“You’re A Little Skittish This Morning, Doctor.”

“And you’re a little sneaky, Your Highness,” Fran told him.

Max shot her a sideways glance. “Just a little?”

“Well, I was trying to be gracious. You know, you being the sovereign around here and all.”

“Technically, I’m not the sovereign. That would be my father. But I understand your point.” He stood and walked over to her, amusement glistening in his eyes. “Afraid I might lock you up in a dungeon?”

Fran tipped her chin up. “I’m not afraid of anything, Your Highness. Even being locked up all alone—”

“Who said anything about alone?” His grin went wide.

Awareness moved through her like warm molasses. Why, oh why, did she have to turn to mush when this man was near? It just wasn’t fair. She could control every aspect of her life, every emotion—every need. But here in Fantasyland with Prince Foxy, she was reduced to…well, female.

Dear Reader,

Revel in the month with a special day devoted to L-O-V-E by enjoying six passionate, powerful and provocative romances from Silhouette Desire.

Learn the secret of the Barone family’s Valentine’s Day curse, in Sleeping Beauty’s Billionaire (#1489) by Caroline Cross, the second of twelve titles in the continuity series DYNASTIES: THE BARONES—the saga of an elite clan, caught in a web of danger, deceit…and desire.

In Kiss Me, Cowboy! (#1490) by Maureen Child, a delicious baker feeds the desire of a marriage-wary rancher. And passion flares when a detective and a socialite undertake a cross–country quest, in That Blackhawk Bride (#1491), the most recent installment of Barbara McCauley’s popular SECRETS! miniseries.

A no-nonsense vet captures the attention of a royal bent on seduction, in Charming the Prince (#1492), the newest “fiery tale” by Laura Wright. In Meagan McKinney’s latest MATCHED IN MONTANA title, Plain Jane & the Hotshot (#1493), a shy music teacher and a daredevil fireman make perfect harmony. And a California businessman finds himself longing for his girl Friday every day of the week, in At the Tycoon’s Command (#1494) by Shawna Delacorte.

Celebrate Valentine’s Day by reading all six of the steamy new love stories from Silhouette Desire this month.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Charming the Prince
Laura Wright

LAURA WRIGHT

has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently, she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theater production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811 Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at laurawright@laurawright.com.

To my own Prince Charming, Daniel.

You make life a fairy tale for me every day.

To my new friends, and wonderful authors,

Kristi Gold and Bronwyn Jameson. You guys are the best. And to Lois J. Thomasson of Fleetwind

Wolfhounds. Thank you for helping me to understand the glorious wolfhound. I’m still waiting for my puppy!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

One

Francesca Charming didn’t believe in fairy tales, despite her whimsical surname. But with real-life royal cobblestones under her feet, the purple-and-gold Llandaron flag snapping crisply in the warm morning wind and the ancient fortress standing regally before her, a girl could change her mind.

The seven-story castle of white stone and polished elegance sat high on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic coastline. Rows of creamy-marble steps crept up, up, until they reached a massive wooden portcullis. Hundreds of windows peeked out at Fran through their frames of slender evergreen climbers, while on both ends of the amazing dwelling, two white towers extended their pepper-pot necks toward an azure sky.

And all around her, the scents of heather and salt-water carried on the breeze slowly lulling her from all thoughts of business, of why she’d come to—

“Welcome to Llandaron, miss.”

Fran jumped at the spirited burr, whirled around. A gardener pruning a wedge of fragrant honeysuckle gave her a wink. “First time to the castle, eh? Surely takes the breath away, doesn’t it?”

The magic from a moment ago vanished and reality set in. Indulging in a child’s fantasy was not why Fran had come to Llandaron. She’d come to the small island nation to work—to earn the money that would finally put the wheels of a lifelong dream in motion. And Fran’s dream, her one and only goal, was to open a Los Angeles-based animal-surgery facility.

Gripping her veterinary bag tightly to her side, she smiled at the gardener and said in her most professional tone, “Yes, I’m Dr. Charming. I just arrived this morning. I’m looking for the stables. Am I going the right way?”

The gardener clipped her a nod. “Just keep following the path you’re on and you’ll run straight into it. Make sure to ask for Charlie when you get down there. He runs things.” The man turned away to tend to a young fir tree. “He’ll show you round.”

“Thank you.” Fran turned and continued down the stone path, her traitorous gaze once again lapping up every detail she encountered.

All the books she’d read on Llandaron boasted of its “lush, wild beauty in the spring.” But such a description didn’t do the land justice. As she walked through a manicured garden that sloped gently toward the grand-looking stables, she took in the impossibly green lawns in the distance, small curves of hill blooming scads of tiny red flowers, and chunks of purple heather that dwelled amongst groomed shrubbery and ancient trees.

Only a hundred miles from Cornwall, England, Llandaron seemed a world away.

Gripping her black bag more tightly, Fran walked into the streamlined stables with what she hoped was an air of confidence. Horses nickered at her from their exceptionally clean stalls, and she allowed herself the time to give each a soft rub on their blazes before she marched down a lengthy hallway looking for a man called Charlie.

But when she came to the last stall, she stopped dead in her tracks. As she stared at the amazing sight before her, her knees went butter soft, and her throat desert dry as her pulse kicked and punched in her veins.

Pitchfork in hand, his bare back to her, a man was scooping up hay and tossing the tawny flakes into an adjacent stall. With no thought of what she was doing, Fran let her gaze travel from scuffed boots upward to faded jeans that encased strong, muscular thighs and, Lord almighty, one fine, fine backside. She licked her lips, her gaze progressing. He had a tapered waist and a broad, tanned back that bunched with lean muscle and glistened with sweat.

