Scandals Of The Royals. Lynn Raye HarrisЧитать онлайн книгу.
completely and he became someone—something—else entirely. Dangerous. A predator. And she had the feeling she was the prey.
“Sure,” he said, walking to the dressing room door. Her heart pounded in rhythm with his steps and she did her best to ignore it. To ignore the languid heat that seemed to be inside her bones, spreading through her, making her feel weak and shaky.
She turned and braced her hand on the door, anything to disguise the slight trembling in her fingers.
He didn’t bother to pretend, even for a moment, that the brush of his skin on hers was accidental, didn’t pretend he was simply helping with the last bit of the zipper. His finger trailed up the line of her back, hot and exciting.
She tensed, drawing her shoulders up.
“Relax, querida,” he said softly, his knuckle brushing against her shoulder.
“Then you’re going to have to stop touching me.”
She felt his fingers toying with the zip tab, his other hand moving to her waist, his touch light but so … present. She felt it all the way down to her toes and every interesting point in between.
“Not possible if you want me to help you with your dress.”
“You’re taking liberties,” she said, her voice stiff.
“Don’t you sound like the maiden in a Regency drama? I quite like it.”
“Next you’re going to tie me to the railroad tracks …”
“You’re mixing your time periods.”
She rolled her eyes, then realized he couldn’t see her face. “That’s beside the point.”
“Sorry, but I find it counterintuitive, covering up a woman’s skin, I mean.”
“You are shameless, Rodriguez.”
He put his hands on her arms and turned her, and she sucked in a sharp breath when she stopped, her face inches from his. “I can be,” he said.
“Well, I wish you wouldn’t. Be … so shameless.”
She looked into his eyes, past the glimmer of humor, to the predator. Her body responded. And it wasn’t the flight response she should be having. Maybe she wasn’t the prey. Maybe she was a predator too. Maybe her body was on the prowl too. Looking for a mate. She looked down, breaking the visual hold he had on her.
“If you really wish, Carlotta.” He moved his hands, reaching behind her and tugging her zipper into place. “I think the dress looks perfect.” He took a step back, as though they hadn’t just been caught in the most sexually tense moment in the history of sexual tension.
She swallowed hard and turned to face into the dressing room so that she could see herself in the full-length mirror. The dress wasn’t really as indecent as she’d imagined—the black lace gave hints of skin, but, thanks to the lining beneath, covered anything that really mattered. It was long, a mermaid-style skirt that flared out past her knees, swishing as she walked.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, hating to admit he was right. Not enough to give up the dress, but enough.
“I knew it would be.”
“A man with much confidence,” she said.
“No. How could it be anything but stunning on you?”
She looked at his reflection in the mirror, her eyes meeting his indirectly that way. “Rodriguez, I … I don’t need the whole playboy act, okay? I’m marrying you. It’s done. You don’t need to do this.”
She knew, the moment she said the words, that she’d said the wrong thing. His eyes flattened, his mouth thinning into a line.
“If that’s what you want,” he said, his voice sharp.
“I just … Thank you for the dress.”
He nodded and turned, walking out of the dressing room and, judging by the click of the door, her room.
This was why she didn’t date. Too messy. And good job, Carlotta, she’d insulted her date right before they were meant to go out. And after he’d given her a beautiful gown.
She wanted to growl in frustration. Instead, she picked up a tube of red lipstick and leaned in closer to the mirror. She was going to chase the sexy look tonight. And maybe, just maybe, she and Rodriguez would manage not to have another fight.
SEXY didn’t begin to describe Carlotta in that black lace gown. It should be illegal. Or they should be alone in one of the expansive bedrooms of the palace, with nothing but free time and an enormous bed at their disposal.
Instead, they were in a crowded ballroom, people everywhere. Normally he enjoyed parties. They were fun, shallow diversions that allowed him to block everything out and focus on nothing but easy, happy things.
Now it was grating his nerves. Because too many people meant he had to behave himself. He wasn’t just the rebel prince anymore, he was the future king. He always had been, he knew, but it had all been distant and murky, and he’d been in no hurry to move back into the palace. Back to the source of his darkest moments.
Well, the reprieve was over. Which was how he found himself here, at a party for an octogenarian he’d never met, keeping his hands off of his ultra-desirable fiancée.
“I used to hate these things.” Carlotta leaned in, ruby lips brushing his earlobe as she whispered to him. “What’s the deal with putting all the food on toothpicks? And honestly, room-temperature shrimp sitting on a tray for five hours?”
He choked a laugh out through his tightened throat. “I can’t argue with that.”
“I used to hate them,” she said. “But now it’s been so long since I’ve been out, I’m finding it really enjoyable.”
“What about your brother’s engagement party?”
She blinked. “That was … interesting. And stressful. I can kind of see why it made Sophia run off, no offense.”
Oh, yes, Sophia. His original intended bride. She never even crossed his mind. It didn’t seem right, the thought of another woman standing at his side now.
“None taken,” he said, shaking his head when a passing server offered him a shrimp cocktail.
“It was sort of fun watching the Jacksons. They don’t care what anyone thinks. It’s kind of … refreshing.”
“You think?”
She looked at him, green eyes glittering. “I care too much. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be who I thought I should be. So yes, it’s easy to envy people who clearly haven’t got a care in the world about their image.”
“Unlike the people here.” He surveyed the room, filled with stuffed shirts and black, conservative gowns. “I wonder if any of them have secret lives?”
“Don’t we all?” she asked.
“Well, we don’t. Hard to keep secrets when the press follows you all the time.”
“True. Anyway, I like the dress. I’m sorry I fought with you earlier.”
“I like the dress too.” He’d like it better pooled into a puddle of black lace on his floor, but he would take what he could get.
What was it about her that captivated him? Had he really thought her plain only a few days ago? He hadn’t been paying attention, clearly. With her dark hair pulled back into sleek bun, her curves emphasized by the fitted dress, olive skin visible in teasing amounts through the lace and the perfect amount of makeup to highlight her features, she was nothing short of stunning.