Читать книгу His Pregnant Christmas Princess - Leah Ashton, Leah Ashton - Страница 11

PRINCESS ANA WAS glaring at him. Her hands were on her hips, her eyes were narrowed and her full lips were in a perfectly straight impatient line.

It was quite late, but Rhys could see well enough in the muted light to acknowledge that Princess Ana was rather more attractive than he’d expected. Oh, he’d known she was pretty—but in person she was just…more. More vivid, somehow. More striking. Striking enough that he’d grinned at her like a moron for who knew how long—until he’d remembered he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a princess about to move in with him.

If anyone but Prince Marko had asked, he would never have agreed to it. He liked his privacy—he needed it, in fact. And he quite literally guaranteed it, with the most cutting-edge security system he’d designed protecting the perimeter of his property.

He never had guests.

He also didn’t need the money the palace had offered. North Security was doing well. Extremely well, actually. This wasn’t a financial decision.

But he had agreed. Because Marko wasn’t one for asking favours. For Marko to call him so unexpectedly, Rhys knew this must be important to his friend. And when Marko had said it was Ana he was trying to help, Rhys hadn’t been surprised.

Rhys remembered the scandal when Prince Goran had died last year, and Marko’s subsequent guilt. His friend had been convinced he should have known he had a long-lost cousin, despite Rhys pointing out that the original saga—and Goran’s denial of paternity—had all taken place well before Marko had turned ten.

But, regardless, Marko had a soft spot for Ana, and so when his new cousin had needed a place to escape to he had called the person best equipped to provide an absolutely secure, absolutely private location far from Vela Ada.

And because it was Marko who’d asked him—and because of that terrible night in the middle of the desert five years earlier—Rhys figured that a favour was the least he could do for the man who’d been there for him at his absolute worst.

Princess Ana gave a little huff of frustration. It was cold enough that it was accompanied by a tiny cloud of condensation.

‘We should go inside,’ he said, suddenly realising how cold he was. How cold they all must be.

The Princess’s two guards were rugged up in black coats and beanies, but rather than encouraging their charge into the warm home they were clearly waiting for direction from Rhys. He had specified to Marko that he must be in charge of all security on the property should Ana come and stay with him, but this was ridiculous. No level of security was much use should they all freeze to death.

He turned on his heel and headed up the stairs. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

He heard the Princess grumbling behind him, but she could clearly see the wisdom in continuing their conversation indoors. She didn’t meet his gaze again until they were inside. One of her guards had helped her shrug off her coat and scarf, and she was now sitting on the low, L-shaped fabric sofa in his living room.

She sat with excellent posture primly on the edge of the seat. She wasn’t meeting his gaze any more. Instead her attention flitted about the small space, not that there was a lot to see. He kept things pretty minimal, and the place was as tidy and streamlined as his interior designer had left it when he’d moved in almost five years ago.

Except for the treadmill and bike parked near the dining table, of course.

Rhys stood in front of her, now in T-shirt and jeans, after discarding his coat on the stand near the front door. ‘My name’s Rhys,’ he said. ‘Rhys North. I’m mates with Marko. We met when he took part in a training exercise with the Australian Special Forces about eight years ago. I’ve now left the regiment and I own a security company. Marko thinks you’ll be safe here, and you will be. Does that answer your question?’

Ana’s gaze met his again and she nodded.

‘I assumed you’d been briefed, Your Highness,’ Rhys said, belatedly remembering to address her correctly.

Ana looked at her guards, who stood there, ultra-professional, in standard bodyguard pose, their hands clasped in front of them. The two guards shared a quick glance.

‘We did provide a briefing, Mr North… Your Highness,’ one of them said, a moment later. ‘However, it has been a very long and trying day—’

‘Oh, God!’ Ana exclaimed suddenly, cutting him off. ‘Really? I’m so sorry.’

She sighed and twisted her fingers in a thick strand of dark brown hair that had fallen loose from what even Rhys could recognise as a wedding hairstyle.