She released a soft sigh of appreciation. To her dismay, the man turned at the sound, saw her staring and grinned.

“Hello there.” The brogue was native Llandaron, the words slipping from his firm, sensual lips like melted chocolate, coating her senses in a very satisfying heat.

Fran struggled to find her voice. Tongue-tied and awestruck was not her usual style around men. Aloof and impassive was what she strove for, but this six-foot god, with his thick, wavy black hair, chiseled features and thick brows positioned over deep-set Prussian-blue eyes, wasn’t like any man she’d ever seen.

Her gaze dipped to his chest, dusted with hair and thickly muscled. He had what the girls in her office called a six-pack. Truly sigh worthy, she mused as she balled her hands into fists to keep them from reaching out to feel that chest, feel those muscles bunch and flex beneath her palms.

With every ounce of fortitude she possessed, she cleared her throat and adopted a confident tone. “You must be Charlie.”

He leaned casually against the door frame, his steady gaze warming her blood. “I must?”

From his tone, Fran couldn’t tell if his reply was a question or an answer, but she didn’t press the matter. There was no way she was going to let this guy know how flustered and unsure he made her feel. “I’m Dr. Francesca Charming—Fran, actually.”

Comprehension lit those magnetic eyes of his. “The veterinarian from America.”

“California.”

His wicked blue gaze traveled lazily over her until he paused at her mouth. “Blond hair, tanned skin, long legs and beautiful eyes. A California girl.”

Her unsophisticated beige pants and blue wrinkle-free blouse suddenly felt like black, lacy, racy lingerie. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks and she willed it away. For Pete’s sake, she was a city girl. She didn’t blush or twitter like a blue jay in the spring. She gave guys with too much cockiness a good dressing-down—of course, all the while hoping they couldn’t tell that one big wimp resided behind her self-possessed facade.

“Have you had enough of a look?” she asked, tipping her chin up a fraction. “Or would you like me to turn around?”

His gaze lifted to meet hers, his expression littered with amusement. “I think I should be asking you the same thing.”

She swallowed thickly. True enough.

A smile tugged at his lips. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

He drew a circle in the air with one long tapered finger. “You did make the offer, Dr. Charming. And I think it’s only fair you show me yours after you had such a long look at mine.”

Her eyes went wide. “I did no such thing! And…well, there is no way I’m going to turn…I was just…that wasn’t meant as a—”

He grinned. “Maybe some other time, then.”

“I don’t think so.”

She looked away, searching for the reason she’d come to Llandaron. Her gaze scanned the large office to her right with its comfortable furnishing and windows on every wall, then paused as she finally saw what she was looking for. Over by an open bay window, lying on six feet of plush green whelping bed was a pretty wolfhound with a fat belly and liquid-brown eyes. A patch of sun filtered into the room through the window screen, bathing the dog in pale light.

Ten days ago Fran had never heard of King Oliver or his wolfhound—goodness, she’d barely heard of Llandaron—until her partner and could-be-fiancé, Dr. Dennis Cavanaugh, was offered the “royal” post. Dennis’s reputation with the pets of the rich and famous in Los Angeles had earned him invitations to fancy places all the time. But this particular time, he was too occupied with a certain young film star’s bichon frise to leave the country. So he’d recommended Fran for the job. With the generous fee and her need for a little breathing room, she hadn’t had to think too long or too hard about the offer.

The wolfhound glanced up at Fran then, perhaps wondering who she was and why she’d come. Fran smiled. “Well, aren’t you a beauty,” she said, walking the few steps to the office doorway and reaching for the handle on the gate that separated them.

But before she could lift the latch, a large hand clamped over hers, sending a jolt of heat spiraling up her arm. “Allow me, Doctor.”

A soft gasp escaped Fran’s throat as she snatched her hand out from under his.

“I hope I didn’t burn you,” he said with dry humor, opening the gate and allowing her entrance.

She walked swiftly past him. “You did nothing.”

The man chuckled and muttered a husky, “Are you sure?”

Fran walked over to her patient, her cheeks flaming. Embarrassment swam in her blood—at her silly reaction to his touch and at the out-and-out lie that his simple hand-over-hand contact did nothing to her.

If she had her druthers, she’d tell him right here, right now that he could take off, that she could handle things from here. But she knew that the wolfhound would be far more at ease with someone she knew, and the dog’s health was more important than some annoying and unwelcome palpitations.

“So you’re my patient?” Fran said with practiced calm, sitting down beside the very pregnant wolfhound. The unease she felt in the company of the stimulating stable hand began to evaporate. She was with her patient—she was where she belonged.

“Her name is Grand Dame Glindaron.” In seconds the man was at her side, bending down, his faded jeans pulling taut against his muscular thighs, his previously naked chest now covered with a worn black T-shirt. “But we call her Glinda.”

“Glinda, huh?” Fran reached out and let the dog sniff her hand. “As in the good witch?”

“The good witch?” the man repeated.

“You know, The Wizard of Oz.” She glanced over at him. “Glinda the good witch?” None of this seemed to be registering. “It’s a movie.”

He sat back on his heels. “Ah, we don’t get those here.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

He gave her a sinful grin.

“Very funny, Charlie,” she said dryly.

He looked down at the floor for a moment, and Fran felt relieved—like finding a patch of shade from the blistering sun—yet she couldn’t drag her gaze away from him. That highly kissable mouth, killer body. Such a package was lethal for a woman who had sworn off sex appeal in favor of sweet-natured.

