Page 7 of Royal Guard

A big hand encircled my upper arm: God, I was like a doll, next to him, his fingers easily encircling my bicep. His palm was gloriously warm through my thin pajamas. He squeezed and I got just a hint of the power in those hands, how he could easily crush the life out of someone. But he squeezed with such care and tenderness, it made my chest contract. He swung a knee across me and started mimicking the process with my other arm at the same time. He squeezed my upper arms. Forearms. Wrists—

For just a second, he was astride me with one of my slender wrists in each of his hands. A hot rush went through me: I told myself it was the aftershock, the adrenaline wearing off. But every filthy fantasy I’d had since I was a teenager was suddenly slamming through my head, everything about the idea of a rough, strong, common man, pushing aside all my suitors in their finery and just throwing me down andtakingme—

My cheeks flared red. The heat rippled down my body and exploded in my groin.He’s just checking you for broken bones! Control yourself!

He released my wrists, moved down my body and started again at my ankles. Calves. Knees.

Thighs.

He froze there, fingers pressing into the back of my legs an inch from my ass, thumbs pressing the fronts of my thighs, just barely below my panties. His eyes had locked on something.

I looked down. My pajama top had ridden up, exposing a slice of bare midriff, my navel slyly winking up at him. And just visible above the waistband of my pajama trousers was a narrow strip of black lace: the tops of my panties.

He exhaled, that massive chest contracting. His face was so close, his hot breath wafted across my bare skin, little currents and eddies of warm air rippling outward and making me catch my breath.

“You’re fine,” he announced. And stood up, his head and broad shoulders lifting the parachute. Then he gathered up the fabric and suddenly daylight flooded in. I blinked up at him, blinded for a second, then reached up and gingerly took the hand he offered. He hauled me to my feet and we stood there face to face. Or rather, face to chest. God, he was sobig!Did they just build them big, in America? He tossed the bundled parachute down and then there was utter silence.

I gazed around. We’d come down by the side of a two-lane road in the middle of absolute nowhere. On one side, there were fields of orange trees, stretching on for miles. To the other, nothing but scrubland and desert. The sun was just rising, painting the sky pink and gold. And it was already warm, the air fragrant with the scent of oranges.During my whole trip, I’d been nowhere but air-conditioned hotels, limos, and then the plane. I’d forgotten it was summer. I wondered how hot it got here at midday.

I quickly tugged my pajama top down to cover my midriff and pulled the bottoms up a little. Now that the parachute was gone, now that we weren’t private, I was suddenly self-conscious of my reaction to him.What’s the matter with me?I looked at the horizon while I got myself together. Then, finally, when I was ready, I dared to look up at—

I gulped. It hit me all over again, a physical reaction. My head only came up to the top of his broadly curving pecs: it didn’t help that I was in barefeet. I had to look up just to meet his eyes and when I did, he was looking back at me with such raw, unchecked lust that it was like standing in front of an open oven door.

I was suddenly aware of every inch of my body, basking in that heat as if my pajamas weren’t even there. The curve of my breasts, the peaks of my nipples, the soft mound of my pubis…. And what shocked me was what was happening inside, as my eyes flicked around his face, over those clear blue eyes and hard lips. It was as if I’d found my exact opposite, the perfect shape I was meant to fit against. I had this crazy urge to just press myself to him, my softness to his hardness, my small form to his huge one, everything that was meant to be so shiny and precious about me rubbing up against all that roughness.

I tore my eyes away and looked at the landscape again. That helped to hide what I was feeling, but, as I stared at the wilderness, my stomach started to knot. We really were in the middle of nowhere. I’d never known it to be sostill:I’m used to a bustle of people, chatter and negotiating and planning. And I’m used to my guards around me, never any fewer than four. The nearest person I knew was on the plane, already miles away and disappearing further into the distance with every second. I was alone, vulnerable, in a country where people were trying to kill me. I dug my nails into my palms, trying to control the fear, but it was turning to panic—

And then I looked at him again and the fear melted away.

I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t even know him, but something about him made me feel safer than any number of my guards. He fit here. In his plaid shirtand jeans, and those dusty boots, he was almost part of this place. And that triggered a memory in my head. That heavy accent of his. I couldn’t place it, but it fit here, too, with the desert and the big skies. “What’s your name?” I asked, the first time I’d managed to speak since I’d left the plane.

He gave me a long look. I was reminded of an animal again, a big hulking beast, unsure whether to trust me or not. I almost wanted to hold out my hand, palm up.

“Garrett,” he said at last in that slow, rumble. “Garrett Buchanan.” And now I finally placed the accent. My head filled up with all the American movies I’d watched as a kid: men galloping on horses, steam trains and sheriffs and everyone in Stetsons.Texas.He was from Texas. And the name fit perfectly: a rancher’s name, a cowboy’s name, a hero who’d sweep some woman in a big dress off her feet and carry her off on his horse as she swooned. I swooned just a little bit myself.Garrett Buchanan.

And then he added, “Ma’am.”

And I remembered who I was. Daughter of the King. Heir to the throne.The Jewel of Lakovia,as the tabloid press had nicknamed me. Every lecture my mother had ever given me flashed through my head.

People like me don’t get to fall in love. We don’t choose who we marry.

I drew in a calming breath and tried to lock everything down. I tried to become icy and regal, like my mother. “Thank you, Mr. Buchanan. For everything you did.”

He nodded just once. “Weren’t nothing,” he muttered, as if embarrassed.

I looked around. “Do you know where we are?”

“California.” He rubbed at his jaw and it was so quiet, I could hear the rasp of his stubble. For a second, I imagined how that stubble would feel against my neck if he kissed along my jawline. Then I dug my fingernails into my palms.Stop it!“Figure we follow the road,” he said. “Should be able to pick up the interstate, then get you a ride to LA.”

I nodded quickly. “Good. Yes. Thank you.” And I smiled at him. And then wished I hadn’t because, instead of smiling back—I wasn’t sure this mancouldsmile—he just gave me such a look of urgent need that I actually heard myself gulp. It wasn’t just the simple, hot lust I’d felt before. It was deeper, and even more intense.

Don’t be stupid.I was just as different and strange to him as he was to me. He probably didn’t think of me that way at all. Not aprincess.His world was big skies and thick steaks cooked over campfires. He was used to women who square-danced and holleredand wore tiny denim shorts and had names like Mary-Sue. The polar opposite of me. He wouldn’t want someone who was all tied up in rules and tradition, someone so…

I flushed.Innocent.

And yet, no matter how many times I broke eye contact and looked away, when I looked back he was still there, looking at me.I’d give a fistful of silver to know what he’s thinking.

7

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