STAT SHEET
Name: | Cadence St. John
Title: | Duke of Raleigh
Age: | 33
Country: | Korosol
Current occupation: | Acting Korosol Ambassador to the United States
Eye color: | Dark blue
Hair: | Black
Height: | 6’1"
Personal history: | A former army commander, he is a duke in title only. Cade joined the army to earn a living after his father gambled away his inheritance. As an outcast from the world in which he was raised, he follows no rules but his own.
Current mission: | CLASSIFIED

The Duke’s Covert Mission
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributed her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher had published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Cadence St. John, Duke of Raleigh—A royal in name only. Once one of the finest covert operatives in the Korosolan Army. He’s never had any qualms about breaking the rules to get the job done—including kidnapping a princess.

Eleanor Standish—Plain and proper secretary to King Easton of Korosol. All this Cinderella ever wanted was one night as a princess. Now she has to see the masquerade through to its end, and choose whether to betray her country—or her heart—in order to survive.

Jerome Smython—He liked his money, his women and his smokes—and there’d be hell to pay for anyone who got in his way.

Leonard Gratfield—A thug for hire? Or a man with a hidden agenda?

Paulo Giovanni—The chauffeur was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Winston Rademacher—A professional power broker. Who is he working for this time?

Tony Costa—He said he’d gone to Connecticut to fish.

Remy Sandoval—Leader of the Korosolan Democratic Front. Has he really given up his opposition to the monarchy?

Bretford St. John—He left nothing for his son but a legacy of shame—and a list of business associates who want to collect the debt owed them, one way or another.

Princess Lucia Carradigne Montcalm—Ellie’s fairy godmother. She was supposed to be on her honeymoon.

King Easton of Korosol—Ellie adored him like a grandfather. But not everyone loved the aging monarch.

For the valiant soldiers, firefighters, police officers and citizens who do what needs to be done to take care of this country every day. Thank you.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prologue

“I am Princess Lucia Carradigne of Korosol.”

Liar. Eleanor Standish shook her head at the reflection in the compact mirror she held in her left hand. She didn’t feel particularly princesslike at the moment.

A head-to-toe makeover, courtesy of her new friends—CeCe, Amelia and Lucia Carradigne, the American granddaughters of Ellie’s employer, King Easton of Korosol—had done nothing to change the woman inside.

CeCe’s hairdresser had added highlights to Ellie’s mousy brown curls and swept them up into an elegant French roll. Amelia had hired the staff from a trendy New York spa to paint her fingernails and toenails, and massage and loofah body parts in between. Lucia, the youngest Carradigne sister, had lent Ellie a smashing gown of beaded red silk so that Ellie could attend the Inferno Charity Ball in her place. Meanwhile, Lucia planned to be whisked out of town on her honeymoon with her brand-new husband.

Princess for a night. A dream come true.

Ellie huffed a sigh through her clenched teeth and tugged at the low-cut bodice of her gown. “Some Cinderella I turned out to be.”

She might look like a princess on the outside, but inside Ellie still felt like that shy secretary who’d grown up on a sheep ranch in the western mountains of Korosol. That quiet country girl who fantasized about life’s grand adventures while balancing accounts and chasing lambs in from the pasture. The dutiful daughter who had put her dreams on hold to keep her family together after her older brother ran away to save the world all by himself.

Her three fairy godmothers might have transformed her outward appearance with stylists and a gown, but no one had waved a magic wand over her self-confidence.

Ellie looked into the compact mirror and repeated her message, wondering if she’d believe it any more the second time around. “I am Princess Lucia Carradigne of Korosol.”

“Miss?”

Startled by the intrusion into her conflicting world of self-talk and self-doubt, Ellie jumped. The compact snapped together and clattered to the sidewalk at her feet. She lifted her fingers to adjust the rims of her glasses and nearly poked herself in the eye.

“Drat.” She’d forgotten. There were no glasses tonight. No pink metal rims weighed down by thick lenses to hide behind. No fuzzy world mere inches beyond the end of her nose. Tonight she wore contact lenses and could see without her glasses.

Tonight the world could see her.

She pushed her way past the billowing skirt of scarlet taffeta and knelt to retrieve the mirror. But the man in the black chauffeur’s uniform beat her to it.

“Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Ellie froze, bent over, eye to eye with the sandy-haired, middle-aged man. He looked pleasant enough, a tad stout, and his uniform smelled of cigarette smoke. But he possessed the drawl of a native New Yorker. He smiled as his black-gloved fingers brushed against hers. “Here you go.”

Was this the prince she’d fantasized about meeting tonight? One of those rough, rugged Americans she’d seen in movies? An independent scoundrel who owned a fast car and a heart of gold? True, he wasn’t handing her a glass slipper, only the silver compact that had belonged to her godmother, the late Queen Cassandra, wife and royal consort to King Easton.

But he was being polite. He had noticed her when he could have just as well ignored her.

Her heart beat a bit faster at the possibility of her fantasy coming to life. He might really be a prince in disguise. He might whisk her off in his long black limo and serve her champagne or that milk-frothed coffee that Americans seemed to thrive on. He’d twirl her onto the dance floor and they’d waltz, a courtly dance that reflected the elegance of her borrowed gown, and set the romantic stage for a man and woman falling in love.

“Thank you.” Small talk had never been her forte, but at least she’d managed to speak.

“Allow me.” The chauffeur extended his hand and Ellie took it, wrapping her fingers around his and balancing herself as she stood. Maybe this was the sweeping-her-off-her-feet part.

Or not.

Somehow reality never lived up to fantasy.

The man’s dark gaze focused at a point well below her eyes. She snatched her hand away in a rush of dignified self-defense as she realized his fascination centered on the two rounded swells above her plunging neckline, not herself.

So much for Prince Charming.

Ellie flipped the matching silk stole across her chest and shoulder, hiding everything from her neck to her cleavage from his view. She tilted her chin at a regal angle and ignored the clicking sound of disappointment he made with his tongue.

“Where’s Paulo?” she asked. Paulo was the Carradignes’ regular driver, a young and unassuming man who tended to mind his own business. How unpleasant that he’d been replaced with this leering fellow.

“I’m just the substitute, miss, called in from the driving service for the night.” He walked to the rear door of the limousine and opened it for her. “Can’t tell you why the regular guy didn’t show.”

“And you know the way to the Inferno Ball?” She clutched her silver beaded purse, which contained the invitation to the gala.

He smiled again. She found the effect less charming this time. “Yes, Your Highness. I have my instructions.”

Ellie climbed in and slid to the center of the black leather seat, pulling her skirts along behind her before he could reach down and tuck the hem of her gown inside the car.

Your Highness.

Would anyone besides this cad really believe she was a princess?

After he got behind the wheel and pulled the limo into traffic, Ellie opened the silver compact and looked into the mirror once more.

Staring back at her with eyes a mite too big to be pretty was that country girl who knew more about breeding the sheep that produced her native country’s fine wool than she did about high fashion. She could balance numbers, take dictation and jury-rig a computer program better than she could carry on a casual conversation. She understood the intricacies of government duty better than she understood a man’s flirtation.

And though her heart longed for adventure—while she longed to be a woman who lived adventures—she was content to mind her place in the world.

Except for tonight.

In a few weeks she and the king and his entourage would return to Korosol, a tiny seaside country nestled between France and Spain. She’d don her glasses and put on her sensible suit. She’d fade into the woodwork and do her job with impeccable reliability and the satisfaction of knowing she worked for a kindhearted, generous man.

She had to play Cinderella now—or never.

Ellie squared her chin and picked up a champagne flute from the console in the side wall of the limo. She didn’t fill it. She didn’t want any alcohol to impair her memories of this special night.

The Carradignes had given her so much. She couldn’t let them down by surrendering to shyness and self-doubt.

She lifted the glass and toasted her alter ego for the night. “I am Princess Lucia Carradigne of Korosol.”

She let her silk stole fall down around her elbows. A princess would carry herself with precise posture. She fingered the choker of diamonds and rubies that matched the teardrop earrings hanging from her earlobes, marveling at how the facets caught and reflected in the limo’s back window.

Ellie frowned and moved her face closer to the smoked glass and peered outside at the buildings towering above her on either side of the street. She hiked her skirt and petticoats up to her knees, climbed over to the opposite seat and knocked on the see-through partition. “Driver?” The partition opened halfway. “Are you sure you know the way to the ball? I have a pretty good sense of direction. We should be heading east, but we’re going north.”

He muttered something under his breath before smiling at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I have to take the long way around, miss, because of construction. Don’t worry. I’ll get you where you need to be.”

A detour hadn’t been part of her Cinderella fantasy. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be late.”

“We’re almost there.”

The partition closed before she could ask the name of the street they were on. She raised her fist to knock again, but then pulled it back down to her lap. A princess wouldn’t crawl around the back of a limo, hounding the hired help.

A vague sense of unease that had nothing to do with her shyness rippled down her spine.

She put the champagne glass back in its slot and returned to her seat in the back. The endless city lights, which had beckoned to her small-town heart like stars in the sky, now seemed to be flashing some kind of warning.

Ellie pushed at the boning that pinched her ribs and pulled up the draped neckline to cover more of her chest. She realized she was squirming and forced herself to sit still. A princess would be comfortable with her figure, even if it wasn’t as willowy thin as the woman the dress had been made for.

“I am Princess Lucia—”

The limousine pulled to a stop. Ellie reached for her glasses before remembering they weren’t there. She caught the mistake and moved her fingers to touch the diamond at her ear.

“All I want is one dance.”

