37 Her Highness and the Bodyguard Read online

  Too soon, the flashlight’s glow was swallowed by the storm. She had only the red gleam of the flares to comfort her while she waited.

  And waited. As far as she could tell no other cars had passed. She saw only the light given off by the flares. She didn’t know what time it was. She wore no watch, had no phone with her. She had no idea if the car’s clock might be working. And she wasn’t about to scramble back over the seats to find out, wasn’t about to stop staring out that back window, willing his return.

  A glad cry escaped her when she saw the flashlight’s glow again. It seemed to take form out of the spinning snow, materializing slowly from the whirl of whiteness. It was coming closer, thank God. And it had probably only been ten or fifteen minutes since the beam had been swallowed by the storm. But somehow, those minutes had seemed like several lifetimes strung end to end.

  At the bank, the light paused. There was the flash of another flare as a third warning torch lit up between the first two.

  And then, at last, he began to descend the bank.

  She scrambled back over the seat so she could push the door open for him when he reached it. The cold air and snow swirled in along with the big, cold man and the glow of the trusty flashlight. He pulled the door shut and she backed away to the far side of the seat in order to quell the powerful need to throw her arms around him and hold on tight.

  “You’re safe,” she whispered prayerfully. “Oh, and I’ll bet you’re freezing cold....”

  He turned off the light, set it aside and brushed snow from his shoulders, stomped it off his boots. She watched the shadowed, eagerly awaited shape of him as her eyes once again grew accustomed to the gloom.

  Resignedly, he muttered, “Didn’t I tell you to stay bundled up in the front seat?”

  She laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. “I did stay bundled up. You never said a word about the front seat—and did you find him, the old man?”

  “No. Not a sign of him or the pickup.” He brushed snow off his hair.

  Cold droplets touched her cheek. She swiped them away. “But...how could that be possible?”

  “The snow’s falling fast, covering our tracks. But the ones where he skidded sideways in our lane were so deep, they were still visible. I followed them—until they seemed to straighten out.”

  “Straighten out?” She considered the impossibility of that. “Surely you’re joking.”

  “No.”

  “You’re saying he somehow pulled out of that horrible slide?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Incredible.”

  “I told you. People who live here are used to driving in bad weather.”

  “He wasn’t doing a very good job of it when he came flying at us.”

  Those big shoulders lifted in a shrug. “What can I tell you? It looked to me like he pulled out of it somehow.” He wrapped his hands around himself and rubbed his arms.

  “You’re freezing,” she said softly.

  “I’ll warm up, don’t worry.”

  “Oh, please. It’s almost as cold in here as it is out there.” Cold and getting colder. Her nose felt like a small slab of ice. She gathered her feet underneath her and wrapped the blankets tighter. It had been a little chilly, even that morning, so she’d worn lacy tights, though she’d been tempted to go without them. Now, she was very grateful for at least that one good choice she’d made in a day and evening of really bad ones.

  He tried his phone again. “Nothing,” he told her after a minute.

  “What time is it? Do you know?”

  He pulled back the sleeves of the jacket and sweatshirt to reveal one of those military-style multifunction watches. “Twelve-forty.”

  She shivered a little. “Already tomorrow...” She watched as he bent and got the other blanket from the kit under the floor and settled it around himself. “You mentioned there’s a thermal tarp in there, too.”

  He tugged the blanket closer, hunching his head down into the soft folds. “And?”

  “You should use it, get your body temperature back up.”

  He just sat there, a large dark lump in the murky dimness of the cab. Annoyance nipped at her. The man made denial of his own basic comfort into something an art form. Just because she had gotten them into this mess didn’t mean he had to freeze to death before help came.

  And then he did bend over again. He brought out the tarp, which resembled nothing so much as a much-folded slab of aluminum foil. It caught what little ambient light there was and gleamed silver. “Here. You use it. You need to stay bundled up until help comes.”

  She made no move to take it. “You need it more than I do.”

  “Take it, Rhiannon.”

  She looked away. “How long will the flares last?”

  “Rhiannon.”

  Slowly, she turned her head to face his shadowed form once more. She asked again, “The flares?”

  He was still holding out the tarp. When she only sat where she was, unmoving, waiting for him to answer her, he dropped it onto the seat between them. “I don’t know. Up to an hour, possibly.”

  “And if help doesn’t come by then?”

  “It will come eventually. The storm will end. In the morning, they’ll have searchers looking for us. We’re on a much-traveled highway and there will be vehicles we can flag down as soon as the road is passable again. We only need to keep warm until they find us.”

  She looked at him for a long time. Then she dared to say it. “We need to share our body heat. We need to share the blankets and the tarp.”

  He sat very still. She felt the intense regard of his gaze through the gloom. Finally, he admitted it, too. “You’re right.”

  They moved simultaneously. He picked up the tarp and started opening it. She helped. It was big, much bigger than the blankets.

  When it was fully opened and billowed out over both seats, he said, “I’ll sit back against the door. You sit between my legs. We can wrap two blankets and the tarp around both of us. You can take the third blanket for extra protection on your legs and feet.”

