His Thirty-Day Fiancée. Catherine MannЧитать онлайн книгу.
Medina monarchy had pretty much fallen off the map twenty-seven years ago after King Enrique Medina was deposed in a coup that left his wife dead. For decades rumors swirled that the old widower had walled up with his three sons in an Argentinean fortress. After a while, people stopped wondering about the Medinas at all. Until she’d felt the journalistic twitch to research an individual in the background of a photo she’d taken. That twitch had led to her news story which popped the top off a genie bottle. She’d exposed the secret lives of three now-grown princes who were hiding in plain sight in the United States.
But that hadn’t been enough. The paycheck on that story hadn’t come close to hauling her out of the financial difficulties life had thrust upon her.
Her window of opportunity to grab an up-close picture was shrinking. Already paparazzi from every corner of the globe were scrambling for a photo op now that news of her initial find leaked like water through a crumbling sandcastle.
Yet somehow, she’d beaten them all because Duarte Medina was really here. In the flesh. In front of her. And so much hotter in person. She swayed and couldn’t even blame it on vertigo.
He scooped her into his arms, apparently sporting real strength to go with those ninja workout clothes.
“You are turning to a block of ice.” His voice rumbled with the barest hint of an exotic accent, the bedroom sort of inflection perfect for voice-overs in commercials that would convince a woman to buy anything if he came with it. “You need to come in from the cold before you pass out.”
So he could call security to lock her up? Her angle with the earring cameras wasn’t great, but she hoped she’d snagged some workable shots while she jostled around in his arms.
“Uh, thanks for the save.” Should she call him Prince Duarte or Your Majesty?
Coming into this, she’d envisioned getting her photos on the sly and hadn’t thought to brush up on protocol when confronted with a prince in karate pajamas. A very hot, swarthy prince carrying her inside to his suite.
Now that she studied his face inches from hers, his ancestry was unmistakable. The Medina monarchy had originated on the small island of San Rinaldo off the coast of Spain. And in the charged moment she could see his bold Mediterranean heritage as clearly as his arrogance. With fog rolling along the rocky shore at his back through the open balcony doors, she could envision him reigning over his native land. In fact it was difficult to remember at all that he’d lived for so many years in the United States.
He set her on her feet again, her toes sinking for miles into the plush rug. The whole room spoke of understated wealth and power from the pristine white sofas, to the mahogany antique armoire, to a mammoth four-poster bed with posts as thick as tree trunks.
A bed? She tried to swallow. Her throat went dry.
Duarte smiled tightly, heavy lidded eyes assessing. “Ramon has really outdone himself this time.”
“Ramon?” Her editor’s name was Harold. “I’m not sure what you mean.” But she would play along if it meant staying put a few minutes more. To get her pictures, of course.
“The father of the groom has a reputation for supplying the best, uh—” his pulse beat slowly along his bronzed neck “—companionship to woo his business associates, but you surpass them all in originality.”
“Companionship?” Shock stunned her silent. He couldn’t be implying what she thought.
“I assume he paid you well, given the whole elaborate entrance.” His upper lip curled with a hint of disdain.
Paid companionship. Ah, hell. He thought she was a high-priced call girl. Or at least she hoped he thought high-priced. Well, she wasn’t going that far for her sister, but maybe she could scavenge another angle for the story by sticking around just a question or two longer.
Kate placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. No way was she touching his bared chest. “How many times has he so generously gifted you?”
His smoky dark eyes streamed over the tops of her breasts darn near spilling out of the wretched thrift-store dress. “I have never availed myself of—how shall we say? Paid services.”
A good journalist would ask. “Not even once?” Maybe she could inch just her pinky past his open neckline.
“Never.” His hard tone left no room for doubt.
She held back her sigh of relief and let herself savor the heat of his skin under her touch.
Her fingers curled. “Oh, uh…just oh.”
“I am a gentleman, after all. And as such, I can’t simply send you back onto the balcony. Stay while I make arrangements to slip you out.” His palm lay low on her waist. “Would you like a drink?”
Her stomach squeezed into an even tighter ball of anticipation. Why was she this hyped-up over an assignment? This was her job, one she was well-trained to do. Thoughts of her days as a photojournalist for news magazines bombarded her. Days when her assignments ranged from a Jerusalem pilgrimage to the aftermath of an earthquake in Indonesia.
Now, she worked for GlobalIntruder.com.
She stifled a hysterical laugh. God, what had she sunk to? And what choice did she have with a shrinking newspaper industry?
Sure, she was nervous, damn it. This photo was about more than staying in the media game. It was about finding enough cash fast to make sure her special-needs sister wasn’t booted out of her assisted-living facility next month. Jennifer had a grown-up’s body with a child’s mind. She needed protection and Kate was all she had left keeping her from becoming an adult ward of the state.
Too bad Kate was only a couple of rent payments away from bankruptcy court.
The prince’s hand slid up her spine, clasping the back of her neck. Her traitorous body tingled.
She needed a moment to regroup—away from this guy’s surprising allure—if she hoped to get the information she needed. “Is there a powder room nearby where I can freshen up while you pour the drinks? When I leave your suite, I shouldn’t look like I climbed around outside the balcony.”
“I’ll show you the way.”
Not what she had in mind. But she’d kept her cool during a mortar attack before. She could handle this. “Just point, please. I’ve got good internal navigational skills.”
“I imagine you’re good at a great many things.” His breath heated over her neck as he dipped his head closer to speak. “I may have never had use for offers such as yours before, but I have to confess, there is something captivating about you.”
Oh, boy.
His warm breath grazed her exposed shoulder, his lips so close to touching her skin without closing that final whisper for connection. Her breasts beaded against the already snug bodice of her gown. She pushed her heels deeper into the carpet to keep her balance. Her anklet rubbed against her other leg. Her good-luck charm from Jennifer. Remember her sister.
“About that bathroom?” Frantically, she looked around the bedroom suite with too many tall, paneled doors, all closed.
“Right over here.” His words heated over her neck, raising goose bumps along her arms.
“Uh, but…” Was that breathy gasp hers? “I prefer to go solo.”
“We wouldn’t want you to get lost on your way.” He stopped just at her earlobe as if to share a secret.
Had he touched her? His breath against her skin left her light-headed. He cupped the other side of her head. Hunger gnawed deep within her as she ached to lean into his cradling touch.
Then he backed away, his hand teasing a tempting trail and his black workout clothes rustling a lethal whisper. “Just through that door, Ms. Kate Harper.”
Duarte gestured right, both of her earrings dangling from between his fingers.
Duarte