Affairs of State(24)
“I’m not sure how fresh I am. I’ve had a rather long day. I just learned that the Saudi prince whose wedding we’re planning for next month requires that the men and the women celebrate in different rooms.”
“We princes can be quite high-maintenance.” His cute dimple appeared. “Though that does rather seem like it would take the fun out of the occasion.”
“So the queen isn’t thrilled that you’re to wed Sophia Alnwick, as the magazine proclaimed.”
He shrugged. “I suspect the queen would be more than thrilled if I was to wed Sophia. I, on the other hand, feel differently.”
She giggled. She loved his dry humor. “So the palace is trying to set you up with her because she’s suitable royal bride material.”
“Yup.” He sighed. “Blood as blue as a robin’s egg, pretty as an English rose and not terribly bright. All the makings of a royal bride.”
“But not your cup of tea.”
“I prefer women with keen intelligence, even if that makes them more troublesome.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I can’t be that intelligent or I wouldn’t be spending time with you when I’m trying to avoid media attention. I think you might be the most eligible bachelor in the known world.”
“You’d think they could find something more compelling to write about. Global warming, for example.”
“Nah. Too serious. Handsome princes are more fun to read about. Especially when they’re kissing the wrong woman.”
He’d closed the door and now stood in front of her. His expression was serious, brows lowered and eyes thoughtful. “I’d much rather be kissing the right woman.”
Uh-oh. An inner warning signal flashed inside Ariella. Getting in too deep. His steady gaze held her like a vise. She could feel her breathing quicken and her body heat rise. Her mouth itched to kiss him and her fingers to sink into his shirt. Isn’t that why she’d come here?
His gaze lowered to her lips, which quivered with awareness.
Where was this going? This was obviously some kind of vacation fling for Simon and he’d fly back to England and be dating English roses again before the end of the month. She didn’t usually embark on any kind of relationship unless she saw some kind of future in it, which might explain why she was usually free to work events on Saturday nights.
She’d been jealous of some strange woman called Sophia whom she’d never even met. She was still jealous of her, truth be told, because the queen wanted her and Simon to be a couple.
What on earth did the Queen of England’s opinion have to do with her love life?
Did she even have a love life?
Her thoughts ran in all directions like rats fleeing a sinking ship, but her body didn’t move at all. Simon’s face grew closer until his lips touched hers. A flash of desire rose through her and her eyes shut tight as they kissed. Sparkles flashed across her brain and danced in her fingers and toes as chemistry rushed between them.
What was happening to her? She was the sensible one who drove her wilder friends home from parties. She didn’t get into scrapes with their celebrity guests or have skeletons tucked behind the coats in her closets. Well, not until it turned out that she was the president’s unknown love child. Everything seemed to have spiraled downhill since then.
Or was it uphill?
Simon’s hands fisted in her blouse as their kiss deepened. Her fingers roamed into his thick, short-cropped hair. The rough skin of his cheek and his simple masculine scent thickened the arousal building inside her. His erection had thickened to the point where she could now feel it pressing against her belly. A pulse of thick, complicated desire throbbed and urged her to tighten their embrace.
Until a knock on the door made them fly apart.
Flushed and breathless, she smoothed her blouse as Simon strode to the door. He pulled it open a few inches and murmured that he preferred not to be disturbed. The invisible person on the other side mentioned something about an urgent phone call from Her Majesty.
Simon turned to her. “I’m afraid I must take this call. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The door closed and she was left alone in the strange sitting room. For the first time she noticed the painting above the fireplace, a clipper ship sailing across a stormy sea, tossing on the waves. An expensive-looking collection of porcelain lined the top of the mantel. What was she doing in this strange room—some kind of official den—groping a man who might one day be King of England. Had she lost her mind?