One dance. One waltz.

Ellie’s face relaxed into a smile.

“One dance, Cinderella,” she promised herself.

Her confidence swelled with the less-daunting task.

Even if she had to grab one of the waiters, she would have her dance.

Then she could run home to Korosol before she turned into a pumpkin and embarrassed herself any further.

“Princess Lucia?”

The door beside her opened and the driver reached in to help her out.

Ellie softened her lips into a serene smile.

She stepped outside and her smile vanished.

Where was the red carpet? Where were the photographers? Where was the doorman with the white gloves to announce her arrival?

What was that gas pump doing in the middle of the parking lot?

Ellie rubbed at her temple. Why was she standing in the middle of an empty parking lot?

“Driver?” Ellie turned, but he had disappeared around the front of the car. She followed him, her uneasiness swelling to outright suspicion. “Did we need to stop for gas?”

When she rounded the front fender, Ellie screamed. A huge, hulking mountain of a man materialized from the shadows. With her hand at her throat she backed away. “Driver!”

The giant wore black from head to toe, including the stocking mask that covered his face. Black-gloved hands the size of bear traps reached for her.

“Stay away from me!” Ellie screamed, then spun around to run, but smacked into the belly of a second man. “No!”

Stocky, and more than a foot shorter than the giant, this one wore the same faceless outfit. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her back. “Load her up,” he ordered.

She slammed into the wall of the giant. His arms closed around her like a vise, trapping her hands at her sides. The short man stuffed a pungent cloth into her mouth, muffling her cry for help. The big man slapped his hand over the gag and picked her up. Ellie gasped for air, but the sting of chemicals burned her sinuses and brought tears to her eyes. The short man jogged ahead of them to a black car hidden in the shadows beside the gas station.

Actions drilled into her long ago by an overprotective big brother kicked in. She twisted and jerked and jabbed the heel of her silver sandal into her attacker’s shin.

He cursed and her small victory thrilled her, giving her a rush of adrenaline and the strength to pry herself from his grasp. Ellie landed hard on her knees on the concrete. But as the pain jolted through her bones all the way to her skull, she pulled the gag from her mouth and screamed.

“Stop her!”

Ellie tried to crawl, and her legs and petticoats tangled with the giant’s feet and he tripped. He crashed to the ground and she dodged to the side.

She didn’t get far. Her head was swimming. It was too dark. It was happening too fast.

Raw with fear, Ellie slapped at the hands that lifted her. The words were vile, the touches rough. A third man got out of the car and opened the trunk.

Ellie twisted, fought, struggled for air and begged for her life before they dumped her in. She landed beside a bundle of black laundry. She clawed at it to right herself, but succeeded only in rolling the bundle over and revealing a cold, colorless face with blank, staring eyes.

Ellie screamed.

But Paulo Giovanni, the Carradignes’ chauffeur, never heard her.

“Shut her up!”

She didn’t understand. Crazy observations floated through her blurring vision. Ski masks in June. Big man. Little man. Dead man.

Something sharp pricked her shoulder, and she yelped between sobs. A numbing sensation turned her limbs to jelly and her brain to mush.

By the time the trunk lid closed above her and she slumped into the inescapable darkness, she could think of only one thing.

She’d never gotten her dance.

Chapter One

The cold woke her.

Ellie stirred on her hard bed and pushed her eyes open to a squint. But her eyelids felt like leaded curtains clinging to her dried-out contacts. She rolled onto her side, and something gritty scratched her cheek.

She turned away from the discomfort and shivered. Her head throbbed at that slightest of movement, and a carpet of goose bumps prickled the skin on her bare arms. Instinctively she wrapped her arms around herself, huddling for warmth in the dank, musty air. Her fingertips rasped against the nubby cloth she was wrapped in.

Her red dress. Cinderella. Three men in masks.

Paulo’s dead eyes.

Each image blipped into her clouded brain and brought her to a new level of awareness.

“Oh, God.”

She’d been kidnapped.

A silent scream rasped through her lungs.

She placed her palms on the cold, concrete floor beneath her and shoved herself up to a sitting position. She shut her eyes against the pinball effect of marbles bouncing off the inside of her skull. Once the marbles stopped rolling and the pain eased into the dull throb of a mere headache, she opened her eyes and scanned her surroundings.

She was in a basement. A rusted furnace sat in the far corner, a flight of open-backed wooden stairs disappeared into the exposed ceiling joists above her, and a pair of small windows were set high on the cinder-block walls that entombed her.

She’d figured out the where and the what. What she didn’t understand was the why.

Ellie Standish didn’t get kidnapped.

She followed the rules and minded her manners and took care of other people. She didn’t make enemies.

Why?

She was a plain, unremarkable woman.

Woman.

For one hideous, horrible second she thought… She ran her hands down her body. She’d been unconscious. Had they…?

She brought a hand to her chest and forced herself to exhale.

Bruised and sore. Scared out of her mind. But not violated.

Ellie sat where she was and simply breathed for several minutes, muting the urge to panic.

When she could think halfway rationally again, her shy-woman’s mind took over. It had always been her way to take stock of a situation before speaking or acting. If she had a plan, if she knew her way around a place or people, she was less likely to freeze up, more likely to act on her natural human instincts.

So much for her night on the town. Morning had come, or maybe it was afternoon, she couldn’t pinpoint an exact time from the sunlight filtering through the greasy windowpanes.

Her Cinderella dress had been transformed into rags during the night. The skirt was torn at the waist seam, and a palm-size smudge dirtied one hip. A two-foot length of lace trim dangled like a tail from her petticoats. One of the shoulder straps had been ripped from the bodice, leaving it up to the gown’s stiff boning and tight fit to keep her decently covered. She tugged at the dipping neckline and let her arm rest there, in a gesture of self-defense rather than an attempt to find any real warmth. As her fingers drifted up to her neck, she clutched at the bare skin there.

The ruby choker.

Gone.

She touched her bare earlobes. The diamond drop earrings.

Gone.

She plowed her fingers into the messy upsweep of her hair. Lucia’s tiara.

Gone.

Along with the beaded purse in which she’d carried her own silver watch in.

“Oh, no.” Ellie rubbed her hands up and down her arms, oblivious to the ache of bruises that dotted her skin.

They’d robbed her. They’d stolen Lucia’s self-designed jewelry and Ellie’s own, less-valuable trinkets.

She blinked back the tears stinging her eyes. It didn’t make sense. Yes, she’d worn diamonds and rubies—works of art. But there would have been hundreds of other guests at the ball with far more expensive jewelry and purses and wallets to steal.

Something more than a simple theft was going on here. This felt personal.

Drugging her. Murdering Paulo. Abandoning her here—wherever here was—didn’t make sense.

Abandonment.

That was when the silence registered.

That was when the panic gathered strength.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed off the walls and got swallowed up by the damp air. “Hello?”

New York City was a constant hum of traffic and people, machinery and music.

The silence here pounded in her ears, mocked her attempt at bravery.

This wasn’t New York City.

She scrambled to her feet. “Hello!”

She’d been abandoned in the middle of nowhere. Abandoned! Her teeth chattered from fear as much as from cold. Left behind. Unnoticed. Forgotten. Never missed. Alone.

“Help me!” Her native European accent thickened as an age-old fear seized the opportunity to resurrect itself.

She dashed for the stairs but was jerked to a sudden halt that toppled her off her feet. The hard landing jarred her hands and triggered a jolting reminder of her battered knees. But the pain didn’t frighten her half as much as the ominous clank of metal scraping against metal behind her. Ellie rolled over onto her bottom and yanked up the hem of her skirt.

“No.” She tapped her fingers at her temple, nervously pushing at her nonexistent glasses. “No!”

A steel band had been cuffed around her left ankle. And a shiny new chain of stainless steel had been padlocked to the cuff. She traced the path of interlocking links, each the size of a golf ball, to a steel O-bolt anchored into the center of the concrete floor.

Chained to the floor like one of the elephants she’d seen at the Korosol Royal Circus last year.

Ellie climbed to her feet and, like that sorry animal, paced as far as the chain allowed.

Whoever had put her here had measured the trap carefully. Even at its fullest length, with her leg stretched out behind and her body tilted forward as far as she could go, she was still a good two feet from the bottom of the stairs. The windows hovered above the reach of her outstretched hand. The only thing within her grasp was the broken-down furnace and a knee-high wooden stool.

“All the comforts of home,” she whispered. If one was a condemned prisoner on death row.

Ellie sank down onto the stool and hugged herself, refusing to surrender to futile tears.

“You’ll think of a way out of this, Ellie.” She tried another pep talk, but the echo of her voice did little to encourage her. She’d made it all the way from her mountain home to the capital city of Korosol la Vella. She’d made it across the ocean to America. She’d made the harrowing journey through crosstown traffic into the heart of New York City.

“I’ll make it out of here, too.”

The question was—how?

Her jewelry was gone, along with her purse and her stole.

And her shoes.

Anything that might be used as a weapon had been taken from her. The tiny canister of pepper spray in her bag. The house key attached to it. The heels of her shoes.

Ellie sat up a little straighter as she latched on to one hopeful thought.

If they’d disarmed her, that meant her kidnappers were coming back. They hadn’t abandoned her. Yet. They’d prepped her for their return.

As if the thought of her abductors had the power to summon, she heard a key turn in the lock at the top of the stairs. Ellie shot to her feet and moved behind the stool, putting the one available obstacle between her and her visitor.

