Nobody's Princess

Mind? Alex craved peace. He needed quiet. The Silvertree Public Library had two stories of sprawling space for her to choose another table. And not that a gentleman would ever lift his territorial leg on a lady, but he was here first. Still, manners had been imprinted so deeply in the men in his family that his response was automatic.

“No problem,” he said, and then swiftly pulled a book in front of him and ducked his head.

Eventually she quit huffing and puffing. Eventually she sat down. Eventually she noisily rearranged her hodgepodge of books and clattered in her purse for a pen, and finally—there was a God—she settled down.

Alex couldn’t.

He vaguely recognized her. Typical of North Carolina small towns, Silvertree was a friendly place. Maybe they’d pulled into the same gas station, or he’d seen her in a grocery store or on the street. Alex couldn’t imagine a man younger than 105 who’d fail to notice her.

She was several inches shorter than his six feet, but her figure—delicately speaking—could inspire a guy to crash a car or two to get a closer look. Her hair was caramel brown, shoulder length, with silky scoops of curls all over the place. No order. No control. Which about summed up the rest of her as well, Alex mused.

A long sun-shaped earring dangled from one ear, a long moon earring from the other. Apparently they were a matched set. She was wearing a scallop-necked red T-shirt—snug enough to give a man a heart attack—and a long skirt that was a swirl of colors: fuchsias, oranges and reds all blurred together. Her sandals showed off red-painted toenails—about the same color as her strawberry lipstick. Bracelets dangling clanged every time she moved.

Alex wasn’t trying to sneak looks at her, but she moved a lot. And every time he glanced up, faster than bad news, he found her hazel eyes on him.

Her eyes were huge. Deep set and as lushly dramatic as the rest of her. She wasn’t precisely pretty, but her oval face had a complexion as pale and soft as vanilla, with high broad cheekbones and a full sensual mouth. Her face was unignorably striking, and her figure was downright dangerous. The skirt concealed her legs, but she didn’t appear to be carrying any spare pounds—except upstairs. The stretchy T-shirt made no secret of the lush, voluptuous curves above her waist.

She was...Alex searched his mind for the right descriptive term. Sexy shot to his brain faster than a bullet, but was swiftly, uneasily rejected. Hell, he hadn’t thought of a sexist term like that since he was a teenager. Alarming was more like it.

In fact, alarming seemed to describe her perfectly. There was nothing wrong with her haunting hazel eyes, flashy style or mesmerizing red mouth. But Alex’s taste in women had always been more like...well, like Gwen.

His fiancée had been petite. A lady, inside and out. Gwen was soft-spoken and soft-mannered, prone to wearing fragile feminine pastels that suited her blond-and-blue-eyed fairness. She’d been everything Alex had ever dreamed of in a woman. Everything he’d waited a lifetime to find.

Until she’d left him at the altar, and run off with a ten-years-younger, good-looking rogue named Lance.

“You look really caught up in sad thoughts.”

Alex’s head shot up. “Beg your pardon?”

Those huge hazel eyes were all over his face again, studying him as intrusively as a cop could frisk a suspect. “I don’t mean to pry. You just had this look, as if you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Are you okay?”

No, he wasn’t okay. He wasn’t remotely okay. But he didn’t know the woman from Adam, couldn’t believe she would ask a total stranger such a nosy question. And for sure, he couldn’t imagine how to answer it.

His reticence seemed to fly right by her. The undauntable woman smiled...a slow, warm smile that crinkled those eyes into pinpoints of light. Impulsively she leaned over the table and extended a hand, offering him a view down the scooped neck of her T-shirt that turned his throat desert dry.

“I’m Regan. Regan Stuart. I know I’ve seen your face around town somewhere—do you teach at the college?”

“No. That is, I’m a teacher—but I teach high school history, nothing at the college level—”

“Well, I’m a teacher, too. I thought I might have seen you around the Whitaker College library before—I’m an assistant prof, teach women’s studies. And you’re—?”

“Alex Brennan.” He didn’t want to give up his name, any more than he wanted to shake her hand, but there seemed no way of avoiding either without being rude. Her palm clapped against his in an exuberant, pumping handshake, as forthright and blunt as she was. Her skin was soft, though, and warmer than sunlight.

She dropped her hand quickly enough, but his pulse was suddenly skidding down a slick, unfamiliar road At thirty-four, Alex was more than familiar with hormones, but it was one thing to recognize her attractiveness, and another to feel a kindling responsiveness to her. He loved Gwen. And Gwen had always inspired loving, sensual feelings in him, but not this strange, flash-fire kind of sexual awareness.

It made him feel guilty. And nervous. Quickly he stuffed his hands in his pockets and hoped she didn’t notice his sudden awkwardness.

