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Chapter Four

Philippe gazed at the woman across from him, her face now flushed from the two glasses of wine he’d convinced her to have, her hair falling a bit out of its too-tight chignon so that a few auburn tendrils framed her heart-shaped face. Ella Jamison was lovely, and he’d been both intrigued by and attracted to her from the moment she’d approached him in the airport, looking like she’d rather have been meeting anyone else.

It was obvious she believed everything she’d read about him in the tabloids, and he could hardly blame her. By all accounts he should be glad. It was exactly why he’d posed for those photographs, solicited the interviews and articles. He wanted people to believe he was the Playboy Prince. Judging by the way Ella Jamison glanced at him when she thought he wasn’t looking—with chilly disdain—he was succeeding.

Too bad, in that moment, it felt like failure.

Still he’d managed to draw her out a little this evening, asking about New York, a fairly innocuous subject, and then moving on to herself—clearly not innocuous to Ella. She had deflected the personal questions, determinedly steering the conversation back to architecture.

“Chase Bryant always uses local, renewable materials in all of his buildings. And he strives to blend his design with the natural landscape.”

“Admirable,” Philippe murmured. He knew this already, and it was why he’d already decided to go with Bryant. “Are you interested in architecture, Ella?”

The seemingly innocent question caused a lovely blush to tinge her cheeks pink. “Of course,” she said after a second’s pause. “I work for Mr. Bryant, after all.”

“I mean personally. Did you consider training as an architect yourself?”

The blush deepened, the simple reaction making Philippe shift in his seat as desire streaked through him. “I did,” she said, glancing away. “But I only completed one year.”

Intrigued, he leaned forward. “What happened?”

“Life,” she said flatly, her gaze on him once more. “The reality is you can’t always have everything you want. But since you’re a prince, maybe you wouldn’t understand that.”

She was going on the defensive, a tactic he was very familiar with. “Actually,” he murmured. “I do.” All too well.

Her mouth twisted cynically. “It’s hard to imagine what dreams you’ve had to sacrifice.”

“I’m sure it is.”

She took a sip of wine, met his gaze over the rim of her glass. “So tell me.”

“Tell you—?”

“What dream did you sacrifice, Prince Philippe?”

Philippe leaned back in his seat. This conversation had just become a great deal more interesting. And dangerous. “I asked you,” he reminded her, “to call me Philippe.”