With all her might, Fran tried to conjure up an image of Dennis. But it was no use. The stable hand’s mesmerizing eyes were powerful and persistent. If the guy ever wanted to quit working at the stables and go into hypnosis, he could probably make a fortune.

“Actually, Llandaroners love a good movie,” the man was saying as he gave Glinda a good scratch behind her ear. “The royal family, as well. And in fact, The Wizard of Oz is purported to be the king’s favorite.”

“I’m glad to know that His Majesty has good taste. In movies and in animals.” Opening her medical bag, Fran took out a thermometer and a stethoscope. She’d given Glinda a few moments to relax, get accustomed to her voice and movement. It was time to get to work, and if the disturbing stable hand was going to hang around, she’d just have to grin and bear it.

After today, she and Glinda would be at ease with each other, and Fran wouldn’t have to see or talk to the guy again.

“Do you take care of Glinda?” she asked, switching into doctor mode.

“I keep a close eye on her.”

“Then I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

“Is she eating and drinking?”

“Eating less, drinking more.”

Fran nodded. “Has she had any bleeding, vomiting or diarrhea?”

“No.”

“All right.” She scooted closer to the hound. “Why don’t you pet her, keep her calm, while I take a listen and a look.”

He raised an amused brow. “Are you asking me to assist you, Doctor?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?”

“I certainly don’t want to take you away from your work,” she explained.

“My work?”

She gestured toward the stables. “Cleaning the stalls and feeding the animals…”

“Ah, yes, of course. My work.” His eyes glinted blue fire. “I think I can spare a few minutes.”

Awareness stirred in her belly, deep and low—in a place so foreign she was caught off guard for a moment. But she fought her way back. “All right, but I don’t want to get you into any trouble with your boss, so let me know if I’m taking up too much of your time.”

“That’s very considerate,” he said on a dry chuckle. “But there’s nothing to worry about. My employer and I are on very good terms.”

After taking the wolfhound’s temperature, Fran listened to her heart and lungs and the sound of the sweet little pups in her belly. She took her time with the incredibly healthy wolfhound, thankful to have a break from the sexy stable hand for a moment. Never in her life had she been so affected or so attracted. Surely not with any of the good-looking men in L.A. Not even with Dennis.

“Wolfhounds can have fairly high-risk pregnancies,” the man said when Fran took off her stethoscope and began checking the wolfhound’s eyes and ears. “I understand that you’re a specialist in such cases.”

“That rumor is true.”

“There are others?” He leaned closer to Glinda as Fran opened the dog’s mouth to check her teeth.

“Sure.” She played along, keeping the mood light, while she tried desperately not to take in the man’s delectable scent. Suede and virile male. “But they’re all lies or at the very least, half-truths.”

“I still wouldn’t mind hearing them.”

She pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “I don’t think they’d be appropriate subject matter for the sweet and innocent subjects of Llandaron.”

The heavy-lidded look he shot her way clearly stated that he was neither sweet nor innocent.

As if she didn’t know that.

“What do you think of Llandaron, Dr. Charming?” he asked, his face a mere whisper from hers.

“Well, I’ve only been here for a few hours, but what I have seen is…” Suddenly her breath caught as his gaze dropped brazenly to her mouth.

“Impressive?” he asked, his gruff baritone wrapping around her like silk on steel.

“Yes,” she answered in some kind of hazy whisper that she’d heard women use in the movies, but had never heard come out of her own mouth.

What was happening here? she thought wildly as a sudden flash of salty air rushed through the open window. What the devil was happening to her? Maybe she should’ve stayed in Los Angeles with Dennis, let someone else take the job.

Fran thrust that irrational thought away. So she was attracted to this man. It happened. It didn’t mean she was going to do anything about it or, more importantly, let it interfere with her job.

“Llandaron is rather impressive,” the man said, nudging her out of her self-analysis. “The people are proud of their country. Its unmarred beauty and peaceful existence.”

“They should be proud. It’s an amazing place.” She returned to Glinda, stroking the wolfhound’s wiry gray fur, eager for the dog to get comfortable with her. “Have you lived here all your life?”

“In Llandaron or here in the palace?”

“Either one.”

“Yes to both.”

“So you grew up in style, huh?” she said on a soft chuckle. “Your parents worked here and now you do?”

“Some would call it the family business.”

She couldn’t help herself. She glanced over at him, her brow furrowed. “That sounded almost regretful.”

“One’s choices in life are not always his own, Doctor.”

“That is such bunk,” she shot back.

He chuckled. “You think so?”

“Yes, I do.” Glinda put her head on Fran’s knee and closed her eyes. “We have one chance at this life. Giving others control over it—control over something as precious as our choices—is a waste.”

“Of time?”

“Of life.” Once she started on a subject like this, she couldn’t be stopped. “My father always said, ‘Life’s a gift.’” Fran’s heart squeezed painfully at the thought of her father. He’d been gone almost sixteen years, died and left her alone with a non-family who barely remembered her name. But even so, her love for him remained resolute.

The man beside her watched her intently, his expression shuttered. “What about the king’s children, Doctor? To them, duty and honor must come first. They don’t have the luxury of choice.”

“Of course they do. They just chose the duty and honor over their wants and needs.” Just as she had chosen sweet and steady Dennis over the smooth talkers who only wanted one thing, then moved on to their next conquest after they got it. No fairy tales or fairy-tale princes for her. Just lots of wolves in Armani clothing. Thank God, she’d only fallen for their silver-tongued appeal once.