She didn’t seem to. Nothing seemed to quell her gregarious friendliness. “Well, nice to meet you, Alex. It’s really rare I find anyone in the myths and legends section but me, and I couldn’t help but notice all your books. ... You’re preparing for a class?”

“Yes. And I’m afraid I really have a lot to do.” Thankfully, she took the hint. Her head ducked, then his head ducked. Pages turned. A spring-laden breeze whispered in the open windows. It was peaceful just like that.

For maybe two minutes.

“Do you like teaching?”

Hell. It was like trying to concentrate with a fire alarm going off next to him. He wasn’t sure why she kept ringing his personal fire alarm, but she was far too disturbing a woman to possibly ignore.

“Yeah, I love teaching,” he answered her, and heard the instinctive stubborn note in his voice. He got grief all the time—especially from his brother, Merle—on his choice of career. The Brennans were one of the old, landed families in Silvertree. Few in the community could fathom what the Sam Hill he was doing in a classroom. Alex didn’t care what anyone thought, but he was used to no one understanding.

“Me, too. I love working with young people. I even believe that corny line from the Whitney Houston song about ‘the children are our future.’ Can’t imagine doing anything else.” All animated, she leaned forward, giving him another throat-parching view. “You’ve really got me curious, though. I see all the books around you on Camelot and the Arthurian legend...but I thought you said you taught history?”

“I do. But we’re in the medieval stretch. The kids are in no big hustle to get excited about 1066 and the Battle of Hastings.”

“I’m with them.” Her eyes danced with teasing humor. “I can well imagine that King Arthur is an easier sell.”

“Anything’s an easier sell than the Dark Ages. And it’s not like I can’t teach them something from the Camelot legend. Half our political concepts about equality and democracy came from the ideals emerging in that time....” Alex suddenly frowned, startled to realize he was actually inviting more conversation with her.

She seemed at ease, as if they were old friends. “Yeah, I practically inhaled the Camelot story when I was a kid. I’m no believer in heroes, but Arthur seemed to be one of the true-blue good guys. It’s just a shame he was so brain smart and so life dumb.”

“Life dumb?”

“Uh-huh. All those brilliant ideas and ideals, but he didn’t seem to have a dog’s sense about people. I mean, look who he picked for his pals. He trusted Lancelot—who wooed away his wife right under his nose. And he fell for Guinevere—who had to be one of the shallowest nitwits of all times. All it took to impress her was a young guy in a pair of tights with a big sword. If she’d had a brain, she’d have recognized that Arthur was by far the better man.”

Temporarily, women taking off with other men was an extremely sore spot with Alex. So was the size of the other guy’s sword. He had no desire to pick that emotional scab around a stranger, but somehow he’d gotten embroiled in this conversation and he couldn’t just drop it now. “I think you may have misunderstood Arthur. There was nothing wrong with his judgment. He simply recognized that no one can help who they fall in love with. And he never blamed either Lancelot or Guinevere for being true to their feelings.”

“Sheesh. Don’t tell me you really believe all that poppycock?”

“Poppycock?”

He caught a dazzling sparkle of white teeth when she grinned again. Those dangerous hazel eyes of hers were still studying him. Alex couldn’t imagine why. Nothing in his mirror reflected anything unusual—he was an ordinary six feet, blue eyes, brown hair, and he wore a beard because he was too absentminded to remember to shave. Truth to tell, he tended to forget his looks altogether, but he really doubted there was anything in his appearance to attract a strikingly sensual woman like Regan.

At the moment Alex doubted his ability to attract a stone.

Yet she was leaning forward again, as if nothing on the planet interested her but talking with him. “Well, I’ve never taught King Arthur, but you’re not the only one teaching myths and legends. I’m teaching three courses this term on fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales,” he echoed.

“Fairy tales at the adult level. For women. In other words, all the poppycock lies we’ve sold ourselves through history...knights in shining armor, happily-ever-afters, heroes—all that humorous boloney.”

“You think heroes are boloney?”

“Did I, um, touch a nerve?”

Of course she didn’t. He didn’t even know her. He just felt compelled to tactfully correct the drastic misconception in her thinking. “You don’t believe in heroic behavior? That a critical part of the teaching job is to instill ideals and role models in young people?”

“Well, sure. But I also believe young women have been brought up for centuries, hoping to be dazzled by a knight in shining armor, and there is no such beast. Guinevere was a perfect example. Maybe Lancelot looked good in a pair of tights, but he betrayed his best friend and poached another guy’s woman besides. She suckered into a classic jerk parading as a hero. She’d have been better off understanding that there was no such animal...you’re looking much better.”

“Of all the one-sided, twisted interpretations of—um, excuse me?” Her last comment had seemed to come out of nowhere.