The Prince's Cinderella Bride Page 9

  Within that sweet heat pulsing between them like a beating heart, the past didn’t matter and the future was of no concern. He wrapped her close, scooted back—and pulled open the little drawer in the bedside table. He took out a condom.

  They laughed together, breathless and eager, as he fumbled to get the wrapper off.

  “Here. I’ll do it.” She took it from him and managed it easily.

  He said, “Well done.”

  And then she rolled it down over him smoothly, fitting it snugly at the base. “I do good work.”

  “Come here.” He flipped her onto her back once more and rose up above her.

  She opened to him, reaching up to bring him down to her, taking his weight gratefully, wrapping her legs around him, crying out as he entered her in one smooth, hard thrust.

  “Wait.” He held still, hips flexed, fully within her.

  “Oh, my...”

  He braced his forearms on the pillow, to each side of her head. “Still. Be still. Don’t move.”

  “Oh, my, oh, my...”

  He lowered his mouth and he kissed her, his tongue sliding inside, tasting her as deeply as he was buried in her below.

  She ached with the pleasure of it. She moaned into his mouth. And still, he held steady as he went on kissing her.

  Finally, when she thought she would go mad with the sheer unbearable goodness of it, with the burning need to move, he lifted his head and he stared down at her, eyes gone from iron-gray to the sweetest, cleanest blue.

  She panted, dazed, gazing up at him. “Now? Please?”

  His mouth twitched. “Say that again?”

  She punched him on his big arm. “You are torturing me.”

  He was merciless. “Again.”

  “Please?”

  “Please what?”

  “Please, Max, I need to move.”

  “Ah. Move? Really?” And then he did it. A smooth, hard flex of his powerful hips. “Like this?”

  She had no words left. Which wasn’t really a bad thing.

  Because finally, he was willing.

  He did it again. “Answer me. Like this?”

  “Yes,” she somehow managed to croak out.

  “Say it again.”

  And she did. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes...”

  And at last, they were moving. Moving together. Rising and falling, faster and harder. Until there was only the two of them on a high wave of pleasure, rising and rising higher, opening outward to light up the night.

  Chapter Six

  “I’m not sure about Sunday,” she told him a little bit later, as they stood in the kitchen wearing matching silk robes he’d pulled from a closet, drinking champagne and eating red-hearted slices of a Montedoran orange.

  He reached out, wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and brought her right up close to him. “Forget it. You’re not backing out.” He kissed her.

  She tasted the oranges, tart and sweet, as she sighed into his mouth. “It seems a little too soon, that’s all.”

  He looked at her patiently. “All right. I’ll play along. Too soon? How do you figure that?”

  She stammered out the best explanation she could think of on such short notice. “Well, I mean, we really only barely got something going between us last night. You know, in a real, sincere, both-on-the-same-page and we-want-to-be-together kind of way.”

  His eyes were iron-gray. But at least he wasn’t scowling. Then, unfortunately, he started talking. “I’m not going to argue with you about it. I’m not going to point out that we should have been together months ago, but you needed forever to admit that this is important, this thing between us.”

  “But you are arguing.”

  “No, you are. You’re going. No excuses.” He offered her a slice of orange. She pushed it away. That didn’t stop him from reminding her, “You agreed to go. Keep your word. Do not disappoint me.”

  “You used to be so patient.”

  “And look where being patient got me.”

  “If you would only—”

  “No. I mean it. There is no ‘if only’ here. Last night, you made a choice to tell me your secrets, to go forward with me. You said you would go to Sunday breakfast. There’s nothing to argue about here. You’re going.”

  She thought of his children then. “What have you told Nick and Constance about me?”

  He looked at her sideways. “What do you mean?”

  “Do they know I’m invited for Sunday morning?”

  He gazed off toward the French doors. “Well, I...”

  She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “You haven’t talked to them.”

  “I only thought—”

  “Max. Come on. You didn’t think.”

  He got that look, his I’m-the-prince-and-you’re-not look. “We have to start somewhere.”

  “And we have. We went out. We’re here, in your villa, sharing champagne and oranges after mind-altering sex.”

  His lips twitched. “Mind-altering, was it?”

  “I’m only asking why you need to rush things.”

  “I’m not rushing. You are dragging your feet. I will tell Nick and Connie that you’ll be with us for Sunday breakfast.”

  Another awful thought occurred to her. “You have told your parents I’ll be there, right?” The silence was deafening. “Oh, God, Max. You haven’t told them. You’re bringing me to a private family breakfast—and I’m a surprise.”

  “It’s not a formal event. It’s easy and comfortable, open-ended. There’s plenty of food for whoever can make it. Husbands, wives, children, dear friends, girlfriends, boyfriends and all variety of significant others are welcome.”

  “Meaning you haven’t told them.”

  “I just explained. It’s not necessary that I tell them.”

  “Oh, really? How many significant others have you brought to your family’s Sunday breakfast since you lost your wife?”

  He set down his empty champagne flute. Slowly. “All right. You’re the first.”