The door opened and a single, bare lightbulb switched on over the bottom of the stairs, bathing her in an austere circle of light and creating a translucent wall of dust motes in the heavy air. The tread of footsteps on the stairs told her it was a man, one who was balanced and sure on his feet, despite his bulky silhouette.

Ellie squinted to see who had come to visit her in her prison cell, but the lightbulb created shadows that hid the man’s face. He moved through the curtain of dust and she could see that better illumination wouldn’t help her identify him. He wore a black knit stocking cap that covered everything but his eyes.

Just like the men last night.

Ellie shivered as he walked toward her. He seemed to grow larger and suck up more of the breathable air with each step. She jumped back, needing space, needing room to run. “Don’t come any closer.”

He stopped. Though she couldn’t see his eyes in the play of light and shadow, she felt his stare. Her skin crawled as if his hands and not his assessing gaze were touching her.

“What do you want with me?” Her voice sounded as shaky as her backbone.

No answer.

His hefty shape had been deceptive, as well. She curled her toes into the cold concrete as he set a blanket, a canteen and a handful of silvery foil envelopes on the floor in front of her.

“What are those?” she asked, looking at the items that had been piled like an altar offering before her.

In answer, he picked up one of the silver packages, straightened and tossed it to her. Ellie caught it out of pure reflex. “That wasn’t a difficult question, was it?”

The man said nothing.

Like one of the questionable souvenirs from her brother Nicky’s mercenary days, she recognized the markings on the bag as a military field ration. Applesauce.

“I suppose you want me to eat this?”

He nodded.

Damn, the man’s silence was unnerving. It distracted her from thinking. She could only react.

“Is this how you killed Paulo?” The man’s head jerked up. “Did you poison him?”

The only sound she could hear was her heart pounding.

Just when she thought she might scream from the tension in the air pulling at her, the man took the packet from her hands and tore it open. He stuck his finger inside, scooped out a dollop of beige paste and lifted his mask high enough so she could see him eat it.

She caught a flash of inky black beard stubble, but nothing more. Even before the image registered, he’d covered his chin and handed her the packet.

She’d barely touched her dinner the night before because of nervous anticipation of the ball and had slept through any other meal since. Food might help her headache. And she’d need sustenance of some kind to keep up her strength and keep herself mentally sharp.

Her companion’s watchful stillness made her think she’d need every ounce of strength and intelligence she could muster in order to survive this…this…

“Why have I been kidnapped?” she demanded, tilting her chin up with an authority she didn’t really feel.

His shoulders lifted with a cocky bit of “don’t care,” but he gave no answer.

“Why won’t you say anything?”

She dipped her finger into the packet and scooped out a bit of the dry paste. Tentatively she carried it to her mouth and tested it with her tongue. If she used her imagination, she could taste something that reminded her of apples and sawdust. But it was hard to imagine anything with her keeper standing so utterly still just a few feet away.

The goose bumps that had assailed her earlier pricked her skin again at his eerie silence. “You know, it’s very rude not to talk.”

And nerve-racking and frightening and out-and-out intimidating.

Ellie had never been one to complain. She’d been raised to make the best of things. To solve her own problems. To endure.

But the words came tumbling out now. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t have much money. The jewels you took don’t even belong to me.” The man was made of stone. “I can’t help you if I don’t know why I’m here!”

Her little outburst left her feeling flushed and useless. And, damn it all, she had always found a way to make herself feel useful. She so desperately hated feeling helpless and unnecessary.

Expendable.

“Are you going to kill me, too?”

For a moment she thought he might actually speak. She heard a sound from behind his mask, a quick intake of breath. Ellie caught her own breath and held it, waiting for his answer. But…

Nothing.

Her breath whooshed out, along with her defiance.

Like the good, dutiful girl she’d been raised to be for the twenty-six years of her life, Ellie opened the bag and squeezed out another bite. She allowed the dry applesauce to sit on her tongue a moment, letting her saliva add enough moisture to make it palatable.

Now that she had done what he asked, the man began to circle her. While she ate, Ellie followed him with her eyes, noting any details that a man dressed in black from head to toe might reveal.

He wore black cargo pants, with a shadowy camo print and lots of pockets. They were tucked into a pair of calf-high military boots. A knife handle protruded from the top of a nylon sheath attached to the right boot. Ellie turned her head, quietly chewing, keeping him in her sight.

She recognized him as the driver of the second car last night. The one with the dead body in the trunk. She didn’t know much about the ways to kill a man, but she’d seen Paulo’s bulging eyes and protruding tongue and knew the young man’s death hadn’t been an easy one.

This man could have killed Paulo. Just by looking at him, Ellie had no doubt that this man had killed before.

His black knit shirt hugged broad shoulders and expanded over the swell of his chest. Then it clung farther down, revealing a flat stomach and narrow waist. He stood as tall as her brother—an inch or two over six feet—and was all sinew and muscle, as lethal-looking as the sleek steel sidearm riding in a black leather holster at his hip.

When he disappeared from the corner of her vision, Ellie spun to her right and watched him walk around the other side. She’d never studied a man so boldly before. And while his silence unnerved her, there was something oddly mesmerizing about the pantherlike precision of his movements. Ellie’s heart stuttered, then beat again. Her breasts expanded against the stiff confines of her gown. Her perusal of the mysterious visitor bordered on fascination.

And she was ashamed that survival might not be the only reason she kept staring at him.

“Who are you?” Her fingers slipped to her temple, nervously searching for her absent glasses. She curled the flailing fingers into a fist and pulled it down to her chest. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Fascination or no, this man was her captor, she his prisoner. His chained, secluded prisoner, who’d been left in the dark in both the literal and figurative sense.

“What do you want with me?” She breathed in deeply, but her cool bravado was quickly failing her. “Who are you?”

He ended his circle where he’d begun, standing in front of her, barely an arm’s length away.

Was he toying with her? Mocking her? Trying to scare the very heartbeat out of her?

He was succeeding more than he could possibly imagine.

“Talk to me.” Her demand sounded dangerously close to begging. “Show your face, you coward!”

She had finally pushed him too far.

He closed the distance between them, swooping in like a hawk, moving so swiftly that she shielded herself with her arms and backed away. The chain at her ankle rattled. A frightened sob shook her, but she caught the gasp between clenched teeth.

Ellie was transfixed. Caught in a deadly snare of unknown intent. He never touched her, but she trembled all the same. She could smell him now. He was heat and soap and exotic spice.

And from the middle of that black mask he marked her with eyes of such an intense dark blue they seemed unreal. He held her in place with those eyes. Beautiful eyes. Demon eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Ellie dropped her gaze, unable to withstand the power of his. She struggled to breathe. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”

And then the man tormented her in the most unexpected way. With her chin tucked to her chest, her gaze firmly fixed on the floor, he lifted his hand. She could see now, in her peripheral vision, that his hands were the only visible part of his body. Five fingers of streamlined power, scarred and callused, reached for her. Ellie curled into herself, bracing for a grab or slap or… The hand closed in on her face, and she could see a fine dusting of black hair along the dark tan of his skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the moment when his fingers would touch her. But she couldn’t block out the heat from his skin. It seemed to scorch her cheek.

“Please.” Her body convulsed on a frightened sob.

“Sinjun!”

The heat at her cheek evaporated at the shout from above. Ellie’s eyes popped open, and she saw the man in black tuck his hands into his pockets and cross to the base of the stairs.

“Is she awake?” The short, stocky creep who had given the orders and injected her with a knockout drug last night tromped down the stairs, commanding the room with his blustery voice.

Then the walls themselves seemed to shake as the giant from last night followed a few paces behind. Like the silent man, they were both dressed in black—from ski mask to military boots to the guns strapped at their sides.

Ellie’s chest expanded with the first deep breath she’d taken since the man who’d brought her food and water had first begun to circle her. Recognition of her three kidnappers brought with it a healthy amount of fear and caution, but she seized on the anger that their reappearance triggered in her. She threw her shoulders back and tipped up her chin. “I demand to know why you’ve done this to me.”

The small man laughed. “She demands.”

The big man responded with a hitch and lift of his shoulders, in what she supposed passed for a laugh at her expense. Her gaze flitted beyond them to the silent man. No movement. No laughter. Nothing.

And then Ellie realized she couldn’t let her attention wander. The short man had walked right up to her, close enough that she could smell the cigarette smoke that permeated his clothes. She knew that smell.

Her silly fantasies about Prince Charming had been destroyed by the man who smelled like that. “You’re the substitute chauffeur from last night.”

“Bingo.” He sounded almost pleased that he’d made an impression on her. “How’s our princess doing this afternoon?”

Princess?

He plopped a plastic pail down on the stool and sniffled loudly beneath his mask. “How do you like the fancy accommodations, Your Highness?”

Highness.

A light of understanding flashed on in Ellie’s head.

Oh, my God. Of course! They thought… “I’m not—”

Fortunately he interrupted her protest, giving Ellie time to see the wisdom in keeping her identity a secret. “We furnished all the comforts of home, sugar. Even a bucket for you to do your necessary business.”

Shock sailed through Ellie, clearing the path for the helpless fear that followed. These men thought they’d kidnapped a princess. The short man’s taunting sarcasm aside, they wouldn’t be pleased to learn that they’d nabbed a lowly secretary by mistake.

If they found out they’d abducted the hired help… Paulo’s dead staring eyes leaped to mind.

Think, Ellie, she coached herself. A jumble of ideas vied for consideration. How did she play this game? It had taken every bit of her nerve to try just to look like a princess last night. How could she act a part she was so unsuited for? And more importantly, how did she get out of this mess? Alive and safe?

