Loe raamatut: «Charming The Prince»

“You’re A Little Skittish This Morning, Doctor.”

“And you’re a little sneaky, Your Highness,” Fran told him.

Max shot her a sideways glance. “Just a little?”

“Well, I was trying to be gracious. You know, you being the sovereign around here and all.”

“Technically, I’m not the sovereign. That would be my father. But I understand your point.” He stood and walked over to her, amusement glistening in his eyes. “Afraid I might lock you up in a dungeon?”

Fran tipped her chin up. “I’m not afraid of anything, Your Highness. Even being locked up all alone—”

“Who said anything about alone?” His grin went wide.

Awareness moved through her like warm molasses. Why, oh why, did she have to turn to mush when this man was near? It just wasn’t fair. She could control every aspect of her life, every emotion—every need. But here in Fantasyland with Prince Foxy, she was reduced to…well, female.

Dear Reader,

Revel in the month with a special day devoted to L-O-V-E by enjoying six passionate, powerful and provocative romances from Silhouette Desire.

Learn the secret of the Barone family’s Valentine’s Day curse, in Sleeping Beauty’s Billionaire (#1489) by Caroline Cross, the second of twelve titles in the continuity series DYNASTIES: THE BARONES—the saga of an elite clan, caught in a web of danger, deceit…and desire.

In Kiss Me, Cowboy! (#1490) by Maureen Child, a delicious baker feeds the desire of a marriage-wary rancher. And passion flares when a detective and a socialite undertake a cross–country quest, in That Blackhawk Bride (#1491), the most recent installment of Barbara McCauley’s popular SECRETS! miniseries.

A no-nonsense vet captures the attention of a royal bent on seduction, in Charming the Prince (#1492), the newest “fiery tale” by Laura Wright. In Meagan McKinney’s latest MATCHED IN MONTANA title, Plain Jane & the Hotshot (#1493), a shy music teacher and a daredevil fireman make perfect harmony. And a California businessman finds himself longing for his girl Friday every day of the week, in At the Tycoon’s Command (#1494) by Shawna Delacorte.

Celebrate Valentine’s Day by reading all six of the steamy new love stories from Silhouette Desire this month.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Charming the Prince
Laura Wright

LAURA WRIGHT

has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently, she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theater production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811 Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at laurawright@laurawright.com.

To my own Prince Charming, Daniel.

You make life a fairy tale for me every day.

To my new friends, and wonderful authors,

Kristi Gold and Bronwyn Jameson. You guys are the best. And to Lois J. Thomasson of Fleetwind

Wolfhounds. Thank you for helping me to understand the glorious wolfhound. I’m still waiting for my puppy!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

One

Francesca Charming didn’t believe in fairy tales, despite her whimsical surname. But with real-life royal cobblestones under her feet, the purple-and-gold Llandaron flag snapping crisply in the warm morning wind and the ancient fortress standing regally before her, a girl could change her mind.

The seven-story castle of white stone and polished elegance sat high on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic coastline. Rows of creamy-marble steps crept up, up, until they reached a massive wooden portcullis. Hundreds of windows peeked out at Fran through their frames of slender evergreen climbers, while on both ends of the amazing dwelling, two white towers extended their pepper-pot necks toward an azure sky.

And all around her, the scents of heather and salt-water carried on the breeze slowly lulling her from all thoughts of business, of why she’d come to—

“Welcome to Llandaron, miss.”

Fran jumped at the spirited burr, whirled around. A gardener pruning a wedge of fragrant honeysuckle gave her a wink. “First time to the castle, eh? Surely takes the breath away, doesn’t it?”

The magic from a moment ago vanished and reality set in. Indulging in a child’s fantasy was not why Fran had come to Llandaron. She’d come to the small island nation to work—to earn the money that would finally put the wheels of a lifelong dream in motion. And Fran’s dream, her one and only goal, was to open a Los Angeles-based animal-surgery facility.

Gripping her veterinary bag tightly to her side, she smiled at the gardener and said in her most professional tone, “Yes, I’m Dr. Charming. I just arrived this morning. I’m looking for the stables. Am I going the right way?”

The gardener clipped her a nod. “Just keep following the path you’re on and you’ll run straight into it. Make sure to ask for Charlie when you get down there. He runs things.” The man turned away to tend to a young fir tree. “He’ll show you round.”

“Thank you.” Fran turned and continued down the stone path, her traitorous gaze once again lapping up every detail she encountered.

All the books she’d read on Llandaron boasted of its “lush, wild beauty in the spring.” But such a description didn’t do the land justice. As she walked through a manicured garden that sloped gently toward the grand-looking stables, she took in the impossibly green lawns in the distance, small curves of hill blooming scads of tiny red flowers, and chunks of purple heather that dwelled amongst groomed shrubbery and ancient trees.

