It made more sense that the woman he’d slung over his shoulder was the bodyguard than the princess … because the bodyguard rarely let the princess out of her sight. Unless she had secured her in her rooms and was now masquerading as her.
For what purpose?
To attack the king?
After the announcement her father had made at the ball that evening, the princess had more reason—a damn good reason—to want to hurt the man who had so hurt and humiliated her. Whit had done the right thing to not let her into the monarch’s wing of rooms. Because if she really was the princess, he could understand why she was so pissed, and he wouldn’t have blamed her had she wanted to kill her own father. But he couldn’t let her—or her bodyguard—complete the task.
Which woman was she?
It mattered to him. He didn’t want his pulse racing like crazy over the bodyguard. He didn’t want his hands tingling with the need to touch her wriggling body. He had never been attracted to the former Marshal, and he didn’t want to be.
Charlotte Green had already cost him too much. Just like every other woman he’d ever had contact with, she hadn’t given a damn about him. Maybe she didn’t really give a damn about the princess, either.
No guard stood sentry at the entrance to the princess’s suite. He pushed open the unlocked door and strode down the hall to her private rooms and found no security there either. If the princess had been left in her wing of the palace, Charlotte Green had left her unprotected. No matter how much he despised her, he doubted she would have done that. But she wouldn’t have let the royal heiress go running off on her own, either.
Sure, they were inside the palace. But that didn’t mean they were safe, especially with guests from the ball spending the night in the palace. And even if they weren’t, sometimes the greatest threats to one’s life were the people closest to them. The princess had learned that tonight.
She must have also learned that yelling and struggling wasn’t going to compel him to release her because she’d fallen silent and still. Her body was tense against his. And warm and soft.
And entirely distracting.
He needed to deposit her in her rooms and get the hell back to his post. Using his free hand, the one not holding tight to the back of her toned thigh, he opened the door to her sitting room. Painted a bright yellow, the room was sunny and completely different from her father’s darkly paneled rooms. After going inside, he released her, and she moved, sliding down his body—every curve pressing against him. He bit back a groan as desire overwhelmed him, and he was the tense one now.
As her feet touched the floor, she stepped back, and then stumbled and fell against him. He caught her shoulders in his hands to steady her, and he realized she’d lost a shoe somewhere along the route to her room. She stood before him in only one stiletto slip-on sandal. She really was a fairy-tale princess; she was freaking Cinderella.
No, that wasn’t right.
His mom had taken off early in his childhood, leaving him with a father who’d had little time to read him fairy tales. But Whit had picked up enough from movies and TV shows based on them to realize he’d gotten it wrong. If she was Cinderella, then she would be the bodyguard and not Gabriella.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Beneath the hair falling across her brow, lines of confusion furrowed. Then she blinked brown eyes wide with innocence. Real or feigned?
“You know who I am,” she haughtily replied.
“No one can really know who you are,” he said, “but you.”
She shivered, as if his words had touched a chord deep inside her. As if he’d touched her. And he realized that he held her yet and that his fingers almost absently stroked over the silky skin of her bare shoulders. Her gown was strapless and a rich gold hue only a couple shades darker than her honey-toned skin. She was so damn beautiful.
But beauty had never affected Whit before. He wasn’t like his partner—his former partner. Aaron Timmer fell quickly and easily for every pretty face. Not Whit, though. He was a professional.
So he forced himself to let go of her shoulders and step back. And that was when he heard it. Her little shuddery gasp for breath as if she’d been holding hers, too—as if she’d been waiting for him to do something. Else. Like move closer and lower his head to hers …
But besides her gasp, he heard another noise—a low thud like someone bumping into something in the dark. Despite the brightly painted walls, the sitting room was dimly lit, but small enough that Whit would have noticed someone lurking in the shadows. However, a door off the room stood ajar, darkness from her bedroom spilling out with another soft thud.
Someone was already waiting to take Princess Gabriella to bed. But she gasped again—this time with fear—and he realized she’d heard the noise, too. And she wasn’t expecting anyone to be inside her bedroom.
“Stay here,” he whispered and reached beneath his tuxedo jacket to pull his gun from his holster. Armed, he headed toward her bedroom.
“Be careful,” she whispered back, her sweet voice trembling with concern. For him?
Her words touched something inside Whit—something that he’d closed off years ago—the part of him that had yearned to have someone—anyone—give a damn about him. Of course she didn’t really care, but those words.
Distracted him enough that when he stepped inside the bedroom, the intruder got the drop on him. Before his eyes could even adjust to the darkness, something struck his head—knocking him down and knocking him out—leaving the princess at the mercy of the intruder.
BLOOD SEEPED INTO his blond hair, staining the short silky strands. Gabriella pressed her fingers to the wound, gauging the depth of it. Would it need stitches? Had he been hit hard enough for the injury to be fatal?
She moved her fingers to his throat. He had already loosened the collar of his silk shirt and undone his bow tie, which dangled along the pleats of the shirt. So she had easy access to the warm skin of his neck. At first his pulse was faint, but then it suddenly quickened.
She glanced at his face and found his dark eyes open and staring up into hers. How could he be so blond but have such dark, fathomless eyes? The man was a paradox—a mystery that had fascinated her since the day he’d walked into the palace to guard her father.
She had been able to think of little else but him. No matter where she’d been—fashion show or gallery opening or movie premiere—her mind had been on him—which had probably made her even more distracted and nervous every time the press had interviewed her.
She had been looking forward to tonight—to seeing him in a tuxedo. To blend in, all the security team had worn black tie. But she had seen only Whit, looking like every young woman’s fantasy of Prince Charming. Then her father had made his horrible pronouncement and shattered all Gabriella’s illusions of a fairy-tale happily-ever-after.
“You’re alive?” she asked.
While he’d opened his eyes, he had yet to move—to even draw a breath. Of course he wasn’t dead, but he must have been stunned. In shock? Concussed?
Finally he nodded, then winced and repeated her ridiculous question, “You’re alive?”
Her lips twitched into a smile. “I’m fine.”
“The intruder didn’t take you,” he said, as if surprised that she wasn’t gone.
“No.” She shuddered at the thought of being abducted, as she had nearly been so many times before … until the former U.S. Marshal had become her bodyguard a few years ago. As well as protecting her, the ex-Marshal had taught her how to defend herself. Fortunately Gabriella hadn’t been put in that position tonight. But she wished she could have defended Whit and saved him from the