If The Ring Fits...

Soft. Even the coldness of her iced hand could not hide how satiny her skin felt beneath his fingertips. The smell of vanilla drifted up. No wonder Didier had wanted to stay and help. This was quite enjoyable. Richard stared at her reflection in the mirror until she blinked and looked away.

So did he.

He should not be enjoying this. This was not a game or foreplay. Christina’s skin was not soft. Any woman’s hand would feel soft with a bottle of massage oil rubbed on it.

He tried the ring again.

Nothing.

He needed to think of something—a new tactic. Maybe he needed to work on her swollen knuckle. Yes, he would try that.

Letting the oil act as a lubricant, Richard massaged her knuckle. This would certainly do the trick. Christina did have long, elegant fingers. Moving to another knuckle, he wondered if she ever painted her nails red.

His gaze locked with hers.

“Uh, Your Highness,” she said, her cheeks flushed, “that’s the wrong finger.”

Richard let go of her hand as if it were a stick of dynamite ready to blow. He couldn’t explain his lapse nor why he felt as if he were ten years old and his mother had caught him playing with his great-great-grandfather’s jewel-encrusted sword.

“I’ll try it.” Christina pulled on the ring. “It’s still stuck, Your Highness.”

And so was he.

As long as the ring was on Christina’s finger, he was stuck with her.

She washed her hands. “My finger’s really swollen. I don’t think it’s coming off tonight, Your Highness.”

They had been at it so long. Too long. Richard noticed the dark circles under Christina’s eyes. “We will wait until morning to try again. You must be tired.”

The edges of her mouth turned up slightly. “I am, Your Highness, but if you wish to continue, I understand. I know you want your ring back.”

The genuine tone of her voice surprised him, as did her willingness to continue even though she was exhausted. He was used to people wanting things from him. Few ever offered to give anything in return.

“No, we shall wait.” He noticed her gown, now wrinkled and showing signs of the long evening. She could not sleep in it. “I will find you something to wear.”

She wiped her hands on a towel. “My dress is fine, Your Highness.”

The tight-fitting bodice pushed her breasts up and tapered to a V that accentuated her hourglass curves. “Actually, it is lovely, but I am sure the designer did not intend it to be worn to bed. Come with me.” Richard opened the mahogany armoire in his bedroom. He searched through the clothes and pulled a button-down hunter-green pajama top from the hanger. “Wear this.”

She ran her fingertips over the fabric. “It’s silk, Your Highness.”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s beautiful,” she said. “I just don’t want to ruin it. Couldn’t I borrow a T-shirt?”

“You will not ruin it.”

“That’s what they all say,” she mumbled before walking into the bathroom and closing the door.

Realizing he could not sleep as he normally did, he quickly changed into the matching pajama bottoms. Richard had not worn pajamas in years, just as he had never allowed a woman to spend the entire night with him in this suite. Well, he had never turned thirty before or had his engagement ring stuck on an American’s finger, either.

A night of firsts.

He wished it were over.

The bathroom door opened. Christina stepped out, carrying her gown and matching pumps. The only thing he could see were her bare feet with her toenails painted a shocking pink. She laid the gown on a nearby chair, bent down and set her shoes on the floor.

As she stood by his bed, Richard sucked in a breath, unable to stop himself from staring at her. Christina’s auburn hair fell past her shoulders, gently framing her face. Her beautiful face. The silky fabric brushed against the curves underneath. Her womanly curves. The pajama top fell midthigh on a pair of perfectly shaped legs. Her long legs. “You…you can have it now, Your Highness.”

He wanted it all right. He wanted…

Her.

He could not explain the rush of desire, the overwhelming sense of needing her, but he did not care. She was here; he was here. Why not make the best of a bad situation? After all, it was his birthday. He smiled at Christina.

Princess material, no. Lover material, yes.

Chapter Three

Prince Richard hadn’t said a word, but Christina could see it, feel it. While she’d been in the bathroom, he’d become the dashing prince she’d met in the grand hallway, the sexy prince who had set her heart aflutter.

His smile made her feel like the only piece of chocolate decadence at a Weight Watchers meeting. Chocolate that was starting to melt under his intense stare full of longing, desire, need. His gaze lingered, practically caressed, making her feel like a desirable woman.

And she resented it. Resented how she felt her own resolve weakening.

But she couldn’t help herself.

This man could steal any woman’s heart if he set his mind to it.

But not her heart, she reminded herself.

To be honest, she preferred his majestic scowl to the come-hither curve gracing his lips.

Lips made for nibbling, tasting, kissing.

Wait. They were only lips. Princely lips she didn’t want to have anything to do with. So what if his less-than-appealing personality didn’t diminish his sex appeal?

She wasn’t interested. Period.

And if she told herself that enough, she might eventually believe it. Not that it mattered, of course. She was simply overreacting, letting her imagination and hormones run wild.

The prince hadn’t propositioned her; he hadn’t said one word. Teasing—that’s what he was doing—teasing her to get a reaction. Those bedroom eyes meant nothing. Nothing at all.

Besides, Prince Richard didn’t like her; he was angry at her. She wore his ring. Maybe not actually wore, but the ring was on her finger. Didn’t he remember?

His smile widened, deepening the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Apparently, he’d forgotten about the ring. Temporary insanity. Or…

No, it couldn’t be.