Читать книгу The Prince's Stolen Virgin - Maisey Yates - Страница 9
ОглавлениеOnce upon a time...
BRIAR HARCOURT MOVED quickly down the street, wrapping her long wool coat more tightly around her as the autumn breeze blew down Madison Avenue and seemed to whip straight on through to her bones.
It was an unseasonably cold fall, not that she minded. She loved the city this time of year. But there was always a strange sense of loss and nostalgia that mixed with the crisp air, and it was difficult for her to figure out what it was.
It would hover there, on the edges of her consciousness, for just a moment. Then it would slip away, like a leaf on the wind.
It was something to do with her life before she’d come to New York; she knew that. But she’d only been three when she’d been adopted by her parents, and she didn’t remember her life before them. Not really. It was all impressions. Smells. Feelings. And a strange ache that settled low in her stomach.
Strange, because she loved her parents. And she loved her city. There shouldn’t be an ache. You couldn’t miss something you didn’t even remember.
And yet, sometimes, she did.
Briar paused for a moment, a strange prickling sensation crawling up the back of her neck. It wasn’t the cold. She was wearing a scarf. And anyway, it felt different. Different than anything she had ever experienced before.
She paused then turned around. The crowd behind her parted for a moment and she saw a man standing there. She knew, immediately, that he was the reason for the prickling sensation. He was looking at her. And when he saw that she was looking back, a slow smile spread over his face.
And it was like the sun had come out from behind the clouds.
He was beautiful. She could see that from here. Dark hair pushed back from his forehead, making him look carelessly windswept. There was dark stubble on his jaw, and something in his expression, in his eyes, that suggested he was privy to a host of secrets she could never hope to uncover.
He was... Well, he was a man. Nothing like the boys that she had been exposed to either at school or at various functions put on by her parents. Christmas parties at their town house, summer gatherings in the Hamptons.
He wouldn’t stumble around, bragging about conquests or his beer pong score. No, never. Of course, she also wouldn’t be allowed to talk to him.
To say that Dr. Robert Harcourt and his wife, Nell, were old-fashioned was an understatement. But then, she was their only child, and she had come to them late in life. Not only were they part of a different generation than many of her friends’ parents, they had always made it very clear that she was precious to them. An unexpected gift they had never hoped to receive.
That always made her smile. It made the ache go away.
It didn’t feel like a chore to do the best she could for them. To do her best to be a testament to all they’d put into raising her. She had always done her very best to make sure they were happy they’d made that decision. She’d tried—so very hard—to be the best she could be. To be perfect.
She had done her deportment lessons and her etiquette. Had done the debutante balls—even though it hadn’t appealed to her at all. She had gone to school close to home, had spent every weekend back with her parents so they wouldn’t worry. She’d never even considered rebelling. How could you rebel against people who had chosen you?
Except, right now, she felt a little bit like disregarding their concern. Like moving toward that man, who was still looking at her with those wicked eyes.
She blinked, and just as suddenly as he had appeared he was gone. Melted back into the crowd of black and gray coats. She felt an unaccountable sense of loss. A feeling that she had just missed something important. Something extraordinary.
You wouldn’t know if it could have been extraordinary. You’ve never even kissed a man.
No. A side effect of that overprotectiveness. But then, she had no desire to kiss Tommy Beer Pong or his league of idiot friends.
Tall, sophisticated-looking men on bustling streets were another matter. Apparently.
She blinked then turned back around, heading back in the direction she had originally been going. Not that she was in a hurry. She was on break from school, and spending the days wandering her parents’ town house wasn’t terribly appealing. So she had decided she was going to go to the Met today, because she never got tired of wandering those halls.
But suddenly, the Met, and all the art inside, seemed lackluster. At least, in view of the man she had just seen.
Ridiculous.
She shook her head and pressed on.
“Are you running away from me?”
