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His grin widened. “Thank you.”
They stood facing each other, Glinda’s watchful gaze on them. Francesca was tall, maybe three inches shorter than him. A perfect height for a man to lean in and—
“I have to know,” she said, folding her arms across her splendid chest. “Why didn’t you tell me who you are? Was playing me like that just another distraction?”
She stood close, so close he could feel the heat of her body, breathe in that soft almost honeylike scent of her. “Truthfully, I wanted to know what it was like to be anonymous.”
“And how was it?”
“Invigorating.”
“Well, I’m glad I could help,” she said wryly.
“You’re sure you’re not going to treat me differently now that you know the truth?”
“My conscience and my pride would suffer a great indignity if I treated you as anything more than the prankster you’ve shown yourself to be.”
“And we wouldn’t want that.” Grinning, Maxim walked over to the desk in the far corner and seized the paperwork he’d been working on before he’d gotten frustrated and taken a break in the stalls. When he turned back to face Francesca, he said, “It was nice to meet you, Doctor. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”
She fairly chuckled. “And who will you be next time?”
He raised a brow. “I’ve always had a longing to try my hand at masonry.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“On second thought,” he said, his mouth carving into a smile. “Sounds a little too far away from the stables for my liking.” He inclined his head, then turned to leave.
She called back, “Not at all, Your Highness.”
Maxim paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Such a lofty title doesn’t seem right after the informal tête-à-tête we’ve just shared.”
“Prince Maxim, then?” she offered, baiting him.
“How about just Maxim?”
She grinned. “How about just Max?”
“I don’t think so.” That smile of hers gripped him tightly and held, while her mouth stirred his blood. He knew he’d better leave while he still could. “Goodbye, Francesca.”
She dropped into a funny-looking curtsy. “Goodbye, Max.”
For the first time in a long time, Maxim laughed, deeply and genuinely. And he kept it up long after he’d left the room, walked down the hallway and stepped out into the kingdom he called home.
Fran stood in front of the full-length mirror in her opulent blue bedroom in the east wing of the castle and rolled her eyes at her reflection.
The chagrin she felt had nothing whatever to do with the eye-catching chocolate-brown dress and matching boots she wore or the sassy swept-up hair-style that one of her vet techs had repeatedly told her looked “hot.” Nope, the roll of the eyes was for the hope she felt. The hope of seeing a certain prince again.
Oh, Lord. A prince.
Was she crazy? Had the untainted Llandaron air turned her normally sensible and analytical brain to mush? Even if she could forget for a moment that Max was royalty and lived on Fantasy Island, why wasn’t she thinking about Dennis? Sure, there was no actual commitment between them yet. But before she’d left, he’d asked her to marry him—and she’d said she’d think about it. True, they weren’t exactly in love, but that was because neither one of them believed in the concept. Dennis had also been burned—by the female equivalent to Fran’s smooth talker.
Consequently, she and Dennis were no longer romantics.
They were scientists.
Shoot, their common viewpoints and careers were why they had become such good friends in the first place. This way they would be two great friends forming an everlasting bond, caring for and supporting one another.
And then she’d had to come here and run into a real live Prince Charming!
An image of Max splintered through her mind. Those eyes, that touch, those lips…
Was he married? The random thought was followed by a shiver, and she turned away from the mirror. The marital status of His Highness was none of her business; nothing about him was her business. Glinda and the pups were her business. And heck, she probably wouldn’t see him again, anyway. He had…royal stuff to do with other royals. He didn’t have time to hang around the stables every day with some commoner from California.
Speaking of time, Fran checked her watch. Five minutes to six.
She’d met with the king more than an hour ago. A feisty old bear with intelligent blue eyes just like his son’s. After receiving a full report on Glinda’s stellar health, he’d told Fran that she was to have dinner with him at six o’clock and not to be late.
Good Lord, she thought as she left her room and darted down the long staircase, she’d had no idea that she would be eating with the king of Llandaron. She’d figured it would be dinner on a tray in her room every night. Or in the kitchen with the rest of the employees.