  It was a good plan—as much as it covered. “What about your feet?”

  “No problem.”

  She peered toward the floor. She couldn’t see his boots. It was too dark down there. But she had a very strong feeling that they were soaked through. “Are those boots waterproof?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “Wrong answer. You can’t sit here all night with wet feet. You’ll get frostbite.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Oh, stop it. As soon as the storm ends, you’re going to want to get out and stand on the side of the road to flag someone down. You won’t be able to do that if your feet are frozen. But if you take off the boots and get your feet under the blankets and tarp, our body heat will dry your socks—all of which is completely obvious, and you know that it is.”

  He said with exceeding grimness, “You keep talking about body heat.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He sounded so discouraged. Weary to the core. She felt bad about that—really bad. “Listen, Marcus. I mean this sincerely. I am very sorry about what’s happened and I know that it’s all my fault. I know the last thing you want to do is to share body heat with me.”

  “There. You just said it again.”

  “I’m sorry. Again. But it has to be done.”

  “And you have no idea what I want.” His voice was deeper than ever. Rough in that delicious way she remembered from long ago.

  Her silly heart got all fluttery. She commanded it to settle down. “We have to do this.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

  “So take off those boots.”

  “All right.” He lifted a foot.

  “Here. Let me help.”

  He sent her one of those glances. Even through the dark, she could read it. She knew just what he was thinking. It is not done for Your Highness to help a mere bodyguard off with his boots.

  But then he surprised her and sw
ung one wet boot her way. She let go of her blankets, took the boot in both hands, by the wet toe and the soggy heel, and removed it, after which he offered her the other one. She took it off, too.

  Yes, it did seem a very intimate thing to be doing for him. And it made her so sad all over again, made her think of those beautiful weeks all those years ago, when she was in her first year as an art major and he was only twenty-two, in California for a special Montedoran fellowship, a two-month intensive course of study in behavioral sciences, leadership and military psychology.

  They’d met when he saw her in the student bookstore and recognized her. She’d caught him staring at her and boldly demanded to know what he thought he was looking at.

  Her young heart had skipped a beat when he saluted. “Your Highness, Sub-Lieutenant Marcus Desmarais of the Sovereign’s Guard at your service.”

  She’d laughed in delight to find a countryman at UCLA. And she’d invited him to get some coffee with her. He’d surprised both of them and accepted her invitation.

  They’d quickly become friends. It had seemed such a natural thing, with both of them so far from home. Their innate understanding of each other as Montedorans had seemed greater there than their differences. The chasm between them, he a commoner and she a princess, hadn’t mattered at all.

  At least not to her.

  To her, it had never mattered. After all, her mother ruled her country—and she had married a commoner, an American actor from Texas. It was a wonderfully successful marriage. Born the last of her line to rule a principality crushed under the weight of massive debt, Adrienne Bravo-Calabretti had given her husband and her country four princes and five princesses. Under her mother’s rule, with her father’s unwavering support, Montedoro had prospered. The country was rich now. The throne had an heir and plenty of spares.

  That was what had come of a princess marrying a commoner.

  Rhia dropped the second boot to the floor and wished the man sitting there in the dark beside her could be as open-minded and far-seeing as her own father had always been.

  “Come here,” Marcus said. “You’re shivering again.”

  With a sigh, Rhia turned and positioned herself between his hard thighs. They arranged the blankets into a nest to shelter them. She wrapped one of them around her feet and legs as he’d instructed. The others he drew around him and thus around them both, with the thermal tarp on top as he settled back against the door.

  The tarp was big enough to cover them completely, wrapping around their bodies with plenty to tuck snugly over their legs and feet. He enveloped her in his big arms and pulled her back against his broad chest.

  Instantly, she felt warmer, comforted. Safe. But how comfortable was he? “What about your back?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “But isn’t it cold, against the door like that?”

  “Rhiannon. It’s fine.” He held her even closer. It felt so good. She tried not to enjoy it too awfully much. His warm breath stirred her hair as he added downright cheerfully, “I’m feeling quite toasty, as a matter of fact.”

  “Toasty.” She allowed herself a smile.

  “Try to get some rest.”

  “Is it still snowing?” She struggled to sit higher, to see out the back window, rubbing against him intimately as she moved.

  He made a low sound, quickly quelled. It might have been the beginnings of a groan. His big arms tightened, holding her still. “Stay here. Stay warm.” His deep, wonderful voice rumbled against her back and lower down she felt...him. Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized that her wriggling about to see out the back window had aroused him.

  She gulped and tried to sit still and reminded herself he couldn’t see her blush. It was too dark and she had her back to him. She cleared her throat. “I just wanted to see if it was still snowing.”

  “It is.”

  “Has it let up any?”

  “No. Rest.”

  She didn’t think she could sleep. No way. This was too strange and wonderful. It was...like all her forbidden fantasies somehow come to life: the two of them, in the darkness, all wrapped up together, nice and tight.

