Scandal With a Prince (22 page)

He studied her for a moment, but her planted feet, crossed arms, and resolute expression showed no signs of changing.
 
He shot a pointed look at the clock.
 
“How about if I change out of this robe, give you a very proper kiss goodnight before Anna returns, and promise to call?
 
Would that be acceptable?”

Her nod was barely perceptible.
 
His instinct was to tell her everything would work out, that he knew in his gut this was for the best.
 
Instead, he turned toward the bedroom to retrieve his clothes.
 
He
had
given her a lot to think about.
 
Perhaps she needed time to analyze the pros and the cons herself so she could come to the same conclusion he did.
 
She’d change her mind.

When he emerged from the bedroom, she stood staring sightlessly out the windows, uncharacteristic furrows etching her forehead.
 
He flashed a grin when she twisted to face him, hoping to lighten her mood.
 
“What are you doing next weekend?”

Her eyebrows arched in surprise.
 
“I have no idea.
 
I’ve been so busy with the grand reopening, I haven’t thought about it.”

“Let’s spend Saturday together.
 
You, me, and Anna.
 
I’ll stay at another hotel, one where no one will associate you with me.
 
I’ll call once I’m in town and we’ll find a place to meet.
 
It’ll give me a chance to get to know Anna better and I’ll show you how I’ve learned to deal with the media when I need to do so.”
 

“The media?”

“There won’t be any.
 
Trust me.”

He felt like a teenager finagling a date with the prom queen as he waited for her response.
 
Thankfully, she nodded.
 

“Good.
 
Then it’s settled.
 
In the meantime, think about what I said.”

“Stefano—”
 

“What’s the baseball phrase?
 
Three strikes and you’re out?”
 
He couldn’t resist.
 
He reached for her waist and held her fast.
 
The smell of her freshly-washed, warm skin combined with the scent that was uniquely hers, making him want to take her to the bedroom again.
 
He smoothed her hair back from her face.
 
“My first strike was leaving you in Venezuela.
 
The second was being so young and naive as to believe I should satisfy my family’s and my country’s needs before my personal ones, and convincing myself that doing so would make everyone happy.
 
I don’t want to have a strike three.
 
I want you in my life.
 
I want Anna in my life.
 
I want the home run.
 
I want what’s right for all of us.”

She blinked.
 
“Did you just use a baseball analogy?”

“I did.
 
Did I get it wrong?”

“Not the analogy, no.”
 
He could see desire in her eyes, along with an internal battle that made her hold back.
     

Her gaze dropped to his chest and her hands followed.
 
He stilled as she spread her fingers wide, sending a wave of heat through him.
 
He could feel her breath against his neck as her hands moved to his arms.
 
“All I can commit to is the weekend.
 
And for Anna’s sake, I’d prefer it if we don’t let on that anything happened between us.
 
All right?”
 

He leaned in and gave her a chaste kiss, resisting the urge to linger with his lips against hers.
 
“Good night, Megan.”
   

If he read her correctly, it would leave her wanting more.
 

Chapter Sixteen

Stretching nearly a mile from Plaça Catalunya to the Barcelona waterfront, where a statue of Christopher Columbus commemorated Spain’s expedition to the New World, the wide boulevard known as La Rambla attracted both locals and tourists at all hours.
 
During the day, tourists walked, maps in hand, as they searched for the side streets that would take them to the Gothic Quarter or one of the city’s numerous museums.
 
Street performers draped in metallic cloth positioned themselves atop painted silver boxes, motionlessly mimicking the Statue of Liberty or King Tut, waiting in silence for tips as music wafted over the crowd.
 
Shoppers perused the flower stands, selecting the blooms that would grace their tables that evening.
 
Artists hawked their wares, tour operators handed out pamphlets, and restaurateurs invited passersby to have a seat at their tables.
 
In the meantime, groups of women paused for refreshments while shopping at one of the nearby department stores, purchased fresh vegetables at the local market, or picked up coffee on their way to work.

At night, as lights twinkled from high in the trees that framed the street’s central cobblestone strip, families strolled, window shopping between stops for dinner and dessert.
 
Jugglers and musicians practiced their craft while teenagers threaded skateboards through the crowd and lovers paused to steal kisses.
 

However, at seven a.m. on a Saturday, quiet reigned over most of the street.
 
Catalans preferred to sleep in on weekends, so other than Megan and Anna, the only people about were those quietly preparing for the late morning onslaught of tourists.
 
A street performer perched on an upside down milk crate, studying his cheekbones in a handheld mirror as he applied face paint.
 
Behind him, a city employee hummed softly as he brushed a discarded candy wrapper into his long-handled dustpan.
 
Down the street, a garbage collector heaved bags filled with the previous night’s waste into his truck.
 

It was Megan’s favorite time to explore the city, when the light breeze carried scents of fresh-baked bread and brewed coffee rather than rush hour car exhaust.
 
This morning, however, the further she walked the more unsettled she became.
 
She hoped she’d made the right decision in agreeing to meet Stefano.

She wasn’t exaggerating when she’d accused the man of being pushy.
 
That goodbye kiss he’d given her last weekend…oh, he’d known exactly what he was doing when he pulled away with only a slight touch of his lips to hers.
 
He’d made her want.
 
And wanting was the one thing that would sink her.
 

No woman in her right mind should want a prince.
 
A prince could never, ever belong to anyone but the public, even if during those hours spent wrapped in her sheets, making love over and over, he’d made her feel as if they belonged to no one but each other.
 

