His Undercover Princess (Tempt Me) (5 page)

It shouldn’t have mattered. He was a man with a hard dick and a willing, beautiful woman. The situation was one a million men would give their left nut to be in, but it pissed him off. “I’ve got no interest in being a breathing dildo for you to get off on.”

“Too bad, because I don’t do emotional connections.” She jerked
Huck Finn
from the shelf, releasing the door. “Good night.”

She hit the corresponding mechanism on the other side of the wall and closed the hidden door, shutting him out without even the briefest look back.

The princess was a bitch, and he was, no doubt, a total asshole. The whole situation was fucked, and he still had to persuade her to fight for her crown.

…

Elle held it together until the bookshelf swung closed before sinking to her knees, her whole body shaking and blackness threatening her vision. Forcing in a slow, deep breath, she closed her eyes and pictured a green field under a perfect blue sky. She exhaled, draining all of the air from her lungs and then inhaling through her nose until her chest expanded as far as it would go, the whole time hearing the sound of the salt-scented Elskovian breeze rushing up from the fjords and out over the long grass. That fiel
d north of the capital was her happy place, not the castle where she’d grown up, with its thick gray stone walls and ornate wrought-iron decorations. She’d played in it as a girl, the golden tufts atop the grass tickling her calves as she chased the fluffy white sheep that roamed there. Opening her eyes, she came back to the here and now. Another ragged in and out, and the black dots dancing on the edges of her vision faded away, her heart stopped trying to tear out of her chest, and the all-too-familiar panic sheathed its claws.

That had been a close one. Another minute with Dom and she would have let him into her bed, the first man to have ever been there. All of the others had been fast fucks in borrowed spaces followed by a quick good-bye. It was the best way to make sure they only saw the her she wanted them to see, not the woman she really was. Keeping it impersonal kept her safe, kept her alive, and kept her sane.

But Dom already knew who she was, so there was no danger of a stray word spoken in her sleep or a nightmare that curled around her throat, squeezing it tight, until she jackknifed awake, ready for battle with the dreamland ghosts she couldn’t touch. For some reason that scared her more. She hadn’t openly been herself for a decade and didn’t know if she could. She’d been born a princess, but that didn’t mean she knew how to be a queen.

She shivered, chilly in her underwear and silk thigh highs without Dom’s face-of-the-sun heat nearby. Hoping for a T-shirt or sweats left behind from a previous guest, she opened the heavy, wood dresser drawer. She gasped. It was filled with her underwear. She pulled open another drawer…her shirts…another…her workout clothes. Leaving the dresser with its drawers open like they’d been ransacked, she sprinted across the plush carpet to the mirrored closet doors and flung them wide, only to find the walk-in closet filled with her own dresses hung according to color and shoes displayed by heel height, just like she did at home.

The bastards.
They weren’t going to let her leave until she said yes. Her feet sank into the plush cream carpet as she paced in a wide arc from the French doors leading out to a private balcony, around the sturdy walnut four-poster bed and across to the eggshell-white chaise lounge decorated with small silver faux fur pillows. That’s where, earlier in the evening, she’d slept off the mixture of akvavit and whatever Dom had used to drug her prior to hauling her here.

Her options were limited. She knew where she was, thanks to Google Maps and the GPS in her phone. However, calling for help wasn’t an option, because who the hell was she going to call? The cops? The story of the lost princess would be front-page news in Harbor City before she even finished giving her statement. The Fjende would have a sniper on her as she walked out of the police station. She could hit the road on her own, but she didn’t have money or a car. Relying on the kindness of strangers had never worked out for her before, and she sure as shit didn’t expect it to now. Stealing Dom’s car wasn’t an option. She’d seen the cameras peppered throughout the compound. Until she knew enough about the security layout to avoid them completely—or got the anonymous all-seeing eyes to trust her enough to look away occasionally—she didn’t have a hope of getting near the compound’s garage without company.

That’s it.

She needed to get Dom to trust her. He’d said they had almost a week before the Kronig. That gave her more than enough time to placate him, get him to believe she was on board with his crazy take-back-the-throne plan. She glanced back at the closed hidden door leading to the library. Too bad she’d royally fucked up the perfect opportunity to do just that.

