Angel of Desire (15 page)

"And of course you know Caine," Burke said with a wave of the hand toward a tall, dark-haired man.

"Of course." Shade shook the man's hand. Rachel watched his lips curve in a seldom-used, relaxed smile. "Caine, you're looking well." His gaze moved to the woman standing beside Caine O'Bannion. "And you, princess, are as gorgeous as ever. Obviously, motherhood agrees with you."

Caine's wife, the Princess Chantal, who'd once kept an entire army of tabloid paparazzi working overtime to keep up with her jet-set life-style, laughingly greeted Shade with a hug and a kiss—continental style—on both cheeks.

Although still glamorous, with her gypsy-dark hair and eyes and diamonds flashing at her ears, today she appeared every bit the young matron. A toddler clung to her red silk trousers.

When introduced to Rachel, Quintal's eyes slid from Rachel to Shade, then back to Rachel. In them Rachel could see the same womanly sympathy she'd viewed in Marianne's knowing gaze.

Shade had met Quintal's husband, a former presidential security guard, when their paths had crossed during a presidential trip to Athens. During their transatlantic flight, Shade had told Rachel that Caine had earned a medal for throwing himself in front of the president, subsequently taking a bullet from a would-be assassin's gun.

Caine had met Chantal when he'd been assigned to provide protection for her during an American tour to raise funds for the Rescue the Children Fund three years ago. Weeks after saving her life, he'd opened up a Washington, D.C., security business with his partner, then gone to Montacroix to propose to the headstrong princess.

Chantal had not been the only member of the royal family whose life had been in peril. Caine told Rachel about an assassination attempt against Burke. Fortunately, the prince had escaped with minor injuries, although sadly, a woman casino employee involved in the plot had been killed to ensure her silence.

They spent the night at the palace, where, over a superb dinner, Rachel charmed Eduard by displaying a surprising familiarity with Montacroix's past.

"I'm amazed you know so much about our country," Burke said, his admiration obvious.

Rachel smiled, ignoring Shade's sharp glance. "I've always enjoyed history."

Later that night, even though the canopied antique bed—which had once belonged to the Empress Josephine, Chantal revealed—was extremely comfortable, fit for a princess, Rachel couldn't sleep.

Slipping into an ivory silk robe, she opened the French doors leading out onto the balcony and discovered that she was not the only one finding sleep a difficult target.

Only a few feet away, Shade, who'd left his room next door, was leaning with his forearms against the stone balustrade, gazing out over the moon-gilded lake.

Rachel felt a sudden urge to go to him, to wrap her arms around his waist, to press her body tight against his back, to hold on and never let go.

She slipped her hands into the pockets of her robe to stop herself from giving in to her unruly impulses. But she could not resist joining Shade on the balcony.

He turned as she approached, and Rachel was surprised to see that he was smoking. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You always disturb me." His expression, in the slanting moonlight, was not the least bit welcoming.

"If you'd like, I'll go back indoors."

"I'd like you to go back to Washington. Or Salem, or wherever the hell you're really from. But, since you've already insisted on continuing on to Yaznovia, you might as well stay."

It was certainly not the most gracious invitation she'd ever received. But unwilling to part with his company, and knowing that he had a great deal on his mind, Rachel decided not to waste precious time sulking.

"It's a lovely night," she murmured. The sky was clear, the night cool. "You can't see nearly that many stars in the city. And the moonlight makes the lake look like polished silver."

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned away again and looked out over the palace grounds. Rachel watched the brief red glow as he drew in on the cigarette.

"When did you start smoking again?" He'd quit, she knew, during his torturous time in the general's prison.

"Tonight. It was either smoking or sex." He took another long drag and wished he hadn't. The burning tobacco tasted awful. He couldn't remember why he'd ever enjoyed it.

"You know, of course, that smoking isn't good for you."

"I've never believed in denying my baser cravings." He turned toward her again, his eyes hard, his mouth curved in a grim slash of a humorless smile. "Want to help me with the other?"

She felt the embarrassing rise of heat in her face and blessed the darkness. "If you're trying to scare me away, Shade, it isn't going to work."

He stood there for a long, silent time, just looking at her. Refusing to back down, Rachel matched his unblinking gaze with a level look of her own.

Shade had never met anyone like Rachel Parrish. His inability to intimidate the woman both amazed and irritated him. Most women—hell, most people—foolish enough to try to face down his cold, silent stare immediately crumpled. But not Rachel. She was as tough inside as she was soft outside.

Her earlier words ran a belated warning bell. "How did you know I used to smoke?"

It was Rachel's turn to shrug. She'd made another tactical error. "It was merely an educated guess."

"An educated guess." Shade didn't even try to hide his disbelief. "You're driving me up a wall, Sister Rachel."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry enough to tell me where we've met?"

