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“Still, someone may mention one of the dukes or counts, or even their wives. It’s important that you are not caught making a mistake regarding your relatives.”
“His relatives,” Hank clarified, scowling at Milos Anatole, who knelt beside him with a mouthful of pins and some chalk. “You know, these pants looked just fine to me.”
“Prince Alexi is approximately one half inch taller than you, Mr. McCauley,” the uppity, nervous valet announced around the mouthful of pins.
“Yeah, but a half inch? I’m only going to be wearing his things for a few hours.”
“It’s entirely possible someone could notice that your clothes didn’t fit perfectly,” Lady Wendy explained.
Hank shook his head. This prince really was a bore. Like the most important thing in the world was whether his pants “broke” at just the proper place above his expensive Italian shoes.
“Who’s gonna be lookin’ that hard at my pants?” Hank asked, putting both hands on his hips.
Milos frowned up at him. Wendy blinked at him as if he’d said something ridiculous.
“What?”
“Mr. McCauley, the prince is under constant observation by a variety of press. Both legitimate publications and the more irritating paparazzi track his every move. They will be at all the events.”
Hank narrowed his eyes. “You never said anything about folks following me around, taking dozens of pictures.”
“More like hundreds,” Wendy told him in a matter-of-fact voice that for some reason irritated the hell out of him.
Hank squared his shoulders, trying his best to be intimidating. “You owe me.”
“You have yet to name your price,” she informed him. “Of course, I’ve already explained that the Belegovian treasury is not an endless well of funds.”
“You want me to name my price?”
“Yes, I would appreciate the courtesy. After all, you may decide not to accept a check from the official account. Belegovia is somewhat farther than Oklahoma, as I believe you mentioned—”
“Sarcasm just doesn’t suit a sweet lady like you,” Hank complained, thoroughly tired of this hotel room and all the facts he’d been forced to memorize. Not to mention a fussy haircut and all those tiny alterations.
“I thought I was being terribly clever.”
“Well, you’re not,” he informed her peevishly. “And as for my fee, I’ve decided on part of it.”
“Part of it? Really, Mr. McCauley, I must insist you decide on a reasonable amount—”
“Tonight. I want to go out with you to the River-walk and have some fun.”
She let out a long-suffering sigh. “We are a little busy tonight.”
“We’re just about finished, that’s what we are,” he said, his fingers going to the fastening on Prince Alexi’s slacks. “We need to get out of here for a few hours. Have a little fun. I’ll bet you don’t relax enough. A couple of tequila sunrises and a stroll along the river is just what you need.”
“I need to succeed in this mission.”
“Damn, Lady Wendy, you sound like some secret agent. This isn’t life or death, you know. You said we were visiting a children’s hospital and a zoo. That means some baby kissin’ and smilin’ at cuddly little animals.”
“No, Mr. McCauley, that is not what this is all about! This is about my career, Prince Alexi’s reputation, and quite possibly the future of the monarchy in Belegovia!” Her voice had risen to such a level that Hank was surprised somebody didn’t start pounding on the wall, yelling for them to shut up. Of course, that kind of thing didn’t happen in these fancy suites like it did in the cheap motels he’d stayed at while he was on the circuit. Since he’d retired, he’d gotten used to some of the finer things in life, like nice hotels with thick terry cloth towels and twenty-four-hour room service.
“That does it,” he announced, batting Milos’s hands away from the crease in the slacks. “We’re getting out of here.”
“Haven’t you been listening? We must succeed. You must be accepted as Prince Alexi!”
“I can’t do my best work if I’m all stressed out,” he said, shaking his head. “You need to get out of those stuffy clothes and into something more comfortable. I’ve got a hankerin’ for a cold beer and some hot salsa.”
“Mr. McCauley, we are not going out on the town!”
“Sure we are. It’s part of my fee. Look in that bag over there on the couch. I bought you a T-shirt that’s just what you need for strollin’ along the river on a real pretty night like this.”