Chapter Seven

Dom punched the blue mug button on the most important machine in his life at the moment. Nothing happened. In another ten seconds, his vision was going to turn as red as his bloodshot eyes after a night spent staring unblinkingly at his ceiling. The coffeepot had too many fucking buttons. What was wrong with a plain old ordinary coffeepot that didn’t need little single-serve cups and eighty billion buttons?

“You need to add water,” Elle said from behind him.

His muscles locked, and he tightened his grip on his coffee cup. That the mug manag
ed not to break in his grasp was a testament to quality Elskovian manufacturing.
That voice.
He hadn’t stopped hearing both her sweet moans and her subsequent dismissal in his head since she’d disappeared last night.

“Here, let me show Mr. Big Bucks how things work in the real world where people have to make their own coffee.” She slid into the narrow space between him and the wall and removed the clear plastic container from the side of the infernal machine. The smell of fresh soap and flowery shampoo clung to her. “Excuse me.”

Still not looking in her direction, he took a step back and gave her access to the sink. Short of closing his eyes like a dog shoving its head under a pillow to avoid something that was only going to get him into trouble, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop from seeing her as she stepped in front of him and turned on the water before grabbing a mug from the open cabinet. Her long hair spilled down her back in wavy, still damp strands. Unable to help himself, his gaze followed her as she moved back in front of the coffeemaker, dipping to take in the way her jeans hugged her round ass and molded to the curve of her thighs. He gulped and stopped wondering about the Hulk-like sturdiness of his mug and started praying his zipper had been made with the same strength.

“So you put this here, pop in the coffee pod, hit the cup button, and…” The machine, obviously having fallen under her spell, made a hissing noise, and coffee streamed into her mug as she turned to face him. “Voilà, nectar of the gods.”

The brilliance of her smile activated every oh-shit alarm he had. This was not the same woman who’d told him to take a flying leap off the tallest peak last night. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see past the lust and sleep deprivation messing with his vision. “What’s with the happy helper attitude all of the sudden?”

A flush surged above the V of her sweater, and she nibbled her juicy bottom lip—the one that tasted better than cherries warmed by the sun—but she didn’t look away. “I’m shitty at apologies.”

“As royalty, I doubt you’ve had to offer many,” he said, still trying to unravel her change in attitude toward him.

She shrugged and took her now full mug from the evil machine, blowing on it, sending a plume of steam toward him. “I haven’t been a princess in a long time, and stylists make them all the time, especially for shoppers who don’t do casual.”

The reminder of his words to her in the Dylan’s showroom had his lips curling upward before he could stop himself.

“Last night was…” She paused, giving him a fragile smile that looked about to tremble. “A shock. Really, the whole day was, and I reacted, and acted, badly. I’ve made it through the past ten years by keeping secrets. I didn’t think about tomorrow, because for too long I’ve been running from a past I couldn’t tell anyone about. Getting close to anyone was the most dangerous thing I could do. Compartmentalizing everything, including sex, helped me do that, and to make that work I had to have rules, like no beds, no overnights, no connections.”

Fuck. He’d acted like she was only a means to an end and not a person. He’d kidnapped her—for her own good, of course—and now she was making excuses to him for her behavior after he’d gone all horny caveman on her. An uncomfortable and unfamiliar guilt slithered down his spine. “You don’t have to tell me this.”

“I do.” And this time her full lips did tremble, just enough to make him want to reach out, but she let out a sigh and stilled the quiver. “I was a bitch last night, and I’m sorry.”

He stiffened, the formality he’d learned growing up on the farthest edge of the royal circle locking his joints into place. “It’s not necessary to apologize for not wanting to have sex with me.”

She took a sip of her coffee, watching him from over the rim. “I never said I didn’t want you.”

Her declaration, more challenge than admission, hung in the coffee-scented air between them as he tested out the angles in his head. Her words had the ring of truth, but there was an underlying…something tensing up his gut. She was stirring up trouble, or she was bat-shit crazy. Either option was as likely as the other right now, and neither was helpful to the cause he’d devoted his life to.

