Her heart kind of melted about then.
How could she help but melt? He not only made her want to rip off her clothes and climb him like a tree, but he was a very good man. He was constantly finding new ways to show her that he really did care about her and the things that mattered to her. It wasn't his fault that she had trouble trusting her own emotions.
Her throat burned with all the difficult stuff she didn't know how to tell him. “Max, I …” She had no idea where to go from there.
And then it didn't matter what she might have said. He wiped her mind free of all thought by the simple act of lifting her chin lightly with his free hand and lowering his lips to hers.
* * *
The Bravo Royales:
When it comes to love, Bravos rule!
The Prince’s Cinderella Bride
Christine Rimmer
CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she'd been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she's finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day's work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oregon. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.
For MSR, always
Contents
Chapter One
Maximilian Bravo-Calabretti, heir to the Montedoran throne, stepped out from behind a low cluster of fan palms and directly into the path of the woman who’d hardly spoken to him since New Year’s.
Lani Vasquez let out a small squeak of surprise and jumped back. She almost dropped the book she was carrying. “Your Highness.” She shot him a glare. “You scared me.”
The high garden path that wove along the cliffside was deserted. It was just the two of them at the moment. But anyone might come wandering toward them—one of the gardeners looking for a hedge to trim, or a palace guest out for a brisk early-morning stroll. Max wanted privacy for this. He grabbed her hand, which caused her to let out another sharp cry.
“Come with me,” he commanded and pulled her forward on the path. “This way.”
She dug in her heels. “No, Max. Really.”
He turned to face her. She flashed him a look of defiance. Still, he refused to let go of her soft little hand. Her sweet face was flushed, her thick midnight hair loose on her shoulders, tangled by the wind off the sea far below. He wanted to haul her close and kiss her. But he needed to get her to talk to him first. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Her mouth quivered in the most tempting way. “Yes, I have. Let go of my hand.”
“We have to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“We do.”
“It was a mistake,” she insisted in a ragged little whisper.
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s the truth. It was a mistake and there’s no point in going into it. I don’t want to talk about it.”
And he didn’t want to hear that. “Just come with me, that’s all I’m asking.”
“I’m expected at the villa.” She worked as a nanny for his brother Rule and his wife. They owned a villa in the nearby ward of Fontebleu. “I have to go now.”
“This won’t take long.” He turned and started forward again.
She let out a low, unhappy sound, and for a moment, he was certain she would simply refuse to budge.
But then she gave in and followed. He kept hold of her hand and pulled her along. Not glancing back, he cut off the overlook path and onto the rocky hillside, finding a second path that twisted up and around, through a copse of olive trees and on to where the land flattened out to a more cultivated formal garden.
High, green hedges surrounded them, and they walked on thick grass. The grass gave way to a rose garden. Now, in February, the buds were only just forming on the thorny stems. Beyond the budding roses, he took a curving stone path beneath a series of trellises. Still she followed, saying nothing, occasionally dragging her feet a little to let him know she was far from willing.
They came to a gate in a stone wall. He pushed through the gate and held it for her, with his free hand, going through after her and then closing it behind them.
Across another swath of lawn, between a pair of silk floss trees, the stone cottage waited. He led her on, across the grass, along the stepping-stones that stopped at the rough wood trellis twined with bare, twisted grapevines. The trellis shaded the rough wood door.
He pushed the door open, let go of her hand and ushered her in first. With a quick, suspicious glance at him, she went.
Two windows let in enough light to see by. Sheets covered the plain furniture. It took him only a moment to whip off the coverings and drop them to the rough wooden floor, revealing a scarred table with four chairs, a sofa, a couple of side tables and two floral-patterned wing chairs. The rudimentary kitchen took up one wall. Stairs climbed another wall to the sleeping area above.
“Have a seat,” he offered.
She pressed her lips together, shook her