The Christmas Princess (29 page)

King Jozef, already seated, said, “You sit as well, Madame. No, put down that dish. That is for the staff. Sharon, Hunter, you sit, as well. Let us rest. Appreciate the quiet.”

Even Madame seemed worn. She had every right. She’d been up since before dawn supervising the staff and extra help hired to prepare for the open house from three to five p.m. Bariavakians had streamed through, greeting the king, consuming cookies and punch, snapping photos, and taking video.

“Never have so many attended Receiving Hours,” Madame declared.

“I am gratified,” said King Jozef.

Madame looked at the king, then at April. April nodded, yes, she also noticed he’d seemed to flag in the waning minutes.

“You are tired,” Madame said.

“Nonsense,” he replied, but without his usual vigor or opening his eyes.

April said, “We’ll stay in. You can read or rest—.”

“We have a reservation—”

“We’ll cancel it.”

“No. Hunter, you shall take her.”

“I don’t want—” April tried.

“No more argumentation,” commanded Madame. “His Highness is tired.”

And that was the final word on the situation. King Jozef was tired, and he had asked this of her, and commanded this of Hunter.

April tried to rouse herself with cold water on her face, fixed her makeup, fluffed her hair, changed into a silk de Chartier dress, and trudged back downstairs.

In Hunter’s car, she had her eyes closed, her head back before they were out of the embassy gates.

“Do you want to go to this restaurant, April?”

“No, but the king wants me to, so…”

He grunted, hit a button on his phone. Said, “Sharon” and in a moment April heard the other woman’s voice answer. She opened her eyes.

“Sharon. Know that reservation in the name Sabdoka? If you and Ross can get there in time, it’s yours.”

He hung up on her questions.

April rolled her head to look at him.

He didn’t return the look, but said, “Can’t go back to the embassy for a while without a lot of explanations. Where do you want to go?”

“I guess you can’t take me home, since I don’t have a home. Not really. If Leslie and Grady were in town… But they’re not.” She sighted. “I want to be ordinary. Let’s go to McDonald’s or a movie or the mall or … or bowling.”

He glanced over at her.

It was more solid than the fiercest refusal

“Please, Hunter. I want to be myself. Ordinary. Just for a little while.”

He turned right onto a side street off Connecticut Ave., then right again almost immediately and down to an underground garage.

He used a card to get in, parked in a spot he seemed to know would be open, turned off the car, and only then looked at her.

“You really want ordinary? This is it.”

His home. Or at least where he lived.

She pushed back too many thoughts, too many questions.

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

Like most apartment building hallways it was narrow and anonymous. But as they walked she saw that each door had some individualizing mark — some had a year-round decorative “Welcome” sign or a family name on a plaque, others had a wreath of metal jingle bells, a small basket with mini-candy canes, a framed child’s drawing of a Menorah, a spray of evergreens wrapped with a red bow. Only one door was entirely bare except for the apartment number, and that was the one Hunter opened.

He let her step in first, but held her arm to keep her from going too far in while he reset the alarm — surely not standard equipment in this building — locked the door behind them, then made a quick survey of the main room before disappearing into an adjoining room.

She barely had time to take in the bare bones décor of the room before he returned.

“Okay.” He held out on hand. “Your coat.”

While he hung it up, she looked around her. Bare bones was right. There was nothing on the walls, no photos or decorative touches on any of the other surfaces. A solitary stool sat by the counter that divided a Spartan kitchen from the living room. A large-screen TV with components around it that made Reese’s look like a tinker toy dominated one side of the room. Another wall held a row of neatly filled miss-matched bookshelves interrupted only by a door, presumably to the bedroom. Steel gray blinds covered the wide windows. A long black leather couch and a heathered gray and black rug covering part of the hardwood floor were the closest things to a softening touch.

“What do you want on your pizza?”

“What?” She turned around to find him holding a phone.

“You wanted ordinary — what’s more ordinary than ordering pizza? What kind of toppings do you want?”

