A Royal Wedding(97)

He glanced at the wrought-iron decorative work that led from one window to another on the outer building walls. The thought of his bad leg only deterred him for half a second, and then he was up on the railing and reaching for the ironwork. A shift in balance, a lunge for a hand-hold, a leap of faith, and he landed, upright and poised, right in front of Julienne as she made it to the last step.

That brought her up short and caught her attention, and she stared at him, her eyes wide as saucers.

“Wow,” she said, thoroughly impressed.

The small crowd lining the upper railing sighed in awe as well, and a couple of them even clapped.

He managed to cover up the gasp of pain his leg gave him upon landing and glared at her.

“So it is you.”

She nodded, still thunderstruck by his Tarzan stunt. Funny, but that pretty much fit in with the way she’d always seen him—a bit larger than life. And it did appeal to her feminine senses.

But then, he always had. She gazed at him almost hungrily, taking in all of him. It had been so long since she’d last seen him. She realized he considered her nothing but a hindrance, a ward who had been thrust upon him, a responsibility he didn’t need. But she’d always thought of him as her own personal hero. Only lately he hadn’t been living up to that part.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, looking fierce.

She frowned at him, lifting her chin defiantly. She wasn’t a child any longer and she wasn’t going to let him treat her like one. “Don’t swear at me. I’m your ward. You’re supposed to be a role model for me.”

“And you’re supposed to be at the convent, preparing for your wedding.”

She made a face and looked guilty, her gaze sliding to the side. “Yes, about that …”

He groaned. Trouble. Nothing but trouble. He could see it in her eyes.

A crowd was forming on the street level as well now. Before he knew it the paparazzi would get wind of this, and then there would be hell to pay. It was time to disappear from view.

“Come along,” he told her gruffly, taking her hand and beginning to lead her toward a shadowy space behind the stairs. “We need to talk.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” she said pluckily, though the sense of his forceful personality was wafting over her like a tidal wave and she knew she had to resist. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

That wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he led her in through an unmarked door and then onto a private elevator that opened to his coded entry. Soon they were hurtling toward the penthouse of the ten-story building, and Prince Andre’s suite.

He looked her over, glancing sideways. She’d always been pretty, but she’d developed a luminous quality since he’d last seen her—a sort of inner glow that reminded him of angels.

Angels! He gritted his teeth. Just as he’d feared, she was more appealing than ever. He had to get her back to the convent as quickly as possible. Once she was married to his cousin, Prince Alphonso, he could wash his hands of her.

The elevator doors opened right into the Prince’s suite, making Julienne blink with surprise. As she stepped out she looked about, eyes wide with wonder. Everything was shiny chrome, gleaming dark cherry wood and smoky tinted glass, with sleek leather couches and huge abstract art pieces on the walls. One side of the room was a floor-to-ceiling picture window, overlooking the lake and showing off the snow-capped mountaintops in the distance.

When she’d been eight years old she’d gone on a trip to Paris with her parents and she’d stayed in places almost as elegant as this. But it had been a long time since then, and she’d become used to the simple, rough-hewn décor of the convent. This place took her breath away.

“Nice,” she said casually, trying hard not to come across as the wide-eyed-in-wonder country bumpkin she felt like.

“I like it,” he replied shortly. “Why don’t you sit down?” he added, nodding toward one of the softer-looking couches. “I’ll get you a drink.”

“A drink?” she said hopefully.

“Nothing fancy,” he warned her. “I think I’ve got some lemonade in the refrigerator.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat deflated.

She’d been hoping he would serve an adult beverage, as though it were her due—a sort of sign that he understood she was of age now. No such luck. He still thought she merited lemonade. She was used to wine of a sort with meals at the convent, but it was hardly more than colored water as far as she’d ever been able to ascertain. His lemonade would probably provide more punch, even if it didn’t contain a bit of alcohol.