His Thirty-Day Fiancee (2 page)

He’d spent his whole life dodging the press. He knew their tricks. His father had drummed into his sons at a young age how their safety depended on anonymity. They’d been protected, educated and, above all, trained. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades from his work out—a regimen that had been interrupted by security concerns.

One look at the intruder on the screen and he’d decided to see how far she would go.

In that form-fitting dress, she personified seduction. Like a pinup girl from days past, she had a timeless air and feminine allure that called to the primal male inside him. Good Lord, what a striking picture she would make draped on the white sofa just behind her. Or better yet, in his bed.

But he was an expert at self-control. And just calling to mind her two-bit profession made it easier to rein in his more instinctive thoughts.

Kate Harper perched a hand on her hip. “I can’t believe you knew who I really was the whole time.”

“From the second you left the party.” He’d been sent pictures of her when he’d investigated the photojournalist who cracked a cover story that had survived intense scrutiny for decades.

Background photos of her portrayed something very different: an earthy woman in khaki pants and generic white T-shirts, no makeup, her sleek brown hair in an unpretentious ponytail as opposed to the windswept twist she wore now. A hint of cinnamon apple fragrance drifted his way.

Her bright red lips pursed tight with irritation. “Then why pretend I’m a call girl?”

“That’s too high-class for the garbage you peddle.” He pocketed her earrings, blocking thoughts of her pretty pout.

His family’s life had been torn apart just when his father needed peace more than ever. Too much stress could kill Enrique Medina faster than any extremist assassin from San Rinaldo.

“So the gloves are off.” She folded her arms over her chest, rubbing her hands along her skin. From fear or the cold ocean wind blasting through the open French doors? “What do you intend to do? Call your security or the police?”

“I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind seeing more than gloves come off your deceitful body.” Duarte closed the balcony doors with a click and a snick of a lock.

“Uh, listen, Prince Duarte, or Your Majesty, or whatever I’m supposed to call you.” Her words tumbled faster and faster. “Let’s both calm down.”

He glanced over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow.

“Okay,
I
will be calm. You be whatever you want.” She swiped back a straggling hair with a shaky hand. “My point is I’m here. You don’t want invasive media coverage. So why not pose for just one picture? It can be staged any way you choose. You can be in total control.”

“Control? Is this some kind of game to you, like a child’s video system where we pass the controller back and forth?” He stalked closer, his feet as bare as hers on the carpet. “Because for me, this isn’t anywhere near a game. This is about my family’s privacy, our safety.”

Royals—even ones without a country—were never safe from threats. His mother had been killed in the rebellion overthrowing San Rinaldo, his older brother severely injured trying to save her. As a result, his father—King Enrique Medina—became obsessed with security. He’d constructed an impenetrable fortress on an island off the coast of St. Augustine, Florida, where he’d brought up his three young sons. Only when they’d become adults had Duarte and his brothers been able to break free. By scattering to the far corners of the U.S., they’d kept low profiles and were able to lead normal adult lives—with him on Martha’s Vineyard, Antonio in Galveston Bay and Carlos in Tacoma.

Kate touched his wrist lightly. “I’m sorry about what has happened to your family, how you lost your mother.”

Her touch seared at a raw spot hidden deep inside, prompting him to lash out in defense. Duarte sketched his knuckles over her bare ears. “How sorry are you?”

He had to give her credit. She didn’t back down. She met his gaze dead-on with eyes bluer than the San Rinaldo waters he just barely remembered.

Kate pulled her hand away. “What about a picture of you in your ninja clothes lounging against the balcony railing?”

“How about a photo of you naked in my arms?”

She gasped. “Of all the arrogant, self-aggrandizing, pompous—”

“I’m a prince.” He held up a finger. “But of course every one knows that now, thanks to your top-notch journalistic instincts.”

“You’re angry. I get that.” She inched behind the sofa as if putting a barrier between them, yet her spine stayed rigid, her eyes sparking icicles. “But just because you’re royalty doesn’t give you a free pass along with all these plush trappings.”

He’d left his father’s Florida fortress with nothing more than a suitcase full of clothes. Not that he intended to dole out that nugget for her next exposé. “Can’t blame a prince for trying.”

She didn’t laugh. “Why did you let me in here? Am I simply around for your amusement so you can watch me flinch when you flush my camera?”

Kate Harper was a woman who regained her balance fast. He admired that. “You really want this picture.”

Her fingers sunk so deep in the sofa that her short red nails disappeared. “More than you can possibly know.”

How far would she go to get it?