He’d fallen to his knees and proposed to Megan claiming it was the “right” thing to do and that they shared a connection.
 
That he’d had the best sex of his life.
 
As much as hearing him say those words set her skin to flame, mind-blowing weekend sex wouldn’t overcome the hurdles they’d face if they were to pursue a serious relationship, let alone a marriage.
 

He’d figured out that “right” wasn’t enough reason to marry Ariana.
 
He’d soon decide that amazing sex plus “right” wasn’t enough, either.

A shame, because even a week later, she couldn’t get the hours they’d spent together out of her mind.
 
Nor could she forget that his engagement to Ariana was nothing like what she’d assumed for the last ten years, a love match made before he’d even arrived in Venezuela.
 
He hadn’t run half-naked in front of photographers because he was crazy in love.
 
He’d done it because he’d been crazy with the need to protect someone and to throw off the shackles with which his family and duty held him.

The knowledge made her want him all the more, which made her equally crazy.
 

This is for Anna
, she reminded herself as they made their way from the Plaça Catalunya bus stop toward La Boqueria.
 
Anna should get to know her father, regardless of any feelings Megan might have for the man.
 
Because as much as she tried not to, she definitely had feelings.
 
Feelings that would go far deeper than lust or infatuation if she wasn’t careful.

She smiled down at her daughter, who’d taken more time than usual styling her hair and choosing an outfit this morning, nearly making them late.
 
Anna had quite the task ahead of her cleaning up the piles of clothing that now littered her bedroom floor.
 
Megan wondered if it would get worse when Anna started middle school.
 

“It’s an entirely different street at this time of day, isn’t it?”

“I guess.
 
But how come Stefano—um, Mr. Jones—couldn’t meet us at our hotel?” Anna complained.
 
“Is he going to be able to find us?
 
It can get kinda crowded.”

“There won’t be many people this early.
 
Besides, he’s tall enough to see over any crowds, so I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Megan replied, ignoring Anna’s first question.

They passed a quiet cafe, its lights off and outdoor tables empty save for the pigeons, then paused at one of Anna’s regular stops on La Rambla, a small area in the cobblestoned center of the boulevard where an elderly Catalan woman sold birds.
 
As the tiny, bent woman removed the overnight coverings from each of her cages, she made cooing noises to the winged creatures in greeting.
 
Without fail, they singsonged back to her as they did every morning.
 

The sight of birds for sale in the middle of a city street never ceased to amaze Megan.
 
She often wondered if the birds—as with the sketch artists and street performers—were a carryover from the medieval markets that stood on this same spot.
 
She imagined the scene then wasn’t so different, with local villagers arriving early each morning to hawk their wares or their talents.

A deep sense of calm spread through her.
 
The timelessness of La Rambla felt incredibly grounding.

“I love that little blue one, Mom.” Anna pointed to one of the cages, where a lively bird twittered to welcome the morning.
 
“It’s a parakeet, right?”

As Megan nodded, the bird woman smiled and waved Anna to the cage, then handed her a few pellets to drop into the parakeet’s dish.
 
Anna thanked the woman in Catalan, then stepped back to watch as the parakeet hopped to the bowl to sample the food.
 
The vendor murmured her approval and patted Anna on the shoulder before moving to uncover the rest of her cages.
 

“It’s too bad we can’t have pets, Mom.
 
I’d love to have this little guy in my room.”

“Well, it’s nice we can see them here.”
 
Without the maintenance.
 
“It makes it special.”

Anna shrugged, considering that.
 
They thanked the woman once more for allowing Anna to feed the parakeet and wished her a successful day of sales before taking their leave.
 
Three blocks later a subtle rise in volume hinted that they were near the entrance to the covered marketplace.
 
As the only spot open at this hour, early risers came here to grab a quick breakfast or to socialize.
 

Megan only hoped they could pull off the socialize part without Stefano being recognized.
 
Her stomach tightened with anxiety to think of him meeting her here.
 
When he’d called earlier in the week, fresh from his economic meeting, he’d suggested breakfast at Anna’s favorite spot and promised the outing would be without incident.
 
“Believe it or not, I’ve done it before.
 
You’ll see.
 
If we stay relaxed, we’ll appear like any other tourists.
 
No one will pay attention.
 
But don’t call me Stefano.
 
Let’s go with Mr. Jones.”

“Jones?”
 
She’d laughed aloud at the suggestion.
 
Tall, dark, and Mediterranean…he looked like anything but a Jones.

“Trust me.”

Megan had hung up the phone on a groan.
 
The man was thick as a brick.
 
He wanted to prove to her that he could protect her and Anna, not understanding that what she really needed was love.
 
Deep, abiding, romantic love.
 

He’d put the proverbial cart before the horse.
 
She wasn’t about to explain it to him, though.
 
If she did, could she ever trust it if he declared his undying love for her?
 
She’d always suspect he said it simply to coerce her into a convenient-for-him marriage.
 

A moment later, Megan and Anna rounded the corner to Plaça de Sant Josep, where the public market sprawled under an expansive metal roof.
 
Near the entrance, a knot of men unloaded crates from a line of vans while two others wheeled past them with fruit- and vegetable-laden dollies.
 
A woman barely out of her teens sang to herself as she blew by carrying a massive stack of egg containers.
 
Megan watched as the young woman darted around a man carrying a box stacked high with tomatoes, wondering at her skill in keeping the eggs from breaking.
 
A few of the workers smiled in greeting or nodded in Megan and Anna’s direction, a luxury they wouldn’t have once the market filled with tourists and they were busy manning their stalls.