The Prince's Proposal

The bright, impervious smile wavered. ‘I—I want to invite him to a book signing,’ she said literally, shaken.

‘A book-signing?’ He sounded lazy.

So why didn’t he feel lazy? He felt watchful and wary. It was as if there he was, watching and criticising and formulating acute observations right here and now in his head. He was just not going to share them with anyone. It was unsettling. And very, very sexy.

If only I could see his face properly. I’m getting new glasses first thing tomorrow.

‘Er—yes.’ Francesca made valiant attempts to pull herself together. Except for a slight ringing in the ears she managed it, too. ‘I’m a bookseller.’

She realised quite suddenly that it was the first time she had said it. It felt good. She stood taller and her pulses slowed a little.

‘Rather a new bookseller. I bought into an independent bookshop a few months ago.’

‘So you’re trying to prove your mettle,’ he said thoughtfully.

That hadn’t occurred to her. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Is it fun?’ He sounded genuinely interested.

She widened her eyes at him. It did not make her see any better but at least it hid the fact that she was as blind as a bat.

‘So far.’

‘You’re very cautious.’ He was so close that she could hear the smile in his voice, in spite of the heavy rock beat in the room behind them.

A laugh was surprised out of Francesca. She grinned up at him. ‘OK. So far it’s a blast. How’s that?’

There was an odd pause. She had the impression that he had suddenly become very intent. The temptation to wrinkle up her eyes to bring him into focus was almost overwhelming. I will not squint, she told herself fiercely.

‘Much more encouraging.’

Someone tried to slide the door open. He shifted, so that he blocked their way out onto the balcony. There was a muttered apology and the door went back into place.

Of course, she couldn’t be absolutely sure, not without being able to see his expression. But it felt as if he wanted to talk to her alone. As if he was uninterested in everyone else. And was making sure that nobody gatecrashed their t?te-?t?te.

Oh, wow, thought Francesca.

And then caught herself. That was the woman who had just been dumped speaking, right? She was much too mature to get excited because a man backed her into a corner at a party. Even if it was on a balcony under the stars.

‘Where is this bookshop of yours?’

‘A funny little side-street near the river in Fulham. Our shop was originally a couple of Victorian cottages. Behind the gasworks. You turn left off the King’s Road travelling west…’

She gave him precise directions because that was the way she worked. Francesca was nothing if not spot-on accurate. It seemed to amuse him.

He laughed. ‘You’re not a map-maker, by any chance?’

‘I like to get things clear,’ she said, slightly shamefaced. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s very useful. I could do with you on my team sometimes. You have no idea the number of people who think that getting you to roughly the right area is good enough.’

Francesca thought of the photographs of mountains and waterfalls she had seen in the entrance area before Jazz confiscated her glasses.

‘Are you a geographer?’

‘Sort of.’

She clocked the evasion and wondered about it. Was he a rival bookseller trying to tease out her secrets? But what would be the point of that, when he knew she had only been in the field for a few months? She was hardly a candidate for industrial espionage yet. Now, if it had been Jazz—She remembered her self-appointed task.

‘Of course, when I say book-signing, I mean more than that really. We are really building a customer community at The Buzz. Evening events, readings, talks, that sort of thing. People are actually phoning us up and asking when the next one is. We might even do something like this. Oh, not the disco atmosphere. But promoting several books on related subjects. It’s a great idea!’

She was babbling. She knew it. But she didn’t know why. Sure, he was tall but then so was nearly everyone here by her standards. She did not normally find tall people intimidating.

And he wasn’t intimidating exactly. Just—well—compelling. There was a quality in his silence that made her talk, too much and too loudly. And all the time she could feel him looking at her, as if there was something going on in his mind that he was not going to tell her about.

Boy, I get perceptive when I haven’t got my glasses.

She cleared her throat and said more rationally, ‘And what are you doing here?’

She sensed that he made his mind up about something.

‘Oh, I’m one of the performing fleas,’ he drawled.

She did not think she had heard him aright. ‘What?’

‘I’m singing for my supper. Or I will be when I’m trotted out to meet the Press in a few minutes’ time.’

‘Oh, you’re a writer,’ she said, relieved.

‘That’s not how I’d put it,’ the tall man said ruefully. ‘I just got caught by a predatory photographer when I was too weak to say no.’

‘Really?’ Francesca was sceptical. She did not think this man was ever weak.

He laughed. ‘You must have seen the pictures when you came in. Ten-foot-high volcanic eruptions and a leaping wolf that makes everyone take two steps backwards.’

‘I missed the wolf,’ she admitted.

‘Just as well. Nightmare stuff.’

She couldn’t imagine him having nightmares either. She did not say so.

Instead she said curiously, ‘You sound as if you disapprove.’

‘Me? Hey, what have I got to disapprove of? I’ve written one of the things. I don’t have to endorse each and every one.’

She did not believe the disclaimer. ‘But…?’ she prompted.

‘You’re sharp, aren’t you?’ He sounded faintly put out. ‘OK, I admit it. I’m not that keen on coffee-table books. I never expected to find myself contributing to one.’