She returned her attention to Glinda, feeling her belly, and the little puppies that grew there. “It’s funny, most people romanticize the royals—the life-style—the parties and balls, the perfect kisses and the handsome prince and all that.”

“But not you?”

“No.” She stayed in safe territory with her response. “When I was young, I didn’t sit in front of a Disney cartoon enraptured like other little girls did.”

“What did you do, instead?”

Fran couldn’t help but smile. “Made splints for the injured animals that found their way into our yard.”

“And I’ll bet you cured every one.” Gentle humor laced his tone.

“Most. But some things were beyond my control.” Like her stepbrothers’ cruel games and tricks, hiding her precious animals until she cried and begged for their return.

Fran forced the past back where it belonged and adopted a relaxed smile. “Let’s just say that I’ve never been one to see things through a rosy glow.”

“How do you see things, Francesca?”

“It’s just Fran,” she told him again. “And I see life through a pair of infrared sunglasses. I want to see the details, the truth. I don’t want to be blinded by fantasy.”

“You know, fantasies can be very fulfilling.”

Heat coiled low in her belly at his words. Without thinking, she looked up into his dark-blue eyes, eyes that held passion and intelligence. “In the short term, perhaps.”

A grin touched his lips. “And you don’t look for short-term pleasures?”

Her gaze flickered to the window, then down at Glinda, anywhere but on him. “Are we still talking about my views on life?”

“How old are you, Francesca?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“You know, you’re very wise for such a young woman.”

She shrugged, slightly embarrassed by his compliment. “I just know my own mind, that’s all.”

“Very progressive.”

“Is it?”

His smile went wide. “Yes, I think so.”

“Pardon me, Your Highness.”

Fran’s gaze shot to the doorway, where an older man dressed in work clothes stood, a green tam atop his graying hair, his eyes large and curious.

“Good morning, Charlie,” came the baritone beside her, his tone now laden with formality.

Fran’s heart dropped like a stone.

Charlie bowed low. “Good morning, Your Highness. His Royal Highness has returned from town and wishes to speak with you.”

“Thank you, Charlie. You may go.”

Fran didn’t wait for the real Charlie to leave. She whirled around, faced the man who she’d assumed was the stable hand, the man she’d sat here staring at, drooling over, chatting with and advising on the important things in life.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Your Highness?”

“I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself.” He inclined his head, but those devilish blue eyes remained locked on hers. “Prince Maxim Stephan Henry Thorne.”

Two

Maxim watched the American beauty’s eyes turn a deep brown, and once again he cursed the bargain he’d made with his father almost a year ago. Why the hell would he ever get married to some humorless blue blood of the court when there were women such as this around to tempt him?

Never in his life had he met a woman as full of acuity and opinions as this one. Normally he didn’t find those characteristics appealing, but with her…

He let his gaze move over her. She sat there, clearly annoyed by what he’d just told her—or not told her—a band of sunlight illuminating her amazing features. Shimmering blond waves caressed those stubborn shoulders, while a heart-shaped face sported high cheekbones and satin skin. She was slim, but ripe in all the right places. And when she’d walked past him into the office a few minutes ago, an arrow of blood-pumping desire had struck him dead center—not to mention a few inches lower.

But there was one feature she possessed that made him want to howl at the moon: her mouth, that pink upside-down fantasy with its lush upper lip.

“Your Highness?”

Her irritated query jolted him from his reverie. “Yes, Doctor?”

“You tricked me.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I don’t like being tricked,” she said sternly. “I had enough of it growing up.” A quick blush crept to her cheeks, but she continued. “I’m not about to take any more of it now. From a prince or a stable boy.”

Maxim stared at her, thoroughly amused. He’d never been spoken to in such a way. Women didn’t scold him. They flirted and complimented and went to bed with him. “I apologize.”

She hesitated for a moment, and he wondered if she was going to toss his apology back in his face. But she didn’t. Instead, a look of confusion sprang to her eyes. “You were pitching hay.”

He shrugged. “I like the distraction.”

“From what? This perfect place you live in?”

“No place is perfect, Doctor.”

She expelled a weighty breath, a yielding breath. “So, what am I supposed to do now?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“If you think I’m going to stand up and curtsy after what you just pulled—”

“I wouldn’t hear of it.” He grinned, standing himself. “Not now, anyway.”

“Try not ever!” She jerked to her feet without waiting for him to offer a hand. Though Maxim sincerely doubted if she would’ve actually taken his help had he had the time to offer it.

“Perhaps around the court or my father you could at least…nod?”

She paused, then said, “We’ll see.”

His grin widened. “Thank you.”

They stood facing each other, Glinda’s watchful gaze on them. Francesca was tall, maybe three inches shorter than him. A perfect height for a man to lean in and—

“I have to know,” she said, folding her arms across her splendid chest. “Why didn’t you tell me who you are? Was playing me like that just another distraction?”

She stood close, so close he could feel the heat of her body, breathe in that soft almost honeylike scent of her. “Truthfully, I wanted to know what it was like to be anonymous.”

“And how was it?”

“Invigorating.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help,” she said wryly.

“You’re sure you’re not going to treat me differently now that you know the truth?”

“My conscience and my pride would suffer a great indignity if I treated you as anything more than the prankster you’ve shown yourself to be.”

“And we wouldn’t want that.” Grinning, Maxim walked over to the desk in the far corner and seized the paperwork he’d been working on before he’d gotten frustrated and taken a break in the stalls. When he turned back to face Francesca, he said, “It was nice to meet you, Doctor. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”

She fairly chuckled. “And who will you be next time?”