For an immoral moment he considered testing those boundaries. His identity had been exposed already anyway, a reality that drained his father’s waning strength. Anger singed the edges of his control, fueling memories of how soft Kate’s skin had felt under his touch when he’d pulled her onto the balcony, how perfectly her curves had shaped themselves to his chest.

Turning away, he forced his more civilized nature to quench the heat. “You should leave now. Use the door directly behind you. The guard in the corridor will escort you out.”

“You’re not going to give me my camera back, are you?”

He pivoted toward her again. “No.” He slid his hand in his pocket and toyed with her earrings. “Although, you’re more than welcome to try to retrieve your jewelry.”

“I prefer battles I have a chance of winning.” Her lips tipped in a half smile. “Can I at least have a cigar to hock on eBay?”

Again she’d surprised him. He wasn’t often entertained anymore. “You’re funny. I like that.”

“Give me my camera and I’ll become a stand-up comedian—” she snapped her fingers “—that fast.”

Who was this woman in an ill-fitting gown with an anklet made of silver yarn and white plastic beads? Most would have been nervous as hell or sucking up. Although, perhaps she was smarter than the rest, in spite of her dubious profession.

This woman had cost him more than could be regained. He would forge ahead, but already his father feared for his sons’ safety, a concern the ailing old man didn’t need. An alarming possibility snaked through his mind, one he should have considered before. Damn the way she took the oxygen and reason from a room. What if her minicamera sent the photos instantly by remote to a portal? Photos already on their way to flood the media?

Photos of the two of them?

Duarte sifted the earrings between his fingers. A plan formed in his mind to safeguard against all possibilities, a way to satisfy his urges on every level—lust and revenge without any annoying loose ends. Some might think over such a large decision, but his father had taught him to trust his instincts.

“Ms. Harper,” he said, closing in on her, following her behind the sofa. “I have another proposition instead.”

“Uh, a
proposition?
” She stepped backed, bumping an end table, rattling the glass lamp filled with coins. “I thought we already cleared the air on that subject. Even I have limits.”

“Too bad for both of us. That could have been…” He stopped mid-sentence and steadied the lamp—a gift from his brother Antonio—filled with Spanish doubloons from a shipwreck off San Rinaldo. No need to torment her for the hell of it, not when he had a more complex plan in mind. “It’s not that kind of proposition. Believe me, I don’t have to trade money—or media exclusives—for sex.”

She eyed him warily, surreptitiously hitching up the sinking neckline of her gown. “Then what kind of trade are we talking about here?”

He watched her every move. The way she picked at her painted thumbnail with her forefinger. How she rubbed her heel over the silly little anklet she wore. He savored up every bit of reeling her in, the plan growing more fulfilling by the second.

This was the best way. The only way. “I have a bit of a, uh, shall we say ‘family situation.’ My father is in ill health—as the world now knows thanks to your invasive investigative skills.”

She winced visibly for the first time. “I’m very sorry about that. Truly.” Then her nervousness fell away and her azure-blues gleamed with intelligence. “About the trade?”

“My father wants to see me settled down, married and ready to produce the next Medina heir. He even has a woman chosen—”

Her eyes went wide. “You have a fiancée?”

“My, how you reporters gobble up tidbits like fish snapping at crumbs on the water. But no. I do not have a fiancée.” Irritation nipped, annoying him all the more since it signaled a bit of control sliding to her side. “If you want another bread crumb, don’t anger me.”

“My apologies again.” She fingered her empty ear-lobe. “What about our trade?”

Back to the intriguing problem in front of him.

He would indulge those impulses with her later. When she was ready. And gauging by her air of desperation, it wouldn’t take much persuasion. Just a little time he could buy while settling a score and easing his father’s concerns about future heirs.

“As I said, my father is quite ill.” Near death from the damage caused by hepatitis contracted during his days on the run. The doctors feared liver failure at any time. He shut off distracting images of his pale father. “Obviously I don’t want to upset him while his health is so delicate.”

“Of course not. Family is important.” Her eyes filled with sympathy.

Ah. He’d found her weakness. The rest would be easy.

“Exactly. So, I have something you want, and you can give me something in return.” He lifted her chilly hand and kissed her short red nails. Judging by the way her pupils dilated, this revenge would be a pleasure for them both. “You cost our family much with your photos, destroying our carefully crafted anonymity. Now, let’s discuss how you’re going to repay that debt.”

Holding her silence, she crossed her arms to hide her shivery response and keep him from moving closer. This man’s magnetism was mighty inconvenient. Her toes curled into the Aubusson rug.