  Yes, she felt a bit embarrassed at the thick, hard ridge of him pressing low against her back.

  But she also felt...excited by it. Glad. To have such basic, undeniable proof that he still desired her, after all these years. That he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he always tried to make her believe. It was a petty sort of triumph and she knew that.

  She ordered herself to stop being smug. The man couldn’t help his biological response, what with her all smashed up against his private parts like this. His physical arousal proved nothing—except that he was a man and she was a woman. He had done his duty by her tonight, and then some. She would be thankful for that and behave better in the future.

  Her body slowly relaxed. Now that her teeth were no longer chattering, she could actually almost feel optimistic.

  Yes, it had been an awful experience, all told. But there was a bright side. Neither of them had been injured. It appeared the old cowboy in the brown pickup had somehow escaped unscathed. And as soon as the snow stopped and daylight came, they would be rescued.

  It could have been so much worse.

  And she really was exhausted. She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the steady, sure beating of his heart.

  Her eyes drifted shut.

  And she remembered....

  Chapter Five

  Two weeks.

  That was all it took in the easy, casual atmosphere of Southern California. Two weeks far from everything that defined them as worlds apart, and what began as friendship became a love affair.

  A secret affair. Rhia was barely eighteen, after all. She told herself it was a fling, that she was much too young to settle down. And Marcus was a military man to the core, ruled by duty. He considered himself beneath her and felt more than a little guilty that he was her first lover—that he was her lover at all.

  He told her more than once that he knew she deserved a prince. But in those magical, perfect days, he actually opened up to her, even relaxed with her. He told her of his childhood. He was raised by the nuns at St. Stephen’s Orphanage. They’d found him as a newborn on the steps of Montedoro’s oldest church, the Cathedral of Our Lady of Sorrows. He didn’t know who his people were, not his father, not his mother. He’d started his life with no one, and then been adopted as an infant.

  “But the couple divorced. I was the glue that was supposed to hold them together. When I didn’t do the job, neither of them wanted me. It was back to St. Stephen’s when I was three. After that, I was a very, very good little boy—for the nuns. But evidently, I made sure none of the others who came looking for a child chose me. I don’t remember how, exactly, I was so small. But I know even now that I didn’t need that kind of heartache all over again.”

  She had told him she admired him, for what he’d suffered, for how he had managed to grow up both strong and good.

  And he had captured her face in his two big hands. “Not so good. Not strong at all. If I were strong and good, I wouldn’t be here with you now.”

  They stood out on the grass by the large and beautiful neo-Romanesque style undergraduate library. She remembered thick trees, dappled shadows, a feeling that they were the only two people in the world right then. She went on tiptoe, kissed him. “No regrets. None. I am very, very glad you’re here.”

  And right then, he made her promise that they would walk away in the end, that it would be over forever once he finished his fellowship and returned to Montedoro. That the time they had together would be their secret. “Promise me, Rhia. When I go, we cut it clean. And no one else will ever know.”

  “Yes. Of course. I promise.” She had nodded, beaming happily up at him, aglow with what she honestly believed at that time was a lovely mingling of warm friendship and delicious desire. She agreed to it ending, to it being their secret. She was so sure at the time that cutting it clean when he left was wh
at she wanted. Not because he was “just” a soldier, but because she was only eighteen and had her whole life ahead of her and had never imagined she might find her true love in her first year of college.

  At UCLA, they both stayed in dorm rooms, in separate halls. He had three roommates and she had one. They couldn’t be together in their rooms.

  When they decided they would be together—really be together—they had found a small, inexpensive hotel not far from the campus. It was beautiful to her, that hotel. In the Spanish style, with thick stucco walls and a red tile roof, all on one level, with each room more like a tiny apartment opening onto a central walkway than a hotel room.

  La Casa de la Luna, the place was called.

  The house of the moon.

  She loved it there, in their own special house of the moon. One room in particular, the one they used the very first time, became “their” room. Their room had bright bougainvillea climbing the white wall outside the window and twin birds of paradise flanking the door. Their room had a small sitting area where they sometimes studied together. The bathroom had an old claw-footed tub and the mirror over the sink was streaked with age.

  It was a magical place, their room. Every time they visited, she wished they might never have to leave. And when they did leave, she lived only for when they would go there again. But he was in America for only two months and that time flew by on swift wings.

  They parted as planned. She drove him to LAX and kissed him goodbye and managed not to cry. As he left her to go through security, his broad back so straight and proud, never once turning to see if she was still there watching him go, she reminded herself that this was what she wanted. Their time together had been so beautiful. And now they would both move on.

  Too bad she couldn’t seem to forget him. Too bad no other man ever seemed to measure up....

  * * *

  “Marcus?” Her voice, soft. Tentative.

  He stirred from hazy dreams where he was hard and aching and she was pressed tight against him. He couldn’t push her away. He had, for some reason unclear to him but urgent, to keep her close, to hold her in his arms. He couldn’t push her away.