She stopped, her heart slamming against her breastbone. Then she whirled around and nearly ran into the object of her thwarted feelings. “No,” she said, the word coming out on a breath.
“You seemed to be walking quickly, and with great purpose.”
Oh, his voice. He had an accent. Spanish, or something. Sexy and like the sort of thing her brain would weave out of thin air late at night when she was trying to sleep, concocting herself the perfect mystery dream date that she would likely never find.
He was even better-looking up close. Stunning, even. He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. And then, he relaxed his mouth. There was something even more compelling about that. About being able to examine the shape of his lips.
“I wasn’t,” she said. “I just...” Somebody bumped into her as they walked by quickly. “Well, I didn’t want to be in the way,” she said, gesturing after the person, as if to prove her point.
“Because you had stopped,” he pressed. “To look at me?”
“You were looking at me.”
“Surely you must be used to that.”
Hardly. At least, not in the way that he meant. Nobody likes to be different, and she was different in a great many ways. She was tall, first of all. Which was one refreshing thing about him. He was at least five inches taller than her height of five eleven, which was a rare and difficult thing to come across.
But yes, that was her. Tall. Skinny. All limbs. Plus, her hair was never going to fall in the effortless, silken waves most of her friends possessed. It took serious salon treatments to get it straight and she often questioned if it was worth it. Though, her mother insisted it was.
She was the opposite of the typical blonde beauty queen in her sorority or at any of the private schools she had attended growing up.
She stood out. And when you were a teenager, it was the last thing you wanted.
Though, now that she was in her early twenties, she was beginning to come to terms with herself. Her first instinct still wasn’t to assume someone was staring because they liked what they saw. No, she always assumed they were staring because she was out of place.
“Not especially,” she said, because it was honest.
“I don’t believe that,” he said. “You’re far too beautiful to walk around not having men snap their necks trying to get a look.”
Her face grew warm, her heart beginning to beat faster, harder. “I’m not really... I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
That earned her a chuckle. “Then perhaps we should make sure to become something other than strangers.”
She hesitated. “Briar. My name is Briar.”
A strange expression crosssed his face, though it was fleeting. “A nice name. Different.”
“I suppose it is.” She knew it was. Yet another thing that made her feel like she stood out.
“José,” he said, extending his hand.
She simply stared at it for a moment, as if she wasn’t quite sure what he intended her to do. But of course she did know. He wanted to shake her hand. That wasn’t weird. It was what people did when they met. She sucked in a sharp breath and allowed her fingers to meet his.
It was like she’d been hit by lightning. The electricity was so acute, so startling, that she immediately dropped his hand, taking a step back. She had never felt anything like that before in her life. And she didn’t know if she wanted to feel it again.
“I have to go.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, insistent.
“Yes. I do. I was on my way to... I was just going to...to a hair appointment.” A lie easily thought of because she’d just been pondering her hair. But she could hardly tell him she was going to the museum. He might offer to walk with her. Though she supposed he could offer to take her to a salon, too.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I have to go.” She turned away, walking away from him quickly.
“Wait! I don’t even know how to get in touch with you. At least give me your phone number.”
“I can’t.” For a whole variety of reasons, but mostly because of the tingling sensation that still lingered on her hand.
She turned again, taking too-long strides away from him.
“Wait!”
She didn’t. She kept on walking. And the last thing she saw was a bright yellow taxi barreling down on her.
* * *
Warmth flooded her. The strangest sensation assaulted her. Like she was being filled with oxygen, her extremities beginning to tingle. She felt disembodied, like she was floating in a dark space.
Except then it wasn’t so dark. There was light. Marble walls. White. With ornate golden details. It was so clear. A place she’d never seen before, and yet...she must have.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she felt like she was being brought back to herself.
First, she could wiggle her fingertips. And then, she became aware of other things. Of the source of the warmth.
Lips against hers. She was being kissed.
Her eyes fluttered open, and in that instant she recognized the dark head bent over hers.
