One Night with Prince Charming (3 page)

“Once I had your real name, a little internet search revealed a good deal of information,” Pia elaborated, dashing his hopes that she'd been referring to herself when she'd called him irresistible.

Hawk had no doubt as to what an internet search had revealed. He mentally winced at the thought of the news reports and gossip that must have come up about his younger, more spirited days. The women…the carousing…

“You know, I suppose I should have been wary three years ago when my Google search on James Fielding turned up nothing in particular, but then I supposed
Fielding
was such a common name…”

He quirked his lips. “My ancestors are no doubt rolling in their graves at being labeled
common.
”

“Oh, yes, pardon me,
Your Grace,
” Pia returned bitingly. “You can rest assured that I'm no longer ignorant of the protocol due to your rank.”

Damn protocol to hell, he wanted to respond. It was one of the reasons he'd preferred flying under the radar as plain James Fielding. Except these days, of course, having succeeded to the ducal title, he could no longer afford such a luxury. Then, too, he was all too cognizant of his responsibilities.

The irony wasn't lost on him that having succeeded to the title of Duke of Hawkshire, he'd gained all manner of wealth—and responsibilities—that most men coveted, but had
lost the things he craved most: anonymity, a certain freedom and being valued for himself.

“Tell me about your wedding business,” he said abruptly, turning the conversation back in the direction he wanted. “Three years ago, I recall you were still working at a large event planning firm and had big dreams of setting out on your own.”

Pia looked guarded and then defiant. “I did manage to start my own business, as you can tell. It was shortly after your abrupt disappearance, in fact.”

“Are you saying you have me to thank?” Hawk asked with exaggerated aristocratic hauteur and faint mockery.

Pia's hand curled at her side. “
Thanks,
I think, would be going too far. But I believe it was your abrupt exit that provided me with the impetus to strike out on my own. After all, there's nothing like a momentary disappointment to fuel the drive to succeed in another area of life.”

Hawk gave a weak imitation of a smile. He very much regretted his actions in the past, but he wondered what she'd say if she knew the extent of his responsibilities, ducal and otherwise, these days.

“You were very creative with the décor at Belinda's wedding,” he said, ignoring her jab in an effort to be more conciliatory. “The gold and lime-green color scheme was certainly unusual.”

At Pia's look of momentary surprise, he added, “You needn't look so taken aback that I noticed the detail. After savoring baba ghanoush, I believe contemplating the scenery became a much more engaging pastime.”

He had let himself study the décor because he had been curious about any detail that would reveal anything about
her
—and it had beat deflecting curious looks and probing questions from the other wedding guests.

“I'm glad my excellent aim had at least one beneficial consequence,” Pia responded dryly.

“Ah, I assume the consequences to your wedding business weren't so satisfactory?” he probed, taking advantage of his opening.

Pia's expression turned defensive, but not before Hawk saw the fleeting distress there.

“What sort of wedding would you have for yourself, Pia?” Hawk asked, his voice suddenly low and inviting. “Surely you must have envisioned it many times.”

He knew he was playing with fire, but he didn't care.

“I'm in the wedding business,” Pia responded frostily. “Not the romance business.”

Their eyes held for moments…until a voice called out Pia's name.

He and Pia turned at the same time to look back in the direction of the house, where Tamara was descending the terrace steps.

“Pia,” Tamara announced, coming toward them across the lawn. “I've been looking for you everywhere.”

“I was just walking over to the pavilion,” Pia responded. “I wanted to see what can be done with it.”

Hawk watched as Tamara glanced curiously from Pia to him and back.

“Well, I'm glad I found you,” Tamara said, and then hooked her arm through Pia's.

Tamara spared Hawk a cursory look. “You don't mind if I commandeer Pia, do you, Hawk…I mean, Your Grace?” And then not waiting for an answer, she turned Pia toward the pavilion. “I thought not.”

Hawk's lips quirked. Tamara wasn't one to stand on ceremony. Though she was the daughter of a British viscount, she'd been raised mostly in the United States and had the decidedly democratic tendencies of the bohemian jewelry designer she was.

