The Princess And The Cowboy. Martha ShieldsЧитать онлайн книгу.
sweetheart. You too hot?” he asked.
Josie gave in to the need to giggle, something Joséphene would’ve suppressed. If only he knew how hot—and why. “I’m…fine.”
He gave her a puzzled look, then started to slide down to the narrow sliver of floor below him. As the sheet began to slide off his hips, however, he stopped. “Maybe you’d better use the bathroom first.”
She would much rather have enjoyed the show, but since he didn’t seem inclined to give her one, she realized she was in dire need of facilities. That there were any nearby surprised her. “There’s a bathroom in here?”
He pointed to the wall behind her. “You’ll have to fold up your bunk so you can open the door. I don’t have the water hooked up for a shower yet. It was late when we pulled in. But there should be enough in the tanks to flush a few times.”
Josie placed her feet on the floor and took a moment to stretch. “Where are we? Lake Tahoe?”
He rubbed a hand over his morning beard. “Yep.”
With a nod acknowledging the information, she stood and turned to fold the bed. She stared at it for a moment, then pulled the top sheet back—he hadn’t bothered with a bottom one. Uncovered, the hinges were obvious. After a minute of bending and stretching, she’d reconfigured the bed into a small couch.
Satisfied with her job, she straightened and turned to smile at Buck. The look she caught on his face trapped the air in her lungs. His eyes were like the hot blue centers of twin flames, and they were burning into her bottom.
She suddenly realized the view she’d given him, bent over in the tight jeans. He would have been able to see every curve of her form.
A shiver ran through her—part excitement, part fear.
He wanted her.
A few men had told her they wanted her, but she hadn’t really believed them. Perhaps because none had looked at her like this. They couldn’t separate the woman from the princess. She could see it in their eyes.
Buck’s own eyes rose slowly to hers, losing none of their heat during the languorous journey.
Mesmerized, Josie stared straight into the face of desire. His need inflamed her own, which excited her and frightened her even more.
“Josie, sweetheart?” he asked in a deeper, huskier voice than she remembered him having.
“Yes?” The word was hesitant, breathless.
“Either go into the bathroom, or climb up here and let’s get on with what we’re both wanting to do.”
Josie didn’t follow either suggestion. The fire burning through her veins had welded her feet to the floor.
She wanted to climb up next to him more than she wanted to see Montclaire again—ever. She wanted to run her hands over the relief map of his chest, to dig her fingers into the thick mane of dark brown hair, to press her mouth to his well-defined lips.
Then she remembered. She could. In fact, she should.
She took one hesitant step toward him. “We are married.”
She didn’t think his gaze could heat up any more, but he proved her wrong. The closer she went, the hotter his gaze grew. Finally she stood at the base of the chest-high bed, feeling as if she were burning alive.
One strong hand gently pushed back a lock of the hair that she vaguely realized was falling in wisps around her face. He glanced somewhere over her shoulder, closed his eyes as if in pain, then cussed and drew back his hand.
“We can’t,” he groaned.
“Oh. I…” Her face flaming from her rejected brazenness, Josie spun away.
Buck grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”
Too embarrassed even to face him, she waved somewhere in the direction of the bathroom.
“Look at me.”
She couldn’t.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
She turned slowly until his fingers caught her chin and forced her to look at him. “If we make love now, I won’t want to stop. Probably for days. It’s already noon and—I’m extremely sorry to say—we’ve got to attend a party tonight. We’ve got to stop somewhere along the way and get you a dress to wear. As lovely as that outfit is, it isn’t appropriate for the party.”
Panic raced through her. “Party?”
“Yeah. My mother conned me into it.”
Josie relaxed, picturing a kindly older woman, as oblivious of Montclaire’s existence as her son. “But I don’t have money for a dress.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re my wife now. I’ll buy whatever you need.”
She shook her head and dug into her jeans pocket. “I can’t allow you to do that. We’re only going to be married a few months.” She held out a pair of earrings. “I have these to sell. They’re probably worth several thousand dollars.”
Certain they were fake, Buck barely glanced at the earrings she dropped into his hand. She was so cute, thinking her costume jewelry was worth thousands of dollars. He decided not to burst her bubble. He would tell her he pawned them, then give her the money she expected.
“Can we stop at a place where I can sell them?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Let me take care of it.”
She sighed. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve helped me so—”
“Hush now.” Bending, he slid a finger under her chin and lifted her mouth to his. “One kiss, sweetheart. Then go.”
Chapter Three
“A princess!”
Buck snatched the newspaper from the counter of the gas station where he was getting the truck filled.
No. This couldn’t be true.
But the woman in the photo, staring stony-eyed back at him, looked exactly like Josie. Her hair was twisted up in a much more elaborate do than the one she’d taken down before they drove into Carson City, and instead of a Resistol, she was wearing a tiara.
A damned tiara.
The caption beneath the photo claimed this was Princess Joséphene Francoeur of Montclaire.
Joséphene. Josie. Josephine, she’d spelled for the court clerk last night. No coincidence. His wife was a princess. A real, honest-to-God, crown-wearing, kiss-her-hand princess.
“Princess Joséphene Missing; Feared Kidnapped,” the headline screamed.
Buck scanned the article that told how she’d attended an American friend’s wedding at the Porter ranch outside Auburn, California. The horse she’d evidently slipped away on had returned to the stable, riderless. The article went on to speculate about rumors that had been flying through the press about her imminent wedding to Alphonse Picquet, one of the richest men in Europe. By press time no one had an explanation for her disappearance, but the police were not ruling out foul play.
Foul play. Buck barked out a mirthless laugh. The only foul play had been committed by the princess herself—by conning him into marrying her.
Princess.
He threw the paper down as if it had suddenly been smeared with an offensive substance.
What the hell did she think she was doing? And why the hell had she chosen him as her scapegoat?
His eyes narrowed. Did his mother have something to do with this?
He shook his head. As much as Alicia Buchanan wished she hobnobbed with royalty, he knew damned well she didn’t.
She