The Prince's Cinderella Bride. Christine Rimmer

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СКАЧАТЬ set his tablet on the low table between them. “Put down your laptop.”

      She had it clutched to her chest with both hands. It was comforting, actually. Like a shield against doing what she really wanted and getting too close to him. But fine. She set it down—and felt suddenly naked. “This is ridiculous.”

      “I’ve been thinking it over,” he said as though she hadn’t spoken, a thoughtful frown carving twin lines between his straight, thick brows.

      “Max. Why are we doing this? There’s just no point.”

      He shrugged. “Of course there’s a point. You. Me. That something special between us.”

      “You still love your wife,” she accused. And yeah, it was a cheap shot, the kind of thing a jealous girlfriend looking for promises of forever might be worried about. Lani was not looking for promises of any kind, no way.

      He answered without heat. “My wife is gone. It’s almost four years now. This is about you and me.”

      “See?” she taunted, childishly. Jealously. “You’re not denying that you’re still in love with her. She’s still the one who’s in your heart.”

      Something happened in his wonderful face then. Some kind of withdrawal. But then, in an instant, he was fully engaged again. “This is not about Sophia. And we both know that. You’re just blowing smoke.”

      Busted. “Can’t you just…? I mean, there have to be any number of women you could have sex with, be friends with, any number of women who would jump at the chance to get something going with you.”

      His mouth twitched. What? He thought this was funny? “Any number of women simply won’t do. I want only one, Lani. I want only you.”

      Okay. Crap. That sounded good. Really, really good. She made herself glare at him. “You’re working me. I know what you’re doing.”

      He sat there so calmly, looking every inch the prince he was, all square-jawed and achingly handsome and good-hearted and pulled-together. And sincere and fair. And way, way too hot. “If working you is telling you the truth, then yes. I am shamelessly working you. I waited five endless weeks for you to come to me again, to tell me whatever it is that’s keeping you away from me. It was too long. So I took action. I’m not giving up. I’m not. And if you could only be honest, I think you would admit that you don’t want me to give up.”

      Why did he have to know that? It wasn’t fair. And she needed, desperately, to get out of there. She grabbed her laptop and popped to her feet. “I need to go.”

      He shifted, but he didn’t rise. He stared up the length of her and straight into her eyes. “No, Lani. You need to stay. You need to talk to me.”

      Talk to him. Oh, no. Talking to him seemed only to get her in deeper, which was not what she wanted.

      Except for when it was exactly what she wanted.

      He arched a brow and asked so calmly, “Won’t you please sit back down?”

      She shut her eyes tight, drew in a slow, painful breath—and sat. “I’m not…ready for any of this with you, Max.”

      He reached out and took her laptop from her and carefully set it back on the low table. “Not ready, how?”

      Her arms felt too empty. She wrapped them around herself. “It’s all too much, too…consuming, you know? Too overwhelming. And what about the children?” she demanded.

      He only asked, “What about them?”

      “They have a right to a nanny who isn’t doing their daddy.”

      “And they have just such a nanny. Her name is Gerta—and in any case, you’re not doing me, not anymore.”

      She let out a hard, frustrated breath. “I’m just saying it’s impossible. It’s too much.”

      He kept right on pushing her. “What you feel for me, you mean?”

      She nodded, frantically. “Yes. That. Exactly that.”

      “So…I’m too much?” His voice poured through her, deep and sweet and way too tempting. It wasn’t fair, that he should be able to do this to her. It made keeping her distance from him way too hard.

      She bobbed her head some more and babbled, “Yes. That’s right. Too much.”

      “I’m too much and Michael Cort wasn’t enough?”

      Michael. Oh, why had she told him about Michael? She’d dated the software designer until she saw Sydney with Rule and realized that what she had with Michael was…exactly what Max had just said it was: not enough. “You and Michael are two different things,” she insisted, and hated how wimpy and weak she sounded.

      “But we’re the same in the sense that Michael Cort and I are both men you decided not to see anymore.”

      “Uh-uh. No. I was with Michael for over a year—and yes, I then decided to break it off. But you and me? We’re friends who slept together. Once.”

      His eyes gleamed. “So then, we are friends?”

      She threw up both hands. “All right. Have it your way. We’re friends.”

      “Thank you, I will—and about Michael Cort…”

      “There is nothing more to say about Michael.”

      “Except that I’m not in the same league with him vis-à-vis you, correct?” He waited for her to answer. When she didn’t, he mildly remarked, “Ouch.”

      God. Did he have to be so calm and reasonable on top of all the hotness and being so easy to talk to and having the same interests as she did? He was a quadruple threat. At least. “Can we just not talk about Michael?”

      “All right. Tell me why you find this thing between us…how did you put it? ‘Overwhelming’ and ‘consuming’ and ‘too much.’”

      “Isn’t that self-evident?”

      “Tell me anyway.”

      Against her better judgment, she went ahead and tried. “Well, I just…I don’t have time to be consumed with, er, passion, now. There are only so many hours in a day and I…” Dear Lord. Not enough time to be consumed with passion? Had she really said that?

      “Tell me the rest,” he prompted evenly.

      She groaned. “It’s only that, well, my dad’s a wonderful teacher, the head of the English department at Beaufort State College in Beaufort, Texas, which is west of Fort Worth…” He was frowning, no doubt wondering what any of that had to do with the subject at hand—and why wouldn’t he wonder? For a person who hoped someday to write for a living, she was doing a terrible job of keeping to the point and making herself understood.

      “You told me months ago that your father’s a teacher,” he reminded her patiently.

      “My father is successful. He’s head of his department. My mother’s a pediatrician. And my big СКАЧАТЬ