He raised a brow. “I’ve always had a longing to try my hand at masonry.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“On second thought,” he said, his mouth carving into a smile. “Sounds a little too far away from the stables for my liking.” He inclined his head, then turned to leave.

She called back, “Not at all, Your Highness.”

Maxim paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Such a lofty title doesn’t seem right after the informal tête-à-tête we’ve just shared.”

“Prince Maxim, then?” she offered, baiting him.

“How about just Maxim?”

She grinned. “How about just Max?”

“I don’t think so.” That smile of hers gripped him tightly and held, while her mouth stirred his blood. He knew he’d better leave while he still could. “Goodbye, Francesca.”

She dropped into a funny-looking curtsy. “Goodbye, Max.”

For the first time in a long time, Maxim laughed, deeply and genuinely. And he kept it up long after he’d left the room, walked down the hallway and stepped out into the kingdom he called home.

Fran stood in front of the full-length mirror in her opulent blue bedroom in the east wing of the castle and rolled her eyes at her reflection.

The chagrin she felt had nothing whatever to do with the eye-catching chocolate-brown dress and matching boots she wore or the sassy swept-up hair-style that one of her vet techs had repeatedly told her looked “hot.” Nope, the roll of the eyes was for the hope she felt. The hope of seeing a certain prince again.

Oh, Lord. A prince.

Was she crazy? Had the untainted Llandaron air turned her normally sensible and analytical brain to mush? Even if she could forget for a moment that Max was royalty and lived on Fantasy Island, why wasn’t she thinking about Dennis? Sure, there was no actual commitment between them yet. But before she’d left, he’d asked her to marry him—and she’d said she’d think about it. True, they weren’t exactly in love, but that was because neither one of them believed in the concept. Dennis had also been burned—by the female equivalent to Fran’s smooth talker.

Consequently, she and Dennis were no longer romantics.

They were scientists.

Shoot, their common viewpoints and careers were why they had become such good friends in the first place. This way they would be two great friends forming an everlasting bond, caring for and supporting one another.

And then she’d had to come here and run into a real live Prince Charming!

An image of Max splintered through her mind. Those eyes, that touch, those lips…

Was he married? The random thought was followed by a shiver, and she turned away from the mirror. The marital status of His Highness was none of her business; nothing about him was her business. Glinda and the pups were her business. And heck, she probably wouldn’t see him again, anyway. He had…royal stuff to do with other royals. He didn’t have time to hang around the stables every day with some commoner from California.

Speaking of time, Fran checked her watch. Five minutes to six.

She’d met with the king more than an hour ago. A feisty old bear with intelligent blue eyes just like his son’s. After receiving a full report on Glinda’s stellar health, he’d told Fran that she was to have dinner with him at six o’clock and not to be late.

Good Lord, she thought as she left her room and darted down the long staircase, she’d had no idea that she would be eating with the king of Llandaron. She’d figured it would be dinner on a tray in her room every night. Or in the kitchen with the rest of the employees.

Below her, a shadow came into the grand hallway, large and imposing. Her pulse bumped and skittered as the heel of her boot touched down on the last stair step.

“Good evening, Francesca.”

Ignoring the warmth pinging urgently in her stomach, she started with, “Good evening, M…” But the greeting died on her lips as her gaze took in the proverbial handsome prince who stood regally in the center of the marble hall.

She gripped the edge of the banister for a little extra support. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it. Her fingers itched to run wild through his thick black hair, her gaze longed to search the depths of deep-set blue eyes. Gone were the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn today. In their place breathed a crisp white dress shirt, black jacket and pants with a break so fine it would make a London tailor sigh.

But there was no tailor in sight, so Fran sighed, instead, her mind racing ahead with thoughts like, Now, this is what I’d like for dinner.

“You look beautiful tonight, Doctor,” Max said, his eyes roaming the length of her. “Care for an escort?”

For a moment, she saw herself standing beside him, slipping her hand through his arm, feeling the muscles in his biceps flex against her fingers. But the moment passed. “Thanks, but I can manage.”

He raised a dark brow. “Is it just me, or do you have a problem with all men who show you an ounce of chivalry?”

“No, it’s just you.” The retort came out fast and unplanned, and she wondered if she’d offended him.

But Max only grinned at her impudence. “Come with me,” he said, starting for the door, which was being held open by a stoic older gentleman in black tie and tails.

Fran glanced first at the open door, then at Max. “Come with you where?”

“Out.”

“But the king invited me—”

“My father is on the phone with the president of Lithuania. He sends his regrets and has asked me to entertain you.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” The remark was calm, but beneath her cool exterior, her heart pounded fiercely. Entertain her how?

“Stop being so suspicious,” he said, a grin pulling at his full lips. “I promised you no more tricks.”

“All right,” she said, walking toward him. “I am pretty hungry.”

He chuckled. “And I’m flattered.”

“Where are we going?” Into town maybe? She’d read about several wonderful restaurants and ice-cream shops, and even a taffy shop. But did royalty go to town for a meal?

“We’re going to the lighthouse,” he said as he ushered her past and out the door.

Sounded like a restaurant. Nice seafood place with… Fran paused, her surroundings seizing her attention. Milky-white clouds had taken over the sky and sunset, riding low and thick on the ground.

“What happened here?” Fran asked on a laugh, standing dead center in the haze.

“Fog.”

