[Montacroix Royal Family Series 02] - The Prince & the Showgirl (17 page)

Burke sat on the edge of the examining table, his bare legs dangling over the side, trying not to flinch as the doctor poured a stinging antiseptic over his wound. The pain was ripe and throbbing in his temple; his head swam.

"You must be one of the French loyalists who have been threatening to disrupt the ceremonies," he complained between clenched teeth. "Or else you're a sadist."

"There were rumors about the Marquis de Sade being my great-great-grandfather," the white-jacketed man answered blithely. "Of course the family has always chosen to ignore such stories." He dabbed at the cut with a sterilized swab. "My brother, however, is a dentist, which I suppose adds credence to such rumors."

He slid his glasses down his nose and studied the gash over the top of his tortoiseshell frames. "You are a very fortunate man."

"I've always been lucky," Burke agreed, deciding it would sound like bragging to point out that his expert driving skills had contributed to him escaping what could have been a fatal collision.

"Still, not many men could survive two near crashes and a gunshot wound all in the same day."

"Gunshot wound?" Drew and Caine said in unison. They'd been waiting nearby. At the doctor's pronouncement, they snapped to immediate attention.

"
Oui
," the doctor answered. "As you can see, it is only a graze, but another millimeter to the right, Your Highness, and your father would have been planning a funeral rather than a coronation."

"It can't be a gunshot," Burke argued. "The wound is from Mario Francotti's front tire. I felt it brush my helmet." He turned to the two security agents. "You both saw it happen."

"We saw the accident," Caine agreed as he rubbed his jaw, concentrating on his memory of the rapid-fire sequence of events. "But sometimes, what we think we see isn't what really happened."

"This is
ridicule
." Burke shook his head, then wished he hadn't as a blinding light flashed behind his eyes. "What are the odds of getting shot and struck during a collision at the same time?"

Caine's expression was nearly as grim as it had been after Chantal's near-fatal experience in that Philadelphia fire. "I wouldn't want to calculate the odds. But I have a feeling that you were right on the money about being lucky. I'll bet that the reason that shot was off the mark was because the accident deflected the bullet."

"That would be," Burke said slowly, "a fantastic coincidence."

"Isn't it?" Caine agreed. He turned to Drew. "Why don't you see if you can retrieve the prince's helmet? And get some forensic guys busy calculating the direction of the shot, so we can start looking for our needle in a haystack."

"I'm on my way," Drew said. "I take it you're going back to the palace with the prince."

"Yeah." Caine had a sudden need to see Chantal. To make certain that his wife and child were safe. He turned to the doctor. "I'm going to have to insist that you keep this confidential."

The doctor nodded. "
Bien stir
."

After arranging to have the bill sent to his accountant, Burke took the bottle of pain pills the doctor prescribed and returned to the palace with Caine.

Although it was more than two hours since he'd taken his victory lap, the narrow winding streets were still filled with merrymakers. Any one of the exuberant individuals could have been his attempted assassin, Burke mused as the gunmetal gray sedan made its way slowly through the crowds. The darkly tinted windows provided privacy, but for the first time in his life, he felt unreasonably exposed.

Someone had tried to kill him. Not once, but twice. And as disturbing as that idea might be, Burke knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his would-be executioner would try again.

"Perhaps we should postpone the coronation," he murmured.

Caine shot him a sideways glance.

"Because of the women," Burke answered his brother-in-law's sharp, questioning look. "While I detest the idea of caving in to these terrorist demands, I cannot ignore the fact that Sabrina could have been killed that night at the casino. And now that he's failed again, this would-be assassin will be growing more frustrated. Who knows what he will do next?"

"It's your call." Caine's mild tone did not reveal his own feelings on the matter.

"Can you keep them safe? All of them?"

"We can sure as hell try."

Burke laughed, but the sound held no humor. "There are times, Caine, when I wish that you were a bit less honest."

Caine flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, attempting to ease some of the tension that had every tendon in his body feeling as if it were in a vise.

"If you want an ironclad guarantee, I can't give it to you. If you want my word that I will do my best to keep your family—and my pregnant wife—safe from these maniacs, you've got it."

As Burke considered his words soberly, he studied the faces of the crowd outside the window. Was it the older man in the black turtleneck? he wondered. The young man in tennis whites walking beside the stunning blonde dressed in a crocheted sweater and enticingly sexy suede shorts? Dammit, who was it who had managed to grasp so much control over his life?

"Your word has always been enough for me, Caine."

Caine nodded, his grim expression mirroring Burke's own.

It was agreed that they would keep the news of the bullet wound from the family for the time being. Eduard would of course have to know. But both Caine and Burke saw no reason in disturbing the women any more than they'd already been.

And although Burke knew that such a decision was blatantly chauvinistic, the part of him that had been brought up under the tenet of male ascendancy to the throne attempted to convince him that it was for the best. But later, as he'd deftly brushed aside his mother's and sister's concerns, Burke had suffered pangs of guilt that were nearly as painful as his throbbing head.

Although the rest of Montacroix continued to celebrate long into the night, Burke was not up to such revelry. Instead, after a brief family supper, he excused himself and went upstairs, where he downed two of the pain pills with a glass of water.

In minutes he was asleep.

Sabrina lay on her back on the thick feather bed, staring up at the gauze of the high canopy. For the past three hours she'd been trying her best to fall asleep. For the past three hours she'd been failing. Miserably.

A virtual cavalcade of disconnected pictures kept tumbling through her mind: her first sight of Prince Burke, his face stained with oil and his eyes as hot as embers; the way he looked days later, when he'd approached her in the theater and stood so very close, and she'd seen their mutual attraction reflected in all those mirrors, blatantly obvious.

