Royal Families Vs. Historicals. Rebecca Winters

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      “I rarely date.”

      “Then it should be a treat to have dinner with me.”

      She laughed, which might have been offensive if she didn’t have such a pretty, engaging laugh. Her enjoyment was genuine and thorough. At his expense.

      “I won’t apologize.” She held up a hand as she noted the way he folded his arms and set his teeth. “It wasn’t your conceit that got to me so much as the painful truth of that remark. You have no idea.”

      Conceit? He’d been stating a fact.

      She ran a fingertip beneath her eye, smile lingering.

      “In gratitude for that exceptionally good chuckle, I’ll spare you some pain. I attract a lot of attention. I’m really not worth the trouble to take out. I know this because I’ve been told so more than once.” Her amusement faded to something more sincere. Resigned. Maybe even a tad wistful and hurt.

      He started to say they could dine alone at his penthouse, then recalled his Paris residence was overrun by his mother and sisters and assorted female relatives.

      “Your place then,” he said.

      She shook her head, but there seemed to be some regret there. “Trella counts on certain spaces being kept private and our flat here is one of them.”

      That devotion to her sister kept getting to him. The second nature of it. He understood it very well and had to like her for it.

      “Dining in public it is, then.”

      She grew very grave. “I’m serious, Kasim. My sort of notoriety is a punishment. You would be tarred as my lover overnight.”

      “Since I intend to spend the night with you, where is the harm?”

      “Do you?” she scoffed, flushing with indignation. And stirred sensuality.

      He saw the deepening of her color and the swirl of speculation behind her gaze. The way she swallowed and licked her lips. Her nipples rose against the light silk of her top and filmy jacket.

      He smiled with anticipation.

      “That’s rather overconfident, isn’t it?” she said snippily.

      “Don’t act surprised, Angelique.” He flicked his gaze down to the breasts that had flattened against his chest, the pelvis that had pressed into the thrust of his. “We’re very well matched and both intrigued to see where this could go. If you’re so eager you don’t want to go to dinner first, we can progress to that discovery right here and now. Provided you remove your necklace first.”

      Her chin was not so narrow as to be pointed, but not so round as to be girlish. It was as perfect as the rest of her. She set it into a stubborn angle and said, “Punishment it is.”

      She marched past him to the door.

      “Maurice,” she said as she swung the door open. “A card, please. I’ll be dining with the prince later. Would you be kind enough to send someone to scout the restaurant of his choosing?”

      She relayed the card to Kasim as he came up behind her. If he wished to be so forward, her glare spat at him, he could suffer the wrath of her celebrité.

      He wasn’t scared. His worst family secret had been painstakingly—and yes, agonizingly—buried. Reports that he had affairs with beautiful women only aided that particular cause.

      “Your men can call that number with the details,” Angelique said.

      He pocketed the card thoughtfully. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

      “No need. My security will deliver me.”

      “So cautious.” He felt the seeds of irritation forming. Perhaps he didn’t care about the notoriety she provoked, but the triple-A level of security could become tiresome. “It’s a test?” he guessed. If the arrangements for a simple dinner were too much for him, he was not prepared for the rest of the way she lived, she seemed to be conveying.

      “It’s my reality,” she said with a flat smile.

      * * *

      He annoyed me.

      That was the only reason Angelique had agreed to dinner.

      Or so she told herself.

      And repeated to Trella, when her sister rang through on the tablet before she’d got round to calling Henri.

      “What’s going on with you?” Trella demanded with a troubled frown. “I’m feeling… I don’t know. Restless. Keyed up. Henri texted that your blip was a false alarm, but was it more serious?”

      She and her sister didn’t keep much from one another. There was no point. They read each other too well.

      Not that they were psychic. Angelique never feared Trella could peer into her private moments, but they had an uncanny connection. Despite whatever distance might separate them, they were eerily aware of the other’s emotional temperature. They knew if the other was happy or sad, angry or scared.

      It was one of the reasons Angelique was encouraged to believe Trella was actually getting better this time. The Sauveterres were all paranoid to a point, but for Trella, terror had become her constant companion and a very debilitating one. She didn’t want to fall apart with anxiety attacks, but for years they had struck without mercy and Angelique had always been aware when they did. It hadn’t helped her own sensitive nature one little bit.

      Living a cloistered life had leveled out the worst of Trella’s episodes, but now she was trying to overcome her fear of being in public so she could go to Sadiq’s wedding. It wasn’t so much fear of actually being around people or in the public eye that held her back, but fear that any change in her routine would trigger fresh attacks. So it was proving to be a “two steps forward, one back” process, but she was getting there.

      Angelique was just as worried that anything could cause Trella to backslide, so she was very firm in stating, “Today was me being an idiot. That’s all.”

      She didn’t go into detail about the kiss, but gave Trella a good laugh describing the scene as Kasim set off her panic button.

      “He said it would be a treat to have dinner with him. I’ll show him a treat,” she muttered.

      “It’s been a long time since you went on a date. Even longer since it was someone you were genuinely attracted to,” Trella noted.

      There went any attempt at disguising from her sister how deeply Kasim affected her.

      “I don’t know why I am! He’s not my usual type at all.”

      “You don’t have a type. You go out with men who make you feel guilty if you turn them down, or sorry for them.”

      “Well, there’s no feeling sorry for this one. He’s…” Indescribable. She was reacting to him from a completely different place than she’d ever experienced. He didn’t pluck her heartstrings as Trella suggested, or tweak her conscience. It was a СКАЧАТЬ