The man from the street.
The street. She had been crossing the street.
Was she in the street still? She couldn’t remember leaving it. But she felt... Tied down.
She opened her eyes wider, looking around. There was a bright, fluorescent light directly above her, monitors all to her side. And she was tethered to something.
She curled her fingers into a fist and felt a sharp, stinging sensation.
She looked down at her arm and saw an IV.
And then, all her focus went straight back to the fact that she was still being kissed. In a hospital bed, presumably.
She put her hand up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, and then he pulled away.
“Querida, you’re awake.” He looked so relieved. Not like a stranger at all. But then, he was kissing her, which was also unlike a stranger.
“Yes. How long was I...? How long was I asleep?” She posed the question to the nurse that she noticed standing just behind him. It was weird that he had kissed her. And she was going to get to that in a moment. But first she was trying to get a handle on how disoriented she felt.
“You were unconscious. Only for an hour or so.”
“Oh.” She pushed down on the mattress, trying to sit up.
“Now be careful,” he said. “You might have a concussion.”
“What happened?”
“You crossed the street right in front of a taxi. I was unable to stop you.”
She vaguely remembered him calling after her, and her continuing to walk on. Feeling slightly frantic as she did. Logically, she knew that her parents were overprotective. She knew that they had been hypervigilant in instilling the concept of stranger danger to her, but she had taken it on board, even knowing that it was a little bit over the top.
They had told her that she had to be particularly careful because Robert was a high-profile physician who often worked with politicians and helped write legislation pertaining to the healthcare system, and that made him something of a target. She had to be extra vigilant because of that, and because of the fact that they were wealthy.
It had made her see the bogeyman in any overly friendly stranger on the street as a child, but she supposed it had kept her safe. Until she had met him and run out in front of a car.
Her parents. She wondered if anyone had called them. They wouldn’t be expecting her home until evening.
“Excuse me...” But the nurse had rushed out of the room, presumably to get a doctor? She didn’t know why the woman hadn’t stopped to check her vitals.
“My father is a doctor,” she said, looking back up at José. That was his name. That was what he had said his name was.
“That is good to know,” he said, a slight edge in his voice that she hadn’t heard earlier.
“If he hasn’t been called already, somebody should get in touch with him. He’s going to want input on my treatment.”
“I’m sorry,” José said, straightening.
Suddenly, his face looked different to her. Sharper, harder. Her heart thundered dully, a strange lick of fear moving through her body.
“You’re sorry about what?”
“It isn’t going to be possible for your father to have input on your treatment. Because you’re going to be moved.”
“I am?”
“Yes. It seems to me that you are stable, and that has been confirmed by my nurse.”
“Your nurse?”
He sighed heavily, lifting his hand and checking his watch. Then he adjusted the cuff on his jacket, the mannerism curt and officious. “Yes. My nurse,” he said, sounding exasperated as though he was explaining something to a small child. “You do not have to worry. You will be treated by my doctor once we arrive in Santa Milagro.”
“Where is that? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t know where Santa Milagro is? I do question the American school system in that case. It is truly a shame that you had to be brought up here, Talia.”
Something niggled at her, something strange and steep. As deep as those wistful feelings she often felt when the air began to cool. “My name isn’t Talia.”
“Right. Briar.” His smile took on a sardonic twist. “My mistake.”
“The fact that I don’t know where Santa Milagro is is not the biggest issue we have. The biggest issue is that I’m not going to see your doctor. You’re just a crazy man that I met on the street. For all I know you stole that coat—it is a really nice coat—and you’re actually an insane vagrant.”
“A vagrant? No. Insane? Well. That matter is fully up for debate. I won’t lie.”
“José—”
“My name isn’t José. I’m Prince Felipe Carrión de la Viña Cortez. And you, my dear Briar, are mine by rights. I have spent a great many years looking for you, and now I have finally found you. And you’re coming with me.”