“I’m glad we didn’t have sex.” There was that delicate shrug of hers again. “It would have made the days ahead awkward, since I need you to teach me everything there is to know about Elskov and the plan to get me back on the throne.”

That was not what he’d been expecting. Having to sniff his coffee for poison? Yes. Finding a kitchen knife slid up her sleeve? Absolutely. Her simple agreement less than twelve hours after saying she’d think about it? Nope.

“So you’re in, huh?” he asked, watching her face as if he could glean what she was hiding.

She didn’t even twitch. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re here because I stole you away and the Fjende are hot on your trail.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to be queen anymore?” She was all big, innocent eyes and unassuming sweetness as she drank her coffee.

“I don’t trust your sudden change of heart.” Damn, someone really needed to rename him Captain Obvious after his last two statements.

“Fair enough,” she said, her voice steady and neutral.

That was it. No denial. No rambling promises. She played her cards so close he’d need to be inside her head to get a look at them. Too bad for her that wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d gotten to where he was in the world because no one dissected a problem—made by man or the divine—like he did. She leaned against the counter, obviously willing to wait him out, and traced her fingertip across the top of her mug, as gently as if she was touching a lover. His cock thickened. No doubt it was exactly the result she’d hoped for.

She might be playing, but he wasn’t. It didn’t get more real than what was going down in four days. Everything depended on it, and he wasn’t about to let his dick fuck it up.

He held out his mug to her. “Make me a cup?”

She took the mug and worked her magic on the coffeemaker again before turning to face him. “I’ll do it on three conditions.”

Yes. Now this was more like the Elle he’d met yesterday. “And those are?”

All business now, the flirtatious vibe disappeared replaced with a steely attitude that reminded him of her father.

“While we’re here, you call me Elle.”

“Done.” He nodded. “What else?”

“I need to know the plan,” she said. “The whole thing, not just the parts that involve me. I need to know about security. I need the whole picture.”

Since it went against his training to laugh in the face of royalty, he swallowed his amusement. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then I’m not the princess you’re looking for,” she said, hinting at an addiction to American movies that was well documented in her file.

“Nice try, Obi-Wan.” He smirked. “But that doesn’t work with me.”

“Your choice. You can’t force me to take the throne.” Elle was as smug as if she had spent her life sitting on the gold throne and wearing the jewel-encrusted crown.

He snorted; he couldn’t help himself. “Really?”

“Let me rephrase. You won’t force me.”

Her confidence poured metaphorical ice water over his head, because she was right. Forty-eight hours ago he could have done it without even a twinge of conscience, but not now. She’d stopped being a symbol and become a person, one with a smart-ass streak a mile wide and who responded so enthusiastically to his caress that it was like touching someone for the first time.

“Interesting theory,” he said, his voice sounding strained to his own ears.

“You know it’s more than that.” She didn’t move from her spot lounging against the counter. She didn’t need to—her every word was a direct challenge that had him hotter than lava. “I spent the night awake thinking about you, about what you wanted from me, and why. You’re not power hungry. You’re not maniacal. You’re doing the right thing for the right reason, and like a good Elskovian you’ll do whatever it takes to win. Pissing off your future queen only hurts your ultimate goal.”

She was quick, he’d give her that. While he’d stop short of forcing her sweet ass onto the throne, that left room for a lot of other ways to persuade her to his way of thinking. “I like that you were thinking about me.”

Heat flared in her gaze. “The third condition is I want to know what happens to you if this whole thing works out.”

Taking a step closer, he left enough space between them that they weren’t touching, even though he could feel every delectable inch of her. “When, not if, Princess.”

The vein in her throat beat faster as her tongue sneaked out and wet her lips. “All right, what happens to you
when
this is over?”

He reached out, he couldn’t help it, and toyed with the cashmere belt that kept her sweater tied shut. “I go back to London knowing the Fjende have been defeated and you’re back safe where you belong.”

The uptick in her breath. The way her nipples pebbled under the pink sweater. The need coming off her in waves so strong he knew that if he slipped a hand down her jeans he’d find her soaked and ready for him. All of it combined to almost make him forget why they were here in this mountain compound—which was exactly why, instead of pulling the belt so her sweater fell open, he let it slip through his fingers.