‘I honestly don’t remember much since I left the church. Thank you for so politely excusing the fact that I’ve obviously totally ignored everything you’ve said to me. I’ve just been a joy today, haven’t I? Jilting one man, ignoring others…’ She buried her head in her hands.

Rhys interrupted her self-flagellation. ‘Drink?’ he asked.

Her dark head popped up instantly. ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

Then she flopped back onto his couch, resting her head on the back, her gaze trained on the ceiling.

A few minutes later—after directing the guards to the kitchen to help themselves to a drink and his limited selection of food—Rhys stood before her, drink in hand.

‘Your Highness…?’ he prompted.

Slowly she pushed herself forward until she sat neatly at the edge of the couch again. She briefly met his gaze, and he couldn’t miss the exhaustion and emotion in her eyes. She wasn’t crying, though—didn’t even look close to it.

‘Ana,’ she said. ‘Please call me Ana.’

He nodded. ‘You can address me as Mr North,’ he said, very seriously.

Her eyes widened, and he watched her try to determine if he was joking.

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. ‘Okay,’ she said, with the same mock-seriousness he’d employed. ‘I will—Mr North.’

He smiled at her, meeting the sparkle in her gaze. He liked that sparkle, was glad he’d managed to elicit it from her.

‘Rhys,’ he clarified, ‘is fine.’

She grinned. ‘Oh, no, Mr North. I insist. About time someone else had an unnecessary title. Vrag knows, I’m sick of mine.’

‘Vrag?’ Rhys asked, as Ana took the squat ice-filled glass tumbler he handed her.

‘The Devil,’ she explained. Then took a long swallow of her drink. Instantly she coughed, slapping a manicured hand to her throat. ‘What is this?’ she asked.

‘Gin,’ he said.

‘Just gin?’

He nodded. ‘You look like you need a stiff drink.’

She smiled again and then took another, more measured sip. ‘You, Mr North,’ Ana said, ‘are absolutely right.’

* * *

Ana watched Rhys as he walked over to the kitchen to talk to her guards. She wasn’t at all surprised he was ex-military. In fact, he still looked absolutely fit enough to be serving. In his charcoal-coloured T-shirt the muscles of his biceps and arms were clear to see—so different from Petar’s lean frame. Petar was very good-looking, but in a more sophisticated way than Rhys. He was all elegant lines and tailored suits, while Rhys looked rough and strong and practical—the kind of guy who’d carry you out of a burning office building rather than work inside it.

No.

She took another unwise gulp of her drink, wanting another punishing burn of alcohol to travel down her throat. Honestly, mere hours after running away from her fiancé was she really comparing him to another man? And finding her fiancé lacking.

She finished the drink. Even as the liquid warmed her belly she felt like the worst person in the world.

Although she knew now—incontrovertibly—that she did not love Petar, and had never loved Petar, he didn’t deserve having to wait at that church’s altar for her never to arrive. To have the whole church witness that humiliation.

And it wasn’t even just the church. With the wedding being televised, all of Vela Ada would know. He’d been dumped in the most public, most humiliating way possible.

And it was all her fault.

Yet she sat here, in a luxury home on a mountain, having an absolutely gorgeous man serve her drinks and make her laugh. She was being protected from the aftermath of her decision, and she knew it didn’t reflect well on her that she was in no way regretting her decision to run as far away as possible.

She could not be in Vela Ada right now. She could not see Petar right now.

She needed some space to get her thoughts in order, to work out how she’d got to this point, how her life had got to this point.

But Petar did deserve an apology. And more than the swiftly written, utterly insufficient I’m sorry she’d texted to him as the car had whisked her down that cobblestone street.

She stood and walked the short distance to the kitchen. The living space wasn’t very large, and it was all open-plan—with the kitchen to one side, a long dining table in front of it and couches to its left.

All three men in the kitchen immediately turned to assist her. It was one of the nicer perks of being royalty—having people immediately pay attention to her. Quite different from her previous life, where she remembered being talked over in meetings or ignored by sales assistants. Although it did seem unfair that such courtesy wasn’t offered to everyone…

‘Excuse me,’ she said in Slavic to her guards. ‘I was just wondering where my phone and bags are.’

