A Royal Wedding(103)

“He’s not my—!” She stopped herself and heaved a sigh as she rolled her eyes. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of answering. Raising her chin, she looked away.

“Come on,” he encouraged, sweeping his arm out toward the street and the multi-level parking structure across the way. “Where is he?”

Folding her arms across her chest, she looked resolutely in the other direction. “I have no idea,” she said evenly.

He waited a moment, studying her profile and hoping for more information. When she didn’t say anything more, he shrugged.

“Okay,” he said shortly. “If you won’t talk, we might as well go eat. Come on.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and began to escort her out into the lower level of the casino. She tried to pull her hand away at first, but he wasn’t letting it go and she decided it was just too embarrassing to start a tug-of-war. Besides, she had to admit she sort of liked the way it felt, letting him escort her this way.

He liked it, too. He only hoped no one recognized her or did a quick internet search to figure out who she was. If so, the media would know next. He glanced around at the hungry female stares following their progress through the crowd, and he winced. Sometimes it seemed as though every woman he met was measuring him for a groom’s coat with her eyes. And why not? After all, he’d been considered the most eligible bachelor in the country for the last ten years. But he’d learned to guard himself from relationships of any kind.

The one close female friend he’d had was his cousin Giselle, but that had pretty much ended when she’d turned her back on royalty and thrown her lot in with the common man. That was something he could never do. He was born and bred to royalty, and when his father died he would be king. It was nothing less than his place in the world.

That was what Julienne had to learn. She had her place, too, and it would make her life much easier if she would accept it. Looking at her, he could see she was enjoying the attention. Hopefully, this would begin a reassessment on her part.

As they walked through the crowd and into the restaurant Julienne noticed the ripple of interest Andre evoked everywhere they went. Despite her anger with him, and the circumstances, she couldn’t help but feel a frisson of excitement herself. He was so handsome, and it felt so good to have his arm and …

“Oh!” she said, suddenly realizing she was wearing a simple cotton sundress and every other woman in sight was dressed to the nines. She grabbed Andre’s arm with her other hand and leaned close.

“I’m not dressed for dinner,” she whispered, casting a worried glance at the mâitre d’.

He covered her hand with his own and looked down at her. A wave of tenderness came over him, and at the same time there was a strange feeling in his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he told her softly. “We’re eating in a private room.”

“Oh.”

She seemed relieved, but still nervous, and yet he noted she had enough of the royal instinct to walk through the main dining room with her head held high and proud.

He opened the door to let her in to the private space, then closed it again and pulled her close for a moment.

“You could be naked,” he said softly, touching her hair, “and there would still be no doubt that you are a princess.” He smiled at her. “Bravo.”

She was breathless. Though he released her quickly, and turned to pull out a chair for her, the intimacy of his touch and his words left a tingle in her blood. If only.

She wouldn’t let herself think that thought through. He was her guardian, not her lover. She had to be satisfied with what she could get. Or try to, at any rate.

Andre ordered for them both—grilled salmon with a saffron curry puree, cous-cous, and a mint-green apple salad. Every bite was so delicious it was difficult to remember that they were enemies now.

But he managed to remind her.

“You see, Julienne,” he told her between courses, “being royal gives you access to private rooms, exquisite meals, the best wines. Why would you want to throw that away?”

She took a sip of the wine. The only relationship it could possibly have to the liquid they poured in her glass at the convent was the rich golden color. But she wasn’t going to admit that to him at this point. Instead, she turned and gave him a gimlet eye.

“I’ve lived twenty-one years with this little invisible paste crown on my head,” she told him tartly. “It’s like being in prison—and being innocent of whatever crime landed you there in the first place.” She shrugged. “It’s the age-old lament. I just gotta be free.”