Читать книгу If The Ring Fits... - Melissa McClone, Melissa Mcclone - Страница 12

Prince Richard hadn’t said a word, but Christina could see it, feel it. While she’d been in the bathroom, he’d become the dashing prince she’d met in the grand hallway, the sexy prince who had set her heart aflutter.

His smile made her feel like the only piece of chocolate decadence at a Weight Watchers meeting. Chocolate that was starting to melt under his intense stare full of longing, desire, need. His gaze lingered, practically caressed, making her feel like a desirable woman.

And she resented it. Resented how she felt her own resolve weakening.

But she couldn’t help herself.

This man could steal any woman’s heart if he set his mind to it.

But not her heart, she reminded herself.

To be honest, she preferred his majestic scowl to the come-hither curve gracing his lips.

Lips made for nibbling, tasting, kissing.

Wait. They were only lips. Princely lips she didn’t want to have anything to do with. So what if his less-than-appealing personality didn’t diminish his sex appeal?

She wasn’t interested. Period.

And if she told herself that enough, she might eventually believe it. Not that it mattered, of course. She was simply overreacting, letting her imagination and hormones run wild.

The prince hadn’t propositioned her; he hadn’t said one word. Teasing—that’s what he was doing—teasing her to get a reaction. Those bedroom eyes meant nothing. Nothing at all.

Besides, Prince Richard didn’t like her; he was angry at her. She wore his ring. Maybe not actually wore, but the ring was on her finger. Didn’t he remember?

His smile widened, deepening the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Apparently, he’d forgotten about the ring. Temporary insanity. Or…

No, it couldn’t be.

But he was staring and smiling at her. A seductive smile designed to make any woman swoon. Maybe he did want to touch her, kiss her, make love to her.

Maybe she was blowing this out of proportion. Or maybe she had something on her face. She touched her cheek. “Is anything wrong, Your Highness?”

“No.” He took a step closer.

Christina gulped, feeling way out of her league. Especially with him wearing those pajama bottoms. His green silk pants left just enough to her imagination to make her want to see if what was under the fabric was as perfect as his defined abs, his wide shoulders and his not-overmuscled, but not-an-ounce-of-flab chest.

Typical vain man. Prancing around his bedroom like a Chippendale dancer. Okay standing, not prancing. “Can’t you put your top on?”

“You are wearing it,” he said.

The intimacy of wearing a matched set, something she imagined happening when she married someday, made her swallow hard. “I…”

“Are you offering me yours?”

“No.” She paused long enough to see his smile widen further. Uh-oh. His adorable dimple was back. “Don’t you have another pair?”

“Normally, I do not sleep in pajamas.”

Just what she needed to hear to send her imagination into overdrive. And into overdrive it went. What would it feel like to run her hands over the golden hair covering his Michelangelo-sculpted chest? To have his strong arms pick her up and carry her to the giant bed, a bed made for lovers?

Stop. Right now.

She shouldn’t be thinking like that. Not here, locked in a room—make that bedroom—with a half-naked, gorgeous prince. Christina wrapped her arms around her waist and inched away from the bed.

His bed.

Show him the ring. That will erase the smile from his face, the desire—make that lust—in his eyes.

But she couldn’t do anything except stare back entranced, hypnotized by the prince’s piercing gaze, by his incredible physique. She wanted to touch him, to see if he was real.

He took another step toward her. “Silk suits you, Christina.”

A compliment? Her pulse raced, speeding faster than the winning car at Indy. She stepped back and bumped into the wall. Trapped. Nowhere to go. She should be more worried than she was. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Her words sounded husky. Nothing like her normal voice. What was wrong with her? Nerves? She wet her Sahara-dry lips.

“When we are alone, you may call me Richard.”

Richard? She wouldn’t; she couldn’t.

He closed the distance between them. Her pulse broke the land-speed record. She glanced at the bed, then back at him. “Where, er, where should I…?”

Words failed her. The nearness of him left her tongue-tied.

“Where should you sleep?” He finished the question for her.

She nodded, not trusting her own voice. Not trusting herself.

His eyes twinkled with anticipation. “Where would you like to sleep?”

Talk about a loaded question. Her answer could get her into more trouble. Christina merely shrugged, fighting the urge to tremble as he moved even closer.

