Lessons in Seduction (14 page)

S
omething was off.

Danni had been coordinating the biannual press briefings since the start of the process of bringing a Grand Prix to San Philippe. The feel in the room today was different. And it wasn't just her and her confusion over her feelings for Adam and her sorrow over what could never be.

The last official press release two weeks ago, back when her life had been normal, had contained promising developments. But not promising enough to justify the crowd in the small room that usually had more empty chairs than full ones.

She caught an enquiring glance from Michael Lucas, the head of San Philippe motorsport, and gave a small shrug. As well as the usual motor racing commentators, and representatives from tourism, who expected
a Grand Prix to have a major influence on visitor numbers, there were reporters and journalists she didn't recognize. There was also a new sense of energy and excitement in the room.

As she stood to the side of the stage, she reviewed her notes again, including the emails that had come in last night and this morning. Nothing surprising there. She could only be glad that, after a drop-off in interest over the last few months while proceedings slowed down in talks about safety and scheduling and disruption to residents, awareness appeared to be picking up again nicely.

She tried to keep her thoughts on task, tried not to think about Adam, who she had missed so desperately in her bed this last week. She'd ached for his presence, his scent, the weight of his body next to hers. Missed the way he made love to her.

The first thing she'd done at work the Monday after her ski weekend was to make arrangements to move forward her trips to other Grand Prix host countries. She was getting out of San Philippe. It was the only way.

The sound of Michael clearing his throat recalled her attention. The panel, including drivers, and manufacturers' representatives were all ready. Michael looked for her nod then began the conference with the latest updates, then opened the floor to questions.

He took a couple of questions about the race course then chose one of the journalists Danni didn't recognize to ask her question. Danni could see the woman's press accreditation but from this distance couldn't tell which publication she was with. But if interest in the
Grand Prix was spreading to mainstream media she could only be glad.

“I have a question for Ms. St. Claire.”

All heads turned toward her. Danni hid her surprise, but suddenly she wasn't quite so glad. As she reached for the microphone the end panelist held out for her, she had a very bad feeling.

“Is it true that you're romantically involved with Prince Adam?”

Danni clamped shut the jaw that wanted to fall open. Not interest in a Grand Prix. Interest in a grand prize. A grand prince. Gossip about her and Adam.

She'd really thought they'd got away with it, a weekend of anonymity. But it had been naive to hope they might evade speculation and that their time together would be something she could treasure and keep to herself. Just one weekend. Did Adam not deserve that? Whether or not he deserved it, he wasn't going to get it.

Interest in the room picked up palpably. Journalists, presumably the ones who hadn't known already, sat up straighter. Initial surprise and disbelief turned quickly to curiosity. Danni glanced at Michael, who was frowning but whose head was tilted inquiringly, waiting for her to deny the accusation. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked back at the reporter. “That's not something we're here to talk about,” she said with a brittle smile. She signaled for Michael to take the next question. They needed to divert the reporters' interest. A distraction like this one was the last thing she wanted.

But the journalist wasn't about to let it go at that. “How would you characterize your relationship with
the prince?” She called out her question, not waiting to be asked.

Danni paused, needing to shut this down and move on. She was about to issue a categorical denial—after all what she and Adam had was over, it had to be—when she looked up and saw a solid, dark-suited man standing at the back of the room. Wrightson, one of the palace drivers. What was he doing here? He gave his close-cropped head the smallest of shakes.

No? No, what? Don't deny it? Do deny it?

Danni took a deep breath and looked back at the woman. “How would I characterize my relationship with the prince? To you, very carefully. And that's all I have to say on the subject.”

A murmur of laughter spread through the room. The motorsport journalists were no more pleased about the presence of tabloid reporters than she had been. Imposters in their ranks. Though undoubtedly many if not all of them were scenting new angles for their stories, angles that might sell more papers or subscriptions or ad space on websites. They might not all like it but they knew what paid their wages. She just had to keep the focus where she wanted it. “Now let's move on. Robert?” Robert Dubrawski, a newscaster with a background in finance, would be wanting information on the economic impact of a Grand Prix.

Through a mix of firmness and humor, she kept the rest of the briefing relatively on track. And when the allotted time was up, she took a back exit from the room and into the side streets walking quickly, wanting to put distance between her and impending disaster.

She knew a quiet little restaurant in the old part of the city. She could get a corner table and figure out
what was happening and what she needed to do about it. She was hurrying toward the restaurant when a sleek dark Jaguar pulled alongside her, slowing to a stop.

The window slid down to reveal Wrightson behind the wheel. “Prince Adam wondered if you could spare some time to meet with him?”

Only if Prince Adam could wind back time itself and stop this from happening. She was about to refuse when she heard her name called out. The reporter from the briefing and a photographer were running up the street toward her.

Danni hopped into the car.

The breaking of their story changed everything.

They had to come up with a joint strategy, an excuse for why they'd been seen together. And doubtless, if they needed it, Adam would have the very best PR advisers at his service.

She switched on her phone, found a message from Adam asking her to call him and another more recent message from the receptionist at work advising her not to come back after the briefing because photographers were swarming the building.

Danni didn't speak as the car rumbled over the cobbled streets, crossed an arching bridge and headed sedately for the palace. She did her best to tamp down the anticipation that seeing Adam inevitably stirred. Fifteen minutes later they drew up outside Adam's wing. Before the car had quite come to a stop, Danni opened her door and got out. As she looked around, unsure of what to do, the door to Adam's wing opened and he strode out.

And despite all her resolutions, her determination that everything had to be over between them and her
annoyance that what should have been private had been made public, her heart leaped at the sight of him. So confident, so intense. The concern in his eyes for her.

