Page 8 of Trapped with the Undercover Prince

She looked at the man who approached her rather cautiously. “Do I know you?” But she did, recognizing him as one of Zar’s friends. His suit jacket was stained with something, and he had a streak of dirt across his cheek.

He smiled at her like she was a small child teetering on the edge of a cliff. “Our introduction was woefully short and unremarkable given the situation. My name is Jean Paul Travers, and I work f— With Zar.” He sounded almost apologetic.

She nodded. “I remember you.” She tilted her head to one side, trying to figure out what he might want. “Everything okay?” Had something happened to Zar? “Is Zar hurt?”

“No, Doctor, but he does want to speak with you.”

“About what?” she asked, confused.

Jean Paul coughed uncomfortably. “Ah, I’m not sure. He’ll be here in just a few moments. Do you mind waiting?”

“Jean Paul, I’m really tired.” She yawned. “And I still have to figure out some kind of hotel situation before I fall asleep standing up. If he’s not here in the next twenty seconds or so, I’m going to get into that taxi over there and hope the driver drops me at a hotel I can afford.”

Jean Paul raised his hands as if to stop her from moving, his expression that of a man placating a hysterical person. “He’s on his way. He was waiting near the front entrance and has to come around the building.”

He was what?

A shot of adrenaline helped her focus on the man. Yes, his suit was dirty, but it was high quality, and his haircut looked perfect, like he’d had it done yesterday. When she’d first seen Zar and his friends, she’d thought them all male models.

“Who are you?”

“Jean Paul Travers,” he said slowly. “Are you sure you weren’t injured in the explosion?”

“I’m fine, just tired, and don’t try to change the subject. Who are you?”

He paused, glanced down the narrow street at an approaching dark sedan, and stepped away. “Here he is now.” Jean Paul gave her a brief bow. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.” He began walking away too fast for anyone to consider it polite.

The car came to a stop beside her, the rear door opened, and Zar stepped out.

“Dr. Anna,” he said with a warm smile. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

“So, I’ve been told.” Something about his confident manner rubbed her the wrong way. “Were you really waiting for me to come out of surgery? All nine hours of it?”

His smile faltered for only a moment. “No, I was told you’d be several hours, so I used some of that time to confer with my law enforcement colleagues here in Lyon and find a hotel for you.”

“Why?”

His smile returned, though it was a bit crooked. “It was the least I could do for your lifesaving efforts. If I hadn’t arranged it, Dr. LeBlanc would have.”

“Oh.” Okay, when he put it that way, it did make sense, sort of. She rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m sorry, my brain has gone to sleep.”

“No apologies are necessary, Dr. Anna. The hotel isn’t far from the train station, and I’ve already checked you in. All you have to do when you get there is sleep.” He extended a hand toward her like she was some fancy lady.

“That sounds...fabulous.” She ignored his hand, took the few steps required to reach the car, and pulled her backpack off her back.

The driver got out and took her pack from her, setting it in the trunk, while Zar urged her to get in the back.

She slid in and smiled at Zar’s ultra-polite manners. He seemed keen on making sure she was comfortable. Was it European culture, or was he just that nice?

A flash of light off to the side caught her attention. Why was a photographer taking pictures of them?

Zar got into the car with a little more speed, and the driver pulled away from the curb faster than Anna anticipated. She fell against Zar’s side.

“Sorry,” she said, trying to find a place to put down a hand so she could put some room between the two of them.

Instead of leaning away, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to his body, propping her up when the driver made another fast turn in the opposite direction.

“Where’s the fire?” she asked, grabbing hold of his jacket.

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