She'd also obviously sailed in like a mother hen to rescue Pia.

“Not at all,” Hawk murmured to Tamara's retreating back.

He watched the two women cross the lawn.

When Pia turned back briefly to glance at him, he returned her gaze solemnly.

He'd gleaned a lot from their conversation. He'd guessed correctly—as evidenced by her momentary distress just now—that Pia's wedding business needed help in the wake of Belinda's wedding. The fact that Pia's firm had managed to survive for more than two years said something, however.

Pia obviously had talent, and she'd nurtured it since their one night together.

With that thought, as he turned back to the house, Hawk realized that a conversation with his sister, a prospective bride, was in order.

A
s she and Tamara walked toward the pavilion, Pia noticed her friend glance at her.

“I hope I wasn't interrupting anything,” Tamara remarked, and then paused at Pia's continued silence. “On second thought, perhaps I hope I did.”

As Tamara suddenly stopped to speak with one of the staff who hailed her, Pia stood nearby and soon found herself lost in thought about the night that she and Hawk had first met.

 

The beat of the music could be felt in the bar stools, on the tables and along the walls. In fact, everything vibrated. It was loud and packed, bodies brushing past each other in the confines of the tavern.

A bar wasn't her preferred scene, Pia thought, but she'd come here with a coworker from the event-planning business she worked for in order to rub shoulders with bright young things and their beaus.

People who liked a party—and needed event organizers—
usually attended parties prodigiously. And it had almost been a job directive from her boss to be social after work hours, making connections and trying to bring in business.

Except Pia's interest wasn't in anniversary parties or coming-of-age celebrations.

Instead, she liked weddings.

Someday, she promised herself, her dream of having her own wedding planning business would become a reality.

In the meantime, she shouldered her way past other patrons and reached the bar. But at her height, she could barely see above those sitting at the bar stools, let alone signal the bartender.

A man next to her gestured to the bartender and called out an order for a martini.

She glanced up at him and, a second later, sucked in a breath as he looked down at her with an easygoing grin.

“Drink?” he offered.

He was one of the most attractive men she'd ever seen. He was tall, certainly over six feet, his sandy hair slightly tousled, and his hazel eyes, flecked with interesting bits of gold and green, dancing. His nose was less than perfect—had it been broken once?—but that added to his magnetism. His grin revealed a dimple to the right of his mouth.

Most importantly, he was looking at
her
with warm, lazy interest.

He was the closest thing to her fantasy man as she'd ever seen—not that she'd ever admit to anyone that, at twenty-four, she'd had a fantasy lover and no other kind.

Pia parted her lips—
please, please let me sound sophisticated.
“Cosmopolitan, thank you.”

He gave the briefest nod of acknowledgment, and then looked away to signal the bartender and order her drink. Within seconds, he effortlessly accomplished what to her had been blocked by multiple obstacles.

When he looked back at her, he was smiling again.

“Are you?” he asked, his low and smooth voice inviting intimacy.

She stalled. “Am I…?”

His eyes crinkled. “Are you a Cosmo girl?”

She pretended to consider the question for a moment. “It depends. Are you a pickup artist?”

He laughed, his expression saying he was respectful of her parry even as his interest sharpened. “I don't suppose you'd give a hint as to what the right answer is supposed to be?”

Pia played along. “Do you need a hint? Doesn't charm get you the answer you want?”

His accent wasn't easy to pinpoint—he appeared to be from here, there and anywhere—but she thought she detected a faint British enunciation.

“Hmm, it depends,” he mused, rubbing his chin and showing his dimple again. “Are you here with anyone?”

She knew he meant a man—a date. “I'm here with a coworker, but I seem to have lost track of Cornelia in the crowd.”

He looked momentarily intent and seductive beneath his easygoing veneer, but then his casual appeal took over again. “Great, then I can be as charming as I'm able. Let's start with names. No woman as lovely and enchanting as you can be called anything but—?”

He quirked a brow.

She couldn't help smiling. “Pia Lumley.”

“Pia,” he repeated.

The sound of her name falling from his chiseled lips sent shivers chasing over her skin. He'd called her
lovely
and
enchanting.
Her fantasy man had a voice, and it was dreamy.