Below her, a shadow came into the grand hallway, large and imposing. Her pulse bumped and skittered as the heel of her boot touched down on the last stair step.
“Good evening, Francesca.”
Ignoring the warmth pinging urgently in her stomach, she started with, “Good evening, M…” But the greeting died on her lips as her gaze took in the proverbial handsome prince who stood regally in the center of the marble hall.
She gripped the edge of the banister for a little extra support. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it. Her fingers itched to run wild through his thick black hair, her gaze longed to search the depths of deep-set blue eyes. Gone were the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn today. In their place breathed a crisp white dress shirt, black jacket and pants with a break so fine it would make a London tailor sigh.
But there was no tailor in sight, so Fran sighed, instead, her mind racing ahead with thoughts like, Now, this is what I’d like for dinner.
“You look beautiful tonight, Doctor,” Max said, his eyes roaming the length of her. “Care for an escort?”
For a moment, she saw herself standing beside him, slipping her hand through his arm, feeling the muscles in his biceps flex against her fingers. But the moment passed. “Thanks, but I can manage.”
He raised a dark brow. “Is it just me, or do you have a problem with all men who show you an ounce of chivalry?”
“No, it’s just you.” The retort came out fast and unplanned, and she wondered if she’d offended him.
But Max only grinned at her impudence. “Come with me,” he said, starting for the door, which was being held open by a stoic older gentleman in black tie and tails.
Fran glanced first at the open door, then at Max. “Come with you where?”
“Out.”
“But the king invited me—”
“My father is on the phone with the president of Lithuania. He sends his regrets and has asked me to entertain you.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” The remark was calm, but beneath her cool exterior, her heart pounded fiercely. Entertain her how?
“Stop being so suspicious,” he said, a grin pulling at his full lips. “I promised you no more tricks.”
“All right,” she said, walking toward him. “I am pretty hungry.”
He chuckled. “And I’m flattered.”
“Where are we going?” Into town maybe? She’d read about several wonderful restaurants and ice-cream shops, and even a taffy shop. But did royalty go to town for a meal?
“We’re going to the lighthouse,” he said as he ushered her past and out the door.
Sounded like a restaurant. Nice seafood place with… Fran paused, her surroundings seizing her attention. Milky-white clouds had taken over the sky and sunset, riding low and thick on the ground.
“What happened here?” Fran asked on a laugh, standing dead center in the haze.
“Fog.”
“Fog? But the sun was so bright today, no clouds at all. When did this come on?” She turned around once, feeling the cool mist against her skin. “It’s as dense as cotton candy. I can hardly see five feet in front of me.”
Max took her hand in his. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I will?” she asked lamely, her mind and every one of her senses focused on the feel of Max’s large warm hand. Maybe she should’ve pulled free, sent a message to him and to herself that touching of any kind was inappropriate. But she didn’t. She forgot about a jacket, a purse, all things practical and held on, just let him guide her across the lawn and away from the castle.
“When my ancestors first came to this land,” he began, “the elders of both the Thorne and Brunell royal families wanted their firstborn children to marry. But the Thornes’ eldest daughter, Sana, was deeply in love with another man, a poor ship worker, and her father strictly forbade her to see him again. On the day before her wedding, Sana took her life.” Max’s hand tightened around Fran’s. “That night was the first time the fog came.”
“Is that a legend?” Fran asked, awe threading her query.
“No. A fact. History.” Max guided her around a large rock. “From then to now, the fog rolls in at six every night and disappears by seven. Many have said that the one hour of cover is granted by Sana for all ill-fated lovers. For that one hour, they can meet without fear of being discovered.”
Wonder moved through Fran, taking hold of the soft parts of her heart, and she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Have you ever met anyone in the fog?”
He chuckled and said, “Not until today,” as he led her expertly through the grounded cloudbank.
And just as she realized that they weren’t going to town, the scent of the ocean hit her. She stopped and faced Max. “I thought you said no more tricks.”
His gaze impaled her. “This is no trick, Francesca.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“I live here.”
He led her forward a few paces until she saw it.
