Lisa Laurel - The Irresistible Prince

If he noticed anything, she couldn’t tell from his response. “When I say I want an ordinary woman, I mean a woman who’s not like—” He stopped cold.

“Not like the women you meet at diplomatic parties, state dinners and other official events?” she suggested.

“That’s right,” he said, as if marveling at her insight.

It was as she had expected, but she was still relieved to hear him admit it. “Good,” she said. “Because that’s the whole basis of my plan.”

“What plan?”

She took a deep breath and plunged right in. “It’s simple, really,” she said. “The best way to find an ordinary woman is to be an ordinary man.”

“No doubt,” he said dryly. “But the fact of the matter is, I am a prince.”

She held her gaze steady. “You know that, and I know that—but we’ve established the fact that no one else in Anders Point knows that.”

“That still doesn’t make me an ordinary man,” he said.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Miss Lane,” he began, the intensity in his gray eyes sending warmth her way.

“Annah,” she said, correcting him automatically. He was an ordinary man, she told herself, and she was going to treat him like one. Not like a prince. Not like a man who could make her insides cook at a glance. Just an ordinary man.

“Annah, what exactly are you getting at?”

She looked straight at him. “Okay, here it is. I think you should go undercover.”

He stared at her. “Undercover?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“You can’t be serious,” he said, frowning.

“Why not?” she said. “Remember, no one knows you’re here.”

“So you want me to change my identity?”

“Not change it—hide it,” she corrected. “Your princely identity, that is.”

“That’s crazy!”

“On the contrary, it’s perfectly logical, Your Highness,” she countered calmly. “I’m not asking you to renounce the throne or anything. Just to do without your title for a while. Tell me, do you have a surname? I’ve only ever heard you referred to as Prince Lucas.”

He was still looking at her as if she had taken leave of her good sense. “It’s Hansson. By custom it is not used.”

“Good,” she said. “You can be here as Luke Hansson, ordinary man, instead of as Prince Lucas, ruler of the Constellation Isles and wife hunter.”

“But being a prince is who I am,” he pointed out.

“A part of who you are. You’re also a man, a man who says he’s looking for an ordinary, small-town woman. I say she’ll be easier to find if you get rid of the trappings of royalty.”

“But—”

“Trust me, your odds of success will greatly increase. It will scare off the prince groupies, and it will ensure that women act like themselves around you.”

He thought about that. Bizarre as it seemed, what she was saying made sense. Personal experience confirmed that when it came to marrying a prince, a woman would say or do or promise or pretend just about anything.

“Doing it this way will also save time,” she added. “It will allow us to dispense with a lot of formalities. That deadline of yours is awfully tight.”

Didn’t he know it. That was the kicker. “I’ll have to think about it,” he heard himself say.

He went down the steps to the wine cellar. What was he saying? Think about it! His intellect told him he’d have to be insane even to consider it. But the lesson he’d learned the hard way told him otherwise.

He was still thinking when he returned to the kitchen with the bottle he had chosen. Glad to have something to do with his hands, he opened it up and filled two glasses. Annah turned around from the stove as he carried them over, her cheeks flushed from cooking, and for a moment he felt an odd thrill of warmth that he couldn’t quite attribute to the fire.

“Dinner is—”

“Something smells—”

They both stopped and smiled at each other. Even that slight stretching of his cheeks under his beard felt unfamiliar, making him realize how little he had done that lately.

“Delicious,” he finished.

“Want to see whether it tastes as good as it smells?” she asked, holding up a spoonful of some kind of stew to his lips. He was genuinely taken aback. None of the chefs on his staff would ever dream of taking such an outrageous liberty with him, even if he had given them the opportunity by being in the kitchen. When he opened his mouth to demur, she popped the spoon inside.

He had commanded his own utensils since he had first been able. The last time anyone had spoon-fed him anything was far beyond his memory. He was her captive, standing there with a wineglass in each hand. A sensual shiver ran through him as she pulled the spoon back out, slowly, as if the better to let him savor the taste of the food. It tasted like a spoonful of heaven—with a generous helping of the fires of hell thrown in.

With a forbearance that was second nature to him, he handed her a glass of wine and lifted his own in salute. While she returned the gesture and took a sip, he took a healthy swig of his.

She noticed. “Uh-oh. Is the chili too spicy?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he said, which would have been the polite response that a formal dinner guest who had the audacity to ask such a question would have gotten from him. But to her he added, “Not if one had been forewarned that it was chili.”

Her eyes and mouth went round. “I’m so sorry! I thought you knew. No wonder you looked...taken by surprise.”

Too much about this woman surprised him, Lucas decided as they took their seats at the big table. He had met people the world over, from all walks of life, but he had never met anyone quite like her before.

“Want some shredded cheese to go with that chili?” she asked him, interrupting his thoughts.

He looked down at the steaming bowl that she had placed on the table in front of him. “Yes, thank you,” he said. She passed the cheese to him and started in on her salad, looking as if enjoying this meal was the only thing she had on her mind.

His mind was on other things, but he did notice when her glass was empty. Remembering that he was the host, he poured for her and asked, “Is there anything else you want?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I want to know how you like the chili,” she said, gesturing toward the food that he had forgotten. In the flickering light of the fire, he saw that a teasing smile played across those luscious lips of hers. “I really do. It’s a new recipe.”

“And I’m your guinea pig,” he said dryly. He took a spoonful of chili, ready for the bite this time. He took his time chewing and swallowing, aware that she was looking at him expectantly. It was good—rich and flavorful. “I like it,” he said.

She seemed pleased. “So the recipe’s a keeper?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I think so, too. Chili is bound to be a big seller at lunchtime, especially this time of year.”

He turned his attention back to his chili. It really did have just the right amount of oomph. He preferred it to most of the dainty delicacies that the palace chefs served. It was hot and hearty, a real man’s dish. If Annah served this up along with her sweet smile at lunchtime, her tiny little coffee shop would be packed.

As if on cue, she took his empty bowl away, ladled it full and set it down in front of him again. He looked down at it, then back at her. “I didn’t ask for a refill.”

“I know,” she said with a smile. “But you wanted one, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?” he asked, starting to dig in. “Do all of us ordinary guys want seconds?”

Annah laughed. She toyed with the stern of her wineglass while he finished eating. “It’s nice to know you have a sense of humor, Your Highness,” she said. “It will come in handy for my plan.”