The Rebel Prince. Raye Morgan

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СКАЧАТЬ was wonderful that both her older sisters had found love the way they had. But it did exact its own sort of toll on her spirit. She’d never been in love herself—never had time. She was almost thirty. Was it too late for her to find a way to develop the knack for it? If it hadn’t happened in all this time, maybe it never would.

      That was a disturbing thought and, added to the jumble that was now her emotional life—just another thing she didn’t have time to think about.

      The sound of a voice from down the hall made her realize it had been some time since either of them had spoken. It was almost beginning to feel awkward. She tried to think of something to say, but how did you strike up a conversation with a prince?

      Still, this wasn’t just any prince. This was the man who’d knocked her out with a water-polo ball, then sat with her while she’d tried to get him to tell her fairy tales. Surely she could think of something to say to him.

      “So,” she said tentatively, going back over some of her stitches to strengthen the hold, “you’re going to be King. I guess that must be pretty thrilling.”

      Glancing up, he gave her a quizzical look. “I can think of other words for it,” he muttered.

      “Well, I’m thrilled,” she persisted. “This is going to be my first chance to show an international audience what I can do. I only hope I do you proud.”

      He was looking at her as though he thought her hopelessly naïve, but she didn’t care.

      “I have some really unique plans. I’d like to go over them with you when you have a minute. Maybe tomorrow morning?”

      She knew she was starting to show how much she loved her work, and she also knew that such an open attitude was probably considered completely tedious in his crowd, but she couldn’t pretend to be sophisticated—because she was anything but. He was the prince and she was the commoner—and she wasn’t going to try to be anything else.

      “Wait until you see some of the menus.”

      “I can hardly contain my excitement,” he said dryly, and, though he didn’t put that sarcastic, mocking tone he so often used in his voice, she could tell he was having trouble holding it back, and she flushed again.

      Biting her lower lip, she vowed to quit trying to be polite. It didn’t pay with this man. If he wasn’t interested in having a normal conversation, so be it.

      But then she noticed he was staring at one of the maps on the wall across from where he sat. Reaching out, he could just barely reach it. Very slowly, almost lovingly, he traced the outline of Italy with his forefinger.

      “Italy’s a wonderful country,” she said.

      He nodded but he didn’t say anything.

      “I was in Rome last year for an Italian meringue seminar. It was a trip I’ll never forget.”

      He gave her a dubious look. “The Italians have their own type of meringue?” he asked.

      “Oh, yes. You slowly pour hot sugar syrup over stiffly beaten egg whites and keep beating until the whole thing has cooled. It makes a much more stable meringue.”

      “Great. There’s nothing I hate more than an unstable meringue.”

      He was making fun of her but she didn’t react. Her mind had gone back to his tracing the outline of the map. There was something almost sad and regretful about the way he’d done it and she wondered why.

      “My grandmother was Italian,” she told him. “From Naples. My grandfather met her during the war.”

      “Really.” He looked up, and for the first time his eyes seemed clear and interested. “My mother was Italian. She was born in Florence.”

      Their gazes met and held in a stolen moment of mutual understanding, a connection across a vast, empty plain. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone, and he looked away.

      Her heart was suddenly thumping in her chest. Before she had time to catch her breath, he was speaking again, changing the subject.

      “So, Emma Valentine. How did you get the job as my coronation food guru? I thought we usually used the in-house cook to do the dirty deed.”

      “I’m told you have in the past,” she said quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed how she’d responded to that momentary bond between them. She couldn’t seem to control her pulse or her breathing around him as it was and the whole thing was getting darned inconvenient. “But this time…”

      She stopped and started again.

      “Well, you see, Todd Akers, your coronation manager, is a regular at our restaurant in London. We’ve become friendly over the years. So when he had this fantastic assignment, he knew of my work. He contacted me and asked if I would be interested.”

      “And you were.”

      “Oh, yes. It’s a chance of a lifetime for me.”

      He looked at her, curious. “In what way?”

      “Well…As I said before, it’s an opportunity to show the world what I can do. Make my reputation.”

      “And from that will come more offers for other coronations?” he asked skeptically. “How many can there be?”

      “And other large affairs as well,” she explained quickly. “Also, cooking shows on television. Cookbook contracts. Positions in cooking schools. All sorts of things.”

      Including a chance that her father would finally feel that she’d made it in this profession. There was always that hope, dim as it might be. But she crinkled her nose and pushed those concerns away. She would worry about that when she was back in London.

      “If all goes well,” Sebastian said softly, his face taking on a strange, dreamy look.

      “Of course. If I fail…” She caught her breath and shook her head firmly. “No! I won’t even entertain the thought. I’m going to give you a coronation dinner fit for a king.” She couldn’t resist a quick grin. “So to speak.”

      “So to speak,” he echoed, nodding. He glanced up at her again, his eyes hooded. “So you and Todd are…old friends.”

      He said it in a significant way that added a spin she couldn’t let pass. Did he really think she’d been chosen for this job because she’d been…“friendly” with Todd? Frowning, she pulled back and stared at him.

      “We are not ‘old friends’.”

      He raised an eyebrow, searching her gaze. “New friends?”

      “We’re not ‘friends’ the way you make it sound.” She pursed her lips, gazing at him. “You really are a cynical man, aren’t you?”

      He shrugged with a nonchalance that came naturally to him.

      “It’s a requirement for survival, sweetheart.”

      He gave his statement a Humphrey Bogart twist that almost made her smile. Almost.

      Instead, СКАЧАТЬ