“How fitting,” he said, falling in step with her as she crossed the lawn to the table Sarah had set up, “because I intend to be the last man standing at the end of the summer.”
“Really?” She turned and batted her lashes at him. He was every bit as sexy as the papers claimed, with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and a mouth that appeared destined for dirty deeds. Not that she cared about his appearance. Nope. He was Her Majesty’s favorite, and judging by his comment, he knew it. So what could she do but knock his ego down a few pegs? “You must remind me of your name. I confess, I seem to have forgotten it.”
His eyes grew wide, but he recovered quickly. “Gabriel Carlos Alejandro Bastien de León, Prince of Asturias.”
Prince of Asses was more like it.
Three minutes—that felt like three millennia—later, she could see why her parents favored the prince. Not only was he heir to the Spanish throne, he was a skilled politician, an all-around charmer, and an accomplished sportsman. But none of that interested her, and listening to him ramble on about himself was like listening to someone recite their CV.
Where is the passion? The fire? The chemistry?
Her cheeks heated as she thought of Henry—and the passionate kiss she’d been denied—for the eleventy billionth time. She had little experience with kissing, or men but she’d been on the receiving end of enough tepid pecks to know that when a man lit your panties on fire with a single touch, you held on and enjoyed the freaking ride. And, oh, how she’d planned to enjoy it.
Right until Sarah showed up, judgement blazing.
It was probably for the best. There was no future for them. She already had twelve suitors she didn’t need. A baker’s dozen would hardly improve her circumstances.
No, what she needed from Henry was business acumen, not blazing hot kisses.
The problem was, her body hadn’t gotten the message. Riding on the back of Henry’s bike had been…thrilling. A terrifying and glorious escape from the weight of expectation and living inside her own head. She’d never felt more alive than she had that night, with her arms wrapped around him, their bodies moving in harmony as the bike shifted and leaned.
The ride—no, Henry—had ignited something desperate and hungry within her. Now she couldn’t stop fantasizing about him. About the press of his lips on hers, the sweep of his tongue against her own, the way their bodies had fit together so perfectly.
And like an addict, she craved more.
* * *
Henry followedthe sound of music to the main lawn behind the palace. It was hot as balls, and though he didn’t mind the heat, he would’ve preferred to face it in shorts and trainers, rather than the damnable trousers that were required at the palace. Trousers were one of the many royal protocols Liechtenstein shared with Valeria. Any other day, it would have served as a reminder of why he wanted nothing to do with palace life.
But he was on a mission, and his discomfort was of little importance. He needed to find Pippa and apologize. The tabloids had done a hack job on her—complete with front page coverage and photographic evidence—and it was all his fault.
Scheisse. He’d been a fool to take her away from the palace with no security. In retrospect, he knew it was dangerous and irresponsible, but in the moment, all he could see was her need for escape. For a break from the pressures of palace life and the rather large undertaking of starting her own charity. Hell, he’d been moved by her passion.
And then he’d been moved with passion.
Which he’d been fool enough to act on. He knew better than to mix business and pleasure. And yet he’d done just that, thinking with his cock instead of his brain.
Sarah’s arrival had saved him from making a colossal mistake.
Of course, if he’d known there were paps staking out the palace, he probably would’ve suggested a walk around the gardens instead of a late-night bike ride. The last thing he needed was his picture in the bloody tabloids.
Nothing to be done about it now, Arschloch.
Henry stopped when he reached the edge of the patio. Pippa sat at a small round table draped with white linens. One of the suitors sat opposite her. To her right lay a pile of long-stemmed red roses, to her left a wide-brim hat. From the looks of it, she was interviewing the poor sod, and it wasn’t going well. The rest of the suitors lingered by the refreshment table, which had been set up in the shade on the other side of the patio.
What the hell was she up to?
He watched for another few minutes, long enough to see Sarah call time and for the bachelor at the table to trade places with another man from the group. Then the process started all over. Pippa’s eyes seemed to glaze over as the man across from her went on. And on. And on.
No wonder she looked like she was ready to collapse from boredom. He was no expert on wooing princesses, but he was pretty sure talkingather wouldn’t get the job done. Had any of them actually tried talkingtoher?
Surely, they couldn’tallbe that daft.
Bloody fools.
When Sarah called time again, he made his move. He strode across the lawn and slid into the empty chair across from Pippa, flashing her an easy grin.
“Hello, Your Highness. You’re looking lovely today.”