What would a real princess do?

“How did you…find me?”

“Pick up the princess at the Carradigne penthouse. Red dress. Inferno Ball. That’s all my contact said I needed to know.” The short man sidled right up to her and fingered the broken strap that had fallen down her back. He draped the frayed silk across her shoulder and pulled the length of it between his index and middle finger. Ellie sucked in her breath and flinched away from the purposeful caress. “Sorry about the dress.”

He paused with the back of his knuckles resting atop her breast where it pillowed above the neckline of the gown. She held his lustful gaze, imagined him smiling or slobbering or some other foul thing beneath his mask. Knowing she watched him, he pressed his palm to her bare skin and squeezed.

Ellie smacked him away. “Don’t touch me!”

She jerked back and slammed into the wall of the big man’s chest. Her instinctive struggle was quickly subdued by the large hands that pinned her arms—and the long knife pressed against her throat.

For his burly size, the short man had moved with surprising speed. “Now let’s review the facts, Princess.” He stroked the blade along her collarbone and slipped it beneath the remaining strap of her gown. “I have all the power, and you—” with a flick of his wrist, he severed the strap and the bodice dropped to an indecent level “—have none.”

Ellie withered in the big man’s hands.

I am Princess Lucia Carradigne of Korosol. The chant she’d used to build her self-confidence the night before now played like a death knell inside her head.

She had no idea where she was. No idea who these men were or what they wanted. Did they have a grudge against Lucia or her new husband, Harrison Montcalm, a retired general and outgoing royal advisor to King Easton? Did these men or their contact want something from King Easton himself? Power? Money? Korosol was a small, but wealthy country. The king had his own fortune at his disposal. He had the power to sway Parliament. Was their motivation political? Economical? Vengeful?

Or did they simply enjoy torturing her with her own inadequacies?

“What do you want from me?” Her docile voice and downcast eyes seemed to have a calming effect on the short man.

He laughed again as he propped his foot up on the stool and put his knife away in his boot. “We just want you to be a good girl and mind your manners. Sinjun here has fixed the place up real nice for you. And we’ll be right upstairs if you need anything.”

What sort of name was Sinjun? She glanced across the room to the silent man. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d be her ally, yet he had been kind enough to bring her food. To insist she eat.

“It’s almost time for the call, Jerome.” The big man’s deep voice resonated in the air behind her, though he was surprisingly soft-spoken.

He finally released her, and Ellie turned her attention back to what little she could do to protect herself. She tugged up the bodice of her dress to better cover her exposed skin, then crossed her arms in front of her.

Jerome seemed amused by her attempts at modesty. “Sugar, you do exactly what we tell you and you won’t get hurt.”

“How do I know that? How do I know I won’t end up dead in your trunk?”

A dangerous glint replaced the amusement in his dark eyes. “You don’t. You might be used to calling the shots back home at the castle…” The notion registered that he didn’t know Lucia had never lived in a castle. But then, these men didn’t know Lucia at all, or they wouldn’t have mistaken the plain brown mouse that she was for the vibrant, blond Lucia. “…but around here, I’m in charge.”

“The call?” the big man prompted, already striding toward the stairs.

“I’m on it, Lenny.”

Lenny. The big man was named Lenny. Jerome was the short and smelly jerk with the all-too-friendly hands. The silent one was Sinjun. She didn’t know how the information could help her, but she filed it away, anyhow.

“Don’t worry, sugar. I’ll be back to keep you company. I have a phone call to make. I’ll bet there’s somebody wondering where you are.”

Jerome and Lenny climbed the stairs and disappeared without another word. Sinjun spared her one final look, then headed up after them.

“Wait.”

At the last moment Ellie acted on the desperate need to escape. Dragging her chain behind her, she scuttled to the bottom of the stairs in time to see the door close and hear the dead bolt slide into place.

Exhausted, confused and more frightened than she had ever been in her life, Ellie sank to the floor and let the tears she’d fought finally overtake her.

Jerome was a mean little man. Lenny was an immovable force. Both were dangerous. Of that she had no doubt. She’d had firsthand experience with their easy violence. And yet neither one of them spooked her the way Sinjun, the silent panther of a man, and his intense blue eyes had.

I’ll bet there’s somebody wondering where you are.

True. Several people would wonder where Princess Lucia had disappeared to if she’d vanished. Her new husband. Her sisters. Her mother. King Easton himself, Lucia’s grandfather.

But Eleanor Standish?

She’d been easy to overlook her entire life.

Would anyone be missing her?

Chapter Two

Cade St. John locked the basement door behind him and pulled off his ski mask. He wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow and combed his fingers through his hair, settling it into neat waves across his crown. Whenever it got beyond the crewcut stage, it had a tendency to curl and fan above his forehead, giving him a deceptively youthful look that belied his thirty-three years—and masked a life experience that on some days qualified him for retirement.

Days like this one.

Are you going to kill me, too?

The woman’s voice and those sad, accusing eyes had struck a nerve.

Dammit, that wasn’t supposed to have happened—taking out the chauffeur like that. No one was supposed to get hurt. This job was already unraveling from the original plan. Cade wasn’t naive. That meant he’d been too damn arrogant to think he could control this gig with a loose cannon like Jerome Smython calling the shots.

Jerome was just a middleman with delusions of grandeur. Whoever had hired the three of them had been stupid enough or callous enough to give Jerome free rein with his temper. Maybe if Cade knew who the boss really was, he could argue his case.

Problem was, Cade didn’t know who had hired him.

Big problem.

He tossed the mask onto the countertop extension that served as a kitchen table and headed straight for the half-size refrigerator. If he was in charge of this operation, he’d be wearing a ball cap and dark glasses. But then, he wasn’t in charge. He did have a few useful connections, though. He knew his way around guns and explosives, and could drive an untraceable getaway car from Manhattan to the Connecticut countryside in record time.

“Sinjun. Hand me a beer.”

Cade shrugged off his instinctive response to a man like Jerome Smython telling him what to do.

Two weeks ago Jerome had come into Cade’s office at the Korosolan Embassy in New York with one very interesting proposition.

Let’s kidnap a princess.

Cade might possess a royal title himself, but it was no secret that his family was bankrupt. That his late father had gambled away his inheritance. That the lands they had once owned had been auctioned off to make an inroad into Bretford St. John’s accumulated debt. That Cade’s mother had found herself a wealthy Texas oilman to keep her in jewels and furs, and written off Korosol—and her son—in the process.

So Cadence St. John, Duke of Raleigh, former army officer, acting Korosolan ambassador to the United States, accepted the lure of a one-million-dollar payoff for services rendered and signed on to Jerome’s “proposition.”

Cade pulled out three beers, twisted off the caps and carried them into the living room, where Smython and Lenny Gratfield had made themselves comfortable on two mismatched couches. He crossed to the scarred window that overlooked the woods surrounding the abandoned house where they were hiding, and pretended an interest in the gray-green surface of the lake beyond the trees.

But with just a shift of his eyes, he could keep an eye on the other two men by watching their reflections in the window. He took a long swig of beer to cool his throat and quietly studied them. He’d already run a background check on his two compatriots—a basic rule of survival meant knowing who you were dealing with. They were mercenaries who’d received some of the best training on the planet as former members of the Korosolan Army. He’d gone through the same training himself when he was twenty-one. But it was an old habit of his—always watching. He’d gotten himself out of sticky situations, kept himself alive more times than he could count, by simply keeping an eye on everything going on around him.

Jerome lit one of his imported European cigarettes and kicked his feet up on the frayed ottoman that doubled as a coffee table.

Lenny peeled the stocking cap from his shaved head and pulled out a thin black notepad. He jotted something down. Was the big guy keeping a journal? Writing a friend? Recording expenses? Cade had noticed a zenlike calm about him, a quiet sense of purpose that bore up well under Jerome’s hot-tempered actions. Fire and ice, Cade had dubbed them.

But while Jerome’s interest in kidnapping Princess Lucia seemed to be rooted in nothing more complicated than old-fashioned greed, he couldn’t say the same for Lenny. The big guy didn’t share Jerome’s interest in fast cars and big yachts and the women they attracted. He hadn’t figured Lenny out yet. And until he did, Cade would keep an especially close eye on the man.

Cade checked his watch. As the big hand hit the twelve, Jerome’s cell phone rang. Right on cue. He swallowed another drink of the cold, bitter brew and turned, showing a mild interest in the expected call, but wishing he had an extension to eavesdrop on.

Mr. Fire of the hot temper and smoky stench waited for the second ring before picking up. “Three o’clock,” he said. “I like punctuality.” His thick chest shook as he laughed at his own clever greeting, and Cade wondered if the caller found Jerome as amusing as Jerome did. “Yes, sir. The package is safe and secure. Not too much trouble. I’ll make the call as soon as we’re finished here.” He pulled a long drag on his cigarette and sat up straight. As he exhaled the sweetly pungent smoke, his puttylike features mirrored his displeasure with whatever was being said. “I don’t like being left out of the loop.”

Jerome hopped to his feet and paced the length of the room. “Three days?” He eyed Lenny and Cade over his shoulder, his expression changing back to its good-ol’-boy facade as the caller placated him. He nodded. “We can manage three days. As long as we get paid what we’re due.”

Another moment passed and then he pulled the phone from his ear and punched the off button.

Lenny tucked his notebook back into his pocket. “Three days?”

“Yeah.” Jerome tossed the phone onto the empty couch and finished off his cigarette. “We’re to hold the princess here while he takes care of the ransom.”