He strode toward her and caught her shoulders. “You're okay?”

She nodded.

“I'm sorry about the press.” Regret and anger tinged his voice. If the press had wind of their story, there were only two ways it could go. They'd revile her for stopping him from finding a suitable woman or they'd expect him to confirm it was serious with Danni.

He wouldn't accept either of those outcomes. He understood his duty.

“It's not your fault.”

He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Actually it is. It's because of me they're interested in you. I never wanted them to get to you.” Along with the regret and anger she recognized resignation in his voice, his eyes.

He knew, finally, that what they'd shared had to be over.

Even with all her attempts to convince him of that simple truth, his acceptance of it opened up an emptiness inside her that filled with a great welling sorrow.

“As soon as my secretary told me there were pictures, I tried to get word to you. Your phone was off.”

“I'd put it to voice mail.”

“I know. So I sent Wrightson. I would have gone myself but…”

“Fuel to the fire. I get it. Thanks for trying though.”

“I'd have stopped it if I could.”

“I know. But you can't and so we need a strategy. Is it too late to say there was never anything between us?”

“They have photos of us skiing and photos of us
leaving the palace grounds together. The skiing ones have only just come to light. But combined with the others…”

“Can they be explained any other way?”

He lifted a shoulder. “They could be.”

“Then let's—”

“It's best to be honest.” He brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “At first you were labeled a mystery woman. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, it didn't take them long to figure out who you were.”

“No. It wouldn't have.” She thought of the reporters' tenacious questions.

“I heard you handled the press well.”

“I managed. I think. The questions caught me by surprise. I was about to deny any relationship when Wrightson shook his head.”

“Like I said, it's best to stick to the truth. It always comes out eventually.”

“If we have to stick to the truth,” she said, “we tell them we had a weekend together but that it was a mistake.”

“I don't make mistakes. And you definitely weren't one.”

“Then we tell them that it…didn't work out.”

“Seemed to me that it worked pretty well.”

“It did.” For that one isolated weekend.

“So have you come up with a way to handle the publicity?”

“I've spoken to the palace advisers.”

“And?”

“I also spoke to my father and to Rafe.”

“Oh.” Of course it was inevitable that his father and brother would find out and have an opinion. She
shouldn't be surprised or dismayed. “What did they say?” She held up her hand. “No, wait. Don't tell me. I know what they said.” Adam had needed to hear their views, but she didn't. It was surely them who'd finally convinced Adam that there could be no relationship with her. She should be grateful for that. “What's the strategy.”

“As unoriginal as it is, ‘No comment' seems to be the preferred strategy. That combined with no further contact between us. When there's no fuel, the fire soon dies out.”

His gaze searched her face and he shook his head. “I've missed you.” He pulled her to him. Acting on pure conditioned response, she rose up for his kiss and welcomed the touch of his lips to hers.

How could this be over when he kissed her like that?

How could she walk away from him?

His kiss, as always, sent sensations spiraling through her, weakening her legs, trampling over rational thought. That was why she was having such trouble walking away from him, she thought with a half laugh—weak legs.

She'd been too long without him.

He was her addiction.

As her hands, of their own volition, slipped around his waist, he pulled her closer still. Enveloped her in his warmth. Warmth that turned rapidly to heat.

Once more, a voice whispered.

Once more before it was over.

“Can you do one thing for me?” she asked.

“I'd do anything for you.”

“Make love to me once more.” She would take this and then nothing more.

He pulled back. She read the hesitation in his eyes and then his capitulation. He caught her hand in his again and strode wordlessly for the palace. He hurried up to the second level, past the library and along a hallway hung with portraits. The next door they passed through led into a bedroom. Unmistakably masculine.

Her gaze took in the room. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he had a big bed. There'd be room to turn cartwheels across it. Or make love lying any which way across it. She could turn cartwheels but she'd much rather make love.

A lock clicked into place as Adam pushed the door shut behind him. For one long delirious second they looked at each other. Awareness and unbearable hunger hummed in the air between them. Then he tugged on the hand he still held and she went to him. With no thought of talking she reached for him, undoing buttons and belts and zips, finding her way inside his clothes, needing skin on skin contact, the male heat of him, her addiction needing to be fed. One last fix. This close she could breathe in the intoxicating scent that was his alone. The one that called every cell in her body to attention. And the touch of him, the warmth that spread through her, were enough to reassure her that satisfaction was close at hand. Her craving would be satisfied.

Her only consolation for her senseless weakness for him was that he seemed as desperate as she was—lost to the haze of desire. Tugging and pulling at her clothes, with none of his legendary finesse. He eased her back onto his bed and lay down over her.

All the world narrowed to this one moment, this one man. All her thoughts, every sensation was centered on him and what he gave her.

He rose up, his broad shoulders and corded neck straining. Ready for him, needing him, she arched against him. He accepted her body's plea and in one long stroke drove in deep and fast, filling her so that her “yes” came out as a low satisfied moan, mingling with a similar inarticulate sound from him.

So good.

He felt so good. So right. So perfect.

And then he was moving within her, slowly at first but she didn't want slow and he responded to her needs, driving in harder and deeper and she reached for his hips, clasping the bunching muscles, moving with his rhythm, pulling him still harder and deeper, her legs around his back. Because she needed this. She needed him.

They strove together, swirling into the same vortex of wanting, racing for a release that demanded completion. Sensation, like licks of fire, swept through her, curling her toes, setting her aflame for this, for him, carrying them to that other mindless place till sensation couldn't be contained and the power of it surged through them as it crested and shattered.