“Fog? But the sun was so bright today, no clouds at all. When did this come on?” She turned around once, feeling the cool mist against her skin. “It’s as dense as cotton candy. I can hardly see five feet in front of me.”

Max took her hand in his. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I will?” she asked lamely, her mind and every one of her senses focused on the feel of Max’s large warm hand. Maybe she should’ve pulled free, sent a message to him and to herself that touching of any kind was inappropriate. But she didn’t. She forgot about a jacket, a purse, all things practical and held on, just let him guide her across the lawn and away from the castle.

“When my ancestors first came to this land,” he began, “the elders of both the Thorne and Brunell royal families wanted their firstborn children to marry. But the Thornes’ eldest daughter, Sana, was deeply in love with another man, a poor ship worker, and her father strictly forbade her to see him again. On the day before her wedding, Sana took her life.” Max’s hand tightened around Fran’s. “That night was the first time the fog came.”

“Is that a legend?” Fran asked, awe threading her query.

“No. A fact. History.” Max guided her around a large rock. “From then to now, the fog rolls in at six every night and disappears by seven. Many have said that the one hour of cover is granted by Sana for all ill-fated lovers. For that one hour, they can meet without fear of being discovered.”

Wonder moved through Fran, taking hold of the soft parts of her heart, and she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Have you ever met anyone in the fog?”

He chuckled and said, “Not until today,” as he led her expertly through the grounded cloudbank.

And just as she realized that they weren’t going to town, the scent of the ocean hit her. She stopped and faced Max. “I thought you said no more tricks.”

His gaze impaled her. “This is no trick, Francesca.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“I live here.”

He led her forward a few paces until she saw it.

Barely visible through the fog were the first two stories of a lighthouse. A lighthouse that she imagined was tall and imposing—just like its owner. Warm, inviting light spilled through the windows, beckoning them to come inside.

Without a word, Max guided her up a set of stone stairs, across a bed of rocks, then through a massive oak door and into the lighthouse.

“You live here?” she asked, wonder thick in her voice. “And not in the palace?”

“I prefer to live alone,” he said, releasing her hand.

Being free of his grasp was a strange sensation. In one respect she was relieved to have the heat, the strength, gone. But in another respect, she felt displaced, as if a part of her remained with him when he’d dropped her hand.

Fran followed him up the lovely spiral staircase to what she guessed to be the second floor of a three-story dwelling. Persian rugs covered polished hard-wood floors, and comfortable couches in deep shades of plum sat facing each other, a rich mahogany chest between them. A marble fireplace took up most of one wall, and a cluster of windows the size of computer screens another. While still another wall boasted French doors, which hung open, allowing the cool ocean breeze to filter into the room, only mildly upsetting the gold cloth napkins which rested atop what appeared to be solid gold plates on a small mahogany dining table. A table set elegantly for two.

“This is magnificent,” Fran said. “You’ve done a wonderful job with this space.”

“Thank you. It was a labor of love. I always coveted the lighthouse when I was a child, escaped here when I had the chance. And when Llandaron no longer had use for it, I converted it into my home.” He walked over to the table and held out a chair for her. “May I?” He grinned devilishly. “I promise I won’t pull it out the minute you sit down.”

She couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips. “I appreciate that.” This whole scenario was surreal—the beautifully set table in front of the prime ocean view—and Fran had to warn herself as she sat down on the plush cushion of plum silk, that she’d better remember who she was and where she’d come from—and more importantly, that a real live prince sat across from her.

In seconds, a woman with a mop of graying hair and a pleasant smile appeared and placed several wonderful-smelling items in front of them.

After thanking the woman, Fran turned to Max and whispered, “Cheeseburgers, French fries and beer?”

He picked up a fry and winked. “An American meal for your first night away from home.”

She laughed as she placed her napkin in her lap. Burgers and fries on a solid gold plate—too funny.

“I have soda if you would rather not drink alcohol,” Max said.

“No, this is great.”

Though Max dug right in, Fran didn’t start eating right away. For just a moment, she watched the prince of Llandaron as he picked up his gourmet cheeseburger and went for it like any red-blooded American male. But in this case looks were incredibly deceiving. The guy with ketchup on his lip wasn’t red-blooded at all, he was blue-blooded. And her attraction to him had to be controlled. She didn’t trust this royal playboy as far as she could throw him, and she sure didn’t trust her feelings and actions when she was around him.

“Anything wrong, Francesca?”

Her gaze snapped up. “Pardon me?”

“You’re not eating, and you look as though you have something to say.”

Something to say, something to say… She opted for small talk. “Have you ever been to America, Your Highness?”

“Many times. I own several companies there.”

“You do?” she asked, surprised.

“I do work, Francesca.” He chuckled. “Not at being a royal, but being a citizen of the world. My companies manufacture air- and water-purifying systems for office buildings and hotels. I’ve wanted to develop a way to keep the world and the people in it healthy ever since I could remember. Strange goal for a child, perhaps, but nothing deterred me.” He tilted his head. “I imagine your need to care for animals started when you were very young, as well.”

Fran took a sip of her beer and nodded. “When I first saw a baby squirrel with its leg caught in a trap, I was hooked. I had cages set up in my backyard.” She nibbled on a French fry. “It’s crazy, but after I helped that squirrel, more and more animals found their way into my yard.”

“The word spread throughout the animal kingdom.”

She nodded. “I truly believe they sought me out, that they knew I was committed to helping them.”

“Of course they did.” Max said the words with such conviction, Fran paused. Usually when she said something “out there,” people laughed and thought she was kidding or, worse, a bit nuts. Dennis always made jokes about her claims that she could actually sense what an animal was feeling at times.