A faint twinge of alarm made Cade step forward. Maybe it was the instinctive danger he felt at having to alter their original plan. Maybe it was his conscience kicking in. “Her family hasn’t been contacted yet?”

Jerome shrugged and reached for another cigarette. “He says it’ll take that long to negotiate the deal.”

“What deal? Don’t we get paid cash? And who’s he?”

Fire-man grinned. He took the time to cup his hands around his mouth and light his cigarette before answering. The bum knew all about power, but nothing about team leadership. “You’ll find out when I do. All I needed was that hundred-grand retainer fee to get this project started. Nab the woman in the red dress. Bring her here. Wait for the call. I can take orders for the kind of money we’re making on this deal. So can you. If he says to turn the little lady over in three days, that’s what we’ll do.”

Cade challenged him on the impracticality of blind faith in a man he’d never met. “You ever wonder what makes a man willing to commit treason and risk a lifelong prison term by kidnapping a member of the royal family?”

“I don’t know. You’re one of those royals. You could have the world eating out of your hand, if you wanted.” Jerome blew out a cloud of smoke and flashed his teeth in a smug grin. “But for the right price I finally turned you. For the right price, a man’ll do anything.”

Cade resisted the urge to cross the room and ram the cigarette down Jerome’s throat. “So we just sit here for three days and trust this guy to show up?”

Lenny rose, consuming a good portion of the room with his mammoth size. He, too, was clearly interested in Jerome’s answer.

“He’s coming here tonight to check out the merchandise. You can voice your concerns then.” Jerome spread his arms wide and shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t care why the man wants to do it this way—I’m just the hired help. As long as the money’s there, he has my loyalty.

“But I guarantee you, by Monday night, if I don’t get my million, her highness is dead. And so is he. And then his motive won’t make a damn bit of difference, now will it?”

Jerome left the room with a cloud of that sickening smoke trailing behind him. Lenny sat back on the couch and pulled out his notepad again. Cade strode into the kitchen, grabbed a bag of pretzels and sat at the breakfast bar. As he munched, he let his gaze stray to the bolted basement door.

The light snack gummed up his throat as he thought of the year-old C rations he’d given their prisoner. At least she’d been smart enough to take the food, though cautious enough not to trust him. She’d seemed so young. So frightened.

So innocent.

She was nothing like the world-savvy women he’d known over the years. Ling in Hong Kong. Rosa in Brazil. Elise in London and Jeanne back home in Korosol. He’d always sought out women who knew the score. Women who enjoyed a night of great sex when he was in town, but who never expected more than a few days of clubbing and dining and bedtime fun.

The woman in the basement looked as if she still believed in heroes and happy endings. She had the wide-eyed wonder and indignant shock of someone who expected to find good in people. She seemed more suited to pen pals and puppy love than that damned two-sizes-too-small red gown she’d poured herself into.

When was the last time he’d seen such a wide-eyed look? Big, beautiful blue eyes the same clear shade as the mountain lakes of his boyhood home.

Cade took a swallow of beer. Then another. And another, angrily reminding himself he had no business reminiscing about childhood memories or guileless blue eyes.

He had a job to do. And despite all the transgressions he’d committed in his life, he’d always taken pride in being very, very good at his job.

He pitched the empty bottle across the room into the box of trash and considered all that was about to happen to her, all that she had already endured. He made no excuses for being a part of that dangerous destiny, but he did make her a silent promise.

He hated men like Jerome Smython. Men who used others to fulfill their own avarice, men who bartered with people’s lives and fed on their fears to get that intoxicating rush of power over others.

Cade had done a lot of things in the name of getting the job done that weren’t exactly in line with the law. In fact, he was damn good at circumventing the authorities when he needed to. But breaking the rules and breaking someone’s spirit were two different things.

And that woman in the basement, though she was chained and frightened and clueless about the events unfolding around her, definitely had spirit. She’d stood to face him when she could just as easily have cowered in the corner. She’d made demands and called him rude when he refused to answer. He’d seen her spirit in the determined tilt of her chin.

It had nearly killed him when she finally bowed her head and surrendered to her fear of him. He’d had to be tough with her, he reasoned. He had a job to do. But he’d felt an alien urge to comfort her. He’d almost touched her, almost offered some lame platitude about bucking-up and hanging-in-there.

And then Jerome and Lenny had arrived on the scene. And just like that her spirit reasserted itself. She’d tilted that regal chin and faced the new attack, just as she had faced him.

A woman like that, innocent to the games and cruelty and power plays of a man like Jerome, would expect this all to turn out right. Despite coming face-to-face with the chauffeur’s dead body, she’d expect to stay safe.

Cade found himself making a rare, foolish promise.

He’d do that for her. He could do nothing to stop the chain of events her kidnapping had already set into motion—he didn’t want to. He wanted to find out who was paying them for the job.

But he could keep her safe.

It was his responsibility, after all.

Because Cade knew something Jerome and Lenny didn’t.

They’d kidnapped the woman in the red dress, all right.

But the wrong woman was wearing that dress.

He’d met Lucia Carradigne Montcalm at her sister CeCe’s wedding a couple of months ago. It had been a big affair, a princess marrying an American millionaire. Lucia had made a bit of a spectacle of herself at the reception.

The woman chained in the basement had a lot of class, but she wasn’t any princess. She wasn’t even a Carradigne. She seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t place her. Maybe he’d met her at an embassy function. Or back in Korosol.

Cade eased his conscience with the promise of keeping her identity a secret. She might not understand or appreciate the importance of that favor—but he did.

Because if Jerome and Lenny and the man on the phone even suspected she wasn’t Princess Lucia, they wouldn’t just break her spirit.

They’d kill her.

“HE SAYS THEY’LL kill her.”

His Royal Highness, King Easton of Korosol, hung up the phone and sank wearily back into the ornate mahogany chair, feeling every one of his seventy-eight years.

He’d sent men into war, weathered the lean years of a budget crisis with his people and worked tirelessly to ensure his country’s future by selecting the best possible successor to the throne. He’d buried a wife he loved and neglected his family in America in order to carry out his responsibilities to the citizens of Korosol.

But nothing had drained him the way that phone call had.

Maybe it was his age. Or the rare blood disease that was slowly sucking the life out of him.

Maybe it was the guilt of asking a trusted friend to make a sacrifice for Easton’s beloved homeland.

If Ellie was here, she’d know the right thing to say or do to cheer him up. The girl spoiled him silly, and like an old fool, he let her. Eleanor Standish had proved a much more valuable resource than just a sensible, reliable secretary. She read his moods, saw to his comfort, quietly went about working her miracles and taking care of him so that he could take care of his country.

And now… He didn’t even want to think about what the poor girl must be going through.

Easton sat up straight in the chair and surveyed the select group of men he’d summoned to the study of the Carradignes’ Manhattan penthouse. He pulled off his glasses and set them on the desk before him.

“I was afraid of something like this when I came to America. Afraid of putting my family in jeopardy. But Ellie’s all right for now. I’ve been given until midnight Monday to answer the ransom demand.”

His closest friend and advisor, retired general Harrison Montcalm, crossed his arms and assumed a pose that reflected his military background. “Any idea who’s behind this?”

“The man’s voice was altered with a mechanical device. He sounded like a robot.” He’d have to be a heartless robot to endanger Ellie’s life.

A steely voice cut across the room. “What’s the ransom? Whatever it is, we’ll pay it, right? How much?”

Easton looked up at the blond man marching toward him, a man fired up with a thirst for action. Nicholas Standish couldn’t be blamed. Hell. If Easton was forty years younger, he’d charge after Ellie himself.

But Harrison offered them both a sobering reminder. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“What do they want?” Nick asked.

“My throne.” There was a curse, a gasp of shock, even a condolence, before a deathly pall settled on the room. Easton listened to the forced, steady breathing of the other men. He placed his hand on his chest to subdue the pounding of his own heart. He had prayed the transition of power from one ruler to the next would never come to a crisis like this. “Whoever they are, they want me to step down from the throne. And, of course, they made mention of several million dollars.”

The fourth man in the room, Devon Montcalm, a younger, taller version of his father and captain of the Royal Guard, stepped forward. “Do you think it’s the Korosolan Democratic Front? My sources tell me their funds are nearly depleted.”

“Possibly.”

Nick braced his fists atop the desk and leaned forward. “I thought they’d agreed to use peaceful means to resolve their differences with the monarchy.”

Easton shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the first time a political faction has used violence to speed along the process.”

As usual, Harrison offered a prudent course of action. “You want me to get ahold of Remy Sandoval?”

Easton pulled out his handkerchief to clean his glasses while he considered the offer. He had a suspicion as to who was behind this kidnapping. But until he had absolute proof, he didn’t want to leave any stone unturned. After several tense, uninterrupted moments he stood and put on his glasses, preparing himself to do business both mentally and physically. “Yes. Sandoval’s still their party’s spokesman. I’d like to know if everyone in the KDF is cooperating with the truce, or if there’s someone from the old guard he can’t control.”

Easton reached out and laid a comforting hand on Harrison’s shoulder. “I know this is difficult for you. I appreciate you stepping in and filling the role you always have for me. I know you were looking forward to your honeymoon.”

Harrison’s grim look matched his own. “Well, considering it’s my wife who was their intended target…” A riot of fiercely protective emotions surfaced before his rigid mask of propriety returned. “I’ve put Lucia in a safe place, and Devon’s posted twenty-four-hour security.”

“I’ve put a guard on everyone in the immediate royal family,” added Devon.

