The Royal and The Runaway Bride. Kathryn Jensen

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СКАЧАТЬ the gleaming marble floor. Already he was bored. The same faces greeted him at nearly every function. Only the Americans were new to him, as they were to everyone else in his elite social circle. But it was protocol to honor a new king, regardless of where he was raised.

      Chicago. Phillip hardly knew where the place was. Somewhere in the middle of the United States, he seemed to recall. On a big lake? No matter. Among Daniel Connelly’s family, odds were Phillip might find someone of interest to talk to. His glance drifted down the receiving line, finding no one to spark his curiosity until close to the end.

      A young woman, her raven hair trimmed almost boyishly short, stood awkwardly behind the guests of honor. She wore an elegant gown that matched the color of her eyes—vivid green. Among the domino black-and-white attire of the rest of the room, she stood out like a gemstone. But what really seized his attention was the way her eyes shifted restlessly around the vast, chandeliered room, not even bothering to hide her impatience with the pomp and circumstance. A kindred spirit!

      Phillip stepped out of the line of guests waiting to pay their respects and moved to one side of the room where he could watch her better. She looked so out of place. Who was she? As he watched, she nudged the woman in front of her, whispered something in her ear then hiked up her billowy skirts in both fists and hightailed it for the doors leading to the garden. In a flash she was gone, but he was chuckling to himself at the parting image of chunky brown leather boots, laces dangling loose, revealed beneath layers of satin and chiffon. A little rebel. How charming!

      Glancing quickly around the room to make sure no one was paying any attention to her, or him, Phillip followed the young woman. Something drew him toward her, something as natural as gravity and just as impossible to resist yet far more difficult to understand.

      A stone balcony off the rear of the palace dropped away in wide steps to a formal garden, baking under Mediterranean heat even as the July sun set that evening. Sculpted shrubs formed arches, a maze and screens for the rose garden, interspersed with statues collected by the royal family over generations. Phillip wondered if the American clan was accustomed to such grandeur, then remembered the gossip that the Connellys were one of the wealthiest families in their own country. He caught a glimpse of emerald fabric whipping around a corner of hedgerow that separated the stables and yard from the prettily manicured greenery.

      “Hey, you there, wait up!” he called, breaking into a run.

      But if she heard, his shout had no effect. When he emerged from the shrubs to stand at the edge of the exercise yard, there was no sign of the less-than-daintily shod damsel in what had appeared to be Doc Martens. He caught the eye of a stable boy who was leading a chestnut mare across the yard.

      “Did you see a young woman in a ball gown come this way?” Phillip asked in Italian.

      The boy shook his head and kept going.

      A low whinny and snort caught Phillip’s attention, and he whipped around, moving toward the sound like a cat stalking its prey. Ducking into the dark interior of the stable at the third doorway, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden lack of light, then looked down the long aisle strewn with sweet-smelling straw. She stood on the lowest rail of a stall, reaching over to stroke the nose of a pure white horse. Her attention was so fixed on the animal, she didn’t react to his approach.

      “Does the stable master know you’re messing about with one of his most valued mounts?” he asked.

      She jumped and snapped her hand back but recovered quickly, tipping her nose into the air. Her green eyes flashed defiantly at him. “Of course. He asked me to look in on him.”

      “He did, did he?” Phillip grinned, even more curious about her now. From a distance, she’d been intriguing. Up close she was dazzling, with a delicious hint of recklessness. “And why would he do that?”

      “Because I’m…I’m a trainer. He asked me to work with—” Her gaze shifted almost imperceptibly to the bronze plaque on the stall’s half door. “—with King’s Passion.”

      “A trainer,” he repeated, thinking that might well account for her mixed attire and uneasiness in a formal setting. His own trainer would do just about anything to avoid socializing with Phillip’s friends. Although why, as a mere employee, she should be included at all in the celebration wasn’t clear. “You’re an American.”

      “Yes,” she said, hopping backward off the rail. Her narrow shoulders settled firmly and her long, elegant neck straightened until she was looking him in the eye. “I work for the Connellys but came as a favor to lend a hand at the royal stable for the celebration.”

      “I see,” he said. “So you’ve had a lot of experience with horses.”

      “Oodles.” She flashed him a cocky grin.

      He walked around her, checking out her physique without hiding his intent. Her shoulders and arms looked strong enough for the job, and she was slender, lightweight as a jockey, and seemed to be coordinated. He guessed she’d look damn fine straddling one of his jumpers. The image excited him. He could see her taking a five-foot rail on his favorite gelding.

      “It’s hard to find a good trainer these days,” he commented.

      She shrugged, still looking more interested in the white horse than in him as she stroked the patch of pink flesh between the animal’s flaring nostrils.

      “I have a problem horse in my own stable. Maybe you could break free of your duties here long enough to come over and take a look at him.”

      Her brows knit. “Oh, well…I would of course, but I’m terribly busy here. And I expect I won’t be staying all that long.”

      “Too bad. I would have paid you well.” No reaction. “And treated you to a fine lunch. My cook makes a bouillabaisse to die for.”

      Now her pretty eyes widened. Good, he thought. He’d found a weakness. Food.

      “I really don’t think I could—”

      “Tell you what—” he stopped suddenly. “I didn’t catch your name.”

      “Alex—” She seemed to hesitate, then said again, “Alex.”

      “Well, Alex, I’ll speak to our king before the end of the evening. Perhaps we can spring you for a few hours tomorrow or the next day. I’m sure he won’t mind. Besides, he owes me a favor.”

      “Oh?” Her gaze finally swerved from horse to man.

      “I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he promised with a wink. “So it’s a deal? You give my jumper a quick inspection, and I’ll treat you to the finest seafood concoction in the Mediterranean.”

      She sighed, still looking unsure. “Agreed. But all I can spare is an hour or two at most.” She was studying him for the first time, and he felt as if she suddenly had him under a magnifying glass. What was she looking for? he wondered. Or was she afraid of agreeing to take a side job?

      “Are you always so serious about accepting work?” He was delighted to see her eyes soften when they at last met his. For once he allowed genuine warmth to enter his own expression. After all, she was safe, not some husband-hunting debutante or social climber. Just a working gal. The more she resisted his invitation, the better he felt about spending time with her.

      She blinked at him and the corners of her lips lifted СКАЧАТЬ