She remembered every devastating moment of that first shared kiss in front of Katia's portrait. She relived their entertaining time together at the casino and wondered why she'd even bothered to pretend that she hadn't wanted to go.

She knew that she'd never forget their stolen kisses in the back of the limousine, while the soft rain pattered on the roof. And most of all, Sabrina knew that if she lived to be one hundred, she would never—ever— forget the icy terror that had torn through her when she'd thought, for that long, suspended moment, that she was going to lose him. Before she even had him.

Sabrina had never been very assertive with men. Sonny, despite his own checkered past, or perhaps because of it, had been an incredibly strict father. None of his daughters had been permitted to date before their sixteenth birthdays. Telephone calls from boys had not been permitted, and Sonny Darling had always threatened that if any of his precious girls dared to call a boy, she would instantly lose telephone privileges.

By the time she was permitted to date, the word about Sonny's protectionist attitudes had gotten around and there wasn't a boy at Nashville Senior High School brave enough to ask Sabrina out. Sonny's reputation followed her to college, but although there had been a handful of young men intrepid enough to chance the singer's wrath by taking out his lovely daughter, Sabrina's absolute lack of dating skills left her too shy to accept their invitations.

Instead, Sabrina had immersed herself in the college drama department, where she found the stage a perfect—and safe—outlet for all her tumultuous emotions.

Her very first beau had been a fast-talking Yankee who swept her into his bed, onto his stage, and in front of a Connecticut justice of the peace before Sabrina had known what hit her.

When her marriage had broken up, friends had advised her to throw herself back into the social whirl. But feeling emotionally bruised, and uncomfortable with the New York fast life shared by so many of her contemporaries in the theater, once again Sabrina shunned the dating scene. Indeed, with the exception of a few platonic dinners with actors she worked with, evenings were spent in her apartment, studying lines and watching old movies on the Arts and Entertainment cable channel.

And now, as she tossed and turned, chasing the illusive solitude of sleep, Sabrina realized that her sex life resembled that of a cloistered nun. Even in her marriage, true passion had eluded her. From the night he'd taken her virginity, after they'd shared two bottles of champagne at the famed Rainbow Room, overlooking the dazzling lights of Manhattan, Arthur had always been the one to instigate lovemaking. He liked to instruct her what he wanted her to do, just as he directed her on the stage. Dedicated actress that she was, Sabrina had tried her best to give a stellar performance.

A goal in which she'd apparently succeeded. Because when she'd angrily informed him that she'd never—in six years of marriage—experienced an orgasm, the unflappable Arthur Longstreet had appeared honestly shocked by such an unwelcome revelation.

So here she was, twenty-eight years old, suffering in a too-lonely bed when the man she wanted with every fiber of her being was just down the hall.

"No!" she whispered, rolling onto her stomach and pulling the snowy down pillow over her head. She couldn't do it. She didn't have the nerve.

But then she remembered how close Burke had come to dying today. And how close she'd come to losing an opportunity of a lifetime.

It wouldn't be anything but a one-night stand, a little voice in her mind piped up. At best, a brief affair. Because in four short days the prince would become regent and she and her sisters would leave Montacroix, continuing the tour.

It wouldn't be the fairy-tale ending she'd dreamed of as a child. Prince Burke was not going to ride up on his white charger and carry her off to his castle, where they'd live happily ever after.

But, dammit, Sabrina decided, throwing the pillow onto the floor, at least she'd have one night—one magical, fairy-tale night—to remember all the rest of her life.

Making her decision, she left the bed, slipped into her robe, took several deep breaths to calm her galloping nerves, then headed down the hall.

9

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Afraid that someone would hear her knocking on Burke's bedroom door, and even more afraid that she'd lose her nerve, Sabrina took another deep breath, briefly closed her eyes and then, before she could change her mind, turned the antique brass handle.

When the door squeaked, her heart jumped to her throat and she pictured hordes of royal guards descending on her. She quickly slipped inside, shutting the door behind her.

After her quick race down the hall, the bedroom, by contrast, seemed as dark as the inside of a cavern.

Gradually shadows became forms, and Sabrina was able to view Burke, lying naked on his back in a magnificent high bed. He'd thrown the sheet off during his sleep. The moonlight slanting through the high palatine windows outlined his sculpted, muscled chest under the sprinkle of dark curls.

His hips were lean, and although she knew it to be wrong, she couldn't resist looking at his sex, which appeared half aroused. Her heart took up an erratic beat and her blood warmed. She dragged her gaze down his legs, unsurprised to find them strong and muscled. His feet were long and narrow and beautifully arched.

Sabrina stood beside the bed for a long silent time, drinking in the sight of this man she'd been so instantly attracted to, despite her best intentions. The man she wanted. The man she loved.

Love
. The word, which her rational mind had not allowed her to consider, bounced around in her head like a steel ball in a roulette wheel. But instead of terrifying her, Sabrina felt a certain welcome calm. She did love Burke. Enough not to ask him for what he could never give. She would have to settle for only this brief time together.

And given the choice, a few fleeting days of absolute happiness were far preferable to a lifetime of regrets.

A soft summer wind sighed in the branches of the ancient oak trees outside the window. Inside, there was only the soft, steady sound of Burke's breathing. And the wild staccato beat of Sabrina's heart, pounding in her ears.

She remembered how, during the family's celebratory dinner earlier this evening, he'd assured everyone that he was fine, that he'd only suffered a slight concussion. But his eyes had been laced with pain and he'd promised a clearly distraught Jessica that he would take the pain pills the doctor prescribed as soon as he retired.