Barely visible through the fog were the first two stories of a lighthouse. A lighthouse that she imagined was tall and imposing—just like its owner. Warm, inviting light spilled through the windows, beckoning them to come inside.
Without a word, Max guided her up a set of stone stairs, across a bed of rocks, then through a massive oak door and into the lighthouse.
“You live here?” she asked, wonder thick in her voice. “And not in the palace?”
“I prefer to live alone,” he said, releasing her hand.
Being free of his grasp was a strange sensation. In one respect she was relieved to have the heat, the strength, gone. But in another respect, she felt displaced, as if a part of her remained with him when he’d dropped her hand.
Fran followed him up the lovely spiral staircase to what she guessed to be the second floor of a three-story dwelling. Persian rugs covered polished hard-wood floors, and comfortable couches in deep shades of plum sat facing each other, a rich mahogany chest between them. A marble fireplace took up most of one wall, and a cluster of windows the size of computer screens another. While still another wall boasted French doors, which hung open, allowing the cool ocean breeze to filter into the room, only mildly upsetting the gold cloth napkins which rested atop what appeared to be solid gold plates on a small mahogany dining table. A table set elegantly for two.
“This is magnificent,” Fran said. “You’ve done a wonderful job with this space.”
“Thank you. It was a labor of love. I always coveted the lighthouse when I was a child, escaped here when I had the chance. And when Llandaron no longer had use for it, I converted it into my home.” He walked over to the table and held out a chair for her. “May I?” He grinned devilishly. “I promise I won’t pull it out the minute you sit down.”
She couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips. “I appreciate that.” This whole scenario was surreal—the beautifully set table in front of the prime ocean view—and Fran had to warn herself as she sat down on the plush cushion of plum silk, that she’d better remember who she was and where she’d come from—and more importantly, that a real live prince sat across from her.
In seconds, a woman with a mop of graying hair and a pleasant smile appeared and placed several wonderful-smelling items in front of them.
After thanking the woman, Fran turned to Max and whispered, “Cheeseburgers, French fries and beer?”
He picked up a fry and winked. “An American meal for your first night away from home.”
She laughed as she placed her napkin in her lap. Burgers and fries on a solid gold plate—too funny.
“I have soda if you would rather not drink alcohol,” Max said.
“No, this is great.”
Though Max dug right in, Fran didn’t start eating right away. For just a moment, she watched the prince of Llandaron as he picked up his gourmet cheeseburger and went for it like any red-blooded American male. But in this case looks were incredibly deceiving. The guy with ketchup on his lip wasn’t red-blooded at all, he was blue-blooded. And her attraction to him had to be controlled. She didn’t trust this royal playboy as far as she could throw him, and she sure didn’t trust her feelings and actions when she was around him.
“Anything wrong, Francesca?”
Her gaze snapped up. “Pardon me?”
“You’re not eating, and you look as though you have something to say.”
Something to say, something to say… She opted for small talk. “Have you ever been to America, Your Highness?”
“Many times. I own several companies there.”
“You do?” she asked, surprised.
“I do work, Francesca.” He chuckled. “Not at being a royal, but being a citizen of the world. My companies manufacture air- and water-purifying systems for office buildings and hotels. I’ve wanted to develop a way to keep the world and the people in it healthy ever since I could remember. Strange goal for a child, perhaps, but nothing deterred me.” He tilted his head. “I imagine your need to care for animals started when you were very young, as well.”
Fran took a sip of her beer and nodded. “When I first saw a baby squirrel with its leg caught in a trap, I was hooked. I had cages set up in my backyard.” She nibbled on a French fry. “It’s crazy, but after I helped that squirrel, more and more animals found their way into my yard.”
“The word spread throughout the animal kingdom.”
She nodded. “I truly believe they sought me out, that they knew I was committed to helping them.”
“Of course they did.” Max said the words with such conviction, Fran paused. Usually when she said something “out there,” people laughed and thought she was kidding or, worse, a bit nuts. Dennis always made jokes about her claims that she could actually sense what an animal was feeling at times.
Max took a pull on his beer. “So you went to veterinary school, and then…”
“Then Dennis and I opened our own practice.”
