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” Sara said.

“Our folks split up when Marcus and I were nine. Marcus went to live with our father, and I went to live with our mother.”

A pang of something sharp and unpleasant twisted Sara’s midsection, and she was surprised to realize how very much she cared about what had happened to this man she had only just met. “That must have been very difficult for you both,” she said softly.

He expelled an exasperated sound. “To put it mildly. We were able to spend a month together every summer, but it never felt like enough. Even now, I wish we had more time to spend together.”

“Yet, as adults, you live hundreds of miles away from each other,” Sara couldn’t help pointing out.

Mr. Cordello shrugged again, almost apologetically this time. “My mother has made Southern California her home, and I don’t want to be too far away from her. She’s—” He halted abruptly.

“What?” Sara asked before she could stop herself, knowing it was impolite to pry. Even if Mr. Cordello had been the one to bring it up.

He expelled a weary breath. “She’s… She’s not very… She has a habit of…” Now he uttered a restless sound. “Let me put it this way. She’s on husband number five, and none of them since my father have been much of a prize. Even my father didn’t do right by her, as far as I’m concerned. But at least he loved her. For a while. She’s just not good at taking care of herself,” he finally concluded. “She needs someone close by to keep an eye on her. On things,” he quickly corrected himself. “So as long as she calls L.A. home, that’s where I’ll be, too.”

Something inside Sara turned over a little bit at hearing his admission. He was a good son. He wanted to make certain his mother was well cared for. In spite of his rough outward appearance, he had a protective, gentle streak inside. She never would have guessed that. And knowing it now…

Well. Knowing it now only made him that much more dangerous, Sara thought. Because it made him that much more appealing. That much more interesting. That much more likable. And she couldn’t afford to like Shane Cordello. She just couldn’t. Circumstances being what they were, it couldn’t possibly go anywhere. She had a career all mapped out, one she hadn’t even had the opportunity to embark upon yet, and it did not include the addition of another human being in her life. And Mr. Cordello might very well be embarking on a new career of his own—heir to a kingdom—one that would turn his entire life upside down. The best either of them could hope for would be something temporary at best. And what would be the point in that?

“Twenty Questions,” Sara said, backpedaling. “How is it that you play such a game?”

Mr. Cordello seemed not to understand the question at first, because he was clearly still lost in memories of his brother and his mother and the mix of everything those two created inside him. Then suddenly he smiled, a smile that was at once relieved and regretful. “I think of something, and you can ask me twenty questions that I have to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to. If you can’t guess what I’m thinking about with twenty questions, I win. If you do guess before you reach twenty, you win. Or we could do it the other way around. You think of something, and I get to ask you questions until I guess what it is you’re thinking.”

Sara gazed at him again, more studiously this time, considering his blue eyes, his full, succulent mouth, the overly long dark hair that was just begging for a woman’s fingers to sift through it. Lowering her gaze surreptitiously, she noted the way the sleeves of his T-shirt strained over salient biceps, and the rich, dark hair that sprung from the V-neck. Then higher again, over the strong column of his throat and the sculpted jaw, darkened and coarsened now by his uncivil beard. And for some reason, she found herself wondering how it would feel to have her own delicate skin abraded by his.

“Maybe you should start,” she said. “You think of something first, and I’ll ask you questions.”

Because God knew there was no way that Sara wanted him delving into her own thoughts just now.