the girl, trying to make her smile. He wanted to get another look behind her so-very-proper British facade. Except he wasn’t sure exactly where the facade ended and the real girl began. So far, he’d seen two very conflicting images—Veronica in her prim-and-proper work clothes, and Veronica dressed down to dance. He was willing to bet that the real woman was hidden somewhere in the middle. He was also willing to bet that she would never willingly reveal her true self. Especially not to him.
Joe had more than just a suspicion that Veronica considered him substandard. He was the son of a servant, while she was a daughter of the ruling class. If she had a relationship with him, it would be a lark, a kick. She’d be slumming.
Slumming.
God, it was an ugly word. But, so what? So she’d be slumming. Big deal. What was he going to do if she approached him? Was he going to turn her down? Yeah, right. Like hell he’d turn her down.
He could just picture the scenario.
Veronica knocks on his door in the middle of the night and he says, “Sorry, babe, I’m not into being used by curious debutantes who want a peek at the way the lower half lives and loves.”
Yeah, right.
If she knocked on his door, he’d fling it open wide. Let her go slumming. Just let him be the one she was slumming with.
Veronica stirred slightly, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch, and the legal pad she’d been holding fell out of her arms. Joe moved quickly and caught it before it hit the floor.
Her hair was starting to come undone, and soft red wisps curled around her face. Her lips were slightly parted. They were so soft and delicate and delicious. He knew that firsthand.
It didn’t take much to imagine her lifting those exquisite lips to his for another perfect kiss—for a deep, demanding, soulful kiss that would rapidly escalate into more. Way more.
And then what?
Then they’d be lovers until she got tired of him, or he got tired of her. It would be no different from any of the other relationships he’d had.
But so far, everything about this was different. Veronica St. John wasn’t some woman he’d met in a bar. She hadn’t approached him, handed him the keys to her car or her motel room and asked if he was busy for the next twenty-four hours. She hadn’t even approached him at all.
She wasn’t his type. She was too high-strung, too uptight.
But something he’d seen in her eyes promised a paradise the likes of which he’d never known. Hell, it was a paradise he was probably better off never knowing.
Because what if he never got tired of her?
There it was. Right out in the open. The big, ugly question he’d been trying to avoid. What if this noose that had tightened around his chest never went away?
But that would never happen, right?
He couldn’t let Veronica’s wealth and high-class manners throw him off. She was just a woman. All those differences he’d imagined were just that—imagined.
So how come he was standing there like an idiot, staring at the girl? Why was he too damned chicken to touch her, to wake her up, to see her sleepy blue eyes gazing up at him?
The answer was clear—because even if the impossible happened, and Joe actually did something as idiotically stupid as fall in love with Veronica St. John, she would never, not in a million years, fall in love with him. Sure, she might find him amusing for a few weeks or even months, but eventually she’d come to her senses and trade him in for a more expensive model.
And somehow the thought of that stung. Even now. Even though there was absolutely nothing between them. Nothing, that is, but one perfect kiss and its promise of paradise.
“Yo, Ronnie,” Joe said, hoping she’d wake up without him touching her. But she didn’t stir.
He bent down and spoke directly into her ear. “Coffee’s here. Time to wake up.”
Nothing.
He touched her shoulder, shaking her very slightly.
Nothing.
He shook her harder, and she stirred, but her eyes stayed tightly shut.
“Go away,” she mumbled.
Joe pulled her up into a sitting position. Her head lolled against the back of the couch. “Come on, babe,” he said. “If I don’t wake you up, you’re going to be madder than hell at me.” He gently touched the side of her face. “Come on, Ronnie. Look at me. Open your eyes.”
She opened them. They were astonishingly blue and very sleepy. “Be a dear, Jules, and ring the office. Tell them I’ll be a few hours late. I’m bushed. Out too late last night.” She smiled and blew a kiss into the air near his face. “Thanks, luv.” Then she tucked her perfect knees primly up underneath her skirt, put her head back down on the seat cushions and tightly closed her eyes.
Jules?
Who the hell was Jules?
“Come on, Veronica,” Joe said almost desperately. He had no right to want to hog-tie this Jules, whoever the hell he was. No right at all. “You wanted me to wake you up. Besides, you can’t sleep on the couch. You’ll wake up with one hell of a backache.”
She didn’t open her eyes again, didn’t sigh, didn’t move.
She was fast asleep, and not likely to wake up until she was good and ready.
Gritting his teeth, Joe picked Veronica up and carried her into the bedroom. He set her gently down on the bed, trying to ignore the way she fit so perfectly in his arms. For half a second, he actually considered climbing in under the covers next to her. But he didn’t have time. He had work to do. Besides, when he got in bed with Veronica St. John, it was going to be at her invitation.
Joe took off her remaining shoe and put it on the floor, then covered her with the blankets.
She didn’t move, didn’t wake up again. He didn’t give in to the desire to smooth her hair back from her face. He just stared down at her for another brief moment, knowing that the smart thing to do would be to stay far, far away from this woman. He knew that she was trouble, the likes of which he’d never known.
He turned away, needing a stiff drink. He settled for black coffee and set to work.
Chapter Eight
Veronica sat bolt upright in the bed.
Dear Lord in heaven, she wasn’t supposed to be asleep, she was supposed to be working and—
What time was it?
Her watch read twelve twenty-four. Oh, no, she’d lost the entire morning. But she must have been exhausted. She couldn’t even remember coming back here to her own room and—
Oh, Lord! She realized she wasn’t in her own room. She was in the prince’s bedroom, in the prince’s bed. No, not the prince’s. Joe’s. Joe’s bed.
With a dizzying flash, Veronica remembered Joe pulling her into his arms and kissing her so slowly, so sensuously that every bone in her body seemed to melt. He had rid them of their clothes like a seasoned professional and…
But…she was still dressed. Right down to her hose, which were twisted and uncomfortable. She’d only dreamed about Joe Catalanotto and his seductive eyes and surprisingly gentle hands.
The kiss had been real, though; and achingly, shockingly tender. It figured. Joe would know exactly how to kiss her to make her the most vulnerable, to affect her in the strongest possible way.
She’d expected him to kiss her almost roughly—an echo of the sexual hunger she’d seen in his eyes. She could have handled that. She would have known what to say and do.
Instead,