The Prince's Love-Child

‘Are you coming straight back to the hotel?’ Kitty asked.

Lucy turned. Her fellow stewardess was applying a coat of lipstick without the use of a mirror, and Lucy made a silent gesture to indicate that she had smudged it. ‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Well, I wasn’t sure…’ Kitty gave a mischievous grin as she wiped away the errant trace of pink gloss. ‘Whether or not you’d be seeing your Prince.’

This emphasis on the word was commonplace, and Lucy had grown used to the teasing by now, even though at first she hadn’t quite known how to react. It had been a peculiar situation—not just for the rest of the cabin crew, but for her, too. Ordinary girls didn’t date princes! And yet it seemed that they did. In fact, they—

But her thoughts were frozen and her steps very nearly followed. Some governing sense of instinct kept her moving forward, forward…because for a minute there she had almost thought she’d seen Guido.

‘Isn’t that him?’ asked Kitty curiously, following the direction of Lucy’s stare.

Thank God they were far enough away for him not to be able to see that her face had grown pale. Or at least Lucy was imagining that it had grown pale—for surely there would have to be some physical manifestation of the dizzy sensation she was experiencing. As if all the blood had left her veins, leaving her limbs dry and ready to crumple. Keep walking, she told herself. Just keep walking.

‘It is!’ breathed Kitty. ‘Oh, my God—it’s him! He’s come to meet you! How romantic is that?’

Lucy let her brows slide up beneath the russet curtain of her fringe. ‘I don’t hear you sounding so surprised when other people’s boyfriends come to meet them,’ she observed drily.

‘That’s because other people don’t go out with princes,’ chided Kitty.

Lucy shook her head. ‘He’s just a man,’ she contradicted faintly, but she knew that her words lacked conviction.

Because he wasn’t.

She let her gaze drift over him as she walked towards the brilliant black eyes which had her spotlighted in their sight. Prince or no prince, he was the kind of man most women didn’t happen across—not even once in a lifetime.

There was something about the way he carried himself which drew the eye, something about an air of arrogant assurance coupled with a lazy kind of supremacy. Had royal blood and upbringing given him those qualities which seemed to make him stand head and shoulders above the crowd, or would he have had them anyway?

He was standing beside a pillar, half in the shadows, for she knew that he would have sought shelter from prying eyes. Guido had rejected princely life, but its legacy meant that he could never quite shake it off. People were fascinated by the title, but more usually they were fascinated by him—and who could blame them?

Over and over again Lucy had watched as they fawned over him and hung on his every word—men and women, but especially women. They drank in the dark, imposing looks, and the sexy, accented drawl, and the careless sensuality which came as naturally to him as breathing.

He was a man in a million—and Lucy still wasn’t quite sure what he saw in her. Sometimes she felt as though she was living in a bubble, and that one of these days it was going to burst and she would be left with the dull and rather stark reality of life without Guido.

Don’t make it into more than it is, she reminded herself savagely. A casual love affair—nothing more and nothing less. And if, by nature of who he is, he provides a fairytale aspect to the affair—then just enjoy it and don’t build it up.

Her half-smile staying in place as though it had been painted on, she waved a quick goodbye to Kitty and walked over to where he waited, a dark and brooding image in cool, expensive linen. The ecstatic clamour of her heart was deafening her, but she gave him a look as steady as any she would give to one of her passengers in First Class who was asking for a glass of champagne.

‘Hello, Guido,’ she said, in a low, clear voice. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’

He might have felt admiration if he hadn’t been overwhelmed by frustration. Did nothing affect her bar sex itself? For it was then—and only then—that she let go completely. Looking at the serene smile which seemed to make a mockery of her schoolgirl freckles, he found it hard to imagine her whispering his name, or screaming it, or shuddering with helpless, racking moans against his shoulder.

Guido felt the quickening of his heart, knowing that his instincts were fighting a battle with his reason. Had it not been her ice-coolness which had set her apart and made him determined to possess her? Had he somehow imagined that he would melt it away completely, leaving her in his thrall—like all the others—so that he could happily walk away?