Max took a pull on his beer. “So you went to veterinary school, and then…”

“Then Dennis and I opened our own practice.”

“Dennis?”

“My…well, he’s a very good friend, a good man, really.” She sounded like an imbecile. And why wasn’t she telling him that Dennis was practically her fiancé? “Dennis is…well, he’s practical and efficient, and he’s great with animals.”

“He sounds boring.”

She shook her head. “He’s not boring. He’s…”

“I know,” he said, grinning. “Practical and efficient.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “Men don’t have to be rich and handsome and royal to be attractive to a woman, Your Highness.”

Those killer blue eyes fairly lapped her up. “You think I’m handsome?”

More than anything in the world she wanted to look away, but his gaze held hers. She wanted to grab her burger and stuff it into her reckless mouth, but her appetite was gone—her appetite for food, anyway. She needed to get away from him, away from this carnal, marvelous magic that surrounded him.

“What I think…is that I’m full.” She stood up and dropped her napkin on the table. “I’m really tired. It was a long flight, a long day, and I’m not looking to make this a long night, so…” She stopped talking, realizing how she sounded.

Max grinned. “I’ll walk you back.”

“I think I can find the way.” She looked out the window. Had to be after seven. “The fog’s cleared up.”

But the man was a prince, a gentleman, and he walked her back, anyway. Not to her bedroom door, thank goodness, because for the first time since the “smooth talker,” Fran felt what could be categorized as a surge of wildness. And she wasn’t altogether sure if she could stop herself from grabbing Max by the shirtfront and pulling him inside.

“Are you going to marry her?”

Maxim had just said good-night to Francesca in the very same hall where their evening had begun. He was keyed-up, craving something he shouldn’t even be contemplating, and in no mood for a go-round with his father. But he couldn’t very well pass the man’s door without speaking, so he stood in the library doorway. “Am I going to marry whom?”

“The duchess of Claymore.”

“No.” One night with the woman had been more than enough.

The king sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Do I have to remind you of our agreement?”

A muscle flicked in Maxim’s jaw. “No.”

“Eleven months ago we sat here in this very library and talked about the importance of having both my sons married. I gave you a year to find yourself a bride, and I distinctly recall you nodding your head.” The king took off his reading glasses and regarded his son seriously. “You have one month left, Maxim. If you don’t find a suitable woman to marry in that time, I swear I will choose for you.”

“I have not met anyone I would even consider marrying, Father,” he said with deadly calm. “I suggest we drop this before we both lose our tempers.”

“I will not drop this. Your brother has been married for five years now and has yet to produce an heir. This is duty, Maxim, and you know it. What you owe to your country. If you love this land, you will do what needs to be done.”

Pure unadulterated anger rippled through Maxim as he stared at the man who made him see red—the man he loved and respected above all others, the man who had had the good fortune to fall in love with the woman who was to be his queen. How could such a man expect his child to have anything less?

Five years ago, when his brother, Alex, had married, Maxim had thought that he would be free of honor and duty and marriage to a woman he cared nothing for. But when three years passed with no heir for Alex and his wife, Maxim knew what was in store for him. Llandaron was a small country, always in danger of getting sucked up by its larger and more powerful neighbors. Llandaron needed autonomy. Their citizens relied on a good and caring government. They relied on the stability of the royal family.

But dammit, he would not marry a woman he didn’t love. And considering the fact that he’d never gotten close to such an emotion in all his thirty-five years, he didn’t expect to find it anytime soon.

The king shook his head and sighed. “I don’t understand you. There are hundreds of exquisite women in the kingdom to choose from.”

The words of a pretty American veterinarian rang loudly in his ears. We have one chance at this life. And giving others control over it is a waste. She’d insisted people had choices. Maxim raked a hand through his hair. Regular folk had choices, but did a prince? Did a man who loved his country? Or did he sacrifice his personal needs for the needs of his country?

“Make no mistake about it, Maxim,” the king said firmly. “Three weeks from Saturday, on the night of the masquerade ball, you will announce your bride-to-be. Or I will.”

Maxim’s jaw clenched tight. The man was relentless. Bride. And a suitable bride no less.

Suitable.

The word scratched at the door of his mind. Would his father back down if the woman was unsuitable?

Maxim glanced up. “You will abide by my choice, Father?” he asked sharply.

The king nodded. “Of course.”

Maxim nodded his good-night and left the room. Dr. Francesca Charming had intrigued, amused and attracted the hell out of him from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. And the thought of seducing her brought a smile to his lips and a throbbing tension to the lower half of him.

It was the best of both worlds.

Having Francesca in his bed while putting the subject of marriage to rest with his father once and for all.

Three

Backlit by the warm, midmorning sunlight, Glinda gazed up at Fran, her brown eyes wide and needful.

“I won’t let anything happen to you or your precious babies,” Fran whispered, stroking the dog’s wiry fur.

Instantly Glinda relaxed on her velvet mat, her eyes closing partway. Fran ached to lie down beside the sweet animal and maybe catch some of the shut-eye she’d missed last night.

Images of castles and princes, lighthouses and cartoon teapots singing about love, had filled her mind from midnight to dawn. Then, just as the sun had peeked its bald head up from the horizon, she’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. It’d been close to eight when she’d awoken in her massive bed—to which the phrase king-size truly applied. Fran recalled how she’d smiled at that irony—a king-size bed in the Kingdom of Llandaron. At last she’d slipped out of that bed—literally—and hightailed it down to the stables.