She had a crazy urge to say anchovies to see his response. Except she didn’t really want anchovies. “Sausage, black olives and extra cheese.”

As he punched in numbers he clearly knew by heart, she looked around at what little there was to see.

As he hung up, she began studying the titles held by the bookshelves. He remained silent behind her. Watching, she knew.

A broad mix. Classic fiction, nonfiction on history, security, politics. A whole shelf of books on Washington area landmarks, including Mount Vernon. Research for his job? Or interest?

She crossed to the other bookcase, this one with shelves closer together because it held mostly paperbacks. Some of the same mix, but with more added.

“Taking inventory?” he asked as she tipped out one title, then another because the spines were so creased it was hard to read titles.

“I don’t have a dossier on you or resources for a detailed report, so I make do.”

He made a sound. She liked that sound. The beginning of a chuckle. Even when he cut it short, it meant he’d found amusement. It meant she’d found what amused him.

“Ah.” She pulled out a thick book, and turned to him, brows raised. “
Very
interesting. Background or—? No, this is too old, too worn, too loved.”

He shrugged. “Millions have read Gerard Littrell. Great action.”

“You really think you’re going to get that past me?” She shook her head. “Not one of his big sellers, precisely because it didn’t have as much action. More of a cult favorite among those who found the character growth of the protagonist compelling.”

He shrugged again. “So shoot me.”

“I’ve been tempted.”

His mouth slanted with a suppressed grin. “Done with your new form of background investigation?”

“Medicine cabinets are nearly as revealing.”

“That so?”

She nodded.

“What did Reese’s medicine cabinet tell you?”

She grimaced. “It told me I should have known better. Everything in it was chosen by his mother.”

He chuckled along with her, then he nodded toward the half-open door. “Bathroom’s through there.”

That was as close as she’d get to an invitation to explore the rest of his apartment. It mean a lot that he’d come that close. For Hunter Pierce it was practically baring his soul.

The bedroom was more of a computer room. A large L-shaped desk, with filing cabinets underneath, state-of-the-art computer equipment on top, and an ergonomic chair. The bed, covered with a black duvet — what did the man have against color? — was pushed into a corner as if it were an afterthought.

Black and white tile in the bathroom made her wonder if that was why he’d rented the place. He’d followed through on the theme with black towels and a white shower curtain.

She caught a glimpse of deep bright blue in the mirror and spun around. It took her an instant to realize it was the sleeve of her dress.

She looked down at the de Chartier dress and thought about pizza sauce.

Something close to recklessness sizzled through her blood. She had requested ordinary, hadn’t she?

When she returned to the main room, she had the pleasure of seeing Hunter Pierce taken by surprise.

“I hope you don’t mind …” She gestured down at his State Department t-shirt and black boxer shorts she now wore.

“Mind…?” He cleared his throat. He was staring at her legs. “Cold… uh, won’t you get cold?”

She pointed one foot, demonstrating it was covered in a thick athletic sock that advanced well up her shin. “These will help.”

They stood across the room from each other, and suddenly she was as nervous as she had been that first day when she’d gone into the conference room.

“I didn’t want to risk spilling on the dress. I mean, if I got anything on it, how would I explain to Madame? Champagne, foie gras, salmon — those I could explain, but pizza sauce?”

She aimed for a sophisticated chuckle, but it had too many nerves in it.

“April, I didn’t bring you here for … with any expectations.”

She drew in air slowly. “That’s too bad, Hunter.”

Standing there, letting him see into her while he absorbed her message was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

Shivers of nerves were going through her knees before his frown shifted, caught fire.

He took a step toward her.

The buzzer sounded.

They looked at each other.

The buzzer sounded again.

“They couldn’t have been late this one damned time?” he muttered.

She giggled. Then covered her mouth for fear she couldn’t stop.

He looked at her an instant longer, then wrapped one hand around her upper arm, guided her to a corner of the couch, then left the apartment.

