really
celebrated holidays. And my father always swore that when he had children,
things would be different. My mother, the sovereign princess, was in complete
accord with him. So in Montedoro, we celebrate every chance we get. At
Christmastime, the palace is ablaze with holiday lights. And there are parties
and balls. And a candlelight service at midnight on Christmas Eve.”
“We have those here—well, not the balls. But we have holiday
dances in the Masonic Hall, the Saturday before Christmas, and one on New Year’s
Eve. And all the churches hold Christmas Eve candlelight services.”
A smile played at the corners of her way-too-kissable lips.
“And don’t forget the Christmas Craft Fair.”
He groaned, just to give her a bad time. “That’s right. It’s
this weekend. We can’t miss that.”
“No, we most definitely cannot.” She said it so primly, in the
way that Charlotte sometimes spoke. Like a strict schoolteacher or someone on Masterpiece Theatre. Kind of stuffy, but in a
way that charmed him completely.
Two feet of rough attic floor planks separated them. It seemed
much too great a distance. He dared to move closer.
Her eyes widened a little—but she didn’t back away. Her scent
came to him, sweet and fresh in the dim, dusty space.
And he couldn’t resist. The temptation to touch her was too
powerful. It burned within him, undeniable.
He gave in to it. He reached out, brushed the back of his index
finger along the velvet curve of her cheek. So smooth. “So beautiful...” It
surprised him a little to realize he’d said the last aloud.
She sighed, the sweetest sound. And she whispered, “Really.
This is a bit mad, don’t you think?”
He’d already gone too far. So he went further still. He stroked
his hand down the rich silk of her hair. “Absolutely crazy, I agree.”
She tipped her head, the way a cat will do, fitting it more
snugly against his stroking hand. “It couldn’t...go anywhere.”
He admitted, “I know,” the two words more breath than sound.
And he dared to catch a loose curl, to rub it between his fingers. Not silk
after all. Silk couldn’t compare.
She reached out then. She put her hand against his chest, over
his heart. He was certain she could feel it pounding away so hungrily in there.
“Preston...”
“Belle.” That did it somehow. The sound of her name on his own
lips. It freed him to clasp her shoulder, to pull her closer—all the way. She
fit against him as though she was made to be there. “Belle...”
He lowered his mouth and covered hers.
Chapter Seven
L ike nothing in the world, nothing he’d
ever known before, the taste of her.
He shouldn’t want her so much. But he did.
He had wanted her the first second he laid eyes on her, sitting
there so serene, so princesslike, in that booth at the diner. It was a wanting
that only seemed to increase with every hour, every minute, every beat of his
heart.
She made a low, rich, hungry sound and her hand moved upward,
to clasp his neck. She wrapped her other arm around him, too. And her lush mouth
opened beneath his, inviting him.
He didn’t need any more of a welcome. He speared his tongue
inside and tasted her fully, his head spinning with the scent of her, his senses
on fire with the soft, smooth, perfect shape of her pressed up close against
him.
“Mad,” she whispered against his mouth.
“Crazy,” he agreed, nipping her plump lower lip with his teeth.
“We can’t...”
“We shouldn’t...”
He kissed her some more—deeply. Hungrily. He pulled her up
close against him. He was shamelessly hard for her, aching with need in the
space of an instant.
She knew. She felt it, too. She pressed her body against him,
answering him without words, her slim hips moving, rocking against him, so soft
and willing, her body calling to his.
Wrong, his mind chided.
Never so right, his body
insisted.
She had hold of his shirt collar, and she was pulling him down
to her, her sweet lips open for him,
celebrated holidays. And my father always swore that when he had children,
things would be different. My mother, the sovereign princess, was in complete
accord with him. So in Montedoro, we celebrate every chance we get. At
Christmastime, the palace is ablaze with holiday lights. And there are parties
and balls. And a candlelight service at midnight on Christmas Eve.”
“We have those here—well, not the balls. But we have holiday
dances in the Masonic Hall, the Saturday before Christmas, and one on New Year’s
Eve. And all the churches hold Christmas Eve candlelight services.”
A smile played at the corners of her way-too-kissable lips.
“And don’t forget the Christmas Craft Fair.”
He groaned, just to give her a bad time. “That’s right. It’s
this weekend. We can’t miss that.”
“No, we most definitely cannot.” She said it so primly, in the
way that Charlotte sometimes spoke. Like a strict schoolteacher or someone on Masterpiece Theatre. Kind of stuffy, but in a
way that charmed him completely.
Two feet of rough attic floor planks separated them. It seemed
much too great a distance. He dared to move closer.
Her eyes widened a little—but she didn’t back away. Her scent
came to him, sweet and fresh in the dim, dusty space.
And he couldn’t resist. The temptation to touch her was too
powerful. It burned within him, undeniable.
He gave in to it. He reached out, brushed the back of his index
finger along the velvet curve of her cheek. So smooth. “So beautiful...” It
surprised him a little to realize he’d said the last aloud.
She sighed, the sweetest sound. And she whispered, “Really.
This is a bit mad, don’t you think?”
He’d already gone too far. So he went further still. He stroked
his hand down the rich silk of her hair. “Absolutely crazy, I agree.”
She tipped her head, the way a cat will do, fitting it more
snugly against his stroking hand. “It couldn’t...go anywhere.”
He admitted, “I know,” the two words more breath than sound.
And he dared to catch a loose curl, to rub it between his fingers. Not silk
after all. Silk couldn’t compare.
She reached out then. She put her hand against his chest, over
his heart. He was certain she could feel it pounding away so hungrily in there.
“Preston...”
“Belle.” That did it somehow. The sound of her name on his own
lips. It freed him to clasp her shoulder, to pull her closer—all the way. She
fit against him as though she was made to be there. “Belle...”
He lowered his mouth and covered hers.
Chapter Seven
L ike nothing in the world, nothing he’d
ever known before, the taste of her.
He shouldn’t want her so much. But he did.
He had wanted her the first second he laid eyes on her, sitting
there so serene, so princesslike, in that booth at the diner. It was a wanting
that only seemed to increase with every hour, every minute, every beat of his
heart.
She made a low, rich, hungry sound and her hand moved upward,
to clasp his neck. She wrapped her other arm around him, too. And her lush mouth
opened beneath his, inviting him.
He didn’t need any more of a welcome. He speared his tongue
inside and tasted her fully, his head spinning with the scent of her, his senses
on fire with the soft, smooth, perfect shape of her pressed up close against
him.
“Mad,” she whispered against his mouth.
“Crazy,” he agreed, nipping her plump lower lip with his teeth.
“We can’t...”
“We shouldn’t...”
He kissed her some more—deeply. Hungrily. He pulled her up
close against him. He was shamelessly hard for her, aching with need in the
space of an instant.
She knew. She felt it, too. She pressed her body against him,
answering him without words, her slim hips moving, rocking against him, so soft
and willing, her body calling to his.
Wrong, his mind chided.
Never so right, his body
insisted.
She had hold of his shirt collar, and she was pulling him down
to her, her sweet lips open for him,
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