Only a hundred miles from Cornwall, England, Llandaron seemed a world away.

Gripping her black bag more tightly, Fran walked into the streamlined stables with what she hoped was an air of confidence. Horses nickered at her from their exceptionally clean stalls, and she allowed herself the time to give each a soft rub on their blazes before she marched down a lengthy hallway looking for a man called Charlie.

But when she came to the last stall, she stopped dead in her tracks. As she stared at the amazing sight before her, her knees went butter soft, and her throat desert dry as her pulse kicked and punched in her veins.

Pitchfork in hand, his bare back to her, a man was scooping up hay and tossing the tawny flakes into an adjacent stall. With no thought of what she was doing, Fran let her gaze travel from scuffed boots upward to faded jeans that encased strong, muscular thighs and, Lord almighty, one fine, fine backside. She licked her lips, her gaze progressing. He had a tapered waist and a broad, tanned back that bunched with lean muscle and glistened with sweat.

She released a soft sigh of appreciation. To her dismay, the man turned at the sound, saw her staring and grinned.

“Hello there.” The brogue was native Llandaron, the words slipping from his firm, sensual lips like melted chocolate, coating her senses in a very satisfying heat.

Fran struggled to find her voice. Tongue-tied and awestruck was not her usual style around men. Aloof and impassive was what she strove for, but this six-foot god, with his thick, wavy black hair, chiseled features and thick brows positioned over deep-set Prussian-blue eyes, wasn’t like any man she’d ever seen.

Her gaze dipped to his chest, dusted with hair and thickly muscled. He had what the girls in her office called a six-pack. Truly sigh worthy, she mused as she balled her hands into fists to keep them from reaching out to feel that chest, feel those muscles bunch and flex beneath her palms.

With every ounce of fortitude she possessed, she cleared her throat and adopted a confident tone. “You must be Charlie.”

He leaned casually against the door frame, his steady gaze warming her blood. “I must?”

From his tone, Fran couldn’t tell if his reply was a question or an answer, but she didn’t press the matter. There was no way she was going to let this guy know how flustered and unsure he made her feel. “I’m Dr. Francesca Charming—Fran, actually.”

Comprehension lit those magnetic eyes of his. “The veterinarian from America.”

“California.”

His wicked blue gaze traveled lazily over her until he paused at her mouth. “Blond hair, tanned skin, long legs and beautiful eyes. A California girl.”

Her unsophisticated beige pants and blue wrinkle-free blouse suddenly felt like black, lacy, racy lingerie. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks and she willed it away. For Pete’s sake, she was a city girl. She didn’t blush or twitter like a blue jay in the spring. She gave guys with too much cockiness a good dressing-down—of course, all the while hoping they couldn’t tell that one big wimp resided behind her self-possessed facade.

“Have you had enough of a look?” she asked, tipping her chin up a fraction. “Or would you like me to turn around?”

His gaze lifted to meet hers, his expression littered with amusement. “I think I should be asking you the same thing.”

She swallowed thickly. True enough.

A smile tugged at his lips. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

He drew a circle in the air with one long tapered finger. “You did make the offer, Dr. Charming. And I think it’s only fair you show me yours after you had such a long look at mine.”

Her eyes went wide. “I did no such thing! And…well, there is no way I’m going to turn…I was just…that wasn’t meant as a—”

He grinned. “Maybe some other time, then.”

“I don’t think so.”

She looked away, searching for the reason she’d come to Llandaron. Her gaze scanned the large office to her right with its comfortable furnishing and windows on every wall, then paused as she finally saw what she was looking for. Over by an open bay window, lying on six feet of plush green whelping bed was a pretty wolfhound with a fat belly and liquid-brown eyes. A patch of sun filtered into the room through the window screen, bathing the dog in pale light.

Ten days ago Fran had never heard of King Oliver or his wolfhound—goodness, she’d barely heard of Llandaron—until her partner and could-be-fiancé, Dr. Dennis Cavanaugh, was offered the “royal” post. Dennis’s reputation with the pets of the rich and famous in Los Angeles had earned him invitations to fancy places all the time. But this particular time, he was too occupied with a certain young film star’s bichon frise to leave the country. So he’d recommended Fran for the job. With the generous fee and her need for a little breathing room, she hadn’t had to think too long or too hard about the offer.

The wolfhound glanced up at Fran then, perhaps wondering who she was and why she’d come. Fran smiled. “Well, aren’t you a beauty,” she said, walking the few steps to the office doorway and reaching for the handle on the gate that separated them.

But before she could lift the latch, a large hand clamped over hers, sending a jolt of heat spiraling up her arm. “Allow me, Doctor.”

A soft gasp escaped Fran’s throat as she snatched her hand out from under his.

“I hope I didn’t burn you,” he said with dry humor, opening the gate and allowing her entrance.

