Loe raamatut: «The Prince's Secret Bride»
“Where exactly do you think you’re going?” Prince Nico demanded.
“I want to go home,” Marisa said quickly. “I didn’t want to bother you again, so…”
The words died in her throat. He was barefoot, and his shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open as though he’d begun getting ready for bed. His eyes were darkly haunted, but what really took her breath away was the gorgeous landscape of his hard muscular chest.
“How can you go home if you don’t know where home is?” he asked evenly.
He stared down at her without speaking for long moment.
“You really have no right to stop me, you know,” she added stoutly.
“You think not?’ he said softly, moving closer. “You haven’t been paying attention, Marisa. I have every right.”
Raye Morgan is a fool for romance—even in her own family. With four grown sons, love, or at least heavy-duty friendship, is constantly in the air. Two sons have recently married—that leaves two more to go, and lots of romantic turmoil to feed the idea machine. Raye has published over seventy romances, and claims to have many more waiting in the wings. Though she’s lived in Holland, Guam and Washington, D.C., she currently makes her home in Southern California, with her husband and the occasional son. When not writing, she can be found feverishly working on family genealogy and scrapbooking. So many pictures—so little time!
Dear Reader
The thing about royalty is—they’re regular people, just like you and me.
And yet, they’re not. There really is something special about them. Is it the costumes they put on for royal occasions? The special rituals they put themselves through? The castles and palaces they live in? The way everyone pays attention to every little crazy thing they do?
I don’t know. But I do know it sometimes seems as though they’ve been touched by a magic wand or sprinkled with enchanted gold dust or something the rest of us haven’t experienced—just to make sure they are set apart and worth watching.
I hope you enjoy watching the royals of the House of Montenevada as they struggle to regain that royal magic, putting their country back together after a long time in exile. Prince Nico feels the responsibility deeply, and knows he shouldn’t be distracted by Marisa, whose amnesia makes her a suspicious element among them. Who is she? Could she be a spy for the recently routed Acredonnas?
Well—read the book and see!
Raye Morgan
THE PRINCE’S SECRET BRIDE
BY
RAYE MORGAN
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
PRINCE Nico of the royal House of Montenevada pulled down his cap and turned his collar up, partly against the misting drizzle, but also in order to avoid being recognized. His family had been back in power less than six months and he was already sick of the toll it was taking on his private life. He hadn’t spent five years leading a rebellion in the mountains so that he could be treated like a rock star. He’d thought they were fighting for bigger things. Now he wasn’t so sure.
The dark streets were pretty much deserted and only dimly lit by flickering street lamps. A lone car went by. Then a cluster of giggling teenagers, late for their curfews. As he started over the Gonglia Bridge, he passed a young woman whose eyes were strangely vacant; she seemed to gaze right through him. Her mass of blond crimped curls was wild around her pretty face, but that seemed to be a style that was popular these days and he didn’t think twice about it. That otherworldly look in her eyes stayed with him, though, and when he reached the high point of the bridge’s arc, he turned and looked back to see what she was doing.
“Hey!”
What he saw had him running back. The crazy woman was about to jump! In the half a minute since he’d passed her, she’d climbed out on the scaffolding and was leaning over the inky waters that rolled beneath, racing down out of the mountains toward the sea.
“Hold it!” he yelled as he flung himself at her.
She looked up, startled, and tried to avoid him, twisting away so that she was even more dangerously close to crashing down into the river. He grabbed her roughly. There was no time for niceties. Gripping her upper arm, he sank his other hand into her thick hair and yanked her back onto solid surface. She fell against him and he had just time to take in the soft, round feel of her breast as his palm unintentionally slid over it, before she turned on him like a scalded cat.
“Get away!” she cried, glaring at him and backing away. “Leave me alone!”
He grimaced, annoyed with her, annoyed with anyone who would make such an obvious play for attention as jumping from a bridge. And then her soft blue jacket fell open enough for him to see her body and he realized that she was pregnant. That put a different light on things. He winced, knowing from experience that a pregnancy could change everything—for everyone involved. He looked deeply into her wide dark eyes and saw something that tugged at his sympathies after all.
“I’d be happy to leave you alone,” he said, trying to shave any harshness from his comments, “if you think you could refrain from flinging yourself into rivers.”
She shook her head impatiently. “I wasn’t trying to jump.”
“Really? You were doing a pretty good imitation of a bridge jumper.”
“No, I was just looking for my things.” She looked away distractedly. “He…he threw them over the side of the bridge and…” Her voice trailed off and she met his gaze again, her own eyes hooded. “Never mind,” she said, hunching deeper into her jacket and turning away.