  “So it’s very likely I will be a surprise. Possibly a big surprise. I don’t want to be a big surprise. If you’re going to hold me to this—”

  “I am. Absolutely.”

  “Then you will tell your parents and your children that I will be there.”

  He picked up the bottle and poured them each another glass. “All right. I’ll tell them.”

  She didn’t know whether to be relieved—or more anxious than ever. “I still think it’s too soon.”

  “You’re going. That’s that.”

  * * *

  All her clothes were wrong.

  Lani knew this because the contents of her closet were strewn across the bed and she still hadn’t decided what to wear to Sunday breakfast with the princely family. Yeah, okay. She should have given it some thought before now. But she’d been busy all day Saturday writing and researching—not to mention creating her Facebook profile and fan page, setting up a Twitter account, reserving her domain name and signing up for a couple of online classes.

  Who had time to think about what to wear? She stood in front of the mirror mounted on the closet door and scowled at her reflection. There was nothing wrong with her slim gray skirt and blue silk blouse—but nothing particularly right about them, either.

  She’d pinned her hair up. Should she take it down?

  The intercom down the hall buzzed. That would be the driver of the car Max had insisted on sending for her.

  “Oh, help!” she moaned aloud. And then she grabbed her gray suede pumps and her blue faux crocodile purse and raced to the door.

  * * *

  The driver let her off at the palace entrance closest to Max’s apartments.

  The guard there chec
ked her ID against his handheld device and admitted her with a quick nod. She hurried down one gorgeous hallway and then another, the heels of her pumps echoing on the inlaid floors. When she got to Max’s door, she paused to smooth her hair and straighten her blouse. A buzzer sounded inside when she pushed the little button by the door.

  The housekeeper, Marceline, answered with a polite smile and a pleasant, “Come in. They’re almost ready, I believe.”

  “Lani. You’re right on time.” Max entered the foyer from the apartment’s central hall, wearing tan slacks and yet another beautiful soft sweater, looking casual and confident and way, way hot—and making her certain all over again that her clothes were all wrong. He herded Nick and Connie in front of him.

  Nick, in dark pants and a striped shirt, his cowlick slicked mercilessly down, complained, “If I have to go, let me at least bring my Nerf gun.” He glanced up at his father, who shook his head. “Bow and arrow? Slingshot?” Max only kept moving his head from side to side. “This is going to be so bo-ring.”

  “You’ll get through it,” Max said. He really was so patient with the kids.

  Nick glanced back at Max again. Something in his father’s eyes must have reached him, because he stopped complaining.

  Max said, “Thanks, Marceline.” She nodded and circled around him and the children on her way to the central hall. Max and the kids reached Lani. “You made it,” he said softly. He looked so happy to see her, she forgot all about how she hated her gray skirt and she still wasn’t sure she even wanted to do this.

  Connie, looking a little flushed in a darling red dress and sweater over white tights with Mary Janes, was tugging on Lani’s hand. “Nanny Lani, I don’t feel so good,” she said in a near whisper.

  “Oh, honey...” Lani felt her forehead.

  Max said, “What?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not feverish.”

  And then Connie said, “Oh!” Her eyes went saucer wide and she put her hand on her stomach.

  “What?” Max demanded again.

  Alarm jangled through Lani. “Honey, are you going to be sick?”

  “I...” It was the only word Connie managed. Then she vomited on Lani’s gray suede shoes.

  For a moment, they all four just stared down at Lani’s splattered shoes in stunned disbelief.

  Nicky broke the shocked silence with a howl. “Oh, gross! Connie barfed all over Nanny Lani!” He put his hands to his throat and faked a loud string of gagging noises.

  Max shot him a dark look. “Nicholas.” Nicky dropped his hands and had the good sense not to let out another peep. Max gave Lani a quick, apologetic glance and then knelt and laid a gentle hand on Connie’s shoulder. “Sweetheart...”

  Connie blinked at him—and gagged again.

  Lani’s inner nanny took over. She dropped her purse, scooped up the little girl and headed for the bathroom, not even pausing to see if Max followed, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t end up with vomit down her back to go with what already squished in her shoes.

  She did not get her wish. Connie let loose again just as she made it to the bathroom door.

  Lani gulped against her own gag reflex and kept moving. Grabbing a big towel from the linen rack, she bent with Connie in her arms and spread the towel on the rug by the tub. “It’s okay, okay,” she soothed as she let the little girl down on the soft rug in front of the towel. Lani’s mother, the pediatrician, had always offered a towel rather than the toilet in a situation like this. Kids found it less disturbing—if it was possible to be less disturbed when the contents of your stomach refused to stay down. “Right here. Just bend over this towel. That’s right. That’s it. Easy...” On her knees now, Connie kept gagging. Kneeling beside her, Lani rubbed her back and held her blond curls out of the way as more came up. Lani flipped the edges of the towel over to cover the mess.

  Max came in quietly and stood over them. “More towels?” At Lani’s nod, he went to the linen shelves and came back with three more. He dropped to the floor on Connie’s other side.

  Lani kept up the soft encouragements. “That’s good. Just let it happen. You’ll feel better, sweetie, it’s okay....”