“James Fielding,” he volunteered.

Just then, the bartender leaned in their direction and slid two drinks across the bar between seated patrons.

James handed the cosmopolitan to her, and then picked up his martini.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.

She took a small sip of her drink. It was stronger than her usual party libation—a light beer or a fruity beach drink was more her style—but then again, she'd wanted to appear sophisticated.

She suspected that James was used to chic women. And she'd grown used to projecting a polished and stylish image when trying to drum up business for work. Potential clients expected it—people didn't want an inexperienced girl from small-town Pennsylvania running their six-figure party.

After sipping from his drink, James nodded at a couple departing from a corner table near them. “Would you like to sit?”

“Thank you,” she said, and then turned and slid into a padded booth seat.

As she watched James sit down to her left, a little thrill went through her. So he meant to continue their conversation and further their acquaintance? She was happy she'd held his interest.

She hadn't had many men hit on her. She didn't think she was bad-looking, but she was short and more understated than bold, and therefore easily overlooked. She was cute, rather than one to inspire lust or overwhelming passion.

He looked at her with a smile hovering at his lips. “Are you new to New York?”

“It depends on what you mean by new,” she replied. “I've been here a couple of years.”

“And you were transported here from a fairy tale called—?”

She laughed. “Cinderella, of course. I'm a blonde.”

His smile widened. “Of course.”

He rested an arm along the back of the booth seat and reached out to finger a tendril of her hair.

She drew in a breath—hard.

“And a beautiful shade of blond, it is,” he murmured. “It's gold spun with wheat and sunshine.”

She looked into his eyes. She could, she thought, spend hours studying the fascinating mix of hues there.

James cocked his head, his eyes crinkling. “Okay, Pia,” he continued in his smooth, deep voice, “Broadway, Wall Street, fashion, advertising or
The Devil Wears Prada?
”

“None of the above?”

His eyebrows rose. “I've never struck out before.”

“Never?” she asked with feigned astonishment. “I'm sorry I ruined your track record.”

“Never mind. I trust your discretion will spare my reputation.”

They were flirting—or rather
he
was flirting with
her—
and she was, amazingly, holding her own.

It was all exhilarating. She'd never had a man flirt with her this way, and certainly no one of James's caliber.

In fact, though, she wasn't an actress, a banker, a model, or in advertising or publishing. “I'm an event planner,” she said. “I organize parties.”

“Ah.” His eyes gleamed. “A party girl. Splendid.”

There were party girls and then there were
party girls,
she wanted to say, but she didn't correct him.

“What about you?” she asked instead. “What are you doing here in New York?”

He straightened, dropping his arm from the back of the seat. “I'm just an ordinary Joe with a boring finance job, I'm afraid.”

“There's nothing ordinary about you,” she blurted, and then clamped her mouth shut.

He smiled again, his dimple appearing. “I'm flattered you think so.”

She lifted her drink for another sip because he and his
smile—and, yes, that dimple—were doing funny things to her insides.

He was studying her, and she tried to remain casual, though he sat mere inches away.

She was very aware of his muscular thigh encased in beige pants on the seat beside her. He wore no tie, and the strong, corded lines of his neck stood in relief against the open collar of his light blue shirt.

He nodded, his eyes fixed at a spot near her collarbone. “That's an interesting necklace you're wearing.”

She glanced down, though she knew what he'd be seeing. She wore a sterling silver necklace with a flying fish pendant. In deference to the July heat, she'd worn a sleeveless turquoise blue sheath dress. The pendant was one of her usual accessories.

She'd come directly to the bar from work, and she figured he'd done the same from the way he was dressed. Though he wasn't wearing a suit, his attire qualified as business casual. Work dress code was more relaxed in the summer in the city, especially on a dress-down Friday.

She flushed now, however, at the thought that between the color of her dress and the symbol on her pendant, she resembled nothing so much as a pond with a solitary fish swimming in it.

Drat.
Why hadn't she thought of that when she'd dressed this morning?

But James's face held no hint of amusement at her expense—just simple curiosity.

