His Majesty's Temporary Bride. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
in her bright eyes and the husky edge to her voice.
He moved further into the small boat and stood. Alex was fully aware the movement laid his back and buttocks bare to her gaze—he’d swear he could feel the prickle of her regard right now. But it was better than presenting her with what could too easily turn into a promising erection.
He hunkered down at the side of the boat, motioning for George to start the motor. One of the kids had a gash on his temple and there was a first aid kit on the yacht. To his relief though, they seemed to be improving by the minute.
By the time the five of them were on the yacht Alex knew they’d be okay. He got the first aid kit then left it in George’s capable hands while he went below to dry off and dress.
Yet as he tugged on old jeans and a shirt, Alex could recall exactly how he’d felt when the mermaid’s gaze dropped to his chest, lingered a second and then kept moving to his abdomen and groin. The prickle under his skin was a prelude to something he could not afford to give in to.
The timing was all wrong.
So was the place. The person.
Imagine the complications if he followed his instincts and pursued an affair with her right here, offshore from the palace! Especially when there were so many people in both countries promoting a royal wedding.
Alex shuddered and zipped his jeans. Marriage was not on the agenda.
* * *
‘There’s Alex now,’ George said and Cat looked up. Alex, the owner of the beautiful vintage yacht, strolled towards them. His gait was loose-hipped and easy, shoulders back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Definitely the walk of an assured man. One too sexy for his own good.
Fire spiked in her blood as she recalled his lazy, half-lidded expression when she’d seen him naked. The devastatingly attractive way the corners of his mouth curled up, the gleam in those indigo eyes.
She liked a confident man. One assured enough not to bolster his ego at the expense of others.
He was athletic too. That tall body was strong and taut and oh-so attractive, with powerful thighs and sinewy forearms and a classic male outline that tapered from wide shoulders. She had a sudden recollection of the bunch of his rounded, perfect glutes as he’d walked away. Cat forced her attention back to the bandage she was securing.
‘There, that should do.’
‘Good work, Cat.’ George, the yacht’s captain, closed the first aid kit.
‘Cat?’ The lazy drawl was like fingertips dancing down her spine. She told herself it was the breeze cooling her ancient T-shirt against her skin but she feared it was his luscious baritone.
‘Alex, this is Cat. Cat, Alex.’
‘Nice to meet you... Cat.’
She looked up to read curiosity crinkling his broad brow. A flare of his nostrils brought that chiselled, patrician nose to life and his dark blue eyes narrowed as he surveyed her.
Was that tension in the pulse flicking beneath his squared jaw? No, she’d imagined it. His body language spoke of easy confidence. And a bone-deep, almost indolent sex appeal that played havoc with her hormones.
‘Nice to meet you, Alex.’ She kept her voice blank. The fact he’d obviously towel-dried his black hair and not bothered to comb it, leaving it appealingly dishevelled, shouldn’t make her itch to touch. As for the fact he was still barefoot, and hadn’t buttoned his shirt, which showed a tantalising strip of taut skin...
‘How are you boys feeling?’ It was easier to concentrate on them than this sudden rush of attraction.
They murmured that they were okay, one even venturing a smile. They’d be fine, now the fright wore off. But she’d feel better when a professional checked them.
Alex stopped before her. ‘Why don’t you dry off while we take care of the boys and rustle up a warm drink? Downstairs, second cabin on the left. There’s an en suite shower and I put out clean clothes you can wear till yours dry.’
Cat was about to refuse then thought better of it. George could put her ashore using the tender so she didn’t have to swim back. She’d feel better knowing she didn’t look like a drowned rat. Especially as her nipples were peaking insistently against her bra and she suspected her white T-shirt was transparent.
‘Thanks. I will.’ With a smile for George and the boys, she made her way downstairs.
The yacht was unlike any she’d seen. In her years as a bodyguard she’d been on massive, ultra-modern motor cruisers. Huge edifices several storeys high that housed not just a small boat, but a car and even a helipad. Those cruisers were built for socialising, for glamorous parties and sybaritic self-indulgence.
This yacht was nothing like that.
Cat passed through a wide cabin that was comfortable and stylish rather than look-at-me trendy, though no expense had been spared. Her hand slid down a polished teak rail as she followed the stairs into a roomy corridor. On either side were gleaming timber doors finished with brass touches. Everything was pristine yet the style belonged to an earlier, more gracious era.
She pushed open the second door and found an exquisite cabin, more wood on the walls, a deep plush carpet of dusk blue and a vast bed covered in crisp white and blue.
Wary of dripping onto the carpet, Cat moved quickly into the bathroom, where the luxury continued with marble and mirrors. It was hard to believe she was on a yacht, till she looked out the window and saw the sea and the shore bright in the early light.
Quickly she stripped and showered, tying back her hair with a band she found in the cupboard. There were clothes too. A brief black bikini and an oversized white shirt.
Cat frowned. But her shorts were sodden and she rejected the idea of putting on her wet T-shirt, knowing how it clung.
The bikini fitted surprisingly well and Cat felt a moment’s annoyance that Alex had calculated her size then raided his private store of women’s swimwear, no doubt kept especially for his lady friends.
Shoving her arms through the shirt sleeves, she rolled them up to her elbows, relieved at the way the oversized garment fell well down her thighs. Cat hadn’t missed the way Alex’s eyes had gleamed as he surveyed her.
In other circumstances she might have been interested. But not now, not here, not while she was in St Galla on the most challenging job of her life.
Not while she was impersonating her royal sister.
Cat shivered and she hugged her arms around herself, rubbing away prickling gooseflesh and grateful for the soft fabric of the shirt she sincerely hoped was George’s and not his boss’s.
She’d had a bad feeling about this contract from the first. But it was only when she was installed in an exquisite guest apartment a corridor away from Princess Amelie’s that Cat realised how completely she was out of her depth. They might share their father’s royal blood but that was all.
No one would believe she was Amelie, not for a second.
Worse was the awful ache-in-the-belly certainty that it had been a mistake returning to the country where she’d been so desperately unhappy. Or to have anything to do with her distant family. She’d never belonged to them and they’d brought her nothing but trouble.
Buttoning the shirt as high as it would go, she avoided the mirror and swivelled away, grabbing her sopping wet clothes.
She’d tell the Prime Minister she couldn’t go through with it. He could have his deposit back. She hadn’t spent a cent. He’d probably be grateful—the lady-in-waiting who’d been trying to tutor her in etiquette, deportment and the like had made it clear Cat wasn’t fit for the role.
It would be a relief to get out of this place where even the scent of the sea and the pines crowding the rocky slopes evoked painful memories.
Cat