To Dance with a Prince (11 page)

He'd liked having her here in his very private space. He'd liked watching the movie with her and how she had not tried to hide the fact she was awed that a president had sat in her chair. He liked how she had acknowledged Bernard who had brought their popcorn and drinks, not treated him as if he was invisible, the way Tiffany always had.

And damn it, he'd liked that movie.

Silly piece of fluff that it was, it was somehow about people finding the courage to be what they were meant to be, to bring themselves to the world, to overcome the strictures of their assigned roles and embrace what was real for them.

And, finally, he had loved how she had come into his space, and how between cream puffs and his genuine interest and concern for her she had become so open. And liked what the afternoon told him about her.

Above all things, Meredith was courageous.

A hardscrabble upbringing, too many losses for one so young, and yet he saw no self-pity in her. She was taking the challenges life had given her and turning them into her greatest assets. She had a quiet bravery to get on with her life.

That's what she was asking of him. To bring his
courage to the dance floor. To dance without barriers, without a mask, and without a safety net.

She was asking him to be who he had been, ever so briefly, when they had chased each other through the mud.

Wholly alive. Completely, unselfconsciously himself.

No guards. No barriers.

And she was asking him to be who he had been just now: deep and compassionate.

Really, what she was asking of him would require more courage than just about anything he had ever done. At the hot springs he had shown that unguarded self to her. And again today there had been something so open and unprotected about their interaction after the movie.

Prince Kiernan felt as if he stood on the very edge of a cliff. Did he take a leap of faith, trusting if he jumped something—or someone—would catch him? Or did he turn away?

“For her sake,” he said to himself, “You turn away.”

But he didn't know if he was powerful enough to do that. He knew he wanted these last days with her before it was over.

So he could have moments and memories, a secret, something sacredly private in his life, to savor when she was gone.

“F
ROM THE TOP,”
Meredith said. Today's dancing session, she knew, was going no better than yesterday's. The movie had changed nothing.

No, that was not true.

It had changed everything.

It had changed her. Maybe not the movie, exactly, but what had happened after.

When Kiernan had held her in her arms, it had felt as if everything she had been fighting for since the death of her mother and baby—independence, strength, self-reliance—it had felt as if those things were melting.

As if some terrible truth had unfolded.

All those qualities that she had striven toward were just distractions from the real truth. And the truth was she was so terribly alone in this world.

And for a moment, for an exquisite, tender moment in the arms of her country's most powerful man, she had not felt that. Sitting beside him on the balcony of his exquisite apartment, surveying all his kingdom, pouring out her heart, telling her secrets, she had not felt that.

For the first time in forever, Meredith had not felt alone.

And it was the most addictive sensation she had ever
felt. She wanted to feel it again. She wanted to never let go of it.

Worse, she had a tormented sense that, though Kiernan walked with kings and presidents, she had seen what was most
real
about him. It was the laughter at the hot springs, it was his confidence in his horse, it was the tenderness in his eyes as he had listened to her yesterday.

And she had to guard against the feeling that he caused in her.

Because just like the wealthy heiress and the dance instructor in the movie, their worlds were so far apart. But unlike the movie, which was pure escapist fantasy after all, they could never be joined. And the sooner she accepted the absoluteness of that the better.

This morning she felt only embarrassed that she had revealed herself so totally to him. Talked, not just about Michael and Carly, which was bad enough, but about her childhood, growing up with a single mom in Wentworth, and then repeating her family's history by becoming one herself.

She'd told him about ballet, and her mother's hope and losing the scholarship when she became pregnant. She'd told him about those desperate days after Carly was born, her mother being there for her, despite her disappointments, Millie loving the baby, but never quite forgiving her daughter.

She told him about the insurance settlement after the tragedy that allowed her to own her own dance studio and form No Princes, and how guilty she felt that her dreams were coming true because the people she had loved the most had died.

Oh, yes, she had said way, way too much. And today, it was affecting
her
dancing.

She was the one with the guard up. She was the one who could not open herself completely. She was the one who could not be vulnerable on the dance floor. She was trying desperately to take back the ground she had lost yesterday.

And she was failing him. Because she could not let him in anymore. She could not be open.

She was as rigid and closed as the prince had been on that first day. It was the worst of ironies that now he seemed as open as she was closed!

“What's wrong?” he asked.