‘We’ve put them in your room, Your Highness,’ one of them replied.

She’d learnt long ago that palace staff would not just call her Ana.

Rhys seemed to have got the gist of the conversation. ‘I’ll show you your room now,’ he said. He gestured down the corridor and followed close behind her.

There were only a few doors off the hallway, and he directed her into the first one.

The room wasn’t large, but it had plenty of room for a queen-sized bed and a narrow writing desk against one wall.

‘There’s a private en suite bathroom through there,’ he said, nodding to the far corner of the room. ‘I chucked a few towels in there, but let me know if you need anything else. I’m not used to having guests up here, so there isn’t any fancy soap, candles or potpourri and whatnot in there. Sorry.’

He did not look at all apologetic.

‘I’ll manage,’ Ana said, and realised she was smiling again. How did Rhys do that? When he talked to her, it was as if she forgot everything that had happened today. Or this year, really.

They both stood in the doorway, and Ana was suddenly aware of how very close they were to each other. She had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, and she could actually smell him—the scent of his cologne or his deodorant or something—something clean and fresh.

She also registered the colour of his eyes for the first time: a dark blue that was almost grey. Outside, she hadn’t been able to determine the colour of his hair, but when they’d walked in she’d realised it was a very dark blond. This close to him she could see more variation in the thick, shaggy hair—blond and brown and even a few strands of grey.

How old was he?

Her gaze travelled over his face. He had thick eyebrows and strong, quite full lips for a guy, though without even a hint of femininity. There were a few fine lines around his mouth and eyes. Stubble covered his sharp jaw, slightly darker than the hair on his head, and he was definitely the type of guy who suited that look.

She’d already imagined him being the kind of guy who’d rescue you from a burning building—a real hero type, befitting an ex-soldier—but this close to him, seeing his stormy eyes and the shadow of a beard, he looked almost…dangerous. There was a tension to his jaw, a steeliness to his gaze…

She realised, too late, that she was staring at him. Staring into that steely gaze. And he was staring right back.

Obviously she should look away, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

His gaze was taking her in too, and the way it traced her features so intently made her feel incapable of movement. He took in her hair, her eyes, her nose, her lips…

What was he thinking?

Their gazes clashed again, and what she saw in his made her belly heat. Her whole body heat, actually.

Had she ever felt like this before? Reacted like this to a man before? Ana couldn’t remember. She couldn’t really think, to be honest. It was just so shocking to be drawn to this man she’d barely said anything to, whom she didn’t know at all.

Her whole body itched to touch him. They hadn’t touched since they’d met, she realised. They hadn’t shaken hands… Nothing.

What would his skin feel like? Would it be hot, like hers felt right now? And how would it feel to have that big, strong body pressed against her…?

His gaze changed. It became empty, losing all that heat, all that connection. Just like he had outside in the cold, he’d switched off. He’d disappeared, as if that connection had never existed.

It was so abrupt as to feel almost physical. As if someone had dumped a bucket of snow over her head to snap her back to reality.

Reality.

Petar.

‘Thanks for showing me my room, Mr North,’ Ana said, forcing herself to put some distance between them and step into the room.

She fully intended to use his formal name from now on, and it wasn’t a joke any more. Formality was good. It was required. She had no place flirting with this man. Apart from the fact she’d meant to share her wedding night with another man tonight, Rhys was also working for Marko, for the palace. This was all kinds of inappropriate.

‘I need to phone my fiancé,’ she said.

As she said fiancé, Rhys blinked. Or maybe she imagined he’d reacted.

In fact, his expression was so stony, so unreadable, it seemed plausible she’d imagined the entire past few minutes.

It would seem Rhys was keen to forget it had happened.

Good. She’d forget it too. No problem. This was an infinitesimal blip amongst the catastrophic screw-ups of the past twenty-four hours.

But as Rhys left her in her room, Ana had to work hard to ignore the little voice in her head—the little voice that had caused her so many problems today—that told her a man like Rhys North was not at all easy to forget.