The Prince's Ultimate Deception

Good grief, she was as nervous as a virgin on prom night, and at thirty-two Madeline hadn’t seen either virginity or prom night in a long time.

Her heart beat at double time and it had nothing to do with the sugar rush from sampling too many wedding cakes this morning.

Was her hair right? Her dress? And wasn’t that just plain ridiculous? Nonetheless vanity had caused her to pull on a dress with a deep V neckline in the front and back and to don the outrageously sexy shoes she’d bought at the designer outlet down the street. She’d even French braided her unruly hair and added her favorite silver clip.

She scanned the partially open-air café for Damon. He rose from a table in the shadowy back corner, looking absolutely delicious in dark glasses, a casual, short-sleeved white cotton shirt and jeans. Wide shoulders. Thick biceps. Flat abs and narrow hips. Yum.

The glasses were a tad affected given he wasn’t seated in the sunny section of the café, but so many people in Monaco sported the same look that he didn’t seem out of place. Still—she tipped back her head and looked up at his handsome face—she’d rather stare into his pale blue eyes than at her own reflection.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Spencer.” He pulled out her chair.

She tried to place his accent and couldn’t, which was pretty odd since her job exposed her to an assortment of nationalities on a daily basis. And then there was the intriguing way he occasionally slipped into more formal speech….

“Good morning, Damon, and please call me Madeline.” His knuckles brushed the bare skin between her shoulder blades as he seated her. Awareness skipped down her spine, startling a flock of butterflies in her stomach. Ooh yeah. Definitely a prime candidate for her first string-free fling.

She tugged a pen and pad of paper from her straw purse. “I thought we’d discuss possible outings today. Perhaps you could give me a list of suggestions, and I’ll tell you which ones interest me.”

“You will not trust my judgment to choose for you?”

As she’d done with Mike?

“No. I’d prefer to be consulted. I’m not sure how much you overheard last night, but I’m here with a friend to help plan her wedding. I’ll have to be available for her morning meetings Monday through Friday and whenever else she or the other bridesmaids need me. So you and I will have to snatch hours here and there and not every day. Are you okay with that?”

“I am.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his square jaw. He really had wonderful bone structure. His blade-straight nose had probably never been broken, and his high zygomatic arches allowed for nice hollows in his lean, smooth-shaven cheeks. Straight, thick, dark hair flopped over his forehead, making him look boyish, but the fine lines beside his eyes and mouth said he had to be in his thirties.

“Last night you said romance made you nauseous. I have yet to meet a woman who did not revel in romance. What happen—”

“Now you have,” she interrupted.

His lips firmed and his eyebrows lowered as if her interruption annoyed him, but her sorry love life was not up for discussion.

The last thing she wanted to tell a prospective lover was that she’d been an idiot. She’d been so enthralled with the idea of love and being part of a couple that she’d given in to whatever Mike wanted, and in the process she’d surrendered part of her identity. What ticked her off the most was that even though she’d been trained to assess symptoms and make diagnoses, she’d missed the obvious signs that her relationship was in trouble. Not even the twenty pounds she’d gained over six years while “eating her stress” had clued her in to her subconscious’s warnings.

“What happened to make you so wary?” he asked in a firm voice that made it clear he wasn’t going to drop it.

She stared hard at him for several moments, trying to make him back down, but he held her gaze without wavering. “Let’s just say I learned from experience that planning a perfect wedding doesn’t always result in happily ever after.”

“You are divorced?”

“Never made it to the altar. Now, about our excursions…Despite what Mr. Gustavo said about Vincent Reynard picking up your tab, I don’t want to go overboard with expenses.”

“I will keep that in mind. Are you more of an outdoor person or the museum type?”

She said a silent thank-you that he accepted her change of subject. “I prefer to be outside since I spend most of my waking hours inside.”

“Doing…?”

Who was interviewing whom here? He didn’t act like any potential employee she’d ever questioned. He was a little too arrogant, a little too confident, a little too in charge. But that only made him more attractive. “I’m a physician’s assistant in a metropolitan hospital. What kinds of outings do you suggest?”

“There are numerous outdoor activities within a short distance that would cost little or nothing. Sunbathing, snorkeling, sailing, windsurfing, hiking, biking, fishing and rock climbing.”

He ticked off the items on long ringless fingers bearing neatly trimmed, clean nails. She had a thing about hands, and his were great, the kind she’d love to have gliding over her skin.

“If you have more than a few hours we can go river rafting or spelunking in the Alpes-Maritimes or drive across the border into Italy or France to explore some of the more interesting villages.”

“I’m not a sun lizard. Isn’t that what they call the people who lay on the rocks of the jetty? I prefer action to lazing about, and cold, dark places give me the creeps, so let’s skip the sunbathing and the spelunking and go with everything else. You’ll arrange the tours and any equipment rental and provide me with the details?”

“It will be my pleasure.”

She’d bet he knew a thing or two about pleasure, and if she was lucky, he’d share that knowledge. She slid a piece of paper across the table. “Here’s my tentative schedule for the next month. I’ve blacked out the times when I’m unavailable. That’s my suite number in the top corner. You’ll have to call me there or leave a message for me at the front desk since my cell phone doesn’t work in Europe.”

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone somewhere without a pager or cell phone, usually both, clipped to her clothing, and she couldn’t decide whether she felt free or naked without the familiar weight bumping her hip.

A breeze swept into the open-air café, catching and ruffling the paper. She flattened her hand over it to keep it from blowing away. Damon’s covered hers a split second later as he did the same. The heat of his palm warmed her skin. Electricity arced up her arm. Judging by the quick flare of his nostrils, she wasn’t the only one feeling the sparks, but she couldn’t see his eyes to be sure and that frustrated her.

She tilted her head, but didn’t withdraw her hand. He didn’t smile as he slowly eased his away, dragging his fingers the length of hers and igniting embers inside her.

“You know, Damon, if you’re going to flirt with me it would be much more effective without the glasses. Hot glances don’t penetrate polarized lenses.”

He stilled and then deliberately reached up to remove his sunglasses with his free hand. “Are you interested in a flirtation, Madeline?”

The one-two punch of his accented voice huskily murmuring her name combined with the desire heating his eyes quickened her pulse and shortened her breath. “That depends. Are you married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“I am not committed to anyone at this time.”

“Gay?”

He choked a laugh. “Definitely not.”

“Healthy?”

His pupils dilated. He knew what she meant. “I have recently received a clean bill of health.”

Excitement danced within her. “Then, Damon, we’ll see if you have what it takes to tempt me.”

Two

“This is a mistake, if I may say so, Dominic.” Only in the privacy of their suite did Ian dare use Dominic’s given name. Seventeen years together had built not only familiarity, but friendship.

“Damon. Damon Rossi,” Dominic corrected as he packed for his first outing with Madeline Spencer.

“How am I to remember that?”

“D.A. Rossi is the name I sign on official documents, including the hotel registration. Damon is but a combination of my initials and an abbreviation of our country.”