He laughed, briefly but out loud, something she suspected he didn't do often. He made no comment, though, as the promised rain chose that moment to announce its arrival with a rush of cool wind that set the curtains to dancing and carried a mist of droplets into the room. Nikolas straightened and strode quickly to the balcony doors. He closed and latched them and twitched the curtains across the black rain-spangled glass, then turned to give her a leisurely up-and-down appraisal.
"It would appear you also are without an umbrella," he said mildly, lifting one eyebrow-an ability she lacked, and coveted. "I seriously doubt you'll find a taxi just now. Since I suppose this means you'll be staying for dinner, may I offer you a glass of wine?"
She shook her head, both in bemusement and in refusal of the offer of wine-she had no intention of letting anything slow her reflexes or cloud her judgment, not with this man. And although he seemed completely at ease. now. and was being effortlessly charming, she thought again of the smiling tiger.
She decided it wouldn't be necessary to tell him she had no intention of calling a taxi. or. in fact, of leaving him at all. Fact was, she wasn't about to let Nikolas Donovan out of her sight until she had delivered him safely into the arms of his father, the king of Silvershire.
Chapter 2
Rhia stood in the entrance to the apartment's tiny kitchen and watched the recently discovered "lost" heir to the throne of Silvershire take a stoppered bottle of wine out of the tiny refrigerator.
He turned to make an offering gesture toward her with the bottle. "Are you quite certain you won't join me? It's rather nice for a rose, actually. Fellow who lent me this flat comes from a wine-making family down in Provence-he's left an apparently bottomless supply."
She shook her head, and he responded with a shrug that seemed to her more French than British. It was what came of growing up in an island kingdom located halfway between those two countries, she thought, as she watched him pour himself a half glassful and lift it to his lips. She couldn't imagine why observing that mundane activity should make her mouth water; she wasn't terribly fond of wine. She seldom drank at all, but when she did, she preferred bourbon whiskey. Straight.
His eyes, meeting hers above the rim of his glass, crinkled suddenly. He lowered the glass. "Oh, hell-of course, you're on the job, aren't you? Do forgive me. Perhaps a glass of water? Cup of tea?"
"I'm from South Louisiana." Rhia said drily "We Cajuns aren't all that much for tea." Well, hell, if he was going to play the British fop again-badly overplaying it, in her opinion, and she didn't know what his game was or whether to be amused by it or annoyed-she figured her trailer-park Cajun could trump his Oxford Brit any day of the week.
"Ah, yes-coffee would be your drink of choice. I imagine. Made with-what's that other…" He snapped his fingers impatiently.
"Chicory," she grudgingly supplied, then tilted her head. "How'd you come to know a thing like that?"
His chuckle was dry, his smile sardonic. "I know a little about a great many things, my dear." He waved the wineglass in a sweeping gesture. "My education has been…shall we say, eclectic? Wide-ranging?"
"An education fit for a man who would be king," Rhia said softly.
He snorted-a most unprincely sound. "An education attained courtesy of some very good scholarships and a lot of hellish hard work, which I doubt could be said of most royals." He paused, and his lips curled with disdain he made no effort to hide. "Not the one I knew personally, at any rate."
"Reginald, you mean. Yes, you two were at Eton together, weren't you?"
"And Oxford." Nikolas gazed at his wine as if it had gone sour. "Look, I am sorry he's dead-God knows I wouldn't wish for anyone to be murdered that way-poisoned, I mean-but the man was an arrogant, insufferable prick, if you want to know. And not fit to govern a frat house, much less a country."
"Ah," said Rhia, smiling slightly, "but he never got the chance, did he? And, as it turns out, he wasn't even the prince after all."
Instead of answering, he took a quick gulp of wine and set his glass down with a careless clank. Turning abruptly, he opened a cupboard door and took out an espresso maker which he placed on the countertop, plugged into a wall outlet and set about filling with an ease and efficiency that spoke of some degree of familiarity with the process.
Watching the movements of his hands, Rhia felt again that odd little quiver beneath her breastbone. His glossy dark hair might be in need of a trim, and a day's growth of beard might be shadowing his jaw, but there was no denying the grace in the lines of his body, the power in the breadth of his shoulders, the authority in the set of his chin, the intelligence in those intense gray eyes. And all of it, she thought, completely natural to him.
It must be in his genes. Even here, in this little bitty kitchen, making coffee for uninvited company, he looks like he was born to be a king.
"You can come in and sit down-I promise not to bite you." He threw the brittle invitation over his shoulder as he worked, and Rhia gave a guilty start, as if his long list of royal attributes might include the ability to read minds.
She shook her head and smiled, but stayed where she was. Prince or not, the kitchen was too small a space to hold two people who weren't already on intimate terms.
Intimate. The word sprang into her head from out of nowhere and sat pulsing in her brain like the neon lights on a Mississippi River casino boat.
"Tell me something." He gave her another look, this one as shaip and keen as any scrutiny she'd ever received from Walker Shaw, the shrink who'd done her psych evaluation when she joined the Lazlo Group. "How does a nice American girl from Louisiana come to be working for Corbett Lazlo?"
She gave him back a smile she knew would dazzle but tell him nothing. "Ah, that's a long story."
Still his gaze lingered, intent enough to kick-start that hum in her chest again, and, as they often did when she felt ill at ease, her fingers went of their own volition to the small silver charm that hung from a narrow chain around her neck, nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat. She rubbed it idly as she watched Nikolas shrug and go back to measuring dark roasted coffee beans into the grinder.
He switched it on, and for the next few seconds the racket made conversation impossible. The grinding completed. Nikolas poured water into the espresso machine, closed and secured the lid and punched a button. He turned back to her, then, and picked up his glass of wine and the thread of conversation he'd temporarily put aside.
"Might I ask what your specialty is with the Lazlo Group? You do seem an unlikely choice of field agent to send after a notorious suspected terrorist." This time a smile crinkled the corners of the eyes studying her across the rim of the wineglass, though it didn't diminish their intensity one bit.
"My specialty?" Her smile was small and wicked. "I locate and retrieve lost children."
Caught in mid swallow, Nikolas gave a sputter of laughter and quickly lowered his glass. He touched the back of his hand to his mouth and managed to say in a choked voice. "A lot of call for that, is there?"
"Unfortunately, yes." She wasn't smiling now.
"I'm well aware of the sad state of the world." Nikolas said, matching the new seriousness of her tone as he stared at the contents of his glass. He'd been enjoying himself entirely too much, he realized, given the fact that it was this woman's intention to fetch him back to Silvershire whether he wanted to go or not. That he could enjoy himself at all. under any circumstances, was surprising in itself. It had been rather a long time since he'd found anything in his life amusing. "I meant in the context of the Lazlo Group, of course. Isn't their clientele pretty much limited to the rich, royal or famous?"