He’d only heard half her muffled words but he was willing to join in. “What were you looking for? Maybe I can help you.”
“No.” She seemed to be trying to put distance between them. Glancing at him sideways, she began to move away. “You can’t help me.”
It was dark. He was large. And male. He knew he probably looked threatening to her. He didn’t mean to. But what the hell? He had better things to do with his time than to follow a crazy woman around. So he shrugged.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “I will, thank you.”
He slowed, then came to a stop and watched as she hurried away. He supposed it was best to leave her alone, just as she’d demanded. Still, he hated to do it. She bothered him. There was something in the way she moved, to quote an old song.
Besides, this town was only a few months into recovering from a war and the place was crawling with unsavory characters who had nothing better to do than to make trouble for someone else. It was a problem he and his brothers were going to have to deal with very quickly. One of many. And right now it could be a problem for this troubled lady.
You can’t save them all.
Those words echoed painfully in his head and he shook them away. Gordon Greiva, his best friend and comrade-in-arms, had said that often in the old days when they’d been fighting for their country’s liberation. Nico, let it go. You can’t save them all. The irony was, Gordon himself had died in that final battle.
No, he couldn’t save them all. Truth to tell, he didn’t have the greatest track record in saving much of any of them. And what could he do to help this one? Not much. She’d certainly made it clear she didn’t want his help.
With a careless shrug, he turned away and started back toward the other side of the bridge. He needed a drink.
He heard the pub before he saw it, music and laughter an appealing invitation to step into the crowd. But he hesitated in the doorway, peering inside. He would love to go in, order Scotch, neat, and sit back and let that liquid fire burn its way into his soul, restoring him to something resembling real feeling again. It was tempting. He could see himself sitting there in the darkened room, letting the smoke and conversation wash around him while he contemplated life and all its twists and turns.
But he knew that picture was a fantasy. As soon as he sat down, the waitress would look at him sharply, then whisper to one of the other customers. The buzz would begin as people craned their necks, staring, until finally someone would get brave enough to come over and start talking. And once the ice had been broken, the flood would come, people wanting to rehash the war, people wanting to know why everything wasn’t instantly wonderful now that the good guys had taken over again. And who knew if it was a bar full of patriots or a refuge for disgruntled losers. You paid your money and you took your chances. But tonight, he didn’t feel up to testing those waters.
Turning away from the pub, he looked back at the river. He couldn’t seem to shake the image of his distressed jumper, her wild curls floating around her face, her dark eyes filled with mystery. He wondered if she’d found what she’d been looking for, and if she was going to have any trouble making her way home. The bridge looked ominous from this angle, like a path into dangerous territory. The wet streets were empty. It was getting late and time for him to make a decision as to where he was going to spend the next few hours.
He started down the walkway that fronted the river feeling vaguely uneasy, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze running restlessly over the scene. And then it sharpened. Something was moving down by the riverbank, where various debris was piled up around a short pier. He stopped and looked harder, then swore softly and vaulted over the river wall to get to the water’s edge. It was her.
A few quick strides brought him to where she was bending over a large black plastic bag.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
She looked up, startled once again. Straightening, she pushed at her damp hair, leaving wet strands plastered to her forehead. “It’s none of your business.”
She’d been crying. Once he saw the tears on her cheeks, he knew he was a goner. It was none of his business, but there was no way he could stay out of it now. She was far too vulnerable. Only a cad would leave a woman like this to fend for herself in the night.
Still, his impulse was to growl and start ordering her about. He restrained it. He knew enough about women to know that wasn’t going to work out well. Taking a deep breath, he said carefully, “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing. What’s wrong?”
She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. “Please, just go. I’m really busy here. I’ve got to find…” Her voice trailed off and she went back to trying to move the huge plastic bag.
Instead of leaving, he moved closer. “You’ve got to find what?”
She shook her head and threw a hand out as though covering the waterfront. “My bag. My things.”
He frowned. She could hardly be talking about this big plastic bag she seemed to be so intent on moving out of the way. He reached around her and moved it for her, revealing only more, smaller plastic bags, all filled with suspicious substances. It was obviously trash someone had stacked there, along with things that had washed up on the shore.
“What sort of bag?” he asked her. “What did it look like?”
She straightened and looked around, her bottom lip caught by her teeth, her eyes worried. “I…I’m not sure…”
He resisted the impulse to throw up his hands. “Then how are you going to find it?”
