Tristan tilted his head, waiting for the punch line.
“If you were to start dating someone, what might that person need to be prepared for? Paps, photographs, other women making claims. When you live the lives we do, no action can be taken, no new people brought into your orbit without some forethought, some planning.” James didn’t speak for a moment. He took another sip of his drink, ever observant. “For Ele, it’s even more amplified. She’s going to do what she wants because she’s stubborn as hell. But she’ll never rock the boat. No matter what happens between the two of you, duty comes first.”
Tristan considered this. In James’s words existed either a warning or a demand, but damn if he could figure out what the prince was trying to convey.
“Are you trying to warn me away?”
“Would I be able to?”
Hell no!
“No.”
“Right. I didn’t think so.”
For whatever reason, despite whatever machinations happened, in spite of her brother—the crown prince—and her position as second in line for the throne, Tristan wanted her. The intrigue and the sneaking around made it all that more exciting. Perhaps that was all it was.
He was counting on it.
8
18 June
The Michigan Inn
Ele hurried from the elevator into the suite. Tossing her clutch on the end table, she kicked off her heels and began unbuttoning the lilac dress she had worn to the children’s hospital. She crossed into the living room through the foyer, her second button undone, when she pulled up short.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes wide.
She turned back to Robert. With a quick smile and a wink, he closed the door behind her.
Tristan, rocking black joggers and a national team T-shirt, was sprawled on the couch. An abandoned pair of trainers lay at the foot of the sofa, and an empty canister sat on the coffee table. He smiled lazily at her. “Waiting for you.”
She left the buttons undone and sat down on the chair opposite him. “I didn’t get to watch a moment of the match, but I know you won five to one. And you started. Cheers!”
He pushed up into a sitting position and dropped his elbows on his thighs, cutting the distance between them. “Aye.”
“You must be exhausted. We don’t have to do … this … tonight.”
He tilted his head. “Hmm,” he hummed.
The weight of his stare settled on her, and heat spread through her body.
“I don’t really know how to be anything but direct, so what exactly is this?”
Flustered, Ele glanced away from him.
Since her conference with the queen, Ele had contemplated a moment like this. She’d, of course, cast about a number of scenarios, none of them involving him spread out in casual clothes while she was perched in a chair, fresh from playing princess all day. And in not one scenario had he asked what this meant. Because she didn’t want to have to explain it. In these situations, didn’t the two people just get on with it? Did she really have to tell him she wanted him, wanted to be with him, for a short period? How did one negotiate a fling?
When she didn’t respond, he stood.
Ele had spent her childhood participating in dance and etiquette classes, a campaign to make her movements always appear elegant and flowing. Tristan had grown up on a football pitch, and he managed to move with a grace she would never attain.
He walked around and sat on the coffee table. His legs were long enough to invade the space in front of her. His proximity was like oxygen on a fire; Ele’s desire flared, and her pulse quickened. She inhaled a startled breath, and Tristan ran his finger along the line of her jaw. A light, quick touch, and it left her breathless. His eyes followed the path of his finger. When it reached her chin, he raised it, making sure she was looking directly at him.
“I’ve spent more time talking to your personal protection officer and your brother about you than I have talking to you. I’m here.” His thumb swept across her lip, and he watched it trace the path. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, merely a brush. “You need to tell me what you want.”
“You spoke to my brother?” she asked with surprise.