He tipped his head regally, drawing her attention to the strong column of his neck, his pulse steady and strong. “I want you to be my fiancée.”

Shock unfurled her toes. “Are you smoking crack?”

“Never have. Never intend to.” He clasped her wrists and unfolded her arms slowly, deliberately until they stood closer still. His eyes bored into hers. “I’m stone-cold sober and completely serious. In case you haven’t noticed, I do not joke.”

Her breasts strained against the bodice of her dress with each breath growing deeper, more erratic. She didn’t know what he was up to. Right now, he held all the cards, including all her photos.

Any hope of salvaging an article from this required playing with fire. “Seems to me like you have a fine sense of humor to suggest something as ridiculous as this. What do you really hope to accomplish?”

“If my father thinks I’m already locked into a relationship—” he skimmed his knuckles up her arm “—with you, he will quit pressing me to hook up with one of the daughters of his old pals from San Rinaldo.”

“Why choose me?” She plucked his hand away with a nonchalance she certainly didn’t feel inside. “Surely there must be plenty of women who would be quite happy to pretend to be your fiancée.”

He leaned on the back of the sofa, muscular legs mouth-wateringly showcased in his ninja pants. “There are women who want to be my fiancée, but not pretend.”

“What a shame you’re suffering from such ego problems.” She playfully kicked his bare foot with hers.

Oops. Wrong move. Her skin flamed from the simple touch. An answering heat sparked in his eyes.

It was just their feet, for pity’s sake. Still, she’d never felt such an intense and instantaneous draw to a man in her life, and she resented her body’s betrayal.

Heels staying on the ground, Duarte toed her anklet, flicking at the beads. “I fully realize my bank balance offers a hefty enticer. With you, however, we both know where we stand.”

Her yarn and plastic contrasted sharply with his suite sporting exclusive artwork. The seascape paintings weren’t from some roadside stand bought simply to accent a Martha’s Vineyard decor. She recognized the distinctive brushstrokes of Spanish master painter Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida from her college art classes.

She forced herself not to twitch away from Duarte’s power play, not too tough actually since the simple strokes felt so good against her adrenaline-pumped nerves. “Won’t your father wonder why he’s never heard you mention me before now?”

“We’re not a Sunday-dinners sort of family. You can use that as a quote for articles if you wish, once we’re finished.”

Articles. Plural. But would they be timely enough to generate the money to settle her sister’s bill for next month? “How long from now until that finish date?”

“My father has asked for thirty days of my time to handle estate business around the country while he’s ill. You can accompany and compile notes for your exclusive. I’ll be hitting a number of hot spots around the U.S., including a stop in Washington, D.C., for a black-tie dinner with some politicians who could put your name on the map. And of course you’ll get to meet my family along the way. I ask only that I get to approve any material you plan to submit.”

Thirty days?

She did a quick mental calculation of her finances and Jennifer’s bills. With some pinching she could squeak through until then. Except what kind of scoop would she have when every news industry out there could have jumped in ahead of her? “The story could be cold by then. I need some assurance of a payoff—at work—that will help advance my career.”

Bleck,
but that made her sound money-grubbing. How come men struck hard bargains and they were corporate wizards, but the same standards didn’t apply to women? She had a career to look after and responsibilities to her sister.

Duarte’s eyes brimmed with cynicism. “So we’re going to barter here? Quite bold on your part.”

“Arrest me, then. I’ll text a story from my jail cell. I’ll describe the inside of your personal suite along with details about your aftershave and that birthmark right above your belly button. People can draw their own conclusions and believe me, the click-throughs will be plentiful.”

“You’re willing to insinuate we had an affair? You’re prepared to compromise your journalistic integrity?”

For her sister? She didn’t have any choice. “I work for the
Global Intruder.
Obviously journalistic integrity isn’t a high priority.”

A glint of respect flecked his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain. Good for you.” He straightened, topping her by at least half a foot. “Let’s get down to business, then. There’s going to be a family wedding at the end of the month at my father’s estate. If you hold up your end of the bargain for the next thirty days, you get exclusive photos of the private ceremony. The payoff from those photos should be more than adequate to meet your needs.”

A Medina wedding? Wow. Just. Wow.

Before she could push a resounding yes past her lips, he continued, “And in a show of good faith, you can submit a short personal interview about our engagement.”

“All I have to do is
pretend
to be your fiancée?” It sounded too good to be true. Could this Hail Mary pass for Jennifer work out just right?