When she didn't answer, he cursed, not a gentlemanly oath, but a rude, savage word that made her blush burn hotter.

"Get to bed, Rachel." He dropped the unwanted cigarette to the stone underfoot and ground it beneath the heel of his boot. "We've got a long day tomorrow."

He turned away. She looked at his rigid back, wishing against hope that there was something, anything, she could do to make things better. Some half-truth she could tell him to ease his distrust. But the sad fact was that without admitting the absolute truth, which he undoubtedly wouldn't believe, either, there was nothing she could say or do that would change things.

Blinking back her tears, she wrapped her robe more tightly around her and returned to her bedroom.

The last thing she heard, before she closed the French doors, was a savage curse and the sound of a match striking.

The next morning, after a long and sleepless night, Shade and Rachel prepared for the final and most dangerous part of their long journey.

Caine and Burke accompanied them out to the garage, where they retrieved the armored Mercedes sedan the prince had arranged to have waiting for them. The car had been bullet proofed by an Italian firm specializing in such customizing demanded by European industrialists and Saudi sheikhs; the engine was strong enough to outrun any trouble they might encounter along the way.

Knowing that food was scarce in Yaznovia, Burke had given them a large basket filled with gourmet items from the royal kitchens.

"If there's anything I can do," Caine said, shaking hands with Shade, "anything at all, just let me know. Chantal and I will be staying here for the next two weeks."

"You're a family man now, O'Bannion," Shade reminded the other man unnecessarily. "With different responsibilities."

"Still─"

"If I get in a bind, I'll call." Shade glanced over at Rachel, who'd been even more quiet than usual. "Or Rachel will."

The fact that Rachel would only telephone in the event that Shade could not was readily apparent to all four individuals in the garage.

"Be careful." Caine's expression was grave. As was Prince Burke's.

Shade's grin was at odds with the seriousness of the situation. "Piece of cake."

Chapter Eight

BOTH RACHEL AND SHADE were silent as they left the palace, driving past the formal gardens and velvet lawn, then finally, back through the elaborately stylized wrought-iron gates.

The narrow road to the border twisted like a corkscrew through title woods. Dark green pine trees scented the air. Snowcapped Alpine mountains rose in the distance; their destination was on the other side of those white-capped peaks.

"You're awfully quiet this morning," Shade observed.

"I was just thinking."

"I was afraid of that." His tone was one of gentle teasing, devoid of its usual sarcastic edge. "I don't suppose you'd care to share your thoughts with me."

Rachel wondered what Shade would say if he knew that she'd come to the reluctant decision, sometime during the long sleepless night, that if Shade pushed the issue, if he insisted on making love to her, she would not tell him no.

She was all too aware that a sin of such magnitude would carry with it an enormous cost. But she refused to dwell on that right now. Because, during the predawn hours, she'd come to the conclusion that to experience such bliss, such love, in Shade's strong arms would be worth any price she might later have to pay.

She sucked in a deep breath, then let it out on a slow, soft sigh. When she hesitated, Shade experienced the now-familiar urge to shake her. Of all the weapons Rachel Parrish had at her command—and he'd discovered to both his surprise and his chagrin that she had several—evasion was her most well honed.

He shook his head with self disgust. He could not believe how dangerously close he was coming to being crazy about a woman he didn't dare trust.

As if sensing his frustration, Rachel placed her hand on his leg. "Actually," she said, not quite truthfully, "I was thinking about your plan to kill the general."

He covered her hand with his free left one, linking their fingers loosely together. "Don't."

She couldn't allow the steely warning in his tone to deter her from her mission. "Have you considered what it will feel like, having to go through the rest of your life with another man's murder on your conscience?"

"Tell you what—why don't you worry about your own conscience, Sister Rachel? Because mine is just fine, thank you."

"But—"

Shade cut her off with a curse. He shook his head in mute disgust. "Traveling with you is like taking a trip with Jiminy Cricket."

The unfamiliar reference flew over her head and his eyes were unreadable behind the dark smoke-gray lenses of his aviator sunglasses. But Rachel got Shade's meaning. Loud and clear.

"You can't do it," she insisted.

"Now that's where you're dead wrong, sweetheart," he returned grimly. "I can do it. And I will."

Frustrated to a point near tears, Rachel wondered what it was going to take to get through to him. She refused to consider the possibility that she might fail. The idea was too horrific to contemplate. As they drove toward their destination, through the thick forest, past rushing rivers, Shade found himself once again unwillingly intrigued. How was it that a woman who harbored so many damn secrets could also be an unwavering bastion of morality?

She was definitely a woman of contrasts. And the more time he spent in her company, the more Shade determined that before this little escapade was over, he would have discovered everything there was to know about the lady.