Princess from the Shadows Maisey Yates Page 8

  “Next you’re going to tie me to the railroad tracks …”

  “You’re mixing your time periods.”

  She rolled her eyes, then realized he couldn’t see her face. “That’s beside the point.”

  “Sorry, but I find it counterintuitive, covering up a woman’s skin, I mean.”

  “You are shameless, Rodriguez.”

  He put his hands on her arms and turned her, and she sucked in a sharp breath when she stopped, her face inches from his. “I can be,” he said.

  “Well, I wish you wouldn’t. Be. so shameless.”

  She looked into his eyes, past the glimmer of humor, to the predator. Her body responded. And it wasn’t the flight response she should be having. Maybe she wasn’t the prey. Maybe she was a predator too. Maybe her body was on the prowl too. Looking for a mate. She looked down, breaking the visual hold he had on her.

  “If you really wish, Carlotta.” He moved his hands, reaching behind her and tugging her zipper into place. “I think the dress looks perfect.” He took a step back, as though they hadn’t just been caught in the most sexually tense moment in the history of sexual tension.

  She swallowed hard and turned to face into the dressing room so that she could see herself in the full-length mirror. The dress wasn’t really as indecent as she’d imagined—the black lace gave hints of skin, but, thanks to the lining beneath, covered anything that really mattered. It was long, a mermaid-style skirt that flared out past her knees, swishing as she walked.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, hating to admit he was right. Not enough to give up the dress, but enough.

  “I knew it would be.”

  “A man with much confidence,” she said.

  “No. How could it be anything but stunning on you?”

  She looked at his reflection in the mirror, her eyes meeting his indirectly that way. “Rodriguez, I … I don’t need the whole playboy act, okay? I’m marrying you. It’s done. You don’t need to do this.”

  She knew, the moment she said the words, that she’d said the wrong thing. His eyes flattened, his mouth thinning into a line.

  “If that’s what you want,” he said, his voice sharp.

  “I just. Thank you for the dress.”

  He nodded and turned, walking out of the dressing room and, judging by the click of the door, her room.

  This was why she didn’t date. Too messy. And good job, Carlotta, she’d insulted her date right before they were meant to go out. And after he’d given her a beautiful gown.

  She wanted to growl in frustration. Instead, she picked up a tube of red lipstick and leaned in closer to the mirror. She was going to chase the sexy look tonight. And maybe, just maybe, she and Rodriguez would manage not to have another fight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SEXY didn’t begin to describe Carlotta in that black lace gown. It should be illegal. Or they should be alone in one of the expansive bedrooms of the palace, with nothing but free time and an enormous bed at their disposal.

  Instead, they were in a crowded ballroom, people everywhere. Normally he enjoyed parties. They were fun, shallow diversions that allowed him to block everything out and focus on nothing but easy, happy things.

  Now it was grating his nerves. Because too many people meant he had to behave himself. He wasn’t just the rebel prince anymore, he was the future king. He always had been, he knew, but it had all been distant and murky, and he’d been in no hurry to move back into the palace. Back to the source of his darkest moments.

  Well, the reprieve was over. Which was how he found himself here, at a party for an octogenarian he’d never met, keeping his hands off of his ultra-desirable fiancée.

  “I used to hate these things.” Carlotta leaned in, ruby lips brushing his earlobe as she whispered to him. “What’s the deal with putting all the food on toothpicks? And honestly, room-temperature shrimp sitting on a tray for five hours?”

  He choked a laugh out through his tightened throat. “I can’t argue with that.”

  “I used to hate them,” she said. “But now it’s been so long since I’ve been out, I’m finding it really enjoyable.”

  “What about your brother’s engagement party?”

  She blinked. “That was. interesting. And stressful. I can kind of see why it made Sophia run off, no offense.”

  Oh, yes, Sophia. His original intended bride. She never even crossed his mind. It didn’t seem right, the thought of another woman standing at his side now.

  “None taken,” he said, shaking his head when a passing server offered him a shrimp cocktail.

  “It was sort of fun watching the Jacksons. They don’t care what anyone thinks. It’s kind of. refreshing.”

  “You think?”

  She looked at him, green eyes glittering. “I care too much. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be who I thought I should be. So yes, it’s easy to envy people who clearly haven’t got a care in the world about their image.”

  “Unlike the people here.” He surveyed the room, filled with stuffed shirts and black, conservative gowns. “I wonder if any of them have secret lives?”

  “Don’t we all?” she asked.

  “Well, we don’t. Hard to keep secrets when the press follows you all the time.”

  “True. Anyway, I like the dress. I’m sorry I fought with you earlier.”

  “I like the dress too.” He’d like it better pooled into a puddle of black lace on his floor, but he would take what he could get.

  What was it about her that captivated him? Had he really thought her plain only a few days ago? He hadn’t been paying attention, clearly. With her dark hair pulled back into sleek bun, her curves emphasized by the fitted dress, olive skin visible in teasing amounts through the lace and the perfect amount of makeup to highlight her features, she was nothing short of stunning.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, because that was the kind of thing he said to women. But … he meant it. He always meant it, but usually he was performing a seduction. Words, then touch, then bed. But at the moment, he simply felt it was important for Carlotta to know.