Tears welled in her dark eyes and she turned her head away, her damp curls flopping limply against her neck in a way that somehow touched him. He could see her finely cut profile against the lights from across the river. Her features were delicate, yet strong in a determined sort of way. Her body was slender despite the pregnancy. Her legs were long and exotic, like a dancer’s, and her short skirt showed them off in a way that would turn any man’s head. She moved like a dancer, smooth, fluid motion, like a song brought to life. But that thought made him want to laugh at himself for thinking it. He wasn’t usually quite so sentimental.
Then she turned and his gaze dropped to her full breasts and the way they strained against the soft sweater she wore under her jacket, and he felt a reaction so quick and so hard, it threw him off guard for a moment.
“I don’t need help,” she said, but her voice quavered and the tears were still in her eyes.
Something caught in his chest and he grimaced. No, he wasn’t going to let her get to him. At the same time, she obviously couldn’t be abandoned here. He’d already noticed someone skulking farther down along the river. No, he was going to make sure she got to safety—wherever that might be.
But he wasn’t going to care. Never again. That part of him was gone—and good riddance.
“Just go away,” she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “Just go.”
“I’m afraid to leave you here,” he shot back. “You might try another shot at river-rafting.”
She glared at him. “I was not trying to jump into the river.”
“Really? Then what were you doing? Practicing high-bar techniques for Olympic trials in gymnastics?”
She didn’t answer, turning away instead.
“I’ll admit it seems unlikely for someone in your condition….”
“Condition?” she asked. Then she looked down and gasped softly, her hands going protectively to her rounded belly. “Oh. I forgot.”
“Forgot?”
He stared at her. Females didn’t “forget” pregnancy. There was something very odd about this woman. But something distracted him from the subject. For the first time he noticed there was something dark and shiny in her hair. He touched it and drew back his fingers. Blood.
“Hey. What’s this?”
She reached up but didn’t quite touch it herself. “I don’t know.” She frowned. “Maybe I hit my head when I fell. Or…or…” She looked up at him questioningly. “Maybe it’s where he hit me.”
Her words sent a blinding flash of outrage slashing through him. The thought of someone deliberately hurting her made him crazy for an unguarded moment.
“Who?” he demanded. “Where? What did he do to you?”
A look of regret for having mentioned it flashed across her face and she turned away. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”
“Wait.” He grabbed her arm to stop her from starting off. “This is serious. I’m taking you to the police.”
She jerked from his grip and began to back away, her eyes wide. “No, I can’t do that. No.” She glared at him, shaking her head, looking fierce. “I can’t go to the police.”
“Why not?”
She hesitated, looking past him.
He frowned. He could think of only two reasons why someone wouldn’t want to go to the police, neither of them good.
“Look, I’ll be with you. I’ll handle things. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She flashed him a scathing look. “It must be nice to be so sure and cavalier about other peoples’ lives,” she said. “Who do you think you are, anyway? King of Carnethia?”
He looked at her sharply, but no, she really didn’t seem to know she was talking to someone pretty close to that mark.
“Just someone trying to help you,” he said softly.
“Really?” She tossed her damp hair and sent him a penetrating look. “And what do you expect to get out of it?”
He gave her a half shrug and a well-practiced look of pure boredom. “I was hoping for a simple thank you, but even that seems to be out of the question.”
For just a moment, her gaze faltered. “Why should I trust you?” she asked, pushing hair back out of her eyes.
“You don’t seem to have a lot of choice, do you?” he grumbled, moving restlessly. “Look, if you don’t want to go to the police, there must be somebody I can call to come get you or something.” He pulled out his cell phone and held it poised. “Give me a number.”
She shook her head and looked away.
“Come on. We’ve got to get you out of this drizzle, at least.” He looked back at the store-fronts along the riverside. It was late and most of the shops were closed. “How about that little café there? It’ll be warm and dry.”
She looked up. He could see she was tempted.
“A nice hot cup of coffee? Come on. I’m buying.”
She glanced at the café and a look of longing came into her face. “I’m so hungry,” she admitted softly.
He snapped the cell phone shut and put it back in his pocket. “That does it. Come on. Let’s go.”
Turning, she looked searchingly into his face. He wondered what she saw there—a helpful new friend or the hard-bitten man he knew he’d become? It seemed she hadn’t recognized who he was. That was a relief. So she wasn’t particularly political. Good.
“Let’s go,” he said again, putting his hand lightly at her back to urge her along.
