Carrie Alexander - Once Upon A Tiara

“Yeth.”

“More ice?”

“No, thank you. Already feel like an iceberg.”

“Would that make me the Titanic?”

She blinked. “How?”

“We’ve had one encounter and already you’ve torn off a vital piece of my heart.”

She was quite fetching when she giggled—her eyes slitted, her cheeks plumped, her wide smile infectious. “Is that a line that works on American girls?”

“I wouldn’t know, being a museum wonk.” He’d never tried an idiotic line like that on a girl in his life. When it came to hitting on women, his batting average was too dismal to account. He’d even come to the conclusion that associating with the female gender was dangerous to his welfare. Too bad about the biological urges he was having more and more trouble supressing. Thoughts of swollen body parts and how they meshed kept popping into his head. Definitely not on the how-to-treat-a-princess list.

“Then you’re not married?”

He managed to cover his surprise, telling himself that she was polite, not interested. “Only to my work. The sarcophaguses—sarcophagi?—would get jealous otherwise.”

She smiled as he fed her more ice. “You’re very amusing.”

“I practiced my act special for you.”

“Ooh, I’m all damp,” she said, and for an instant he was nonplussed by the idea of damp swollen body parts, before he realized she was referring to her clothing. She peeled off the pink jacket and reached under her lace jabot to unbutton the blouse. The wet silk had gone transparent, clinging to the curves of her breasts, outlining the plunging neckline of her undergarment.

She kept unbuttoning. He pulled his gaze away, rising from the couch. “Hold on. I’ll step outside.”

“Don’t bother. We Europeans are accustomed to going topless.”

Good God! Simon risked a quick glance and saw that she was taking off her blouse entirely. He spun around, keeping his back to her, every synapse firing. Breasts! Naked! Lucky, lucky man!

Then: Bodyguard! Royal outrage! Scandal! Disgrace!

Worth it!

He clenched his hands. Naked breasts were also surely against Corny’s protocol. “Uh, Princess, I really don’t think this is—”

“Oh, it’s all right, you silly man. I was only joking with you. I’m wearing a camisole.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The camisole was soft, silky, loose-fitting. It covered about as much flesh as a tank top. The fabric tented over her round breasts, held up—rather flimsily—by narrow satin straps. Even at a glance, it was obvious that the princess possessed a nice set of erect nipples. They were properly positioned and everything.

And everything.

He tore his gaze away a second time. It had taken the Titanic hours to go down, and here he was, sunk in mere minutes. “Could you put on your jacket?” he asked the ceiling.

“It’s damp, too. Do you have a hair dryer?”

Self-consciously, he passed a hand over his hair. It was clipped close to his skull despite an excess of forehead and temple. He figured he’d be bald by the time he was forty, so why fight it? “There are hot-air hand dryers in the lavatories.”

“Would you?” she said, holding out her blouse and the pink jacket. “Please?”

He sidled closer, still not sure that he should look directly at her, as if she were the sun. The sun, with breasts that shifted beneath the silk camisole every time she moved. His brain had lost too much blood for him to think straight and maintain willpower, so it would be best if he left the room as quickly as possible.

He reached out a blind hand, hoping she’d put the items of clothing into it.

She’s royal, she’s privileged, she thinks of me as a handy servant, he told himself. A valet. There’s nothing for me to see because in her eyes I barely even count as a person.

Ha! Nice try, but no go. This princess was no snob.

“I’ll do it,” she said, standing at the same time as he reached again for the clothes.

He got a handful of breast instead.

Sliding silk. Plump, firm breast. Taut nipple.

The princess gasped.

“Sorry,” he said, whipping around and pulling his hand away as if it had been burned.

Her face had gone as pink as her tongue. “My fault.”

“No, mine. I’m clumsy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Shouldn’t a museum wonk be good with his hands and eyes? All that detail work.”

Every detail of her breast was carved into his brain. Sparks were still shooting up his arm. “Clumsy socially,” he clarified. “I’m no good once you take me out of the museum.”

She patted his hand, and he realized it still hung in the air between them. He let it drop.

“You’re doing fine.” She sighed. “I’m the one who’s fouling everything up.”

“You couldn’t have anticipated a bee in the bouquet.”

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. These things always happen to me when I make public appearances. My father won’t let me out of the castle till I’m forty if I turn this event into a fiasco.”

“You’re an adult, aren’t you? You can do as you please.”

She shook her head. “I’m twenty-two, but they still treat me like a child. Ours is a traditional, hidebound monarchy, you see, and my father became very strict after my mother died. I know he’s only worried about his responsibility to me and my sisters, seeing that we have a proper upbringing, but it’s very hard to—” Lili stopped. “Listen to me. Complaining about life in the castle. You must think I’m a spoiled brat.”

“No…”

“You do. Admit it.”

“I don’t know you well enough to judge.”

She looked at him with bright, inquisitive eyes, her clothing clutched to her chest. “Now that you’ve touched my breast, you practically have to take me on a date.”

His eyeballs were on the verge of popping out and rolling across the floor like marbles. “A date?”

“The hot dogs,” she said. “You promised.”

He hesitated. “Would I get to touch the other breast?”

For a moment, she looked as stunned as he. Her mouth dropped open—the sight of the tender, red, swollen tip of her tongue made him feel curiously protective—and then she burst into laughter.

He shook his head, relieved by her reaction, but still appalled at himself. “I can’t believe I just said that to Her Serene Highness of Grunberg.”

She lowered the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “Honestly, I’m glad you did.”

His brow went up.

“I didn’t mean…not because of…” Her lashes fluttered. “Or maybe I did.” She cozied up to him, one hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “You see, this is my first time out on my own. It’s my chance to assert my independence. I was hoping to meet a dashing American playboy, but perhaps you’ll do.”

He was feeling pretty good, up until the last several words. They made him snap to attention.

He’d do, as a means to an end.

Story of his life. From Valerie Wingate to Paula Manthey, the grad student who’d faked a romantic interest in hopes of securing herself a cushy position on his team of researchers, women would far rather use him than amuse him. They saw him as a social misfit, an egghead scholar desperate enough to accept any female advance, whatever its motive. Sometimes, he even thought that way about himself. Which was why he was better off spending all his time with museum artifacts. Women were a species not even a man with an advanced degree could understand.

And Princess Buttercup was potentially more trouble than all the rest put together.

He’d take her for hot dogs if she insisted, but he’d definitely be ignoring the annoying little zings of his heartstrings.

Because if he didn’t, the beautiful young princess would soon be playing him like a violin. Just like all the rest.