  Carlotta didn’t want to feel anything when he said that. She knew how men worked. She’d fallen prey to easy lines like that in the past. So she really shouldn’t be feeling a rush of heat spreading through her. No flush of pleasure, no rapid heartbeat.

  She did though. Because Rodriguez was charming. There was a reason women swooned straight into his bed when he smiled at them. He was hot. And she was celibate.

  But she wasn’t stupid.

  “Thank you,” she said tightly.

  “You don’t like compliments?” he asked.

  “I don’t like insincere compliments.”

  “I was sincere.”

  “I…. That’s not really what I meant.”

  A smiling woman whose face looked like it had been frozen into a permanently surprised expression approached them with her shorter, older husband on her arm. She spoke in rapid Spanish to Rodriguez, and Carlotta could only catch half of it.

  “Your new fiancée?” she asked, flashing a smile that showed unnaturally white teeth.

  “Si,” Carlotta said, accepting the other woman’s double-cheek kiss.

  “Muy bonita!” she said.

  Rodriguez shot her a look. “I did tell you. Though perhaps you will take Señora Ramirez’s word for it?”

  Carlotta returned his look with a deadly one of her own before turning her attention back to Señora Ramirez. “Gracias.”

  The señora kept talking and Rodriguez translated when Carlotta didn’t understand.

  “She wants to know when the wedding is,” he said, a question in his tone, as if he were wondering the same thing.

  “Tell her we’re in no hurry.” Carlotta looked beyond Rodriguez and felt her heart sink into her stomach.

  “I’m in a hurry,” he said, his voice hushed, his hand snaking around her waist, palm resting on her hip.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, after my brother Al
ex gets married maybe …”

  That set Señora Ramirez off into a flurry of excited chatter, about invitations and gowns and two royal weddings, how exciting! Her husband just stood next to her, his expression blank.

  If Carlotta weren’t so overwhelmed, she would probably be fighting back laughter over the poor man’s plight. Her own parents were so suitably matched. Both so stoic and regal … well, stoic in public at least. She knew what it looked like when her father was angry. Angry beyond words.

  Now she was wishing she’d taken the last passing server up on his offer of room-temperature champagne….

  “Ah, bailar.” Señor Ramirez spoke for the first time as strains of classical music filled the ballroom.

  “I think I am needed now,” Señora Ramirez said. “You should dance too.” She turned to her husband and the look of pure, undisguised love that passed between them made Carlotta feel like she’d been hit in the chest with a rock.

  The way they looked at each other. it told her what she didn’t want to believe. That not everyone was cold in their marriage, like her parents. That not everyone lied, like Gabriel. That there was love and happiness.

  It would just never belong to her.

  You have Luca. That’s real love. Permanent love.

  “Care to dance, princesa?” Rodriguez turned a devastating grin her direction.

  No. She really, really didn’t. Because it brought back memories of another dance, on another night, and all of her weakness.

  “Of course,” she said, offering the Ramirezes a smile for good measure.

  Rodriguez kept his arm around her waist and they followed the older couple out onto the area in front of the stage that had been kept clear for dancing.

  When they were out in the center of it, he pulled her in, clasping her hand in his. “Try not to look so much like you want to chew me out,” he said dryly, resting his cheek against hers.

  She closed her eyes, sucking in a sharp breath, and just for one moment reveled in the feel of his hard body so close to hers. The light brush of stubble from his face. He was a man. So different from her. His body promised the kind of satisfaction that eluded her when she was by herself, more than a simple climax, but real, hot human touch. His scent would surround her, his heat.

  She shivered as he moved in time to the music. Nothing sexy, nothing that should send tremors of arousal through her. It was just a dry, classical piece. But Rodriguez’s touch made it seem like more. It made the strains of the cello warm, made the music wind through her body, wrapping around her, as though she were a part of it. One of the instruments. And he was playing her.

  She couldn’t even bring herself to care, she wanted to embrace it.

  This wasn’t safe. This wasn’t controlled. And she didn’t care.

  Because tonight she felt like a woman. And he was right, she had forgotten what that was like. She hadn’t seen the point in remembering. It was so much safer to get lost in the world of dinners at home and imaginary games with cuddle toys.

  There was nothing safe about being in Rodriguez’s embrace. She’d discovered that earlier in the corridor when they’d kissed. When she’d all but attacked him, truth be told.

  No, his embrace was danger. Delicious, dark, decadent, probably bad for her, but all the better for it. Part of her wondered what was wrong with her. The other part didn’t care. Not now. He was stealing control out of her hands. And she was letting him.

  “Feeling warm?” he asked, his voice a whisper, his lips pressed against her earlobe.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because I am.”

  “We might … step outside for a moment.” Bad idea, Carlotta. Very bad.

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” A dark, glittering fire lit his eyes and she knew that it was the kind of bad idea that she’d had before, and yet, it felt different. She felt different. Not all glowy and wide-eyed, hoping for some kind of emotional revelation.

  She just wanted him to touch her. Her only fear was that he wouldn’t.