“The bed is big enough for two.”

No, it wasn’t. All she needed to make her trip to San Montico a complete disaster was to wake up and find herself tangled in the sheets, legs entwined, her head against his bare chest. Her father had told her to obey Prince Richard, but she didn’t think this was what he had in mind. Christina pressed her sweaty palms against the wall. “I’m used to sleeping alone.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Not really alone,” she admitted. “I mean, I sleep with Francis.”

“Frances?”

“My cat, and it’s Francis with an i.”

“You have a male cat.”

“No.” Christina couldn’t think straight, not with Prince Richard so close. Don’t think about him. Think about Francis. “She’s female, but I promised my grandfather I would name my first pet after Frank Sinatra. I myself felt compelled to name her after a character in Shakespeare, which gave me quite a dilemma.”

“So you came up with Francis.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t easy.” Neither was this. Richard’s spicy scent filled her nostrils. So earthy, so sensual, so male. Forget about him. “It was dumb luck I found a minor character named Francis in King Henry IV, Part 1. Did you know he’s the only character in the entire Shakespearean canon named Francis?”

“I did not.” Prince Richard reached for her collar, straightening it. His warm fingers brushed her skin, sending a shiver of sensation down her spine. “Francis is a lucky kitty.”

So am I. Christina bit the inside of her cheek.

Prince Richard ran his fingertips down the lapel, stopping when he reached the first button. “Tell me more about Francis.”

Christina didn’t want to think about what he was doing, about what she wanted him to do. “She’s cute—a tabby with calico spots and white fur on her chin and belly.” Christina watched with anticipation as he ran his fingertips along the circumference of the silk-covered button. “She’s a good cat. When I rub her belly, she purrs like an engine.”

Prince Richard flashed her a devastating grin that made her want to meow. “Belly rubs work wonders.”

“Yes, they…”

Warning bells sounded inside her head. You almost meowed, for heaven’s sake. Get away from him. Now.

Christina searched for a way out, an escape route. She saw nothing except two leather chairs in front of the fireplace. They would have to do. “About our sleeping arrangements, Your Highness. I can sleep on one of the chairs or on the floor.”

“The floor?” Prince Richard laughed. “That would be so uncomfortable. Surely we can do better than that.”

Not if she had any say in the matter. Christina stepped around him and moved toward the chairs. “That’s okay, Your, er, Highness. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve bedded down, I mean, slept.” Needing to shut up before she said something stupid, she faked a yawn. “I’m really tired.”

“If you are tired, it should not matter if we share the bed.”

“It would matter,” she said a little too quickly. “I mean—”

“What do you mean, Christina?”

Her name rolled from his lips with the slight hint of a French accent. She loved the way he said her name. No, she hated it. “I toss and turn. And I snore.”

“Did Francis tell you that?”

Damn. Caught in her own trap. She never could tell even the smallest of white lies. Her cheeks warmed. Only a soft knock on the door saved her from further embarrassment.

“Who is it?” Prince Richard asked, sounding impatient.

“Your mother,” a female voice answered.

His mother? That could only mean one thing—trouble. Christina exchanged a panicked look with Prince Richard.

“Just a minute,” he said to his mother, then turned to Christina. “Hide.”

“Where?”

He glanced at the bathroom and another door. “If my mother finds you here…”

The beautiful Princess Marguerite probably wouldn’t understand why Christina was in the prince’s room at this late hour and wearing his pajama top.

He opened the doors to his armoire and pointed. Looking inside the wardrobe, Christina hesitated. “In there?”

“Richard?” Princess Marguerite called out. “I must speak with you immediately.”

He tensed. Without a second thought, Christina climbed in, moving aside the tails of shirts hanging side by side. Prince Richard rolled her gown and tossed it to her. He closed the armoire, leaving her in darkness.

The cramped armoire smelled like cedar. She clutched her gown to her chest. A tight fit, but it worked. For the time being. “Don’t forget my shoes, Your Highness.”

“Richard? Open this door,” his mother said.

He messed his hair, rumpled the sheets and kicked Christina’s pumps under the bed before unlocking the door. “Good evening, Mother.”

Marguerite pushed her way into the room. Her black gown swished against the Savonnerie carpet. “I hope I did not interrupt anything.”