“Of course it’s pretend. I most certainly do not want you to be my real fiancée.”

“You’re serious here. You’re actually going to take me with you to your father’s estate?” And give her photos of a family wedding.

“Ah, I can see the dollar signs in your lovely eyes.”

“Sure I want a story and I have bills to pay like anybody else—well, anybody other than Medinas—but I work for that payday.” Hey wait, he thought her eyes were lovely? “What reporter in their right mind would say no to this? But what’s the catch? Because I can’t imagine anyone would willingly invite a reporter into the intimate circle of their lives. Especially someone with as many secrets as you.”

“Let’s call it a preemptive strike. Better to know the snake’s identity rather than wonder. And I also gain four weeks of your charming presence.”

Suddenly an ugly suspicion bloomed in her mind. “I’m not going to sleep with you to land this exclusive.”

Her eyes darted back to the bed, an image blossoming in her brain of the two of them tangled together in the sheets, their discarded clothes mating on the floor in a silky blend of green and black.

A humorless chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You really are obsessed with having sex with me. First, you believe I’ve mistaken you for a prostitute. Then, you think I want to trade my story for time in your bed. Truly, I’m not that hard up.”

She blinked away the dizzying fantasy he’d painted of the two of them together. “This just seems so… bizarre.”

“My life is far from normal.” The luxury that wrapped so effortlessly around him confirmed that.

“I should simply accept what you’re offering at face value?”

“It’s a month of your life to make appearances with a prince while I settle Dad’s estate. Our family is rather well connected. You’ll have some very influential new contacts for future stories.”

Now, didn’t he know how to tempt a girl? On too many levels. “If we’re not sleeping together, what do you get out of this?”

He held up one finger, tapping it on her shoulder. “I give my father peace.” He added a second touch, thumbing her collarbone. “I retain control of my own personal life. And three—” he curled his whole hand around her in a hold that was both arousing and a little dangerous “—I manage all cameras, all the time. You don’t have access to any shots unless I okay them. The press hears nothing without my approval. And before you get too excited, when we go to my father’s, you will not know where he lives.”

She laughed in hopes of dispersing the tingles tightening her breasts. “Do you intend to put a bag over my head before you stuff me in a limo?”

“Nothing so plebian, my dear.” His thumb continued to work its magic. “Suffice it to say, you will get on an airplane and then land on a private island, somewhere warmer than here in Massachusetts. Beyond that…” He shrugged, sliding past her, a hint of cedar drifting along with him.

Pivoting, she watched him stride across the room, his steps silent, his hips trim and decidedly hot. “You’re taking me to an untraceable island so you can kill me and dump my body in the ocean for exposing your family—which, for the record, is just my job. Nothing personal.”

Shaking his head, he stopped in front of a painting of a wooden sailboat beached on its side. “Pull a bag over your head? Feed you to the sharks? You are a bloodthirsty one.” Pulling back the gold-framed artwork, he revealed a wall safe. Duarte punched in numbers and the door hissed open. “Nobody is going to kill anyone. We’re going to let the world know we’re engaged right away. Then if you disappear, all fingers will point to me.”

“If they can find you on that ‘warm island.’”

“Thanks to you, I’m sure my father’s secluded hide-away will be found sooner or later.” He pulled out one flat velvet box after another, each with an exclusive jeweler’s name imprinted on the top. “One last point. If you break any of my rules about distribution of information, I will turn over the security footage of you breaking into my estate and press charges for unlawful entry. It won’t matter that you’ve been my fiancée. The world will believe the tape was taken after our breakup and that you were a scorned woman bent on revenge.”

The unrelenting line of his back, strong column of his neck exposed by closely shorn hair spoke of cool determination. She wasn’t dealing with a rookie. “You would really send me to jail?”

“Only if you betray me. If you didn’t want to play in the big leagues, then you shouldn’t have climbed onto my balcony. You can always just walk away free and clear now.” He plucked the smallest jewelry box from the back and creaked it open to reveal an emerald-cut ruby flanked with diamond baguettes. “Negotiations are over. Take it or leave it. That’s my deal.”

She eyed the platinum-set engagement ring, jewels clearly perfect yet curiously understated. No gaudy Hollywood flash, but rather old-money class that appealed to her more than some princess-cut satellite dish in a six-pronged setting. For Jennifer’s sake, she would make this work. She had to. She would regret it for the rest of her life if she didn’t take this risk, a chance to provide for her sister forever.

Decision made, Kate extended her hand. “Why on earth would I betray you when we’ve obviously come to a mutually beneficial agreement?”