If The Ring Fits...

But he was staring and smiling at her. A seductive smile designed to make any woman swoon. Maybe he did want to touch her, kiss her, make love to her.

Maybe she was blowing this out of proportion. Or maybe she had something on her face. She touched her cheek. “Is anything wrong, Your Highness?”

“No.” He took a step closer.

Christina gulped, feeling way out of her league. Especially with him wearing those pajama bottoms. His green silk pants left just enough to her imagination to make her want to see if what was under the fabric was as perfect as his defined abs, his wide shoulders and his not-overmuscled, but not-an-ounce-of-flab chest.

Typical vain man. Prancing around his bedroom like a Chippendale dancer. Okay standing, not prancing. “Can’t you put your top on?”

“You are wearing it,” he said.

The intimacy of wearing a matched set, something she imagined happening when she married someday, made her swallow hard. “I…”

“Are you offering me yours?”

“No.” She paused long enough to see his smile widen further. Uh-oh. His adorable dimple was back. “Don’t you have another pair?”

“Normally, I do not sleep in pajamas.”

Just what she needed to hear to send her imagination into overdrive. And into overdrive it went. What would it feel like to run her hands over the golden hair covering his Michelangelo-sculpted chest? To have his strong arms pick her up and carry her to the giant bed, a bed made for lovers?

Stop. Right now.

She shouldn’t be thinking like that. Not here, locked in a room—make that bedroom—with a half-naked, gorgeous prince. Christina wrapped her arms around her waist and inched away from the bed.

His bed.

Show him the ring. That will erase the smile from his face, the desire—make that lust—in his eyes.

But she couldn’t do anything except stare back entranced, hypnotized by the prince’s piercing gaze, by his incredible physique. She wanted to touch him, to see if he was real.

He took another step toward her. “Silk suits you, Christina.”

A compliment? Her pulse raced, speeding faster than the winning car at Indy. She stepped back and bumped into the wall. Trapped. Nowhere to go. She should be more worried than she was. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Her words sounded husky. Nothing like her normal voice. What was wrong with her? Nerves? She wet her Sahara-dry lips.

“When we are alone, you may call me Richard.”

Richard? She wouldn’t; she couldn’t.

He closed the distance between them. Her pulse broke the land-speed record. She glanced at the bed, then back at him. “Where, er, where should I…?”

Words failed her. The nearness of him left her tongue-tied.

“Where should you sleep?” He finished the question for her.

She nodded, not trusting her own voice. Not trusting herself.

His eyes twinkled with anticipation. “Where would you like to sleep?”

Talk about a loaded question. Her answer could get her into more trouble. Christina merely shrugged, fighting the urge to tremble as he moved even closer.

“The bed is big enough for two.”

No, it wasn’t. All she needed to make her trip to San Montico a complete disaster was to wake up and find herself tangled in the sheets, legs entwined, her head against his bare chest. Her father had told her to obey Prince Richard, but she didn’t think this was what he had in mind. Christina pressed her sweaty palms against the wall. “I’m used to sleeping alone.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Not really alone,” she admitted. “I mean, I sleep with Francis.”

“Frances?”

“My cat, and it’s Francis with an i.”

“You have a male cat.”

“No.” Christina couldn’t think straight, not with Prince Richard so close. Don’t think about him. Think about Francis. “She’s female, but I promised my grandfather I would name my first pet after Frank Sinatra. I myself felt compelled to name her after a character in Shakespeare, which gave me quite a dilemma.”

“So you came up with Francis.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t easy.” Neither was this. Richard’s spicy scent filled her nostrils. So earthy, so sensual, so male. Forget about him. “It was dumb luck I found a minor character named Francis in King Henry IV, Part 1. Did you know he’s the only character in the entire Shakespearean canon named Francis?”

“I did not.” Prince Richard reached for her collar, straightening it. His warm fingers brushed her skin, sending a shiver of sensation down her spine. “Francis is a lucky kitty.”

So am I. Christina bit the inside of her cheek.

Prince Richard ran his fingertips down the lapel, stopping when he reached the first button. “Tell me more about Francis.”

Christina didn’t want to think about what he was doing, about what she wanted him to do. “She’s cute—a tabby with calico spots and white fur on her chin and belly.” Christina watched with anticipation as he ran his fingertips along the circumference of the silk-covered button. “She’s a good cat. When I rub her belly, she purrs like an engine.”

Prince Richard flashed her a devastating grin that made her want to meow. “Belly rubs work wonders.”

“Yes, they…”

Warning bells sounded inside her head. You almost meowed, for heaven’s sake. Get away from him. Now.

Christina searched for a way out, an escape route. She saw nothing except two leather chairs in front of the fireplace. They would have to do. “About our sleeping arrangements, Your Highness. I can sleep on one of the chairs or on the floor.”

“The floor?” Prince Richard laughed. “That would be so uncomfortable. Surely we can do better than that.”

Not if she had any say in the matter. Christina stepped around him and moved toward the chairs. “That’s okay, Your, er, Highness. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve bedded down, I mean, slept.” Needing to shut up before she said something stupid, she faked a yawn. “I’m really tired.”

“If you are tired, it should not matter if we share the bed.”

“It would matter,” she said a little too quickly. “I mean—”

“What do you mean, Christina?”