and matching boots she wore or the sassy swept-up hair-style that one of her vet techs had repeatedly told her looked “hot.” Nope, the roll of the eyes was for the hope she felt. The hope of seeing a certain prince again.
Oh, Lord. A prince.
Was she crazy? Had the untainted Llandaron air turned her normally sensible and analytical brain to mush? Even if she could forget for a moment that Max was royalty and lived on Fantasy Island, why wasn’t she thinking about Dennis? Sure, there was no actual commitment between them yet. But before she’d left, he’d asked her to marry him—and she’d said she’d think about it. True, they weren’t exactly in love, but that was because neither one of them believed in the concept. Dennis had also been burned—by the female equivalent to Fran’s smooth talker.
Consequently, she and Dennis were no longer romantics.
They were scientists.
Shoot, their common viewpoints and careers were why they had become such good friends in the first place. This way they would be two great friends forming an everlasting bond, caring for and supporting one another.
And then she’d had to come here and run into a real live Prince Charming!
An image of Max splintered through her mind. Those eyes, that touch, those lips…
Was he married? The random thought was followed by a shiver, and she turned away from the mirror. The marital status of His Highness was none of her business; nothing about him was her business. Glinda and the pups were her business. And heck, she probably wouldn’t see him again, anyway. He had…royal stuff to do with other royals. He didn’t have time to hang around the stables every day with some commoner from California.
Speaking of time, Fran checked her watch. Five minutes to six.
She’d met with the king more than an hour ago. A feisty old bear with intelligent blue eyes just like his son’s. After receiving a full report on Glinda’s stellar health, he’d told Fran that she was to have dinner with him at six o’clock and not to be late.
Good Lord, she thought as she left her room and darted down the long staircase, she’d had no idea that she would be eating with the king of Llandaron. She’d figured it would be dinner on a tray in her room every night. Or in the kitchen with the rest of the employees.
Below her, a shadow came into the grand hallway, large and imposing. Her pulse bumped and skittered as the heel of her boot touched down on the last stair step.
“Good evening, Francesca.”
Ignoring the warmth pinging urgently in her stomach, she started with, “Good evening, M…” But the greeting died on her lips as her gaze took in the proverbial handsome prince who stood regally in the center of the marble hall.
She gripped the edge of the banister for a little extra support. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it. Her fingers itched to run wild through his thick black hair, her gaze longed to search the depths of deep-set blue eyes. Gone were the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn today. In their place breathed a crisp white dress shirt, black jacket and pants with a break so fine it would make a London tailor sigh.
But there was no tailor in sight, so Fran sighed, instead, her mind racing ahead with thoughts like, Now, this is what I’d like for dinner.
“You look beautiful tonight, Doctor,” Max said, his eyes roaming the length of her. “Care for an escort?”
For a moment, she saw herself standing beside him, slipping her hand through his arm, feeling the muscles in his biceps flex against her fingers. But the moment passed. “Thanks, but I can manage.”
He raised a dark brow. “Is it just me, or do you have a problem with all men who show you an ounce of chivalry?”
“No, it’s just you.” The retort came out fast and unplanned, and she wondered if she’d offended him.
But Max only grinned at her impudence. “Come with me,” he said, starting for the door, which was being held open by a stoic older gentleman in black tie and tails.
Fran glanced first at the open door, then at Max. “Come with you where?”
“Out.”
“But the king invited me—”
“My father is on the phone with the president of Lithuania. He sends his regrets and has asked me to entertain you.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” The remark was calm, but beneath her cool exterior, her heart pounded fiercely. Entertain her how?
“Stop being so suspicious,” he said, a grin pulling at his full lips. “I promised you no more tricks.”
“All right,” she said, walking toward him. “I am pretty hungry.”
He chuckled. “And I’m flattered.”
“Where are we going?” Into town maybe? She’d read about several wonderful restaurants and ice-cream shops, and even a taffy shop. But did royalty go to town for a meal?
“We’re going to the lighthouse,” he said as he ushered her past and out the door.
Sounded like a restaurant. Nice seafood place with… Fran paused, her surroundings seizing her attention. Milky-white clouds had taken over the sky and sunset, riding low and thick on the ground.
“What happened here?” Fran asked on a laugh, standing dead center in the haze.
“Fog.”
“Fog? But the sun was so bright today, no clouds at all. When did this come on?” She turned around once, feeling the cool mist against her skin. “It’s as dense as cotton candy. I can hardly see five feet in front of me.”
Max took her hand in his. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I will?” she asked lamely, her mind and every one of her senses focused on the feel of Max’s large warm hand. Maybe she should’ve pulled free, sent a message to him and to herself that touching of any kind was inappropriate. But she didn’t. She forgot about a jacket, a purse, all things practical and held on, just let him guide her across the lawn and away from the castle.
“When my ancestors first came to this land,” he began, “the elders of both the Thorne and Brunell royal families wanted their firstborn children to marry. But the Thornes’ eldest daughter, Sana, was deeply in love with another man, a poor ship worker, and her father strictly forbade her to see him again. On the day before her wedding, Sana took her life.” Max’s hand tightened around Fran’s. “That night was the first time the fog came.”
“Is that a legend?” Fran asked, awe threading her query.
“No. A fact. History.” Max guided her around a large rock. “From then to now, the fog rolls in at six every night and disappears by seven. Many have said that the one hour of cover is granted by Sana for all ill-fated lovers. For that one hour, they can meet without fear of being discovered.”
Wonder moved through Fran, taking hold of the soft parts of her heart, and she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Have you ever met anyone in the fog?”
He chuckled and said, “Not until today,” as he led her expertly through the grounded cloudbank.
And just as she realized that they weren’t going to town, the scent of the ocean hit her. She stopped and faced Max. “I thought you said no more tricks.”
His gaze impaled her. “This is no trick, Francesca.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“I live here.”
He led her forward a few paces until she saw it.
Barely visible through the fog were the first two stories of a lighthouse. A lighthouse that she imagined was tall and imposing—just like its owner. Warm, inviting light spilled through the windows, beckoning them to come inside.
Without