He entered the café warily, scanning the scene like a soldier on point. Simple booths lined one side of the room. Wrought-iron tables and chairs filled the center. Posters and advertisements covered the walls and pop music was playing on the speaker. The place was almost empty. A pair of young lovers had a booth at the back but they were lost in each other’s eyes and paying no attention. An elderly couple was finishing up a meal toward the front. Involved in some sort of argument, neither looked up. That left the waitress and she just looked bored and very sleepy. No one reacted.
Who knew—maybe he was becoming unrecognizable. That would certainly be an improvement.
He led her to a booth in a protected corner and sat across the table from her.
“An omelet and a tall glass of milk,” he ordered for her, giving the bored waitress a quick, cool smile. “And I’ll take a cup of espresso.”
“Eggs,” the mystery woman said thoughtfully, as though she were considering whether she really liked them or not. “Okay.” She sneaked a look back at the counter. “But that pie looked awfully good,” she mentioned.
He stifled the grin that threatened to soften his mouth. “Okay. A large piece of the apple pie, à la mode, too. We’ll share it.”
As the waitress left with their order, the woman gazed at him wide-eyed with that searching look again.
“Do I know you?” she asked softly.
He looked at her sharply, afraid she’d realized who he was, but all he saw was bewilderment in her beautiful eyes, and he relaxed. If she felt he looked familiar, but couldn’t quite place who he was, that might at least make her trust him a bit more.
“Not that I know of,” he replied lightly. “We met on the bridge just tonight.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“And I don’t know your name,” he noted.
She nodded as though she thoroughly agreed, and he prodded further.
“My name’s Nick,” he said, fudging a bit. “What’s yours?”
“Uh…” She looked trapped for a moment and avoided his gaze, looking about the café as though she was going to find the answer to his question in the atmosphere. “Marisa,” she said quickly as her eyes focused behind his head. “It’s Marisa. Marisa Fleur.”
“Marisa,” he repeated. “Pretty name.” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Marisa.”
She put her small, fine-boned hand in his and for the first time, she actually smiled. “Nice to meet you, too, Nick.”
The beat of his heart stuttered. There was no way to deny it. For just a second, he was afraid his heart had stopped. The feel of her small, smooth hand in his, the beauty of her sweet smile, the warmth that came momentarily from her dark gaze, all combined to shock him as though someone had hit him with a stun dart. He blinked, drew in a sharp breath, and quickly pulled his hand away from hers. What the hell…?
“And thank you,” she was saying. “It might not seem like it but I really appreciate you taking the time to…well, to help me.”
He nodded, avoiding her gaze, still shaken by the involuntary reaction he’d had to her smile and touch. “No problem,” he said gruffly.
He risked looking at her and it was okay. Whatever spell had swept over him seemed to be gone for now. Still, forewarned was forearmed. He was going to be on his guard from now on.
He waited for her to take a few bites of her omelet before trying to question her. Her color was better by then, and she’d lost most of that trapped look.
“So,” he said, nursing his espresso in both hands. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”
She looked up at him, eyes wide. “You mean on the bridge?” she asked.
He nodded.
She looked down. “I…well, I think a man came up from behind and knocked me down.”
His hand tightened on the slender cup. “Did you know him?”
“I don’t think so. No,” she amended quickly. “No, I’m sure he was just a mugger or something. He grabbed my purse and then he threw my bag over the side of the bridge.” She gazed at him earnestly. “That’s why I was climbing up on the railing. I was trying to see where my bag had gone.”
“And that was what you were looking for along the side of the river?”
She nodded. “I know there’s not much hope in finding my purse, but if I could find my bag…”
“It’s a suitcase?”
She hesitated, looking uncertain. Then she nodded again.
He frowned. There was something odd and off-kilter about all this. “When did it happen?”
She hesitated, shrugged, then her eyes lit up as she remembered. “Just before I saw you the first time. I think maybe you scared him away.”
The waitress brought them a huge slice of pie on a ceramic plate. A rounded mound of vanilla ice cream was melting on top. Marisa smiled again and he frowned to keep from letting it get to him.
“So you’re here from out of town?” he noted as he handed her a fork. “Where are you from?”
She looked down again. “I really can’t talk about that,” she said evasively.
He shrugged. “Do you know anyone in town?” he asked.
She didn’t answer but the look on her face said it all. What was he going to do with her? The realization came to him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was going to take her home. At this time of night, what else could he do?
They rose to leave and he turned to let her go first, and as he did so, his gaze fell on an advertising poster on the wall behind where he’d been sitting. Marisa’s Flowers it said, along with an address and telephone number.
Marisa’s Flowers. He turned slowly and watched as she walked ahead of him out of the café, and that feeling in the pit of his stomach got sicker.
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
