Teresa Carpenter - Stolen Kiss From a Prince

“I’m not here about her injury.”

Through the open door of the bedroom he saw the redhead. Light from the lounge fell across the bed and the lovely woman within it. Long lashes dusted creamy pale cheeks. Dark bruises under her eyes were a violation against the porcelain perfection of her features. Whatever she’d done, he couldn’t deny she’d pushed herself beyond the expected to help Samson.

Suddenly it seemed wrong to ask more of her. But for Samson he must.

“I’m sorry to disturb her, but I need Katrina to come with me. My nephew needs her help.”

“Oh.” The woman looked uncertain and then nodded. “I will wake her.” She slipped inside the room and closed the door.

He paced the small lounge, wishing he were anywhere but here.

People called him cold. And maybe he was. If preferring order and calm were attributes of being cold. He needed both to do the work he did. Overseeing his country’s treasury, including both finances and security, required a clear head and a focus of purpose.

He could work under pressure but he rarely had to. He had the ability to see the big picture, to track patterns and trends. So he prepared and diversified and created contingency plans. Which allowed him to move before the market did.

Some said it was magic or worse called him psychic. Bah. It was just the way his mind worked. He enjoyed learning things, and his brain absorbed knowledge like a sponge. He surprised himself with the facts he knew sometimes.

People, on the other hand, were a mystery to him. As was their penchant for displaying high emotions.

A bachelor at thirty, he’d been content in his role as the spare heir. Though his father occasionally addressed his desire for Julian to find a suitable woman and start a family, the pressure had lessened after Donal wed Helene and Samson was born.

Still, Julian was a man like any other, with the same needs. His position, however, called for discretion. He managed that by having a number of lady friends he escorted to the many functions his title forced him to attend. By spreading his attention around, no one—women or press—built up undue expectations.

He supposed his reputation for being cold kept him from being dubbed a playboy.

The woman, Katrina, threatened his hard-won detachment. His attraction to her stunning beauty just made him angrier over the whole situation. As did the intelligence he’d spied in her violet eyes. She struck him as being too smart to make the blunder she had. So what had she been thinking?

Shock, he imagined. But it was no excuse, not in her position.

He may not be able to do anything to help his brother, but he could make sure Samson was cared for. And if that meant disturbing the injured woman’s sleep, he’d do it without remorse. She deserved no more rest than the child she’d traumatized.

The door opened and Katrina walked barefoot into the lounge. She wore a lush white bathrobe that brushed her bare pink-tipped toes. Under it was a white garment trimmed in lace cut nearly as low as the V of the robe.

His gaze jerked to hers from the soft swell of her breasts visible in that V. She was so pale there was very little difference between her skin and the white of her nightclothes. Except for the shadows he’d noted earlier.

“Is Sammy okay?” she asked in a voice husky from sleep, her brow furrowed in concern. “Have you called the doctor?”

“His injury is not the problem,” he assured her, his brusqueness more for his benefit than hers. “Tessa woke him as instructed, but he will not go back to sleep.”

She gave a resigned nod, the action making her head appear too heavy for her slender neck. There’d been no sign of softness or frailness when she attacked him in the nursery. Just fierce protection of Samson.

Now he saw how tiny she was, clearly no more than five-four at the most. At six-two he towered over her. The oversize robe didn’t help. Nor did her fiery mane of hair, which she’d tamed into a braid that hung halfway down her back. But without makeup, her skin appeared starkly white against the vibrant color of her hair.

“Shall we go?” She moved forward, swaying slightly.

He ground his teeth, half tempted to send her back to bed. More than tempted to join her there. He dismissed the inappropriate thought, disgusted with his libido for rising up when his full attention should be on his brother’s family.

Samson’s needs came first.

“Where are your shoes?” he demanded, focusing on the practical.

She stopped and frowned, as if it took an effort to think. He was reminded she, too, had taken a knock to the head.

“I’ll fetch them.” The maid disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a pair of fuzzy slippers. Katrina slipped them on; her pink-tipped toes peeked through the end.

She rubbed her forehead. “Would you prefer I take the time to dress?”

Yes. There was something entirely too intimate about her in nightgown and robe.

“No.” Again he thought of Samson, saw tear trails on pale cheeks. “Let’s go.”

He followed her from the room and was surprised when the maid also stepped into the hall.

“It is all right, Anna.” Katrina bid the maid. “Thanks for watching over me. You can go now.”

“Oh, but I have doctor’s orders,” the young woman protested.

Annoyed by the delay, Julian bit back his impatience to address the woman. “What are your instructions? I’ll see she’s cared for the rest of the night.”

Clearly upset with the change in circumstances but unable to countermand his authority, Anna outlined the doctor’s instructions. “You must wake her every few hours and ask her questions to make sure she is coherent. If she’s not, or you notice anything strange about her pupils, or she gets sick, you need to call the doctor immediately.”

As she spoke, he automatically looked into Katrina’s eyes to check her pupils and found himself lost in the solemn depths. Blinking, he turned to the maid, acknowledged her instructions and sent her on her way. While he took care of that, Katrina started ahead of him.

Her actions caused him to scowl. Protocol demanded she follow him. Sighing, he decided to cut her some slack; she had a concussion after all. However, it didn’t escape his notice she appeared to know the way.

Though it may only mean she’d asked after where Samson would be, Julian believed it was more than that. She’d probably been the one to put him to bed. He wasn’t okay with that. He’d charged Tessa with taking the boy to his rooms, made it clear he’d wanted her to resume care of the boy.

Already his authority was being undermined.

Something he would not tolerate.

“Mademoiselle—” Damn. What was her name? He quickly closed the distance between them. “I wish to make myself clear. Your assistance with Samson is appreciated. That does not mean I will abide interference with my decisions regarding his care.”

“Of course,” she responded as she pressed the button to call the elevator.

“Are you mocking me?” he challenged, crowding her.

She blinked those big violet eyes at him as she shrank back, making him feel as if he’d chastised an innocent.

“No,” she said, and entered the elevator. She moved into the corner, her toes curling into her slippers. She pulled the edges of her robe together and tightened the sash. “I know you want what is best for him.” A wan smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “Otherwise I would not be here right now.”

He searched her features for any hint of guile but saw only the ashen evidence of her exhaustion. She looked so fragile he thought of sending her back to her bed. Only the thought of Samson’s suffering kept him resolute.

“Excellent.” The elevator doors opened and he waved her forward. “As long as you understand.”