‘Perhaps I would not have bothered if I had known you would give me such a lukewarm welcome,’ he parried silkily.

She saw the glitter from his black eyes—recognising now, as she had recognised from the very start, that here was a man who was used to lavish displays of affection and would be bored by them. So she had not given them. From an early age Lucy had learnt to do what people wanted—some might call it people-pleasing; she would define it as making sure she got on with folks.

‘So, what would you like me to do?’ she murmured. ‘Fling my arms around your neck and scream with delight?’

‘You can save that for later. In bed,’ he returned mockingly, and was rewarded with a faint flush of colour which crept over her pale, freckle-splattered skin.

A blush might be beyond her control, but the flashing light of challenge which sparked from her eyes was not. She lifted her chin and mocked him back. ‘Maybe I’m tired and need my sleep.’

‘And maybe you don’t.’ He lifted his hand to her face and slowly drifted a fingertip down over her flushed face, finishing with a deliberately erotic tracing of her lips, which made them tremble slightly and open. He wanted to bend his head to kiss them, but of course he didn’t.

He could just imagine the headlines. An erotic and public kiss in newspaper-speak meant only one thing—impending wedding bells.

But if he was cool, then Lucy was cooler still—and his eyes glittered as their gazes mingled.

‘Give me your bag,’ he said steadily. ‘I have the car waiting.’

She had played her part. The necessary part. Not thrown herself into his arms. Hardly even a shiver of pleasure when he had touched her—but enough was enough and Lucy wanted him. Badly. She let him take her small case and allowed herself the luxury of a smile.

‘Lovely. Are you driving?’

Lovely? Suddenly he was filled with the need to shatter her icy composure. ‘No,’ he said softly, as they made their way through the hall, oblivious to the curious glances they attracted. ‘I have a chauffeur hidden behind dark glass, so he will be unable to see when I begin to kiss you. The glass is soundproof, too—so that when your breathing begins to quicken as I put my hand up your skirt he will not hear it.’

Her mouth had dried unbearably. ‘Oh, Guido, don’t,’ she whispered.

He felt the exquisite hardness and knew that he must stop this. But not quite yet.

‘Nor will he notice when I slide your panties down and pull you onto my lap…’

‘Guido—’

‘Hard down onto my lap.’

‘G-Guido—’

He moved his lips to her ear, speaking in a silken whisper as he inhaled her fragrance. ‘And I will move you up and down, up and down—filling you completely, until you gasp—’

‘Guido!’ She was gasping now, her head light, her pulse-rate frantic.

He saw the way her steps had begun to falter, and he caught her by the arm just as a black limousine purred to a halt beside them. In French, he bit out some terse instructions to the driver, and then he propelled her onto the back seat, sliding in beside her and slamming the door shut behind them, imprisoning them in a luxurious, dimly-lit world of their own as he imprisoned her in the warm circle of his arms.

She was so hot with wanting that she could barely speak his name as he pushed her down onto the seat and her hat fell from her head. ‘Guido—’

But there was no reply other than the sweet pressure of his mouth as he began to kiss her, transporting her to that place where nothing mattered other than the feel and taste and smell and touch of him. She threaded her fingers luxuriously in the rich ebony satin of his hair and moved her body restlessly against his. And froze in excited horror as she felt his hand on her knee and remembered his words.

Surely he didn’t mean to—?

But he was moving his hand, and she was writhing in response to the direction it was taking, her hips belying the words which she forced herself to say.

‘No, we can’t,’ she protested, her voice slurred with wanting. ‘We mustn’t. Not here.’

‘Why not? The thought of it turned you on. You know it did.’ He touched her above the stocking-top, where the bare flesh was a tantalising contrast of cool silk with warm blood pulsing beneath. ‘I could read it in your eyes.’

‘It may…Oh, God…’ Her eyes closed and her head fell back against the soft leather upholstery as his fingertips skated tantalisingly close to where heat seared at her so frustratingly. ‘It…it may have turned me on. It doesn’t mean it’s right.’