Command Performance by Nora Roberts Page A

His eyes were so dark, dark, amused and as hypnotic as the view from her window. “That is, I’ve always thought that …”
    “I don’t recall that you stuttered before.”
    “I didn’t. I don’t.” She passed a hand through her hair. “You’re making me very nervous.”
    “I know. It’s amazingly rewarding.”
    “Well, I don’t like it. No,” she said weakly, when he lowered his mouth to hers. This time it wasn’t wild or desperate, but soft and teasing. The hand she had lifted in protest fell limply to her side. She didn’t reach for him, didn’t touch him, but stood swaying … floating … drowning.
    The triumph should have moved through him. She was his now; he could feel it in the way her head fell back, her lips parted. At that moment she was completely open to him, his to fill with whatever needs moved through him. But instead of triumph came an ache, a need to stroke, protect, soothe. Promise. He wanted the thrill, and was left with the thirst.
    “Go wash your face,” he murmured, and stepped aside.
    Eve was out of the room faster than dignity allowed.
    * * *
    Eve took a hard look at herself in the mirror of the rest room backstage. She was making a fool of herself—and it was going to stop. For whatever reason of his own, Alexander had decided to play games. That didn’t mean she had to go along with it. He was making her feel foolish. Look foolish. She could tolerate a great deal, but not that. Pride was vital to her, pride in who she was, in what she’d made of and for herself. She wasn’t going to turn into a babbling idiot because Alexander had suddenly decided she’d make a good playmate. Or bedmate.
    That made her swallow quickly. Years before she’d hoped for his attention, even in her girlish way dreamed of it. She’d been stung by his disinterest, galled by his silent disapproval. She’d gotten over all of that. She scrubbed at her hands for the third time.
    Maybe the problem was that she’d begun to think of Alexander as a person again, as a man. Things would be better if she thought of him as His Royal Highness—a title, aloof, lofty and a bit cold.
    It didn’t come easy when she could still feel the way the warmth had transferred from his lips to hers.
    Why was he doing this? Eve stuffed her brush back into her bag. It was so totally out of character. For both of them, she realized. If she had written a play with Alexander as the lead, she would never have staged a scene like the one that had just occurred. No one would believe it.
    So why didn’t she ask him? Before she could laugh the idea off, it began to make sense. She was a blunt, no-nonsense woman; Alexander was a cautious diplomat. She’d put the question to him flat-out, then watch him dangle for words. Pleased with the plan, she swung back into the corridor.
    “An improvement,” Alexander said easily, and took her arm before she could evade it.
    “Thank you. I think we should talk.”
    “Good idea.” He pushed the stage door open and led her outside. “We can take a drive before we go home.”
    “It’s not necessary. It won’t take long.”
    “I’m sure it’s more than necessary for you to have some fresh air after being cooped up all day.” When he opened the door of the steel-gray Mercedes, Eve stopped.
    “What’s this?”
    “My car.”
    “But there’s no driver.”
    “Would you like to see my license?” When she continued to hesitate, he smiled. “Eve, you’re not afraid of being alone with me, are you?”
    “Of course not.” She tried to sound indignant, but looked restlessly over her shoulder. Two bodyguards, blank-faced and burly, stood at the car behind them. “Besides, you’re never really alone.”
    Alexander followed the direction of her gaze. The quick sensation of restraint didn’t reach his eyes. “Unfortunately some things other than fresh air are necessary.”
    What he felt didn’t reach his eyes, didn’t show on his face, but she thought she caught a trace of it in