Lady Wendy ran her hands through her hair, loosening several strands. Hank smiled to himself. She was too easy to rile, too predictable for her own good. All he had to do was push her buttons and she got all huffy. If there was ever a woman who needed to relax and have some fun, she was Lady Wendy.
Besides, no one should visit San Antonio and miss the Riverwalk.
“You’d better run and change,” he told her, his hands resting on the waistband of Prince Alexi’s slacks. “In about ten seconds I’m gonna be pretty near naked. Now, I don’t mind if you don’t,” he said, easing the zipper lower, “but I figure a lady with your sensibilities wouldn’t want to see my beat up ol’ body.”
“Mr. McCauley, please! We don’t have time for fun.”
He let pass her unintentional implication that seeing his “beat up old body” would be fun. He walked a fine line—too much teasing and she’d get real mad. “Well, we need to make some, then. I just can’t tolerate the thought of you missin’ the Riverwalk, much less the Alamo. Why, it’s a national shrine!”
“If I promise to come back and visit Texas another time, will you continue working?”
Hank shook his head as he finished unzipping the slacks. “I’d like to believe you, Lady Wendy, but I just can’t. I know how busy you career women are. You can’t guarantee that you’ll make it back to Texas. It’s my duty to make sure you see as much of it as possible.”
“It’s my job to make sure you can pass as Prince Alexi.”
“Unless you’re ready to compare more than accents and clothes between Prince Alexi and me, you’d better get on out of this room and change into that T-shirt.” He lowered the slacks a couple of inches, revealing white briefs.
“Is there no way to talk you out of this insanity?” she asked, blushing a nice pink and staring at the framed artwork over the couch.
“Nope.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. Hank hid his smile. He was enjoying this way too much. He couldn’t wait to see what Lady Wendy was like after a couple of tequila sunrises and a little two-stepping.
Grabbing the bag containing the pretty Texas T-shirt he’d picked out earlier, she stalked across the room like some British general going to battle. “We’ll go to this Riverwalk for one hour,” she said, obviously trying to compromise. “I suppose you do deserve a little time off for being such a good sport.”
“With an attitude like that, we’re bound to have a good time,” he said with a chuckle.
GWENDOLYN COULDN’T remember ever being this frustrated and confused. Hank McCauley was the most exasperating, most difficult man she’d had the misfortune to meet. First, he’d insisted on driving his own vehicle—a monstrously large truck, no less. Then he’d driven right up to the front portico of the hotel, despite her instructions to go to the service entrance. He’d kissed her quite deliberately so she’d appear more like one of the women he preferred—except she knew she didn’t look a thing like the busty, flirtatious young tarts who flocked to such testosterone-rich cowboys. He’d needed a nap once they were checked in. Now, after only several hours of fittings, a haircut and lessons, he needed a little holiday on this Riverwalk!
“Damn you, Prince Alexi,” she muttered under her breath. “I hope you’re having a perfectly miserable time, wherever you are.”
If he were having a terrible time with his truck-stop waitress, he would end his trip promptly. Everything would return to normal and her job would not be in jeopardy. She would not retreat to England in disgrace to face her overly critical father, who believed she should find a titled, moneyed peer and settle down to a life of charitable works and social engagements, and produce her husband’s heir and a spare.
The key word there was settle. She had no intention of giving up her career to fit the image of what her stuffy, antiquated father thought was proper for an English lady.
She lifted the soft T-shirt from the bag. A pristine white background held a line of blue flowers—she supposed they were the famed Texas bluebonnets she’d seen on various publications—and a prettily lettered “Texas” in green below. The shirt was certainly a far cry better than some she’d seen—and even imagined Mr. McCauley preferring—which featured ugly animals called armadillos and crude sayings regarding beer, sex and other suggestive activities.
Perhaps Hank McCauley wasn’t quite as bad as she’d assumed when she’d first heard the term retired rodeo cowboy used to describe him. Or when she’d been told he lived on a ranch outside a small town called Ranger Springs. Or when he’d come to the door dressed only in a pair of nearly indecent jeans.
