Lynn Raye Harris - Men In Uniform - Captivated By The Prince

‘You mean I should bed her, not wed her?’ Alessandro suggested dryly, as he looked back to where Emily had the microphone clutched between both hands for a slow number, looking as if she was about to devour it.

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, sir. In my opinion such an ill-judged match would only create more problems than it would solve.’

‘I disagree,’ the Crown Prince of Ferara countered, ‘and nothing you can say will persuade me that the girls you have paraded before me would fill the role any better—or vacate it without causing problems.’

He paused, and took another long look at the stage. ‘As it is not my intention to break any hearts, Marco, this is the perfect solution. I want a straightforward business deal and a short-term bride—’

‘Short-term, sir?’

Alessandro turned to answer the disquiet so clearly painted across the other man’s face.

‘I know,’ he said, leaning closer to ensure they were not overheard. ‘You’re thinking of all the other implications such an arrangement would entail—I would expect nothing less of you, my old friend.’

The Prince’s companion grew ever more troubled. Even if he could have shed the role of cautious professional advisor, Marco Romagnoli had known Alessandro from the day of his birth, and was considered an honorary member of the royal family.

‘I wouldn’t wish to see anyone take advantage of you, sir,’ he said now, with concern.

‘I shall take good care to ensure that none of the parties involved in my plan is taken advantage of,’ Alessandro assured him. ‘Thanks to our country’s archaic legislation I can think of no other way to solve the problem of succession. If my father is to have his wish and retire I must marry immediately. It’s obvious to me that this young woman has spirit. When I put my proposition to her I think she will have an instant grasp of the advantages that such a match can bring to both of us.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Marco agreed reluctantly, flinching visibly as Emily launched into a raunchy upbeat number.

‘I have seen enough, Marco,’ the Prince said, reclaiming his aide’s attention. ‘And I like what I see. Please advise the young lady that Alessandro Bussoni wishes to talk with her after the performance tonight. No titles,’ he warned. ‘And if she asks, just say I have a proposition to put to her. And don’t forget to ask her name,’ he added as, without another word, Marco Romagnoli rose to his feet.

After the show, Emily Weston, the singer with the band, was having a tense debate over the phone with her twin sister Miranda.

‘Well, how do you deal with them?’ she demanded, shouldering the receiver to scoop up another huge blob of cleansing cream from her twin’s industrial-sized pot.

‘Who do you mean?’ Miranda snuffled between ear-splitting sneezes.

‘Stage Door Johnnies—’

Miranda’s summer cold symptoms dissolved into laughter. ‘Stage Door Whosies?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,’ Emily insisted, flashing another concerned glance towards the dressing room door.

‘I didn’t think there was such a thing as Stage Door Johnnies nowadays,’ Miranda said doubtfully.

‘Well, I can assure you there is,’ Emily insisted. ‘What else would you call uninvited gentleman callers who won’t take no for an answer?’

‘Depends on who’s doing the calling, I suppose,’ Miranda conceded, blasting out another sneeze. ‘Why don’t you just take a look at him first, before you decide?’

‘No way! That’s never been part of our agreement.’

‘But if he looks like Herman Munster you can send him packing…and if he’s a babe, pass him on to me. He’d never know the difference. If Mum and Dad can’t tell us apart, what chance does this man stand? What have you got to lose?’

‘Look, I’ll have to go,’ Emily said as another rap, far more insistent than the last, bounced off the walls around her head. ‘I told his messenger I couldn’t see anyone I didn’t know immediately after a show—pleading artistic temperament. He still hasn’t taken the hint.’

‘He sent someone round first?’ Miranda cut in, her voice taut with excitement. ‘He sounds interesting. He might be a VIP.’

‘I doubt it,’ Emily said as she peered into the mirror to peel off her false eyelashes. ‘Though when I said I wouldn’t see him I thought his representative muttered something about Prince being disappointed—’

‘Emily, you dope,’ Miranda exclaimed through another bout of sneezing.’ Prince Records is the recording company my band’s been hoping to sign with. And you’ve just turned away their scout.’

‘Can’t I get one of the boys to see him?’ Emily suggested hopefully. After all, there were five male members in Miranda’s band.

‘Are you kidding?’ Miranda exclaimed. ‘First of all they’ll be in the pub by now…and secondly, do you seriously think I’d trust them to discuss business without my being there?’

Remembering the dreamy idealism of Miranda’s fellow musicians, Emily could only respond in the negative. ‘It might have helped if you had warned me this might happen,’ she protested reasonably. ‘Have to go,’ she finished in a rush, wiping her hands on the towel across her lap as another flurry of raps hit the door. ‘Whoever this is, he’s not about to give up.’

Cutting the connection, Emily grabbed a handful of tissues as she shot up from her seat in front of the brilliantly lit mirror. Then, scooting behind a conveniently placed screen, she called out, ‘Come in.’

This was the craziest thing she had ever done, Emily thought nervously as she swiped off the last of her make-up and stuffed the used tissues into the pocket of her robe. She tensed as the door swung open.

‘Hello? Miss Weston? Miss Weston, are you there?’

She had heard male voices likened to anything from gravel to bitter chocolate, but this one slammed straight into her senses. Italian, she guessed, and with just the hint of a sexy mid-Atlantic drawl. She pictured him scanning the cluttered space, hunting for her hiding place, and felt her whole being responding to some imperative and extremely erotic wake-up call.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she sang out, relieved she was hidden away. ‘I’m getting changed.’

‘Thank you, Miss Weston,’ the voice replied evenly. ‘Please don’t hurry on my account.’

Just the authority in the man’s voice made the hairs stand on the back of her neck. And there was a stillness about it that made her think of a jungle cat, lithe, impossibly strong—and deadly.

It was in her nature to confront threats, not hide from them. So why was she skulking behind a screen? Emily asked herself impatiently. Could it be that the force of this man’s personality had taken possession of what, in Miranda’s absence, was her territory?

‘Can I help you?’ she said, struggling to see through a tiny crack in the woodwork.

‘I certainly hope so.’

There was supreme confidence and not a little amusement in the response, as well as the type of worldliness that had Emily mentally rocking back on her heels. It was almost as if the man had caught her out doing something wrong—as if she had no right to be looking at him.

Drawing a few steadying breaths, she tried again. But all she could see through the crack in the screen was the broad sweep of shoulders clad in a black dinner jacket and a cream silk evening scarf slung casually around the neck of an impressively tall individual. A man whose luxuriant, dark wavy hair was immaculately groomed and glossy…the type of hair that made you want to run your fingers through it and then move on to caress—She pulled herself up short, closing her eyes to gather her senses…senses that were reacting in an extraordinary manner to nothing more than a man’s voice, Emily reminded herself. She spent her working life objective and detached…yet now, when it really mattered—when Miranda’s recording contract was at stake—she was allowing herself to be sideswiped off-beam by a few simple words. ‘I’m sorry, Mr…er—’