Chuckling, Fran rose to her feet and filled Glinda’s water bowl. Who slept in silk sheets and satin pillowcases, anyway? Not a woman who wore flannel pajamas with imprints of different animal paws all over them, that was for sure.

“How is your patient today, Doctor?”

Fran jumped, nearly spilling the water bowl. It was little wonder, with that husky burr of a baritone enveloping her like a magical and highly seductive cape.

Prince Maxim was lounging in the doorway, dressed in dark-blue jeans, white shirt and black blazer. His self-assured smile brought a girlish stain of pink to her cheeks.

“You seem a little skittish this morning, Doctor.” He pushed away from the doorjamb, walked over to Glinda and gave her head a gentle pat.

Fran watched him bend down, watched his jeans pull snug on that fine, firm and very royal backside. “And you’re a little sneaky, Your Highness.”

He shot her a sideways glance. “Just a little?”

“Well, I was trying to be gracious. You know, you being the sovereign around here and all.”

“Technically, I’m not the sovereign. That would be my father. But I take your point.” He rose and walked over to her, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Afraid I might lock you up in a dungeon?”

She lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid of anything, Your Highness. Even being locked up all alone in—”

“Who said anything about alone?” He grinned broadly.

Awareness moved through her like warm molasses. Why, oh, why did she have to turn to mush when this man was near? It just wasn’t fair. She could control every aspect of her life, every emotion, every need. But here in Fantasyland with Prince Foxy, she was reduced to…well, a mess of female hormones.

“So,” he raised a brow, “how about some lunch?”

Her gaze flickered to the wolfhound. “I think I’m just going to share this yummy bowl of kibble with Glinda.”

He followed her gaze. “That looks like one of Charlie’s special blends.”

“It is. He brought it in just a few minutes ago.”

Max nodded. “Carrots, chicken—”

“Sounds divine.”

“—liver.”

“Then again, maybe not,” Fran amended on a chuckle.

Max stood within inches of her, the heat from his long, powerful body saturating her good sense, his gaze moving over her face, then finally settling on her eyes. “How does cheese, fresh-baked bread and some famous Llandaron smoked oysters sound?”

Frustratingly breathless, Fran managed to squeak out, “As opposed to the liver?”

Another smile tugged at his mouth. “You’ve been with Glinda all morning, Doctor. Don’t you think she’ll be all right on her own for a short while?”

“I suppose. And as a matter of fact, I have some reading I need to catch up on.” She tried not to breathe in his scent—that amazing masculine spicy scent he wore so well. But fighting the inevitable seemed useless. “It’s a very interesting book, actually—canine lick granuloma.”

He nodded and said with mock solemnity, “Well. I don’t know if I can compete with that.”

“Do you have any information to offer on the effectiveness of drug therapy over the use of restraint collars?”

“All I have to offer is a little tour of Llandaron, maybe a picnic by the ocean and afterward a visit to Gershin’s Taffy Shop.”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth watered. “Gershin’s Taffy Shop?” It was the shop she’d read about in her guidebook—seen pictures of. The quaint little shop with its redbrick front and white-icing windows looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

“Interested?”

Fran sighed. She was lost here, utterly trumped. God and the devil were conspiring against her. They wanted to bring down the rational, realistic Dr. Charming and force her to embrace these flights of fancy.

Of course she was interested in what Prince Perfect was offering. Everything he’d suggested sounded wonderful. But what accompanied this good time in Llandaron? More warm glances, clever banter, more longing for this attraction, this loss of control that seemed to overwhelm her whenever he was near to come to fruition?

How in the world was she supposed to control an attraction that seemed uncontrollable? Perhaps recall her last experience with an irresistible heartbreaker?

Fran glanced up into blue fire and firmly said, “No, I don’t think I’m interested.”

“Something tells me you think too much, Doctor.”

At such an acute observation, Fran dropped her gaze and returned to the comfort and safety of Glinda. Still, her curiosity got the better of her. “May I ask why you’re doing this, Highness? I’m not really a guest here or anything—just a paid employee.” Needing something to do, she scooped up the already full water bowl and marched over to the sink. “I mean, don’t you have work to do?”

“I always have work to do,” he answered dryly. “Like you, I could work all the time.”

Dumping the clean water out, she expelled a breath. “What if Glinda needs something? Needs me?”

“I’ll have Charlie call my cell phone if there’s a problem.” Like any self-respecting Type A, he had an answer for everything. “But there shouldn’t be,” he continued. “She’s not due for a week, right?”

“Right, but—”

“No buts. It’s only a couple of hours.”

She bit her lip as she refilled the bowl with fresh water. He wasn’t about to take no for an answer, but heck, if she really wanted to be honest with herself, she didn’t want to say no.

“Francesca, you’re in an enchanted land.” She looked over at him; challenge lit his eyes. “You’re keen on choices. Make the choice to enjoy your time here, to embrace it for once, not hide from it.”

She placed the bowl in front of the wolfhound. “Look, Max, I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I don’t hide—”

“Glad to hear it.” With a grin playing about his sensual lips, he offered her his arm like a character out of a historical-romance novel. “Car’s packed. Shall we go?”

Inside her, excitement roared like a lioness with a chance to be set free from her cage for a few hours. But Fran wouldn’t let Prince Max see that thrill of anticipation. For goodness’ sake, the man already had too much power as it was. Instead, she shot him a withering glance, then walked past him out of the office, muttering in mock irritation, “Royal types. Always used to getting their own way.”

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