  He kept his arm locked around her waist and she led the way through the crowd, to the back of the ballroom and out onto the vast terrace. It was warm outside, ocean mist hanging thick in the heated air.

  “The beaches in Santa Christobel are famous. And I don’t believe you’ve been yet,” he said, sliding his hand over her waist and to her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.

  “It’s dark,” she said dryly.

  “This is where I say something pithy about the moon reflecting off the water. Or where I would say something to that effect if I were toying with you.” He tightened his hold on her hand and halted his steps. Carlotta stopped and turned to him, studied his face, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. “But I’m not. The simple truth is, I have wanted to have you to myself from the moment I saw you in that dress. I’m luring you away from the crowd so I can get you alone.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Are you planning on having your wicked way with me?” She’d meant to tease, but unfortunately her question sounded completely sincere and a little bit breathless.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Why don’t we go down to the beach and. see the moon.”

  “Sounds like a line. I should know.”

  She shot him her deadliest glare, one that would have sent a lesser man running for cover. But there was nothing lesser about Rodriguez. And it was dark, so her look was probably completely wasted. “Rodriguez, this isn’t easy for me, can we just walk?”

  “And not talk?”

  “That would probably be best.” She didn’t want to think. She wanted. she didn’t want to think about what it was she wanted either, because there was nothing smart or good or self-controlled about what she wanted. It didn’t really matter if Rodriguez was the man she was supposed to marry. She didn’t have any of the feelings she should have for a future husband for him, she just … needed him.

  The need was elemental. It wasn’t a pursuit of rebellion, it was physical. As necessary as breathing. Terrifying and foreign in its intensity, but far too compelling to walk away from.

  “Then follow me.” He started walking again and she followed. He led her down a stone path that went from the house and disappeared into the thick, lush sand of the beach. “You might need to lose your shoes,” he said, looking down at the glittering high heels she was wearing.

  “Right.”

  He tightened his grip on her while she lifted one foot up and toed the first spiky shoe off, then the other. He picked them up off the sand, the feminine heels out of place in his large, square hands. “I don’t want you to lose them,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She didn’t really care about the shoes. She couldn’t. She felt somehow outside of herself and more connected to her body’s physical needs than she’d ever been. Above and also deeply immersed in what was happening to her, to them. She just wanted to block everything out but the feelings that were moving through her. The desire and lust and things she’d ignored for so long. To embrace the heat in her blood instead of trying to suppress it.

  For one moment, she just wanted to be a woman. To capture what had been ripped from her life, not just by Gabriel, but by her parents and their disapproval, the media and their cruelty.

  She scanned the beach, looking for a place that might afford some privacy.

  “This way,” he said, drawing her forward, into a cove of palms that stood back from the water. There was a cabana there, linen curtains tied back on thick, wooden posts, blowing in the warm evening breeze.

  A large, white mattress was placed in the middle on a wooden frame. It was clearly meant for two, and it was obviously meant for privacy. As private as one could get out in the open.

  “Before you go and get angry, I’ve toured the property before. I haven’t sneaked out of parties and brought dates here.”

  “Not here specifically.”

  “I never claimed to be a saint.”

  “Neither did I,” she said, climbing the wooden steps tha
t led into the secluded structure. “But I seem to have been trying to do an impression of one for most of my life.”

  She sat on the edge of the lounge and leaned back slightly, almost shocking herself with her boldness.

  He approached the lounger and rested his knee on the thick, white padding, just between her thighs. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel his heat, felt a hollow ache starting at her core and working its way into her stomach, making her feel needy and edgy. Nervous too.

  He leaned in closer and she leaned back, the move reflexive. She could see a smile curve the corner of his wicked mouth in the dim lighting. He rested his hand next to her hip, brought his face closer to hers and she scooted back a fraction. He chuckled, resting his other palm on the other side of her so that he was over her, his lips so near her she would barely have to move to kiss him.

  So she did it. She tilted her head up, bringing her mouth against his, her tongue teasing the seam. He tasted even better than she remembered. Until two weeks ago it had been so long since she’d been kissed, so long since she’d felt beautiful. So long since she’d wanted anything that was just for her.

  He returned the kiss, his mouth hot and hungry, his tongue sliding against hers, the friction so sensual she thought it might kill her. She didn’t think anything had ever felt so good. Her hands moved to his shoulders and she felt herself falling back slowly, her head resting against one of the throw pillows that had been placed on the lounger.

  He put one hand on her leg and pushed the hem of her dress up, allowing her to part her thighs so he could settle between them, the hard ridge of his erection hot even through layers of lace and silk, teasing her sensitized body.

  He rocked against her, teasing her with the slight pressure from his arousal, pleasure pouring through her like warm oil. She arched into him, wanting more, wanting him to keep kissing her. Wanting him to touch more of her. Wanting more in general.

  “Touch me,” she whispered against his lips, moving her hands from his shoulders to the front of his shirt, jerking the knot on his tie, loosening it and pulling it off so she could get to the buttons on his dress shirt.

  She worked the buttons quickly, desperate to touch his skin. Desperate for more. She placed her palm flat on his chest, his flesh hot and hard, the hair prickly and masculine beneath her hands.