Heat suffused her cheeks as she remembered how he’d looked when she’d first met him, just out of his shower. Lean and sculpted with impressive muscles and smooth, tanned skin, he could have appeared on an ad for Texas, cowboys or anything else he’d wanted to endorse.
In the suite, he’d made a remark about his “beat-up body,” but Gwendolyn hadn’t noticed any scars or deformities—at least from the waist up. What was he hiding below the waist of his trousers?
More heat. She had to stop thinking about Hank McCauley’s assets. She had to forget the line of white briefs that had appeared when he threatened to lower his slacks.
At least she knew the answer to the question, boxers or briefs?
In her many years of acquaintance with Prince Alexi, she’d never speculated on his underwear. She had no idea what he preferred, nor would he ever show her his preference by lowering his trousers in her presence. He was too much a gentleman.
Her father was a gentleman, and look at what a stuffy bore he was.
Gwendolyn felt like clamping a hand over her mouth for even thinking such a thought. Prince Alexi was not like her father. Hank McCauley was not more exciting than either of the men. He was just…different. More difficult. More…male.
They were going out for one hour, she decided as she unbuttoned her silk blouse. She’d wear the T-shirt to make Hank McCauley happy, she’d even take a sip of one of those tequila sunrises he’d mentioned earlier. But she was absolutely not going dancing.
She sincerely doubted he knew how to waltz or fox-trot—or any of the other ballroom dances she’d learned as the daughter of an earl—and she refused to make a fool of herself attempting one of those fast and complicated western steps she’d seen in movies and on the telly. No matter what he said or how persuasive he was, she would not be humiliated on the dance floor.
“HANG ON, LADY WENDY. It’s time to twirl again.”
“No more twirling!” she managed to gasp as her arms circled his neck. “I believe I’m quite dizzy.”
“But you’re doin’ such a good job of polishing my belt buckle.”
“What?”
“Dancin’ real close, darlin’,” he replied, his breath a whisper against her ear. The sensation made her even more dizzy and she sagged in his arms.
“You should have told me you couldn’t handle your liquor,” Hank said.
Somewhere between a deliciously decadent appetizer called nachos supreme and a wonderfully tasty drink called a tequila sunrise, her pretend prince had become Hank rather than Mr. McCauley. She heard the humor in his voice but couldn’t muster the outrage she should be feeling. He’d been teasing her unmercifully for the past half hour, but instead of becoming angry, she was beginning to find his remarks witty.
She’d definitely had too many sips of the sweet yet tangy drink. Hank McCauley was bossy, opinionated and manipulative. He was also the sexiest man she’d ever met…and he made her feel like dancing.
She tried to unwind her arm so she could see her wristwatch, but Hank simply pulled her tighter. She gave up with a sigh, knowing she wasn’t going to win this battle any more than she’d won the rest of their skirmishes.
As soon as she’d dressed in the T-shirt and a casual skirt, Hank had knocked on her door. He’d grinned his approval, grabbed her hand and guided her to the elevator. He’d given her a history lesson of the River-walk. She’d learned how San Antonio had taken a rundown, foul-smelling river and turned it into one of the best-known attractions in Texas. When they’d walked out of the Hyatt Regency, they’d entered another world. The humidity of the river provided a perfect backdrop to the tropical foliage and abundant flowers. Fun-loving tourists crowded the sidewalk. To Gwendolyn’s surprise, there was no fence or railing. The concrete merely stopped at the water, which was really a dredged-out canal.
No telling how many people had sipped too many alcoholic drinks and fallen into the river! Hank had merely grinned and told her it was only three or four feet deep, so she didn’t need to worry.
The idea of not worrying about tumbling into the murky river was as foreign to her as thinking of Hank McCauley as Prince Alexi.