She fingered her pendant. “The necklace was a gift from my friend Tamara, who is a wonderful jewelry designer here in the city. I like to fish.”

“A woman after my own heart then.”

Pia checked her surprise. Of course, he would be interested in fishing. He was her fantasy man—how could he not be?

“Do you fish?” she asked unnecessarily.

“Since I was three or four,” he said solemnly. “What kind of fishing do you do?”

She laughed with a tinge of self-consciousness. “Oh, anything. Bass, trout… There are plenty of lakes where I grew up in western Pennsylvania. My father and grandfather taught me how to bait and cast a line—as well as ride a horse and, uh, m-milk a cow.”

She couldn't believe she'd admitted to milking cows. How would he ever think of her as an urban sophisticate now? She ought to have quit while she was ahead.

James looked nothing but fascinated, however. “Horseback riding—even better. I've been riding since I could walk.” His eyes glinted. “I can't say the same about milking cows, on the other hand.”

She flushed.

“But I sheered a few sheep during a stay at an Australian sheep station.”

Pia felt her lips twitch. “Well, then, you've bested me. I concede.”

“Good of you,” he deadpanned. “I knew sheep would win out.”

“I've done some fly-fishing,” she asserted.

He smiled. “Point to you. There are not many women who are willing to stand around in muck all day, wearing waders and waiting to get a bite.” His smile broadened into a grin. “As petite as you are, I imagine you couldn't wade in very far.”

She struck a look of mock offense. “I'll have you know I stood as still as a chameleon on a branch.”

“Then I'd have been tempted to drop a frog down the back of your waders,” he teased.

“Oh, you would! Don't tell me you have sisters whom you tormented.”

“No such luck,” he mourned. “I have one sister, but she's
several years younger than I am, and my mother wouldn't have looked well on any pranks.”

“I wouldn't have expected she would,” she said with mock indignation. “And if you'd attempted to foist a frog on me, I'd have—”

“Yes?”

He was enjoying this.

“I'd have thrown you for a loop!”

“Don't fairy-tale heroines need to get to know a few frogs?” he asked innocently.

“I believe the expression is
kiss a few frogs,
” she replied. “And, no, the requirements have been updated for the twenty-first century. And anyway, I'd know when I kissed a frog.”

“Mmm…do you want to put it to the test?”

“I—I—”

What a time for her stammer to make another appearance.

Not waiting for a clearer sign of encouragement, he leaned in, and as her eyelids lowered, gently pressed his lips to her. She felt the momentary zing of electricity, and her lips parted on an indrawn breath. And then his mouth moved over hers, tasting and sampling, giving and receiving.

His lips were soft, and she tasted the faint lingering flavor of his drink as they kissed. The crowd around them receded as she focused on every warm stroke of his mouth against hers.

Just as their kiss threatened to become more heated, he drew back, his expression thoughtful and bemused. “There, how was that?”

She searched his eyes. “Y-you are in no way related to Kermit the Frog.”

He grinned. “How about my fishing? Am I reeling you in?”

“A-am I on the hook or are you?”

“James.”

The moment was interrupted as he was hailed by someone and turned in the direction of a man coming toward them.

Pia straightened and sat back in her seat, belatedly realizing with some embarrassment that she was still leaning forward.

“The CEO of MetaSky Investments is here, James,” the man announced, sparing her a cursory look. “I'll introduce you.”

Pia judged the man to be a contemporary of James's. Perhaps he was a friend or a business colleague.

At the same time, she sensed James hesitate beside her. She could tell that whoever this CEO was, it would be valuable for James to meet him. After all, he was important enough for a friend to have sought James out in the crowded bar.

James turned toward her. “Will you—”

“There you are, Pia! I've been searching for you.”

Cornelia materialized out of the crowd.

Pia pasted a bright smile on her face as she glanced at James. “As you can see, you no longer need to worry about leaving me alone.”

James nodded. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Pia tamed her disappointment as James rose to depart. She noticed that he didn't say he'd be back. And she knew better than to expect that he would return. She understood—sort of—that these flirtations in bars were fleeting and transient.