Father and son exchanged a look of purpose and promise before Harrison turned back to the king. “I’ll go make those phone calls.”

As Harrison left to make contact with the Korosolan Democratic Front, Nick jumped to his feet. “Isn’t it a little late to beef up security? The damage has already been done. I know I’ve been out of the country for several years, but is this how you handle a crisis? Make some phone calls? Bide your time? My sister could be dead already. What were your granddaughters thinking, dressing Ellie up and sending her out—”

“Standish,” Devon warned.

“She knows nothing about these kinds of men. She never left the ranch. All she knows are her books and her dreams.”

Easton absorbed the tirade, placing the blame for Ellie’s kidnapping squarely on his own shoulders. “She’s not a child anymore, Nick. Ellie hasn’t seen much of the world, I know. But she’s smart. Resourceful.” Around a conference table or behind the scenes of the royal court, he amended silently. Easton did worry that his shy guardian angel might be way out of her league in this crisis. But he reassured them both. “She’ll be all right.”

And then he did what he did best. He took charge.

“Devon. Put your best men on alert. I may need your help.”

“Already done, sir.”

Nick turned and headed for the door. “I’m going after her.”

“No.” Easton said the bold, bleak word with all the rank and authority of a royal pronouncement. Certainly, as a former mercenary, Nick Standish had the qualifications to make an incisive strike into an enemy stronghold to rescue his sister. But Easton would play this game his way. He would not be swayed by terrorists or fear or even a brother’s love.

While he could not reveal all that had transpired over the phone, he could do a little to lessen Nick’s concern.

“I already have someone on the job.”

He just hoped it was someone he could trust.

ELLIE’S EYES WERE on fire. She’d been wearing her contact lenses for more than twenty-four hours, and her eyelids felt dry and gritty. The bout of crying hadn’t helped. Her sinuses were plugged, and the salty tears had only aggravated her condition.

Her condition. Ha!

She was chained to the floor of a damp, dusty basement, wearing dirty, uncomfortable clothes, eating unappetizing food, and having little else to do besides imagine the potentially gruesome outcome of her kidnapping.

And the indignity of doing her business in a bucket made an outhouse seem like a luxury!

If she was a woman who cursed, she’d have damned her captors over and over. But Ellie was a woman of thought, not reaction. Her quiet personality gave her plenty of time to consider her choices before making a decision. There was a security in that planning, a sense of control over her own destiny.

She’d already considered the option of popping out the lenses and easing the irritation in her eyes. But that would put her at an even greater disadvantage.

She’d been a bookworm by the age of five, worn glasses since the end of second grade. Before she was twelve, she’d devoured the entire Nancy Drew mystery series. As she got older, her tastes turned to the classics—Jane Eyre, Eight Cousins and Rose in Bloom. As an adult, travelogues and romantic-suspense novels gave her a vicarious thrill of adventure.

All those books might in some small way have prepared her for dealing with criminals and difficult men, but they had also taken their toll on her eyesight. Combined with all the years she did the accounting for her parents’ ranch and the computer work she did for King Easton, Ellie’s vision was a myopic disaster. Even in good light, without her glasses or contacts, her vision was limited to mere inches. In dim light she was virtually blind.

Physical discomfort and tearing eyes were a small price to pay for at least having the opportunity to see danger when it headed her way.

The click of a key in the lock at the top of the stairs put her on instant alert. She rose from the stool and pulled the blanket more firmly around her naked shoulders. The tread on the stairs was too light to be Lenny’s, too deliberate to be Jerome’s. That meant…

“Sinjun.”

She had hoped to catch him off guard by calling him by his name. But he acted as if she hadn’t even spoken. Her masked visitor dropped two bundles at her feet and glanced back over his shoulder at the stairs.

He knelt beside her, made quick work of a few knots, then flung open a sleeping bag. He picked up what she could now see was a knapsack. Ellie shuffled to the right to avoid being pushed aside when he stood.

She took a deep breath and steeled her nerves to try again. “Excuse me. I—”

“Act like you’re asleep.”

“What?” The sound of his voice startled her as much as the odd request.

“Move it now, lady.” The crisp command in the hushed velvet voice fluttered along her skin.

Ellie hugged the blanket more tightly around her, conquering the urge to bolt to the end of her chain. She rolled her neck, pulled up her chin and remembered she was supposed to be a princess. “So. He deigns to speak to me.”

He ignored her attempt at sarcasm and pulled out a battery-powered lantern. He set it on the stool and turned it on, flooding the basement with a warm glow that softened the harsh glare from the bare bulb over the stairs. He dug into the knapsack for something else, sending another darting look behind him, apparently oblivious to her presence only a foot away.

She tried to scoot around his shoulder and at least talk to the eye holes in his stocking cap. “I want my glasses. Keep whatever else is in my purse, but I need to remove my contacts.”

He turned on her then, nailed her with that dark-blue gaze that at once frightened and compelled. “Is that what’s wrong with your eyes?”

He’d noticed her eyes?

Her fingers flew to her temple self-consciously. Now that she had his full attention, an attack of shyness squeezed her throat, and she was unable to push any words past it.

Men didn’t notice details about her. Men didn’t notice her, period.

Precious seconds swept by in silence as their gazes locked. His, questioning, searching. Hers, hoping for understanding, wishing she hadn’t been cursed with an inordinate self-awareness that made her analyze every look, every word, before responding.

“I—”

But the opportunity to plead her case had been lost.

“Lie down,” he ordered.

The words were like shock therapy to her frozen systems. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lie down.” He climbed halfway up the steps, lifted the knapsack above his head and wrapped it around the lightbulb where it dangled at the end of its wire. The perimeter of the basement was plunged into darkness, and the circle of lantern light, now the only source of illumination, seemed to shrink.

Sinjun swung the bag against the wall. The bulb shattered inside. Ellie sank to her knees, seeing his actions as a demonstration of what those strong hands could do to her if she didn’t cooperate. He rolled up the bag with the broken glass and tossed it beneath the stairs. “If you want to stay alive, you’ll do exactly as I tell you.”

In a perverse trick of psychology, fear sent fire through her veins and unlocked her ability to talk. “You have no right to speak to a princess that way.”

Suddenly he was on his knees in front of her. He snatched her by the upper arms when she tried to scramble away, lifted her inches off the floor. He held her like that, suspended by his incredible strength, and dragged her right up to his chest.

Ellie put her hands out to protect herself. The heat of him seared her palms through his shirt. But it was like shoving against a brick wall. He pulled her so close she could feel his hot breath through the knit mask. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’re not Lucia Carradigne.”

Time froze for an instant. Ellie just hung there, supported by Sinjun’s hands and the link to those hypnotic blue eyes.

The shock wore off a heartbeat later and Ellie pounded her fists against him. “No! Let go of me.”

They wanted a princess. If they knew the truth—no one paid ransom for royal impostors—she was as good as dead.

He shook her once, pulled her impossibly closer. Now the heat of the man singed her from chest to thigh. He dipped his mouth to her ear and stilled her struggles with words, instead of strength. “Right now, that’s just our little secret. But if you don’t do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you…”

His voice trailed off with a brush of wool against the shell of her ear. A chill rippled down her spine, leaving a path of goose bumps in its wake.

“How did you know?” She could barely hear her own whisper. “I suppose you want something from me now. I don’t have much money. The gown and jewelry were borrowed.”

“Shh.” He set her down and Ellie collapsed onto her folded-up legs. “We’ll talk later. Company’s upstairs.”

He moved his hands to her hair and began pulling out pins, freeing what was left of her upswept style and fluffing the tendrils to fall around her face and shoulders. Her breathing came in shallow gasps at the feel of strong fingers sifting through her hair and dancing across her scalp in what felt like a caress. In the aftermath of his controlled show of strength, his quick, gentle touches made her tremble with inexplicable emotion.

She was smart enough to know these were not tender reassurances. The purposeful stroke of his hands wasn’t intended to soothe.

Yet she did feel comforted by his touch, reassured by his gentleness. It might be a naive, horrible trap to fall into, but Sinjun’s touch gave her strength.

Enough strength to realize that, no matter his motive for keeping her identity a secret, she needed to play along in order to survive the next few minutes of her life.

She made no protest when he guided her down to the sleeping bag.

“Act like you’re asleep.” He brushed her hair down so it hid her face, then covered her with the blanket. “Keep your face to the wall and don’t move. In this light, I don’t think anyone will question your identity.”

“Why are you doing this?”

For the first time she could hear voices at the top of the stairs. Lenny’s deep one. Jerome’s nasty laugh. And a third man—someone soft-spoken and deliberate with his words. Ellie huddled in the shadows, staring at the rusted-out furnace. At first she didn’t think Sinjun would answer her.

But then she heard his velvety voice, blending in with the darkness around them. “We all have our own agendas.”

The door opened and Ellie closed her eyes.

What was Sinjun’s agenda?

And had she just been transferred from one untenable situation to another now that she was completely at his mercy?

Chapter Three

That had gone better than he’d planned.

Jerome’s contact had arrived at 9:00 p.m. on the dot. He’d been content to observe the fake princess’s sleeping form from the distance of the basement stairs, despite Jerome’s offer to wake the little lady. Their guest, in fact, seemed eager to leave the damp, musty basement, though Cade suspected it had more to do with an abhorrence for his surroundings than pity for the girl’s trauma-induced exhaustion.

Cade hung back in the archway that connected the living room to the kitchen, while Lenny sat on the floral-print sofa. Jerome paced the width of the room, lighting up one of his foul cigarettes. He darted back and forth with the speed and repetition of a revolving arcade target, giving Cade the urge to pull out his sidearm and shoot him. That would put Jerome out of his manic misery and ease the tension building in the room.

