Linda Goodnight - Prince Incognito

Nothing like going straight to the source with a direct question. She was much more adept at interviewing than conversation anyway. Concentrating on business would erase the discomfort of being thrust upon Luc like some wallflower at the junior prom.

Luc hesitated, lifting his napkin.

If possible, he looked even more fairy-tale handsome tonight in a chambray shirt that turned his eyes to a rhapsody in blue. And if that wasn’t enough to make her drool like a sick dog, he’d rolled back the sleeves to reveal muscled forearms that looked strong enough to take on anything. So interesting. Both muscles and manners in one stunning body.

To make matters worse—or better, depending on one’s outlook—he had removed the white cowboy hat. Carly had nearly choked on her barbecue. That wild bad-boy hair, like some sexy movie star or European racer, wreaked havoc with her imagination.

“Carson and I attended the same university for a short time,” he said. “So when I decided to vacation in the American West, I contacted him.”

Well, that explained it. Shoot.

Disappointed, she stabbed another beef chunk and poked it in her mouth. She’d hoped for a more exciting reason for a man like Luc to vacation at a remote dude ranch in Oklahoma instead of on the sunny shores of Spain.

She chewed and swallowed, savoring the tender beef. “Somebody around here has turned barbecue into an art form.”

“That would be Carson’s specialty. I remember when he invited me here years ago. He could hardly wait until I had tasted the family recipe. It is exquisite, no?”

There was that accent again, richer, warmer.

“You never did say where you are from.”

“No, I never did.” He smiled to soften the evasive reply, but Carly didn’t miss the diversion. Her antennae shot, happily, back up.

“Your accent is charming,” she said. “Is it French?”

She was prying but hoped Luc accepted the question as casual dinner conversation.

“You have a good ear,” he said. “Perhaps you speak français?”

“Oui.” She racked her brain to tell him that she had learned basic French in high school. “J’ai appris dans le lycée.”

His face, already too gorgeous for words, lit up in pleasant surprise. “Votre accent est tout à fait passable.”

Carly grinned at his compliment about her French accent and searched for the phrase to tell him not to tease her for sounding like a Texan.

“Ne taquinez pas. Je suis une Texan.”

Luc leaned back from the table and lay his fork aside to study her intently. “I am impressed, mademoiselle. ¿Usted habla español?”

Carly’s brain whirled to keep pace, but she was determined to be his mental equal. She might not be a beauty, but she had smarts.

She pointed her fork at him. “No fair jumping to Spanish without warning. But si, I do know some Spanish, though mine is mostly street language from living and working among the Hispanic folks in Dallas.”

“Quizás usted puede enseñarme.”

The pleasure of doing mental gymnastics with an intelligent man stirred Carly’s blood. Most men of her acquaintance were intimidated by her quick mind, but with Luc the situation was just the opposite. And tons of fun.

“I would be delighted to share the street language I know—if you think you can stand it.”

“I look forward to your expertise. Möglicherweise sprechen Sie auch Deutsches?”

Darn. She’d used up her repertoire of foreign languages.

She shook her head. One lock of hair came loose and flopped into her face. She blew it back. “You lost me there. What was that? German?”

“Ja.” He took up his fork and knife again, slicing his beef as if it was filet mignon.

“How many languages do you speak anyway?”

She watched him eat, noting that though he enjoyed his food with manly gusto, he ate with a finesse not found on most ranches. Muscles, manners and an amazing mind. Who was this guy?

“Six fluently. And you?”

“Six? Now it’s my turn to be impressed. Sadly you have heard my entire litany of languages. Where did you learn to speak so many?”

Luc’s expression remained friendly, but his smile tightened. Interesting. They had both enjoyed their game of intellectual table tennis, so why the sudden tension?

“School. Travel.” He gestured with his fork. “You know.”

No, she didn’t know, but as a detective—junior though she might be—she recognized the carefully chosen words that answered without answering.

“French, German, Spanish, English and what else?” she pressed with her most charming smile. Was he being intentionally obtuse or had a couple of years of prying information out of reluctant interviewees made her overly suspicious?

“Italian and Chinese.”

“I’m out of the game on both of those. Isn’t Chinese incredibly difficult?”

“It is, but in my—” he hesitated slightly, and her radar went crazy “—family business we found Chinese to be an important asset.”

“So your family is in international business?”

“More…public relations, you might say.”

“But on an international scale?”

“The world has become a global economy. Every large business is now on an international scale, is it not?”

Ah, now she was a getting somewhere. He was in some kind of public-relations business that had been in the family for generations and had gone international. No wonder he reeked of money and privilege—and spoke more languages than the United Nations.

“And what of you, Carly?” he asked. “What do you do in Texas?”

Think fast, Carly. You’re about to get in over your head.

“My degree is in marketing.” Which was true. Never mind that she’d nearly gone loco during the single year she’d worked in the field. She and the nine-to-five suit set weren’t exactly a match made in heaven.

“Do you enjoy it?”

Hated it.

She shrugged and felt her sleeve slide south. “Some days are diamond and some are stone.”

Lately the stones had been winning.

Luc’s glorious eyebrows knit together in a question. “Pardon?”

“Oh.” She flapped one hand at him. “It’s just a job, like any other. I take the good with the bad.” She had to find a way out of this conversation quick. “My life is boring. Yours, on the other hand, with all that international travel must be fascinating. Tell me about your country.”

Hopefully her attempt to keep Luc talking about himself was subtle enough to catch him off guard. She was usually good at sneaky interrogation.

His already dreamy eyes took on an even dreamier expression. Wherever he lived was a place he loved.

“Ours,” he said, “is a small but lush and picturesque country surrounded by mountains, dotted with pristine villages and peopled by a warm and friendly citizenry.”

Sunlight shafting through the trees glinted off his bad-boy hair. Carly tried not to notice, though her fingers itched to smooth wayward waves. Listening to his rich voice with the hint of accent did enough strange things to her insides. Looking at him was a killer.

“You sound like a travel brochure.” She’d wanted to write those once upon a time, another career goal that hadn’t worked out too well.

His gorgeous mouth tilted at the corners. “I could be. Montavia is—how do I express it?—an undiscovered treasure. A tiny alpine paradise. And I want to make the rest of the world aware of her great potential as a first-class resort area.”

“Montavia?” Carly latched on to the word like a terrier on a T-bone. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t bring up any data. “Exactly where is Montavia?”

Luc winced. He gathered the front of his hair and shoved it backward.

Dang. She’d wanted to do that.