The tender concern in his eyes was what was wrong! The fact she was foolishly, unrealistically falling in love with him was what was wrong!

“You know what?” he said, snapping his fingers. “I know I have the power to fix whatever is wrong!”

Yes, he did. He could get down on one knee and say that though the time had been short he realized he was crazy about her. That he couldn't live without her.

All this work. All this time with No Princes and Meredith's weaknesses were unabated! She despised that about herself.

“One call,” he said, and smiled at her and left the room.

When he returned he had a paper bag with him, and with the flourish of a magician about to produce a rabbit, he opened it and handed her a crumpled white piece of fabric.

“Ta-da,” he said as she shook out the white smock.

“What is this?”

“I think I've figured it out,” he said, pulling another smock from the bag and tugging it over his own shirt.

It had Andy embossed across the breast.

She stared down at the smock in her hand. Sure enough, he had unearthed Molly's smock.

“Remember when you told me this kind of dancing is like acting?”

Meredith nodded.

“Well, I'm going to be Andy for the rest of the rehearsals. And you're going to be Molly.”

She stared at him stunned. She wanted to refuse. She wanted to get out of this with her heart in one piece.

But she could not resist the temptation of the absolute brilliance of it. If she could pretend to be someone else, if she could pretend he was someone else, there was a slim chance she could save this thing from catastrophe. And maybe, at the same time, she could save herself from the catastrophe of an unattainable love.

But it seemed the responsibility for saving things had been wrested from her. Kiernan took charge. He went and put on the music, turned and gazed at her, then held out his hands to her.

“Shall we dance, Molly?”

She could only nod. She went and took his hands, felt the way they fit together. Her resolve, which she could have sworn was made of stone, melted at his touch.

“Remember Andy?” he said, smiling down at her as they began the opening waltz.

She gave herself over to this chance to save the dance. “Isn't he that devilish boy who won't do his homework?”

“Except he did watch
Dancing with Heaven
.”

“Used class time, though.”

“That's true.”

Kiernan had those opening steps down
perfect
. A little awkwardness, a faint stiffness, a resolve to keep his distance in his posture.

The transition was coming.

“Andy,” she reminded him, getting into the spirit of this, embracing it, “winks at the teacher and makes her blush.”

And Kiernan became that young fellow—on the verge of manhood, able to tie his teacher in knots with a blink of sapphire-colored eyes.

“I think he makes her drop things, too,” Meredith conceded, and her blush was real. “And forget what she's teaching at all.”

Kiernan smiled at her with Andy's wicked devil-may-care-delight. Through dance he became the young man who rode motorcycles, and wore black leather. He was the guy who drove too fast and broke rules.

Something about playing the role of the bad boy unleashed Kiernan. He was playful. He was commanding. He was mischievous. He was
bad
.

His hips moved!

They moved to the next transition, and Kiernan released her hand. He claimed the dance floor as his own.

He claimed it. Then he owned it.

Meredith's mouth dropped open as he tore off the smock that said Andy on it, and tossed it to the floor.

Before her eyes, Kiernan became the man who liked loud music and smoky bars, and girls in too-short skirts and low-cut tops who wiggle their hips when they dance. He became the guy who cooled off in the town fountain, claimed Landers Rock as his own, kept his hat on during the anthem.

He became a man so comfortable with himself that he would delight in swimming in the sea naked under the moonlight.

And then came the final transition.

And he was no longer an immature young man, chasing skirts and adrenaline rushes, breaking rules just for the thrill of having said he had done it.

Now he was a man, claiming the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

He crossed the floor to her, and they went seamlessly to the finale—dancing together as if nothing else in the world existed except each other, and the heat, the chemistry between them.

Meredith was not Meredith. She was Molly.

And something about being Molly unleashed her just as much as being Andy had unleashed him. She didn't have a history. She was just a girl from the kitchen who wanted something more out of life: not drudgery, but a hint of excitement wherever she could find it.

By playing Molly, Meredith came to understand her younger self.

And forgive her.

Finally, with both of them breathless, the music stopped. But Kiernan did not let her go. He stared at her silently, his eyes saying what his mouth did not.

She pulled away from him. Her smile was tremulous.

“It was perfect,” she breathed.

“I know. I could feel it.”

She had to get hold of herself; despite this breakthrough she had to find the line between professional and personal. She had to get over the feeling of wanting to take his lips and taste them, of wanting more than she could have, of wanting more than he could offer her.