“We should be going back to the hotel,” she said. She wasn’t sure when exactly she’d lost control—whether it was when she’d first knocked on his screen door or when she’d decided to accompany him to the Riverwalk—but she was certain he was now making decisions for them both. While that realization should have caused panic, at the moment she only felt an increasing interest in what he would insist upon next.
“With any other woman, I’d take that as an invitation. But I kind of doubt you were asking me up to your room, were you?”
“Of course not!” she managed to squeal as he steered them across the floor between some very young dancers and a middle-aged pair. How he avoided the other couples was a complete mystery. “We barely know each other.”
“How much more do you need to know?”
“Well, I…That’s not what I meant.”
“You sure are cute when you’re flustered, Lady Wendy.”
Instead of feeling outraged, she had the insane urge to giggle. British peers did not giggle. She could almost hear her father’s censure, all the way across the “pond.”
“Oh, pooh,” she whispered as they neared the table where more drinks awaited.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking about my father.”
“It’s not good to tell a guy that he reminds you of your father.”
“Oh, you don’t! Believe me, two men could not be more different than you and the Earl of Epswich.” She desperately needed to change the subject before Hank started asking her more personal questions that she had no intention of answering—yet might find herself responding to, anyway.
“That chap over there is how I imagined most Texans,” Gwendolyn remarked, nodding toward a couple in fancy Western attire gliding across the dance floor. “He’s big and brash and bold. His hat alone is as large as a brolly. Do you think he drinks as much beer as his physique indicates?” The middle-aged man sported an enormous beer belly that didn’t keep him from holding his partner, a rather petite woman near his own age, close against his torso. She wore a full denim skirt, a Western shirt and boots that matched his outfit perfectly.
“If you’re asking me about the size of his beer belly, I’d have to say no. It takes more than beer to grow one that large. I’d say he had some help from chicken-fried steak and homemade pie à la mode.”
Gwendolyn couldn’t help herself. A great gasp of laughter gurgled up from inside her, erupting in a completely unladylike display of mirth. She tried to control herself—her mouth was too wide for grinning, her cheeks too dimpled—but the effort left her with watering eyes and a sore jaw.
“So you can smile,” Hank remarked, leaning close across the small table. His finger touched the corner of her mouth, making her breath catch and her grin fade. “I was wonderin’. And I can see now that there’s nothin’ wrong with your teeth. I guess I made a big mistake thinkin’ you were tryin’ to hide ugly yellow chompers.”
“Chompers?” She couldn’t control another giggle. “Really, you are too absurd. Wherever do you get these ideas, not to mention these sayings?”
“Comes with the territory, darlin’,” he said with a grin. “Kind of like Resistol hats and beer bellies.”
She got the laughter under control. “I thought cowboys wore Stetsons.”
“Not really, at least not for everyday. That just sounds good. We also don’t wear ten-gallon hats, tuck our jeans into our boots or ride horses down main streets.”
“And you certainly don’t have a beer belly.” The words burst forth before she could control her errant mouth. What was it about this man that caused her good sense to flee like tender petals in a March wind?
“Nope,” he said, running his hand over his flat stomach as he grinned in a way that made her want to smile. “Don’t plan on getting one, either.”
“I’m certainly glad to hear that,” she whispered, leaning toward him with an increasing lack of restraint. “I’d hate to have to compare yours to that chap’s over there.” She pulled back, startled at the way her mouth was running ahead of her brain. “Not that I would…or is that something men do? Compare the size of their—”
“Lady Wendy! I’m shocked you’d think such a thing. We use the same standard as the rest of the U.S. of A. to judge manliness.” He paused, grinning slowly, making her heart race in anticipation of the next outrageous remark he was about to make. The next remark she’d prompted him to make.
Ridiculous. She’d never encouraged such behavior before.
“No,” he continued, “here in Texas we don’t flaunt the size of our beer bellies. We use something far more personal.”
She felt like crawling beneath the tiny table. “Why don’t we forget I brought up this subject?”
“And miss letting you in on some cultural learning? No, you have to know that we judge a man by the size of his—”