But Cade had a much more pressing issue to deal with than his team leader’s agitation. He focused his powers of observation on the man in the brown Armani suit who had joined them for this late-night meeting. Winston Rademacher pulled a pristine white handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and dusted the arm of the gold plaid sofa before perching there.

Interesting. The man didn’t like to dirty his hands either literally or figuratively.

Jerome blew out a cloud of smoke, then turned and walked right through it. “All I’m saying is, we ought to pawn the jewels we took off the girl and make this deal as profitable as we can.”

“The necklace is a handmade work of art that bears the royal coat-of-arms of Korosol. Pawning it would lead the authorities directly to us.” Rademacher’s thin lips barely moved when he spoke. “It will be returned with the princess.”

Jerome turned again. “You’re the one who lengthened the time frame on this job. You need to compensate us.”

What happened to the loyalty the hundred-grand retainer fee had purchased? Cade thought.

Since the conversation was mostly Jerome’s efforts to finagle more money for the contracted job, Cade tuned him out.

Rademacher was an old acquaintance of sorts. Cade had met him on more than one occasion, though they’d never had a conversation beyond introductory pleasantries. The man was a professional power broker. A favored guest among royals and high society the world over. His dark hair and high cheekbones hinted at his Middle-Eastern ancestry, but Cade couldn’t remember where the man actually hailed from.

He wished he had his computer with him or at least access to some of his information contacts. He hated not knowing more about a man he had to work with than what he’d read in the papers. While Jerome complained and Winston looked bored, Cade ran through what he did know about their employer.

In recent years Rademacher had served as a personal advisor to Prince Markus of Korosol. Markus was the only child of King Easton’s eldest son, Byrum. Since Byrum and his wife had died in a tragic accident while on African safari over a year ago, Markus was next in line to become king. But King Easton, declaring the right of royal privilege, had decided to travel to America and meet his extended family there before officially naming his heir. Cade wondered if Rademacher was working for Markus, if this kidnapping could somehow be used as leverage to ensure Easton named Markus as his successor.

“Hell. We don’t even have decent plumbing here.” Jerome’s whine interrupted Cade’s thoughts. “What kind of house puts a pump in the kitchen and makes you shower outside?”

“Mr. Smython, is there a point to all this?”

Rademacher also had ties with a political group in Korosol that wanted to end the monarchy system altogether and establish an independent republic. His one-time business partner, Remy Sandoval, was the self-proclaimed leader of the Korosolan Democratic Front. For the right price, as Jerome claimed every man had, would Rademacher sell out king and country?

Or was Winston Rademacher’s motive something more personal? Perhaps kidnapping Princess Lucia and demanding a ransom was simply a new type of profit-making business deal the man had put together.

“I don’t care how you dispose of the body, so long as it isn’t found. I thought I’d made it clear that my client didn’t want any casualties.”

Client? Cade tuned back in to the conversation.

“The kid put up a fight.” That was the extent of Jerome’s defense for murdering the chauffeur. “I should have given him a bigger dose of the serum.”

“Yes, indeed.” Rademacher stood, rebuttoned his jacket and smoothed his lapels.

One thing was certain. The man revealed no hint of motive or emotion in the perpetual squint of his dark-brown eyes. He was cold. Clever. Unreadable.

The faintly accented tone of his voice revealed nothing more than irritation with Jerome’s incessant banter. “I have a backup plan in place should you choose to deviate from my instructions again.”

Cade’s self-preservation radar kicked in at the matter-of-fact warning. “Whoa. What do you mean, backup? What else aren’t you telling us?”

Winston looked at Cade and blinked, as if he’d forgotten his presence in the room. Fat chance. Cade didn’t buy the eyebrow arched in aristocratic surprise for one instant.

“I’ve told you everything you need to know…Your Grace.”

Cade had borne the brunt of enough condescending gossip from snobs like Rademacher to let the smirk in his voice bounce off his toughened hide. He’d suffered far worse than mock pity and survived. He walked right up to Winston and used his slight height advantage to look down on the man. “You’ve told us everything except this new backup plan. And who we’re doing this baby-sitting job for.”

Rademacher folded his handkerchief and tucked it into his jacket before responding. He laughed. It was a controlled, low-pitched sound that held no trace of humor. “You’re as persistent a dog as your father was, aren’t you.”

Other than the fist he buried inside his pocket, Cade held himself perfectly still. He let the angry resentment slam through him, then trapped it in the spot where his soul used to be. “I don’t make the same mistakes my father did.”

Winston acknowledged the assertion with a slight nod. “I hope not. Bretford died owing me money. I consider your cooperation on this job as payment in trade. Your services in exchange for your father’s debt.” He splayed his manicured fingers in the air like a magician casting a spell. “It all seems so karmalike, don’t you think?”

“Hey, we were talking about my money.” Jerome waved his pudgy paw at Cade and Winston, intruding on the duel of unbending wills.

Rademacher’s eyelids moved an infinitesimal distance and shut. He took a deep breath and his nostrils flared, as if an annoying gnat had buzzed into his ear. With the standoff broken, Cade stalked to the far end of the room, silently cursing himself for letting wounded pride and old hurts get in the way of finding out what he needed to know.

“I grow tired of this, Smython.” Winston moved only his eyes to look at Jerome.

Cade closed his ears to the conversation and watched their employer make short work of Fire-man. He’d never play cards with a control freak like Rademacher. But his father had.

Cade leaned against the archway, uncomfortable with thoughts of his father even now. Bretford St. John had lost nearly as much money at the tables as he had making bad investments. His addiction to gambling had cost him the family fortune, his son’s respect and ultimately his life.

Their guest wasn’t directly responsible for Bretford St. John’s suicide, of course. His father had been the only one at the house to pull the trigger that night.

But Rademacher’s trade-off burned like salt in an open wound. Cade had yet to meet a man who mourned his father’s death. As a grieving young man, he’d turned to what he thought were family friends and business associates, looking for comfort and understanding. Instead, he’d been greeted with invoices and IOU’s, and branded as the heir to his family’s scandalous past.

“If you’re not satisfied with the arrangements I’ve made, you can easily be replaced on this project.” Winston’s warning was clear, even to Jerome.

Maybe. Jerome tossed his cigarette butt into the stone fireplace that heated the house in the winter. “Is that a threat?”

Winston wasn’t impressed with the flash of anger. “Do I need to make a threat?” He silenced Jerome by refusing to hear any more. He turned his attention to Lenny. “Mr. Gratfield.”

The big man unfolded himself from the couch, rising as if he’d been summoned by a superior officer. “Yes, sir?”

“Get the jewelry and put the items in my attaché case. I’ll use them as a token of the princess’s well-being.” He inclined his head toward the leather briefcase at his feet. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

Lenny took the case and slipped out. As Winston moved to follow him, Cade stepped out and blocked his path. He wasn’t done pressing for answers yet.

“Why the hush-hush about your client?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and demanded a response.

“This may be too complex for you to understand, Sinjun.” Like Jerome and Lenny, Winston slurred Cade’s last name with a trace of their native accent, giving St. John an almost British pronunciation. “I’m a man who makes things happen. I connect the right people so that they can become something greater than themselves. Understandably my client doesn’t wish to be linked to a kidnapping—or the likes of you and your comrades.”

Winston never so much as blinked. He hadn’t even revealed if his client was a he or a she.

“And while you’re making these connections, what do you expect us to do with Princess Lucia? I signed on for a kidnapping, not a double murder.”

Winston laughed. It was an imperious sound, and the smile on his lips never reached the squint in his eyes. “Careful, Sinjun. It almost sounds like you’ve developed a fondness for this girl. You wouldn’t want me to think you’re changing loyalties, would you?”

“I’m loyal to myself. Period.” He shrugged, pretending his mounting frustration over Rademacher’s evasion of his questions was no big deal. “I was just curious as to where your loyalties lay. Mentioning a backup plan makes me think you’d leave us hanging if something went wrong.”

“My loyalties are to the project. I intend it to be a success. Lucia is a means to an end. Surely you can handle a twenty-six-year-old girl so that nothing goes wrong.”

Cade’s fingertips suddenly itched with the memory of handling that twenty-six-year-old girl’s hair. It had been long and wavy, soft in color and touch. Cade curled his fingers into fists, damning himself for getting distracted from his purpose.

“The girl’s not who I’m worried about,” he lied. “How do we know we can trust the man you’re working for?”

“You don’t.” Winston adjusted the already impeccable knot on his French-silk tie. “You don’t even have to trust me. Just do your job and have that girl prepped for her return Monday night.”

A rheumy laugh reminded Cade there was another person in the room. Jerome sauntered up to them and asked, “Do we have to bring the princess back in the same condition we found her?”

Winston’s expression never changed. “Smython, you disgust me.”

Jerome cursed in French and Spanish, intimating he wasn’t the only one who had considered getting to know their prisoner better. “I’m headin’ outside.” He waved off both Winston and Cade, and stormed out of the house.

Lenny returned, giving Jerome’s huffy exit a curious glance before handing the briefcase to Winston. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered.

Winston nodded a curt acceptance. He butted his shoulder against Cade’s as he passed. Then he stopped and turned, daring him to challenge his authority. Cade nailed him with a glance that acknowledged the conflict between them.

But wisdom prevailed over male posturing. Cade stepped aside and let Winston pass. He had too much at stake to risk alienating his employer now.

