Excuse me. You’re over him. Remember? He closed the door, leaned one shoulder against it and folded his arms over his chest. The move separated the fabric of his robe. “Tell me about the ball.”
She forced her eyes away from the triangle of skin and the barely tied knot at his waist. “Not much to tell. I found a note from Stacy this morning saying there’s going to be a ball Saturday night and that Franco is buying our gowns. That’s all I know.”
“Le Bal de L’Eté, a charity event which opens the season at the Monaco Sporting Club, is this weekend. Who is Franco?”
“Stacy’s…friend.” Her suitemate was having a passionate vacation fling, the kind Madeline had hoped to have, but—
“I don’t like another man buying your dress.”
“Tough.” Through the door she heard the sounds of the room service cart being rolled into the dining area, the rattle of dishes and the low hum of voices, and then the cart leaving.
“I’ll purchase your gown.”
“And won’t that look great in the tabloids? I’m no man’s kept woman.”
“And yet you would let this Franco pay for your dress.”
She’d only met the sexy French chocolatier a couple of times, and normally she wouldn’t let a stranger buy her clothing, but Franco only had eyes for Stacy. “He doesn’t expect anything in return.”
“You believe I would buy gifts for you to coerce you back into my bed?”
“We both know you want me there.” And she was just as determined not to return. If he’d lied about one thing, he’d lie about another.
“Yes, I do. What’s more, you want it, too.”
Right.
Wrong! “That’s quite a large ego you have there. Does Ian help you lug it around?”
Dominic’s lips twitched and humor sparkled in his eyes. “I’ll escort you to the ball.”
“Oh yeah. That’s being discreet. Forget it. I’m going with my suitemates. A girls’ night out. And I plan to dance with every handsome man there.” She cringed inwardly. That had sounded childish. But Dominic didn’t own her and he’d better stop acting as if he did.
His nostrils flared and frustration thinned his lips. “You cannot evade me or the passion between us, Madeline.”
“Watch me.” Intent on a quick escape, she turned and reached for the doorknob.
In a flash his palm splayed on the door above her head, holding it shut. He leaned closer until the warmth of his chest against her back sandwiched her against the wooden panel. His breath stirred her hair seconds before his lips brushed her nape. Her lungs stalled and a shudder racked her. His morning beard rasped the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and then he traced a spine-tingling line down her backbone with one finger. Her senses rioted.
How can you still want him? “You can’t forget that night any more than I can,” he whispered against her jaw.
The words scraped over her raw nerves and she swallowed hard. Almost every part of her being urged her to turn, wrap her arms around him, drag him to that rumpled bed and revel in the passion he offered. All she’d have to do is turn her head and their lips would touch.
The man’s kisses could cause a nuclear meltdown.
But a lone brain cell reminded her of the hell she’d already lived through, of being made to look foolish and losing the respect of her coworkers and the uphill battle to regain it.
She squared her shoulders and tightened her fingers on the cool knob. “I might not have forgotten, but neither am I willing to become a topic of gossip again.”
She yanked on the door. This time he let her go. “Be ready to leave for the shooting range as soon as your meeting ends.”
She stopped halfway across the sitting room and pivoted to face him. “And if I’m not?”
“Have I ever mentioned Albert and I are well acquainted?”
Albert. Prince of Monaco. And he and Dominic were apparently on a first-name basis.
She was sunk.
“Hey, this isn’t the way to the hotel,” Madeline protested later Tuesday morning.
On the seat beside her in the hired car driven by Ian, Dominic angled to face her. His thigh touched hers. Touching meant sparks and sparks meant instant heat which she couldn’t seem to control no matter how hard she tried. She inched away.
“You wished to purchase a gift for your mother.”
Darn him for remembering that. “You could have asked if I wanted to go shopping.”
He captured a dark curl, wound it around his index finger and tugged gently. She felt the pull deep inside. “You would have refused.”
He had her there. But she’d just spent an hour matching him shot-for-shot at the shooting range and having more fun with their competition than she should have in the she’d-decided-to-hate-him circumstances. The man had a competitive streak that rivaled her own and a willpower-melting grin whenever he bested her. She needed a break from his magnetism.
“I also told you I’m having dinner with Candace at Maxim’s tonight. So whatever you have planned had better be short and sweet.”
“That’s why we’re taking a helicopter to Biot instead of driving.”
A helicopter. She swallowed.
“I’m not crazy about helicopters.” Not since a turbulent toss-her-cookies ride on a Life Flight chopper. Sure, she’d taken the helicopter taxi to Monaco from the Nice airport, but she’d been overexcited about being on foreign soil for the first time in her life and she’d had Dramamine in her system.