“Why would you do so much for a country you never planned to return to?” she asked in a husky, unsure voice.

The caveman part of him, the part that wanted to strip her naked and spread her legs wide so he could taste her again, yowled at the reminder of the real reason they were both here: the plan, the one that couldn’t fail. The one he wouldn’t let fail. His parents’ memory demanded it.

“I can’t. I’m a son of Elskov, but not a citizen,” he said. “Rich royalist supporters as they were, my parents weren’t citizens. That’s what would have made them the perfect cover and caretakers for you after the coup.”

She picked her mug up from the counter and took a long sip, as if processing his announcement. “After the Kronig, I’ll never see you again?”

“Royalty runs in different circles than I do.” To put it mildly. He’d worked hard to create the perfect cover, that of the rich, entitled, obnoxiously new-monied Dom Rasmussen, who was always surrounded by starlets, social climbers, and people of dubious morals. His misdeeds and excesses were all lovingly Instagrammed and documented on fans’ Tumblrs. He was a social media–savvy Gatsby for the twenty-first century. “If you’ve read any of the gossip sites, you know I’m beyond socially unacceptable.”

“Will the world ever know your part in this?”

“Not if we do this right.” And he prayed like hell that’s exactly how everything would go down.

She removed his mug from the coffeemaker and held it out to him. “You really are Bruce Wayne.”

“You watch too many Hollywood movies.” He took his mug, his fingers brushing hers for a brief moment that seared his skin, and held it up in a toast. “Long live the queen.” He tapped her mug. “Now let’s get to work.”

…

With three days to go before the Kronig, Elle found herself sweaty, panting, and flat on her back underneath Dom. Of course, she was fully dressed and in the compound’s gym, which took all the fun out of things—at least the kind of fun she imagined every night when she was alone in that mammoth bed with her fingers between her legs. The man was lethal to her self-control.

“Explain to me again why we’re doing this?” she asked between heavy breaths as she remained pinned between the thick workout mat and Dom’s hard body.

He stood up, planting his feet on each side of her as he reached down to help her up. “Because I won’t always be with you.”

“And because of that, I have to go to princess pummeling academy?” She took his hand, the now familiar sizzle of electricity arcing between them and jolting her down to her toes, and he yanked her up into a standing position.

He gave her a crooked grin and winked. “Exactly.”

Once again, they faced off, circling each other on the red mat. Muscles she didn’t even know she had ached from the daily afternoon workouts, and her brain was so full of the latest political gossip about Elskov’s most powerful and influential people that it was about to leak out her ears. And when she wasn’t getting beaten up, learning how inadequate the self-defense class she’d taken in Harbor City was, or watching yet another PowerPoint presentation about the realities of ruling a country, she was fantasizing about picking up where they’d left off in the library her first night here. Not that he’d made a move in that direction. Oh, he’d flirted as easily as he breathed, but that was it.

She should be glad.

She wasn’t.

“This sucks,” she muttered as she landed a solid punch to his rock-hard midsection.

He laughed off her effort. “Not as bad as dying.”

True story. Death was not part of her plan to get out of here, ditch the throne, and disappear again before the Fjende had a chance to know she was in the wind. “You’re smug when you’re right.” Another jab that he dodged without flinching.

“I guess that means I’m smug all the time.” He rested his hands on his narrow hips, his thumbs even with the V-shaped indents along his hips that made her mouth go dry.

Judging by the way his gaze kept flickering between her eyes and her hands, he expected another punch or jab. Taking advantage of the moment, she kicked out her leg, sweeping his out from underneath him. He landed with a solid thump on his ass.

Triumph soothed her aches. “Not so full of yourself now, are you?”

Too late, she felt his fingers close around her ankle. The ground flip-flopped with the ceiling, and she landed on her back. Before she could force the air back in her lungs, Dom straddled her with his knees on either side of her hips. He clasped her wrists and pushed them above her head, trapping her beneath his perfect body covered only by a loose pair of workout shorts. Sweat glistened on his defined pecs, and his biceps bulged. Above her, his blue eyes darkened as his gaze dipped to her mouth.