She walked swiftly past him. “You did nothing.”

The man chuckled and muttered a husky, “Are you sure?”

Fran walked over to her patient, her cheeks flaming. Embarrassment swam in her blood—at her silly reaction to his touch and at the out-and-out lie that his simple hand-over-hand contact did nothing to her.

If she had her druthers, she’d tell him right here, right now that he could take off, that she could handle things from here. But she knew that the wolfhound would be far more at ease with someone she knew, and the dog’s health was more important than some annoying and unwelcome palpitations.

“So you’re my patient?” Fran said with practiced calm, sitting down beside the very pregnant wolfhound. The unease she felt in the company of the stimulating stable hand began to evaporate. She was with her patient—she was where she belonged.

“Her name is Grand Dame Glindaron.” In seconds the man was at her side, bending down, his faded jeans pulling taut against his muscular thighs, his previously naked chest now covered with a worn black T-shirt. “But we call her Glinda.”

“Glinda, huh?” Fran reached out and let the dog sniff her hand. “As in the good witch?”

“The good witch?” the man repeated.

“You know, The Wizard of Oz.” She glanced over at him. “Glinda the good witch?” None of this seemed to be registering. “It’s a movie.”

He sat back on his heels. “Ah, we don’t get those here.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

He gave her a sinful grin.

“Very funny, Charlie,” she said dryly.

He looked down at the floor for a moment, and Fran felt relieved—like finding a patch of shade from the blistering sun—yet she couldn’t drag her gaze away from him. That highly kissable mouth, killer body. Such a package was lethal for a woman who had sworn off sex appeal in favor of sweet-natured.

With all her might, Fran tried to conjure up an image of Dennis. But it was no use. The stable hand’s mesmerizing eyes were powerful and persistent. If the guy ever wanted to quit working at the stables and go into hypnosis, he could probably make a fortune.

“Actually, Llandaroners love a good movie,” the man was saying as he gave Glinda a good scratch behind her ear. “The royal family, as well. And in fact, The Wizard of Oz is purported to be the king’s favorite.”

“I’m glad to know that His Majesty has good taste. In movies and in animals.” Opening her medical bag, Fran took out a thermometer and a stethoscope. She’d given Glinda a few moments to relax, get accustomed to her voice and movement. It was time to get to work, and if the disturbing stable hand was going to hang around, she’d just have to grin and bear it.

After today, she and Glinda would be at ease with each other, and Fran wouldn’t have to see or talk to the guy again.

“Do you take care of Glinda?” she asked, switching into doctor mode.

“I keep a close eye on her.”

“Then I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

“Is she eating and drinking?”

“Eating less, drinking more.”

Fran nodded. “Has she had any bleeding, vomiting or diarrhea?”

“No.”

“All right.” She scooted closer to the hound. “Why don’t you pet her, keep her calm, while I take a listen and a look.”

He raised an amused brow. “Are you asking me to assist you, Doctor?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?”

“I certainly don’t want to take you away from your work,” she explained.

“My work?”

She gestured toward the stables. “Cleaning the stalls and feeding the animals…”

“Ah, yes, of course. My work.” His eyes glinted blue fire. “I think I can spare a few minutes.”

Awareness stirred in her belly, deep and low—in a place so foreign she was caught off guard for a moment. But she fought her way back. “All right, but I don’t want to get you into any trouble with your boss, so let me know if I’m taking up too much of your time.”

“That’s very considerate,” he said on a dry chuckle. “But there’s nothing to worry about. My employer and I are on very good terms.”

After taking the wolfhound’s temperature, Fran listened to her heart and lungs and the sound of the sweet little pups in her belly. She took her time with the incredibly healthy wolfhound, thankful to have a break from the sexy stable hand for a moment. Never in her life had she been so affected or so attracted. Surely not with any of the good-looking men in L.A. Not even with Dennis.

“Wolfhounds can have fairly high-risk pregnancies,” the man said when Fran took off her stethoscope and began checking the wolfhound’s eyes and ears. “I understand that you’re a specialist in such cases.”

“That rumor is true.”

“There are others?” He leaned closer to Glinda as Fran opened the dog’s mouth to check her teeth.

“Sure.” She played along, keeping the mood light, while she tried desperately not to take in the man’s delectable scent. Suede and virile male. “But they’re all lies or at the very least, half-truths.”

“I still wouldn’t mind hearing them.”

She pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “I don’t think they’d be appropriate subject matter for the sweet and innocent subjects of Llandaron.”

The heavy-lidded look he shot her way clearly stated that he was neither sweet nor innocent.

As if she didn’t know that.

“What do you think of Llandaron, Dr. Charming?” he asked, his face a mere whisper from hers.

“Well, I’ve only been here for a few hours, but what I have seen is…” Suddenly her breath caught as his gaze dropped brazenly to her mouth.