“I will be more than happy to distract you during the flight.” His gaze dropped to her lips and her abdominal muscles contracted. She’d bet he would. She could guess how. But she wasn’t kissing him again. Ever. Because his kisses sent her self-control AWOL.
“Would saying no make any difference?”
A smile teased his lips. “No. We’ll land in time for lunch and then tour and shop. I’ll have you back before dinner.”
She sighed. It would serve him right if she barfed all over him. “Okay, you win.”
“Always.”
He really should try to rein in that cocky attitude. But darned if that smug smile didn’t look good on him.
“What’s so special about Biot?” she asked to distract herself as she reclaimed her hair. Each time he twined a curl around his finger she remembered the other things he liked to wrap it around and that wasn’t good for her willpower.
“It’s a small French village known for its pottery and hand-blown glass. Their earthenware production dates back to the Phoenicians, but since the 1960s Biot’s bubble glass has gained international acclaim. My mother collects it. I thought yours might like it.”
His mother. She didn’t want to think about someone somewhere loving him. And she didn’t want him to be thoughtful. He was a lot easier to dislike when he was arrogant, dictatorial and throwing his royal weight around. “You can force me to go with you, but you can’t make me enjoy it.”
“Have I mentioned how much I delight in your challenges?”
Five hours later Madeline stood in the shadows beneath a pointed archway of Biot’s Place des Arcades and admitted she’d have to eat her words. Pleasantly tired and carrying a bag containing several carefully wrapped brightly colored pieces of bubble glass, she leaned against a sun-warmed stone wall and reluctantly looked up at Dominic.
He’d been an intelligent and amusing companion during this unwanted outing, and he’d taken her not to tourist traps, but to authentic out-of-the-way shops and a restaurant frequented by locals. His language and bargaining skills had been invaluable, and he wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes. What more could a woman ask for in a date? If it hadn’t been for his fib and his princeliness she could almost wish this idyllic period didn’t have to end so soon.
“At the risk of inflating your already gargantuan ego, I have to confess, I enjoyed today. Lunch, the galleries, the museum…all of it.”
“I’m glad.” Dominic braced his shoulder on the wall beside her. He stood too close, but she couldn’t seem to muster the energy to widen the gap between them.
He won points for not gloating.
They hadn’t been bothered by paparazzi, and she’d only spotted Ian and Makos skulking in the background a few times. She hadn’t even become ill on the helicopter flight because Dominic had applied acupressure to the inside of her wrist. A secret from the Montagnarde natives, he’d told her. Well, she’d studied acupressure, too, but she must have missed that chapter. Or maybe Dominic’s touch had worked magic.
He slowly reached up and removed his sunglasses and then hers. Their gazes locked and held. The smile in his eyes faded and his pupils dilated with desire. Her pulse quickened and her mouth dried. After warning her to be on the lookout for paparazzi, surely he wouldn’t—
His mouth covered hers. Tenderly. Briefly. Before she could react he swooped in again, cradling her jaw in his palm and settling in for a deeper taste. His tongue parted her lips and tangled with hers.
Need coiled tightly inside her, sending heat spiraling from her core to her limbs. She shouldn’t be kissing him, shouldn’t be savoring the hint of coffee on his tongue or the scent of his cologne. She shouldn’t be curling her fingers into the rigid muscles of his waist or leaning into the warmth of his chest.
You definitely shouldn’t be considering dragging him to the nearest inn. Where was her remarkable willpower, her vow to keep their lips forever separate? Turning her head aside, she broke the kiss and gasped for air. She craved the man more than she did carbohydrates when PMSing. And that was saying something.
She gathered her tattered resistance and backed away. “We should go. I have to get ready for tonight.”
And she had to brace herself for their next encounter, because she couldn’t afford to let Dominic Rossi slip beneath her guard again.
Even if she could overlook his fib, a prince and a commoner had no future.
Not that she wanted one.
Chapter 7
Time was running out.Dominic snapped his cell phone closed Saturday night, shoved it in his tux pocket and inhaled deeply, but the constriction of his chest tightened instead of loosening.
“News?” Ian asked from beside him on the limo seat.
“The list of bridal candidates has been narrowed to three.” Which meant Dominic’s days of passion and freedom were numbered. He had to get Madeline back into his bed.
“This is not unexpected, Dominic.”
That didn’t mean he had to like it. “No.”
“Perhaps your outings with Miss Spencer have spurred the council to make a decision.”
“We have been discreet.” As much as he hated sneaking in and out of back doors and service entrances, he’d willingly done so to spend time with Madeline. But this week she’d avoided all but the most casual of touches.
“The council won’t give you the women’s names?” Ian asked.
“No. They don’t want me to interfere with the selection process.” The council would make the decision, negotiate the diplomatic agreements, and then he would meet the woman and propose for formality’s sake. The way it had been done for three centuries.