  Connie moaned and more came up. Max put down a new towel over the soiled one.

  Finally, Connie sighed and slumped against her dad. “I think I’m all done.” The poor little thing looked wrung out.

  Lani levered back on her heels and stood. “Where’s her water glass?”

  “The pink one,” Max said.

  So Lani grabbed the pink plastic glass from the counter by the sink. She splashed in a little children’s mouthwash from the medicine cabinet and then filled it halfway with water. “Here.” Max reached up and took it from her. “She shouldn’t drink any, just rinse—and wait a minute.” Lani quickly rolled up the soiled towels and pushed them out of the way, all the time acutely aware that she herself was probably the worst-smelling thing in the room now. “Can you stand up, Connie? So you can use the sink?”

  “I think so.”

  Max rose and helped her up. She rinsed out her mouth as Lani ran cold water from the bathtub tap over a washcloth. She wrung it out and gave it to Max, who bathed Connie’s face with it.

  Max looked kind of sheepish. “I had no idea she was sick.”

  “I wasn’t sick,” Connie insisted. “But then, all of a sudden, I was.”

  “Probably just a stomach bug.” Lani stayed well away from father and daughter and tried not to think about the sticky wetness down her back and the mess in her shoes. “I think I remember Gerta saying there was some stomach thing going around at school.”

  “I’ve called the family doctor,” Max said. “He’s on his way.” He asked Connie, “How about a little rest?”

  “Papa...” Connie sighed and reached up her arms to him. He scooped her up.

  Gerta appeared in the doorway. “I have your bed ready, Liebchen.”

  Lani suggested, “Along with more fresh towels?”

  “All taken care of.” Gerta kept a cheerful expression on her face and didn’t once glance down at Lani’s ruined shoes.

  “Nanny Lani.” Wide eyes regarded her solemnly over Max’s broad shoulder. “Sorry I got throw-up all over you.”

  “It’s not your fault. It washes off and I’ll be good as new.” And I hate this skirt anyway. She had, however, loved the suede shoes. “Rest and get better.”

  “I’ll take her,” Gerta offered.

  But Connie wanted her dad right then. She hugged Max tighter. “Papa will take me.” And then, just a tad imperiously, “And Nanny Gerta, you come, too.”

  “I am right here with you,” Gerta promised tenderly.

  Max sent Lani a rueful glance. “I’ll be back.”

  They all three went out, leaving her standing there in her ruined shoes, unsure of whether she ought to try and clean up a little or wait for Max to return.

  She was just about to shuck off the disgusting shoes and rinse her feet in the tub, at least, when Marceline bustled in with a fluffy white robe and a laundry bag over one arm, a basket of shower accessories on the other. Lani’s blue purse was hooked over her shoulder. “You poor girl.” She put the purse and the robe on the chest that stood against the wall. “Get out of those clothes. I’ll see what I can do about them.”

  Lani took off the shoes first. “I think these are hopeless—and watch where you step. It’s all over the floor here, and at the door, and in the foyer, too.”

  Marceline was undaunted. “Not to worry. I will take care of everything while you’re in the shower.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, with Connie safely tucked in bed and Gerta comfortably situated in the corner chair watching over her, Max went to find Lani.

  She was sitting on the edge of the tub in the children’s bathroom wearing his
robe, her cheeks pink and her pulled-back hair coming loose around her face in the most charming fashion. Marceline had done her magic. The floor was clean and the air smelled faintly of citrus.

  Lani regarded him solemnly, an elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. “How is she?”

  He took a moment to answer, indulging himself in the sight of her, in his apartment, wearing his robe. “She’s resting. Gerta took her temperature. It’s slightly elevated. The doctor should be here soon.”

  “Good, then.” She rose as he came toward her. “I didn’t know where to go. It seemed inappropriate to start wandering around your palace apartment barefoot in a robe.” Down the hall, the entry buzzer rang. “I’m guessing that’s the doctor.”

  “Marceline will answer it.” He took her shoulders. Her upturned face was dewy. She smelled of soap and roses. “Anywhere you wander, I will find you.” He tugged on a curl that had gotten loose from the knot at the back of her head. It coiled, damp and tempting, down her neck. “You were a champion with Connie.”

  A smile bloomed. “Nanny Lani to the rescue.” She teased, “And what do you know? I think we’re kind of late for breakfast with the princely family.”

  “Do you have to look so happy to get out of it?”

  Now she played innocent. “Happy? Me? No way. Poor Connie is sick and I’m out a favorite pair of shoes—and do you think you could send someone to my apartment to get me some actual clothes to wear?”

  “I like you in my robe.”

  “How many ways can I say ‘inappropriate’?”

  “Yes, I will send someone to get your clothes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you’ll come to Sunday breakfast next week.” The postponement was probably just as well. He’d told the children that she was coming, as he’d promised her he would. However, he hadn’t quite gotten around to giving his mother and father a heads-up on his plans. Now he’d have time to take care of that.

  As usual, she tried to back out. “I’ll think about next Sunday.”

  “Do we have to go through this all over again? Just say yes now.”