“Impressive?” he asked, his gruff baritone wrapping around her like silk on steel.

“Yes,” she answered in some kind of hazy whisper that she’d heard women use in the movies, but had never heard come out of her own mouth.

What was happening here? she thought wildly as a sudden flash of salty air rushed through the open window. What the devil was happening to her? Maybe she should’ve stayed in Los Angeles with Dennis, let someone else take the job.

Fran thrust that irrational thought away. So she was attracted to this man. It happened. It didn’t mean she was going to do anything about it or, more importantly, let it interfere with her job.

“Llandaron is rather impressive,” the man said, nudging her out of her self-analysis. “The people are proud of their country. Its unmarred beauty and peaceful existence.”

“They should be proud. It’s an amazing place.” She returned to Glinda, stroking the wolfhound’s wiry gray fur, eager for the dog to get comfortable with her. “Have you lived here all your life?”

“In Llandaron or here in the palace?”

“Either one.”

“Yes to both.”

“So you grew up in style, huh?” she said on a soft chuckle. “Your parents worked here and now you do?”

“Some would call it the family business.”

She couldn’t help herself. She glanced over at him, her brow furrowed. “That sounded almost regretful.”

“One’s choices in life are not always his own, Doctor.”

“That is such bunk,” she shot back.

He chuckled. “You think so?”

“Yes, I do.” Glinda put her head on Fran’s knee and closed her eyes. “We have one chance at this life. Giving others control over it—control over something as precious as our choices—is a waste.”

“Of time?”

“Of life.” Once she started on a subject like this, she couldn’t be stopped. “My father always said, ‘Life’s a gift.’” Fran’s heart squeezed painfully at the thought of her father. He’d been gone almost sixteen years, died and left her alone with a non-family who barely remembered her name. But even so, her love for him remained resolute.

The man beside her watched her intently, his expression shuttered. “What about the king’s children, Doctor? To them, duty and honor must come first. They don’t have the luxury of choice.”

“Of course they do. They just chose the duty and honor over their wants and needs.” Just as she had chosen sweet and steady Dennis over the smooth talkers who only wanted one thing, then moved on to their next conquest after they got it. No fairy tales or fairy-tale princes for her. Just lots of wolves in Armani clothing. Thank God, she’d only fallen for their silver-tongued appeal once.

She returned her attention to Glinda, feeling her belly, and the little puppies that grew there. “It’s funny, most people romanticize the royals—the life-style—the parties and balls, the perfect kisses and the handsome prince and all that.”

“But not you?”

“No.” She stayed in safe territory with her response. “When I was young, I didn’t sit in front of a Disney cartoon enraptured like other little girls did.”

“What did you do, instead?”

Fran couldn’t help but smile. “Made splints for the injured animals that found their way into our yard.”

“And I’ll bet you cured every one.” Gentle humor laced his tone.

“Most. But some things were beyond my control.” Like her stepbrothers’ cruel games and tricks, hiding her precious animals until she cried and begged for their return.

Fran forced the past back where it belonged and adopted a relaxed smile. “Let’s just say that I’ve never been one to see things through a rosy glow.”

“How do you see things, Francesca?”

“It’s just Fran,” she told him again. “And I see life through a pair of infrared sunglasses. I want to see the details, the truth. I don’t want to be blinded by fantasy.”

“You know, fantasies can be very fulfilling.”

Heat coiled low in her belly at his words. Without thinking, she looked up into his dark-blue eyes, eyes that held passion and intelligence. “In the short term, perhaps.”

A grin touched his lips. “And you don’t look for short-term pleasures?”

Her gaze flickered to the window, then down at Glinda, anywhere but on him. “Are we still talking about my views on life?”

“How old are you, Francesca?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“You know, you’re very wise for such a young woman.”

She shrugged, slightly embarrassed by his compliment. “I just know my own mind, that’s all.”

“Very progressive.”

“Is it?”

His smile went wide. “Yes, I think so.”

“Pardon me, Your Highness.”

Fran’s gaze shot to the doorway, where an older man dressed in work clothes stood, a green tam atop his graying hair, his eyes large and curious.

“Good morning, Charlie,” came the baritone beside her, his tone now laden with formality.

Fran’s heart dropped like a stone.

Charlie bowed low. “Good morning, Your Highness. His Royal Highness has returned from town and wishes to speak with you.”

“Thank you, Charlie. You may go.”

Fran didn’t wait for the real Charlie to leave. She whirled around, faced the man who she’d assumed was the stable hand, the man she’d sat here staring at, drooling over, chatting with and advising on the important things in life.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Your Highness?”

“I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself.” He inclined his head, but those devilish blue eyes remained locked on hers. “Prince Maxim Stephan Henry Thorne.”