“No, I was in bed.”

“Alone?” She peered around him to stare at his bed.

Her question did not deserve an answer. She always seemed disappointed when she failed to find a woman spending the night. It meant waiting that much longer for grandchildren. “I thought you would be asleep by now, Mother.”

“How could I sleep after what happened tonight? I want to know what’s going on, Richard.” Crossing the room, she glanced in the bathroom. “And do not tell me you evacuated the palace because of your uncle’s heart attack. I know he was pretending.”

“He was not pretending.” Richard saw the contrast of green against the black of the bed skirt. One of Christina’s pumps stuck out from under his bed. Damn. “He simply mistook a bout of indigestion for the real thing.”

“He ruined your party.”

While his mother peered inside his walk-in closet, Richard nudged the shoe farther under his bed. “He thought he was having a heart attack, Mother. Surely his health is more important than a party?”

“But the ring.” She shut the closet door. “There were so many lovely young women present at the ball. I was hoping you would find her tonight.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you.”

“It’s not your fault the ring didn’t fit any of the women or the party was cut short.”

“Fate seems to have conspired against me.”

It most definitely had. A piece of green fabric—Christina’s gown?—stuck out of the bottom of his armoire. His mother had not seen it. Yet.

“I simply wanted you to experience the same love and happiness the Legend of the Ring brought your father and me.”

“Happiness, Mother?” Richard could not believe he was hearing this. He hurried to the armoire. Leaning against it, he struck a casual pose and hid the fabric with his heel. “For the past ten years, you have done nothing but wear black and mourn him.”

“I miss him, Richard, but do not forget we had twenty-one years of joy before his death. I will always have the memories, and I have the ring to thank for that.”

A ring could not bring happiness, true love, no matter how much his mother wanted to believe it. Just listening to her…She spoke as if she had died, too. She sounded so sad. The way she had sounded since his father’s death. Richard blamed her sorrow on the Legend of the Ring. “Why not experience that joy again, Mother? You can fall in love and remarry.”

As his mother moved closer to him and the armoire, her smile disappeared. “The love your father and I shared…I cannot replace that with another. I would not even want to try. But I do want you to marry and provide me with the grandchildren I so long to have.”

He knew how much his mother wanted him to marry, to produce an heir—grandchildren. Talking about the legend and his birthday ball had brought the light back to her eyes. Now it was gone.

Completely.

What kind of son was he, putting his wants ahead of his mother’s? He did not want to know the answer.

“Where is the ring?”

Torn between his own happiness and hers, Richard hesitated. All he had to do was show her the ring on Christina’s finger. His mother would be thrilled, and he would be…

He could not. If he caved in and married because of the legend, he would live to regret it. He had to break the de Thierry tie to the Legend of the Ring. Not only for himself, but for future generations.

The pursuit of a wife had taught him “one true love” and “happily ever after” existed only in fairy tales and fantasies. Not even an enchanted ring could change that.

“Do you have the ring, Richard?”

“No, Didier has it.” The lie came so easily.

“Well, at the very least, I can wear it again.”

“No.”

Her blue eyes widened. “You do not want me to wear it?”

Richard had been too harsh. He hated disappointing his mother; the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. She was the one woman who loved him for who he was—simply her son. His title did not matter, nor did his faults. “So many women tried on the ring tonight, I want to have it cleaned first.”

The tenderness in her eyes made Richard swallow the guilt lodged in his throat. She caressed his cheek. “You are always one step ahead of me, my son. Just like your father.”

The comparison to his father made Richard feel like a cad. His father had been a respectable and honorable man. Richard was neither. A battle of duties raged inside him. Duty to his country or duty to himself. Had his father ever felt so torn? “I try my best.”

“You do better than try.” She kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday, Richard.”

“Thank you, Mother. For the ball and…everything.”

“It has been a long evening.” She stifled a yawn. “I will see you in the morning.”

“Good night.” Richard escorted her out of his room, closed the door and locked it. He hated lying to his mother, but he had no choice. He had to keep the ring on Christina’s finger a secret. It wasn’t as if the ring fit her. It did not; it was only stuck. But all San Montico wanted him to marry. He could not let them think the legend had come true.