Romancing the Crown: Max & Elena: The Disenchanted Duke

Max didn’t bother hiding the smile on his lips. This, he promised himself, was going to be interesting.

The smoky blue mirror over the bar reflected his expression, bouncing it back to her. Cara spared him a look. “Something funny, Ryker?”

If he went strictly by looks, not manner, she looked like someone who could sit under a shady tree, sipping a tall, cool glass of lemonade. “You just don’t strike me as the scotch type.”

She exchanged glances with the bartender, although she was fairly certain that because of the angle of her body, Ryker hadn’t seen anything. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Ryker.” She wrapped her hand around the glass the bartender placed before her. “I don’t have a ‘type.’ I am a unique experience.”

Max couldn’t help the short laugh. He’d run into confidence before, but not on this scale. “Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

She’d gone the shy, retiring route and it had gotten her abuse and heartache. Cara tossed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. “Contrary to the popular hope, the meek don’t inherit the earth, Ryker. All they get is the dirt.”

She caught him off guard. That was surprisingly harsh. “Meek is one word I wouldn’t have thought of when looking at you.”

The bartender handed Max his glass. Once the bartender withdrew, Max picked up his drink and touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

She smiled, then threw the drink down in a long gulp that had Max staring at her incredulously. “Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.” She placed her glass down on the counter. “Don’t you have any better lines?”

“Actually that was from Key Largo,” he informed her. “Common mistake.”

Maybe, she thought, but you just made another one.

Waving to snag the bartender’s attention, she held up two fingers, then turned her attention back to Max. “So, who are you working for?”

Because he knew a silent challenge when it was given, Max downed his drink and offered his empty glass for a refill as well when the bartender approached. As an afterthought, he took out his wallet and peeled off the appropriate amount of money to cover the four drinks, plus a healthy tip. He placed the bills on the counter.

“You know I’m not at liberty to say.”

The question was her way of feeling him out to see what kind of effect the drink had on him.

Taking a breath, she downed the second drink. Glass bottom met countertop with a resounding smack. “That’s all right, I already know.”

Max followed her lead and downed his drink, although he had to admit that he preferred taking in his alcohol at a slower pace. But then, going this route only meant the lovely creature sitting beside him would cease to be a problem that much quicker.

He was amused at her certainty that she knew who he worked for. There was no way she could be privy to his work for his uncle. But for the sake of distracting her from his true goal, he played along.

“You do?”

“Sure. It’s Phil.”

“Phil,” he echoed. The name seemed to resound briefly in his head as he said it.

“Phil,” she repeated, holding her glass aloft so that the bartender could see her from the other end. “Phil Stanford.”

Damn it, how was she holding all that alcohol so well and where was she putting it? She should have been slipping off her stool by now. These drinks were potent. His eyelids were beginning to feel as if they could easily peel off.

“I don’t know who that is.”

Maybe he wasn’t lying at that. Cara pushed the conversation another notch to see if she’d stumbled across the truth.

“Sure you do. The nasty son of a bitch who doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘ethics.’ He hired you because he was afraid I couldn’t deliver Weber.” Which was a prime insult in her book, seeing as how she had always, always gotten her man—or woman—before. “But I still have almost another week before Phil has to forfeit his bail money and I’ll have Weber safely locked up long before then. So don’t get any ideas.”

The ideas he was getting, fueled with two shots of scotch and working on a third, had very little to do with the swarthy man he’d been sent to round up and everything to do with a woman who made him think of warm, moonlit nights and dancing along the banks of a tranquil river. Barefoot.

Max took a deep breath before addressing the glass in his hand again. He wouldn’t mind seeing her barefoot. Up to the neck.

“What makes a woman become a bounty hunter?” He was aware that it took effort for him not to slur the last word.

It wasn’t a new question. She’d heard it before. A dozen times.

“Opportunity,” she replied mechanically.

It had been that, pure and simple. She’d spent six months on the Denver police force, feeling hemmed in by all the rules she seemed to always be tripping over, when she spotted the ad in the newspaper, of all places, for a bounty hunter. The notion struck her fancy. She already knew she was a good cop, she was just a bad bureaucrat and not much of what the sergeant liked to call a team player. Becoming a bounty hunter seemed to emphasize all the right things for her.

A new song came on the jukebox. Cara perked up just as Max was going to say something to her. She raised her hand. “Shhh, I like this song.”

Max found himself reaching for the hand she’d raised, folding his fingers around it.

Surprised, Cara looked at him questioningly.

“Like it enough to dance to it?” he asked.

A faint smile played along her lips. “Are you asking me to dance, or taking a survey?”

He got off his stool still holding her hand. “The former.”

“Then yes.” Cara slid off her stool.

Holding her hand, he led her to the tiny, dirty space before the jukebox. His legs felt oddly wobbly, but Max ignored the feeling. The desire to hold this woman came out of nowhere and was suddenly far too great to ignore.

Dancing seemed like the best solution.

Chapter 3

Maybe it was just his imagination gone into overdrive, but it felt as if the beautiful bounty hunter he had in his arms was teasing him with her body. She was teasing him without doing anything more than swaying quietly to the throbbing tempo of the song on the jukebox. It was a love song from the days when couples shared a melody they referred to as “their” song and would exchange secret smiles every time it came on the airwaves.

Max didn’t know if it was him or the room, but one of them seemed to be spinning. He wasn’t sure if he was rooting for him or the room.

Holding Cara’s hand within his, he kept it lightly pressed against his chest and looked down at her. Thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp hold of were crowding into his head. She was petite, though far from fragile. Even so, Max had a suspicion that she wasn’t quite as indestructible as she presented herself. Almost, but not quite.

Maybe if he focused on talking, the spinning would go away.

“So, what else do you like besides love songs from the forties?”

She raised her eyes to his, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips. “Men who don’t ask too many questions comes to mind.”

He laughed softly. The exotic scent she was wearing seeped into his consciousness, arousing him. “Sorry, occupational habit.”

She cocked her head, amused. “I thought detectives were just supposed to detect.”