“You know what would be brilliant?” Meredith said crisply. “We can alter the real performance dream sequence slightly so that it is Andy and Molly, and Andy transforms into a prince.”

He was looking at her just as he had on the balcony of his private suite. With eyes that saw right through her professional blither-blather to the longing that was underneath.

She was only human.

And he was only human.

If she was going to keep this thing on the tracks until the performance at
An Evening to Remember
she had to make a drastic decision, and she had to make it right now.

“You know what this means, don't you?”

He shook his head.

“We're finished.”

“Finished?”

“We're done, Prince Kiernan.” It was self-preservation. She could not dance like that with him every day until the performance and keep her heart on ice, keep him from seeing what was blossoming inside her.

Like a flower that would be cut.

“We've got two practices left,” he said, frowning at her.

“No,” she said firmly, with false brightness, “there's nothing left to practice. Nothing. I don't think we should do it again. I don't want to lose the freshness of what we just did. We're done, Prince Kiernan. The next time we do that dance, it will be at
An Evening to Remember
.”

Instead of looking relieved that dance class was finally over, Kiernan looked stunned.

She felt stunned, too. She was ending it. The suddenness of it made her head spin. And she felt bereft. It was over. They would have one final dance together, but it was already over. She was ending this craziness right here and right now.

“So,” she said with forced cheer, holding out her
hand to shake his, “good work, Your Highness. I'll see you opening night of Blossom Week, for
An Evening to Remember
. Gosh. Only a few nights away. How did that happen?”

But instead of shaking her hand, two business people who had done good work together, the prince took her hand, held it, looked with deep and stripping thoughtfulness into her eyes. Then he bowed over her hand, and placed his lips to it.

Meredith could feel that familiar devastating quiver begin in her toes.

“No,” he said, straightening and gazing at her.

“No? No
what
?”

“No, it won't be opening night before we meet again.”

“It won't?” It felt just like their first meeting, when he had told her she couldn't be Meredith Whitmore. He said things with the certainty of one who had the power to change reality, who
always
had his own way.

“You've shown me your world, Meredith,” Kiernan said quietly. “You gave that to me freely, expecting nothing in return. You gave me a gift. But I would like to give you something in return, a gift of my own. Come experience an evening in my world.”

Her mouth opened to say
no
. It wasn't possible. She was trying to protect herself. He was storming the walls.

“It's the least I can do for you. I'll send a car to pick you up tonight. We'll have a farewell dinner on the yacht.”

Farewell
. Did his voice have an odd catch in it when he said that?

Say
no
. Every single thing in her that wanted to survive screamed at her to say no.

But what woman, no matter how strong, no matter how independent, no matter how much or how desperately she wanted to protect her own heart could say no to an evening with a prince, a date out of a dream?

It wasn't as if she could get her hopes up. He'd been very clear. A farewell dinner. One last time to be alone together. The next time they saw each other would be very public, for their performance.

On pure impulse, Meredith decided she would give herself this. She would not or could not walk away from the incredible gift he was offering her.

She would take it, greedily. One night. One last thing to remember him by, to hold to her when these days of dancing with him, laughing with him, baring her soul to him, were but a distant memory.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That would be lovely.”

It wasn't a
date
, Meredith told herself as she obsessed about what to wear and how to do her hair and her makeup and her nails. It wasn't a date. He had not called it that. A gift, he had said, and even though she knew she should have tried harder to resist the temptation, now that she hadn't, she was giving herself over to the gift wholeheartedly.

She intended to not think about a future that did not include him. She was just going to take it moment by moment, and enjoy it without contemplating what that enjoyment might cost her later.

Hadn't she done that before? Exchanged heated looks and stolen kisses with no thought of the consequences?

No, it was different this time. She was a different person than she had been back then. Wasn't she?

And so, trying to keep her doubts on the back burner, with her makeup subtle and perfect, her nails varnished
with clear lacquer, dressed in a simple black cocktail dress with a matching shawl, her hair upswept, the most expensive jewelry she could afford—tiny diamonds set in white gold—twinkling at her ears, she went down her stairs, escorted by a uniformed driver, to where the limousine awaited her. She thanked God that all the years of dancing made her able to handle the incredibly high heels—and the pre-performance jitters—with seeming aplomb.