He was back with the pizza before she’d entirely recovered.

He set the box on the coffee table in front of her. Yanked off lengths of paper towel to use as napkins, opened the fridge, placing a bottle of beer on the counter as he asked what she wanted to drink. “I’ve got beer or water.”

“Water, please. I don’t care for the taste of beer.”

He looked over the top of the open fridge door at her for a suspended instant. Why was he staring—?

Then he returned the beer to the fridge, got out two glasses and filled them with water.

Oh.

How was she going to swallow pizza after that?

She did. Somehow.

He turned on the TV to a basketball game.

“Mind?” he asked.

“No. Though I like football better.”

He looked over at her and grinned. “Do you?”

She ate one slice, he had two. They watched. Commented desultorily about the game and about the commentators.

He shifted on the couch. Not coming closer. Yet brushing his leg against hers.

That’s all it took.

The game continued. At least she thought it did. She suddenly couldn’t hear the announcers.

Her breathing changed. She heard his change, too.

“Done?”

“Yes.”

He took the carton and glasses to the kitchen. She was standing when he returned. They looked at each other a long moment. Then he took her hand and led her to the bedroom.

Beside the bed, he unbuttoned his shirt partway, then pulled it over his head.

He looked down at her. “That shirt’s never looked better. And I’ve never wanted to get rid of it more.”

She pulled it over her head and dropped it to the floor beside them.

“Lacy.” With his index finger he traced the uneven edge of the bra cups. Her breathing also went uneven. “How attached are you to those shorts?”

“Not very.” She slid them over her hips and let them drop. Her voice shook a bit, but she got out the next words. “But, Hunter Pierce, if you leave me in these socks, I will never forgive you.”

He laughed. Then he slid both hands down one leg, furling the sock, following it with his mouth. She rested a hand on his shoulder to balance as he pulled it off her foot, feeling his motion in the shifting, bunching, and stretching of his muscles.

He repeated the motion, holding her foot up, bending down to place a last kiss on the inside of her ankle.

She could have melted into the bed right then.

But he stood before she could, placing her hands at his zipper, then taking her mouth in a kiss that stroked and rocked, and apparently motivated her hands. Because she was pushing down his pants and his briefs together, feeling his bare, hard skin under her hands.

He kicked away the pants. Drew both straps of her bra down until her breasts were free, bent and covered her with his mouth, drawing on her nipple. She jolted, pressing herself against his erection, feeling it through thin material that was all that covered her.

He tipped her back toward the mattress, holding her with one hand and pulling back the covers with the other.

He unhooked her bra. Both of them were pulling at her panties.

Finally. Finally, they were gone.

He had a bedside drawer open. A condom. She kissed the side of his neck.

Then he was over her. Sliding into her, slowly, carefully.

“Hunter.” She tried to draw him in faster.

He held himself back, the tendons in his arms standing out.

“Hunter.”

She wiggled sideways and he slid in deeper. He groaned.

“Yes, Hunter.
Yes
.”

He returned to the bed, resting on his side with his head propped on his hand.

The sheet covered most of her. But, as he watched, her nipples pebbled, then peaked, nudging one corner almost enough for him to see that changing center of the breast nearer to him.

“I like that.” He voice sounded unfamiliar to him.

She caught her breath, drawing it in. Then as it came out again, he caught the corner of the sheet and lifted it. To see all of her.

“This is what I thought you were saying I should be ashamed of. That day on the bench in the garden. I’d seen you in the dress, and all I could think of was wanting you like this,” he said

She turned her face to him. “No. Never. Because I’ve wanted you like this even longer.”

He entered her again before she’d finished her sentence.

Without either saying it, they knew it was time to return to the embassy. They showered together.

He wrapped her in a towel, then kissed her, deep and slow.

He picked her up, her hair tumbling out of the pins that had protected it from the shower, the towel trailing away.

He laid her on the bed. One knee beside her, he looked down at her.