Lisa Laurel - The Irresistible Prince

He looked deep into her eyes. “A bride,” he said softly.

Annah felt her teacup slip out of her hand. It fell back onto the saucer with a crash. She ignored it, staring at him. He was in deadly earnest, of that she had no doubt. And so there it was. His softly spoken words found a home deep inside her, a place that had been waiting just for them, it seemed. He had said what she hadn’t even dared let herself think, although the notion had been flickering around the edges of her mind ever since he had appeared. That was why he had come so far to see her—he wanted to make her his bride. Who would ever have believed that a fairy tale could come to life? But it was happening to her. Her handsome prince had finally come to rescue her, and now all of the dreams that she had thought impossible were going to come true at last. She sat there overcome, unable to speak.

“Will you do it, Miss Lane?” he asked then. “Will you help find me a bride?”

Annah stared at him. Find him a bride? Not be his bride? A cloud of confusion swept over her, but the direct look he gave her on the heels of his direct question dispelled it like a brisk wind. Find him a bride. His words tolled the death knell of her reawakening dreams. She looked away quickly. Of course he hadn’t meant that he wanted to marry her, she chided herself. Not her, Annah Lane. How quickly her fancies had allowed her to forget that she wasn’t at all the kind of woman that a man would want for a wife, to have and to hold, for better...for worse. Annah took a deep breath, and the pungent scents of coffee beans and dish detergent in her shop provided a strong dose of reality. No prince was going to come walking through that door to marry her. Fairy tales had to have a happily ever after, and her life was no fairy tale.

However, her life did have a prince in it, for the moment at least. He was watching her, waiting for an answer to his question. He didn’t want her to be his princess, but he did want her to be his...matchmaker?

Looking at him, Annah found it hard to believe that the man sitting across from her needed anyone’s help in finding a bride. True, the matrimonial clock was ticking for him; but he was arguably the most eligible bachelor in the world. He was rich, handsome—and he was a prince, for gosh sakes! International scuttlebutt had it that he was putting off choosing a bride until he had made the most of his last few months of bachelorhood, and Annah had never doubted that. There were legions of women stalking him: famous women, beautiful women—princess wanna-bes who would gladly trade their names and whatever virtue they could claim for the allure, luxury and power of a regal lifestyle. If he wanted to get married to save his throne, all he had to do was turn around and let himself be caught by one of them. Unless...

She looked at him carefully. He was staring out of the window now, his mouth set in a grim line. Suddenly she understood why Erik and Whit had sent him to her, of all people. “Your Highness, you want more than just a bride for the throne, don’t you?” she said softly.

“Yes,” he said, giving her a direct gaze. “I want more.”

Annah sat back in her seat in the booth. Now it all made sense. The gossip had been wrong, and so had she. He had delayed choosing a bride not to enjoy the countdown of his bachelor days, but for the simple reason that he hadn’t found the right woman. And the friends who had nudged him her way knew about her “gift”—her mysterious insight for recognizing true love. On paper, that made her the ideal matchmaker.

How was she supposed to answer him? Her insight wasn’t exactly something she could control, or even understand. It might not even work for him. She looked at him then, really looked at him, and a smoky feminine awareness caressed her insides in a curl of warmth. It had nothing to do with his being a prince, and everything to do with her reaction to him on a far more elemental level. In his mid-thirties, he carried himself with the unselfconscious assurance of a fully mature man. The power she had sensed within him was manifest in his rugged build. His touch-me brown hair and the well-trimmed beard that matched it rippled with mahogany. And deep in those sensual gray eyes lived an intensity that was compelling. His inner vibrations were strong, but that didn’t mean they’d be easy to read. Again those warm chills passed over her body, unbidden and mysterious.

She excused herself and got up from the booth, fanning herself with her hand. In the hallway, she checked the thermostat to see if it had been accidentally bumped up by one of the girls, but it was at the usual setting. Seeking solace in the familiar, she busied herself getting a rag from behind the counter and wiping the tea she had spilled. Then she righted her cup and refilled it.

What could Lucas do, except wait for her answer? He gritted his teeth, feeling his patience stretch thin. And it wasn’t just the waiting. Everything about this situation went against the grain. It was hard enough for a man like him to have to ask for anything, but this—this was an insult to his masculinity. What kind of a man needed help in finding his own bride?

A man who had played with fire and gotten himself burned, that’s what kind. Only a fool would be anything but careful after that. Lucas would be very, very careful.

Still, as hellish as the wedding deadline had made his life, Lucas had to applaud the decision of the council of elders. His marrying was in the best interest of the country he loved, which had a long history as a representative monarchy. As its prince, he had a duty to preserve the succession and carry that history into the future. He had to provide heirs to the throne. Marriage was inevitable. But the deadline had been a stroke of genius, focusing the attention of the world on his little country—and on its finely crafted jewelry, unique scenery and old-world hospitality. Yes, the elders had their eyes nobly focused on the past and the future—and their fingers wisely wrapped around the present, tightly gripping the collective pocketbook of the Constellation Isles. Tourism had swelled, even during the off-season. You had to love that. And the deadline served another purpose. Although none knew why, the elders were wise enough to see that, at thirty-five, their prince needed a little push toward the altar. He could still feel their fingers in his back, all the way across the ocean.

Annah returned to her seat. “Is the tea all right, Your Highness?” she asked him, gesturing toward his untouched cup.

He looked at it as if just now noticing its existence. “Yes. It’s fine, thank you,” he said, and concentrated on taking a drink. She could feel the tension in him.

Annah was a toucher. She felt the strongest impulse to reach out and pat him on the arm, but an even stronger instinct told her that he wouldn’t appreciate that kind of reassurance. And in truth she didn’t know how well she could handle her own reaction if she laid a hand on him again. “You...you’ve taken me a little by surprise,” she said truthfully. “I’m not sure what to say.”

A look flickered across his face, almost of pain. “There is some irony, is there not, in a prince having to ask for help in such a matter?” he said, with a twist of his mouth that passed for a smile. “But being a prince does not make me an expert in this area, Miss Lane.”

His lack of confidence in matters of the heart was typically male, and thoroughly endearing. Just talking about it was costing him, that much was obvious. But she was no expert herself!

He went on. “I have only one chance, and precious little time. I don’t want to make a mistake that I will pay for the rest of my life.”

“No, of course not.” Annah thought that was an odd way of putting it. Not wanting to choose the wrong woman, instead of wanting to choose the right woman.