When the screen door had slammed behind them, Cade raked all ten fingers through his hair, venting his frustration and fanning his bangs into a spiky mess.

This whole setup felt wrong, from the unplanned murder of the Carradignes’ chauffeur to the mystery employer to the wrong victim. He’d been on enough missions as a soldier and on his own to trust his instincts about the failure or success of a plan. His gut was screaming at him now, warning him this one was going to go very, very wrong before it was over.

Cool, clever and unreadable. Rademacher hadn’t revealed a damn thing.

Cade noted that he’d never said no to Jerome’s last request, either.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

Cade dropped the keys into his front right pocket and closed the basement door behind him. He pulled the scratchy stocking cap down over his face and scanned the shadows as he descended the stairs and tried to pinpoint what felt out of place.

The soft glow from the lantern made this damp hellhole look almost hospitable. A chain rattled, reminding him that his hospitality left a lot to be desired.

“Is that you, Sinjun?”

God, he hated that nickname. That slurring together of syllables as if his own name wasn’t important enough to pronounce correctly. But under the circumstances, he could hardly correct her.

He stepped into the circle of light and let her identify him by body shape. The woman on the sleeping bag sat up, pushing a long fall of toffee-colored hair off her face. She adjusted her shoulders beneath the blanket and clutched it securely around her as she stood.

“Did I pass the test with your boss?”

Her big blue eyes blinked rapidly as he walked closer. Her eyes looked raw with suffering. Guilt warred with pity inside him, but both were ultimately defeated by admiration for her courage and perseverance. Finally he answered her expectant look with a nod and she smiled.

Barely. The flash of teeth and curve of her wide mouth lasted only a split second before she dropped her gaze to the floor. But the image stayed with him. The woman was really rather pretty when she smiled, he thought. But he got the impression she didn’t smile very often, and that observation got him to wondering why.

“Good,” she continued while he removed the bucket and replaced her canteen with a fresh one. “I don’t know why you’re helping me, or if you’re really helping me at all. But since I’m still alive, I figured that’s a good thing, right? I’ve never been kidnapped before, and I don’t know the proper etiquette. But my goal should be to stay alive, and I should be grateful to you for helping me, and it shouldn’t matter why you’re doing it.”

The talking. That was different. She hadn’t put so many words together at one time in the entire twenty-four hours she’d been here. But he wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t have foretold her nervous rambling from the top of the steps. Something else had to be out of place to keep nagging at his subconscious mind.

The meeting with Winston Rademacher had made him edgy, that was all. He didn’t quite buy that excuse, but he was already busy making other observations.

She backed away when he knelt in front of her to pick up her discarded ration packets, and the movement gave him a glimpse of her torn gown and petticoats. Maybe that was why he hadn’t really noticed her looks before. Other than the size of her eyes, her features had seemed unremarkable. But the fire-engine red of that gown was so overwhelming it would make all but the most striking of women look drab in comparison.

Cade imagined this woman would look pretty in softer colors. Soft like her. Yeah. He allowed himself a smile beneath his mask. If her hair was any indication, this woman was soft. Really, really…

Wham!

He didn’t see it coming until the claw was right on him. The force of the blow rang through his skull and knocked him off his feet. The sharp metal hook that she’d anchored in her fist snagged in the knit of his cap and plowed through the top layer of skin on his cheek as she ripped the mask right off his head.

In the moments it took him to recover—to shake his head and clear the dizziness from his vision—he felt her hand at his waist. Butting against his hipbone. Diving into his pocket. Moving dangerously close to…

He heard the jingle of keys and knew her intention.

Adrenaline cleared his head with a soldier’s clarity of instinct and purpose.

He clamped his hand around her wrist and knew that she knew this sneak attack had failed.

Her split second of hesitation gave him an advantage he didn’t intend to surrender again. She jerked back with a grunt, but Cade held fast, using her momentum to pull himself to his knees. He felt her shift, saw the metal hook flying toward his face again. He snagged that wrist, too, and rolled his shoulder into her thighs, toppling her onto her back.

He dodged the knee that rose to strike him and dropped his body weight onto hers, pinning her to the sleeping bag beneath him. For an instant she went still and Cade damned himself, thinking she’d hit her head on the concrete floor.

Instead, she’d paused to stare.

“Cade St. John?” She squeezed his name out in a mix of accusation and shock. “The Duke of Raleigh?”

The recognition caught him off guard. She’d seemed familiar, but he still hadn’t placed her. “How do you know me?” he demanded, pushing himself up onto his elbows at either side of her, giving her room to breathe without completely freeing her.

Her teeth bared with determined fury. “You traitor!” She pried a hand loose and slapped his face. She twisted her hips, shimmying along the floor beneath him. “King Easton invited you to be part of his American entourage. How could you betray that kind—” Cade thrust his arm beyond her rolling shoulder “—sweet—” he bent his elbow, twisting her flying arm to the floor “—man?”

Her cry of pain was more of a strangled moan. But whether her inspiration came from patriotism or her own personal fear, she still writhed beneath him. Kicking at his calves and shins. Pushing the hook toward his face with fury-charged strength. She was wild. Out of control.

Cade mentally stripped himself of any kid gloves, any guilt. He had to defend himself and keep her from hurting herself. He wound his left leg around both of hers and stilled her kicking. He pulled his hips over hers, damning propriety and letting his weight crush her diaphragm, robbing her of the ability to breathe deeply.

And then he tackled the damn hook. He stretched her right hand up over her head and shifted his grip around her wrist. It wasn’t a matter of overpowering her so much as finding that particular bundle of nerves near the base of her palm. He pressed the spot with his thumb and her fingers popped open. He shook the hand once. Twice. The curved piece of metal flew out and clanged against the concrete floor. It was the handle from the lantern. Somehow she’d managed to pry it off and arm herself with a weapon.

The muted wince of pain he heard in her throat was her final protest. For several moments all was silent, all was still, except for the sounds of heavy breathing. His, measured and deep. Hers, quick and shallow.

Cade refused to ease his grip on her. The little spitfire had surprised him. Unmasked him. Drawn his blood.

Now that she’d recognized him, judged him to be a traitor to her beloved king, he suspected she’d do it again, given the chance.

And that was when Cade became aware of something else altogether.

Somewhere in their struggle, that gown with the broken straps—the gown that didn’t quite fit—had ripped down the front. And there, pressing against his chest, teasing him again and again with each fevered breath she took, was a naked breast.

He raised himself ever so slightly. Seeking oxygen, her chest heaved for a deep breath. Cade watched in shameless fascination as the breast pillowed between the shreds of torn silk and came free of the black lace bra that couldn’t contain its bounty. The chilled basement air—or maybe his own heated wish—coaxed the peachy circle at its tip to pucker and the nipple to strain to attention.

Cade became aware of other things, too. The cradle of her hips flaring with generous proportions beneath his. The gentle nip of her waist. The rounded, full, glorious splendor of her unintended display. His own body’s immediate, healthy male response to such unexpected feminine treasures.

And the frightened, doe-eyed wonder of those big blue eyes desperately seeking to make contact with him.

“Who are you?” he whispered on a curiously husky plea.

She stared at him, one arm pinned above her head, one pinned at her side, completely vulnerable to him. Somehow she found the strength to answer.

“Ellie.” She swallowed hard and Cade followed the movement down the length of her throat. “I’m called Ellie.”

“Ellie.” He tested the word on his tongue. The name suited her. Soft. Quietly elegant. Not an exotic, sophisticated concoction like Lucia Carradigne.

Because he wore scandal like a second skin, he let his gaze linger on the peach and porcelain wonder of her breast, and wished its mate had popped free, as well. But because his stint in the Royal Korosolan Army had taught him a few things about honor, he lifted his gaze to hers and tried not to look like the ogre she probably thought him to be.

He’d release her slowly, he decided, still remembering the need to protect himself from her surprise attacks. Very slowly.

He freed her arm and pulled his hand down along her body. Her eyes widened to panicked pools and she snatched at his wrist. Okay, so maybe he’d hovered a bit too long above that tempting mound. But he wouldn’t touch her that way without her permission. Cade had never forced a woman to do anything she didn’t want to.

Even the one he’d kidnapped.

He let her hold him off and looked into her eyes until he saw a glimmer of trust there. Only then did he move again. He reached for the end of the blanket that lay beneath them and pulled it up, covering her exposed breast. He nearly smiled at the gratitude that flooded her eyes. The transformation from fear to thanks washed her pale features in a warm, pretty color, and Cade was suddenly supremely glad that he wasn’t a complete jerk. A man like Jerome Smython would never get to witness such a beautiful, shy smile.

He propped himself up a little further on his elbows and let her use both arms to tuck the blanket in a demure shield around her neck. Her unadorned lips parted in a silent thank-you.

An unfamiliar emotion, somewhere between curiosity and lust, made him want to kiss her. He wondered if she’d freak if he just touched his lips to hers. She’d had the temerity to attack him even though he was stronger, bigger and free to move around. She’d had the guts to damn him to his face and hadn’t surrendered to anything more than her own modesty.

Maybe just one kiss. Something gentle. An apology of sorts for ruining the damn dress. “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he whispered. “But you didn’t leave me much choice.” He moved closer by degrees, watching her lips tremble, her eyes blanch, her lips again as they came together in acceptance, if not invitation. “You’re really something, aren’t you.”

He was close enough to feel her breath mingling with his. She was so sweet. So tempting. So—

“Ellie?”

Cade froze. Recognition kicked in a moment too soon to sample her softness. Absolute, stunned surprise swept the fog of desire clear of his brain.

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