Teri Wilson - The Princess Problem

Dalton didn’t know what kind of game she was playing, and frankly, he didn’t care. If she wanted to pose as some kind of couple in front of this random stranger who could possibly recognize her from the tabloids, then fine. Although, the idea was laughable at best.

“Yes, here I am.” He turned sharp eyes on her with the vague realization that he wasn’t laughing. Not even close. “Finally. Surely you’re aware I’ve been looking for you, sweetheart.”

At last she met his gaze. With snowflakes in her eyelashes and rosy, wind-kissed cheeks, she looked more Snow Queen than princess.

And lovelier than ever.

Nature suited her. Or maybe it was winter itself, the way the bare trees and dove-gray sky seemed to echo the lonely look in her eyes. Seeing her like this, amidst the quiet grace of a snowfall, holding onto that ugly dog like a child hugging a teddy bear, Dalton got a startling glimpse of her truth.

She was running from something. That’s why she’d left Delamotte. That’s why she’d shown up in men’s clothes and begged him not to call the palace. She wasn’t here on holiday. She was here to get lost in the crowd.

Not that her reasons had anything to do with Dalton. He was simply her means to an end, and vice versa.

“What’s our address again? Silly me, I keep forgetting.” She let out a laugh.

Dalton fought to keep his expression neutral. Surely she wasn’t planning on moving into his apartment. That’s what hotels were for. And there were approximately 250 of them in New York.

Then again, who knew what sort of trouble she could get into unsupervised.

His headache throbbed with renewed intensity. “Our address?”

“Of course, darling. You know, the place where we live.” Quicker than a blink, her gaze flitted to the woman with the clipboard. “Together.”

Struggling to absorb the word darling, he muttered the address of his building in the Upper East Side. The woman with the clipboard jotted it down.

Who was this person, anyway? And why did Aurélie think she had any business knowing where they lived? Where I live. Not we. Good God, not we.

He leaned closer to get a look at whatever form she appeared to be filling out. The bold letters at the top of the page spelled out Pet Adoption Agreement.

“Wait,” Dalton said, as something wet and foul-smelling slapped against the side of his face. He recoiled and realized, with no small degree of horror, that it was the googly-eyed puppy’s tongue.

Marvelous. He wiped his cheek with the cuff of his suit jacket, and aimed his fiercest death glare at Aurélie. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We are adopting a dog, darling.” Again with the darling.

And again with the we.

“I believe this is the type of thing we should discuss,” he said, trying not to imagine the dreadful dog snoring like a freight train in his office while he tried to run the company.

Or, God forbid, snoring in his bed. Because if adopting homeless animals was the sort of thing she did on a whim when he wasn’t looking, she’d need to stay with him. Who knew what kind of trouble she could get into if he left her all alone in a hotel room for a fortnight?

He’d been wrong when he’d described her to Artem as impulsive. Impulsive didn’t even begin to describe Aurélie. She was full-blown crazy. Either that or the most manipulative woman he’d ever met.

“But we did discuss it. This morning.” Her bow-shaped lips curved into a beguiling smile that hit Dalton square in his libido, despite the deafening clang of warning bells going off in his head.

She was business. She was irritating to no end. And what’s more, she was far too headstrong for his taste. He shouldn’t be attracted to her in any way, shape or form. Nor should he be thinking about that troublesome mouth of hers and the myriad ways in which he’d prefer to see her use it.

She rested a hand on his bicep and gave it a firm squeeze. “Surely you remember our agreement?”

Unbelievable. She was using the secret egg to blackmail him into adopting a dog. She wasn’t crazy at all. Cunning. Most definitely.

Dalton Drake didn’t take orders. Nor did he allow himself to be manipulated in such a manner. Aurélie would learn as much soon enough. But not until he’d taken the pathetic animal home, apparently.

“Well?” The clipboard-wielding woman tilted her head. “What’s it going to be? Do you want to adopt him or not?”

Aurélie nodded furiously. “Absolutely. We do. Right, darling?” She looked at him expectantly. So confident. So certain he’d acquiesce to whatever she demanded.

He had a mind to refuse and put her on the next plane back to the French Riviera, along with the dog and all of the Marchand family jewels. Yes, they had a deal. But it didn’t encompass sending him on a wild goose chase. Nor did it include sharing his apartment. With her, or the dog.

He hadn’t taken a woman into his home since Clarissa. But that had been a long time ago. He’d been a different man.

Think of the egg. What it could do for business.

He looked at Aurélie for a long moment, and for some ridiculous reason, Artem’s warning came flooding back.

Whatever you do, don’t take her to bed.

He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. The very fact that Artem had seen fit to mention the possibility was preposterous. Dalton wasn’t the one who’d bedded half the women in Manhattan. That had been Artem’s doing. Dalton’s self-control was legendary.

But looking into Aurélie’s aching emerald eyes did something to him. That vulnerability that she hid so well was barely noticeable, but very much there. And it made him wonder what she’d look like bare in the moonlight, dressed in nothing but pearls.

Damn you, Artem.

Then, before he could stop himself, he heard himself say, “Fine. We’ll take the dog.”

* * *

What kind of person didn’t like animals?

The kind who was seething quietly beside Aurélie, evidently.

Dalton hadn’t uttered a word since he’d paid the adoption fee and slipped the receipt into his suit pocket. He’d simply aimed a swift, emotionless glance at Aurélie, cupped her elbow in the palm of his hand and steered her back in the direction of Drake Diamonds. Now, less than a block later, he was walking so fast that she struggled to keep up with him. She had a mind to give up entirely and pop into the Plaza for afternoon tea, but looking at the tense set of Dalton’s muscular shoulders as he marched in front of her, she got the distinct feeling there’d be hell to pay if she didn’t fall in step behind him.

Plus she didn’t have any money. Or credit cards. Which meant she was totally dependent on the very cranky Dalton Drake.

Besides, every three or four paces, he glanced over his shoulder, probably to assure himself of her obedience. It was infuriating, particularly when Aurélie recalled the archaic Delamotte law that stated royal wives must walk a minimum of two paces behind their husbands in public. No doubt a man had come up with such a ludicrous decree.

She held the trembling little dog tight against her chest and hastened her steps. She wasn’t Dalton’s lowly subordinate, and she refused to act like it. Even if, as they said in Delamotte, la moutarde lui monte au nez. The mustard was getting to his nose. In other words, he was angry.

Fine. So was she. And she wasn’t spending another second scurrying to keep up with him.

“Arrête! Stop it.” She tugged on his sleeve, sending him lurching backward.

Dalton’s conservative businessman shoes slid on the snowy pavement, but he righted himself before he fell down. Pity.

He exhaled a mighty sigh, raked his disheveled hair back into place and stared down at her with thunder in his gaze. “What is it, Aurélie?”