Valerie Parv – The Princess's Proposal (страница 2)

“Easy, easy,” he said as if he was talking to a shying horse. He let his hand drop to his side. “You seemed to be about a million miles away.”

She looked at him more closely. A dark-brown jacket skimmed wide shoulders and a fit-looking body, an open-necked shirt the man’s main concession to the heat. He was as tall as Adrienne’s brothers, an irritant in itself, since she had always resented having to look up to meet their eyes. When she did so with the stranger, she encountered a gaze of startling blue flecked with gold and fringed by luxuriant dark lashes.

Although he was dressed as a businessman, his tanned face and hands suggested he spent a lot of time out of doors. Rugged was the best word to describe him, she thought, adding to herself, ruggedly handsome. His accent identified him as an American, and she wondered what brought him to the Nuee Fair as she said, “Thanks for saving my balloon.”

“Why don’t you try this?” Without waiting for a response, he tied the string of the balloon around her wrist. For an instant his strong fingers with their trim oval nails closed around the slender bones as if he was measuring her for a bracelet, and she felt an unaccustomed warmth surge through her. It lasted only until he released her, but she found the intensity of it oddly disquieting.

He looked up at the toy waving in the air over her head, noting the distinctive design. “You like horses, or balloons?”

“Both,” she conceded, wondering why the fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted at the sound of his voice. It reminded her of dark chocolate and the stroke of velvet against her skin. Foolish, she chided herself. It must be because she was so seldom touched by anyone other than her staff that she was having such fanciful thoughts.

Above their heads a loudspeaker crackled to life with the news that the roughrider demonstration was about to start. “Are you going to watch the show?” she asked, somehow sure that he would say yes. It came to her that he looked as if he belonged in the show, rather than in the audience.

He nodded, then hesitated, as if considering an option that he wasn’t sure was a good idea. “I have a pass to the members’ pavilion. Would you like to see the show from there?” he asked in a rush. For some reason she felt sure that had he given himself time to think he wouldn’t have issued the invitation.

As the show’s royal patron she had access to any part of the fairgrounds including the members’ pavilion. At least Princess Adrienne did, she reminded herself. Her alter ego, plain ordinary Dee, had no such privileges.

She was strongly tempted to accept, perhaps for the same reason that prompted him to suggest it. The sparks of awareness arcing between them were intriguing enough to warrant investigation. But it was too risky. In the members’ pavilion she might run into someone she knew and her disguise was far from foolproof.

“I can’t,” she said, unable to conceal her reluctance. “I’m…meeting someone.”

The hesitation in her voice betrayed the hastily invented excuse for what it was, and she saw his eyes take on a shuttered look. “In that case I hope you enjoy the show.” He touched two fingers to his forehead in a sketchy salute and melted into the crowd.

When he had gone, she was stricken with a sudden, inexplicable sense of regret. He was only being polite in offering her the hospitality of the pavilion, she thought, and was probably thankful not to be taken up on it. All the same, she suspected she would have found the experience interesting. She sighed as she turned toward the public part of the arena.

He must be crazy, Hugh told himself as he followed the signs to the members’ stand. Didn’t he have enough to worry about, working with Prince Michel to establish a counterpart of his American ranch on Nuee? Hugh knew that his plans were rock solid and good for Carramer’s economy, but until the ranch was a reality, he had no business letting anything sidetrack him, even a woman as intriguing as the one he’d just left.

He glanced over his shoulder. The silver balloon bobbing in the air marked her passage through the crowd surging toward the arena. She wasn’t the only woman wearing a hat and dark glasses, but she was the only one who looked as if she wore them to hide behind, he thought.

Against his better judgment, he felt his curiosity stir. From her cultivated voice, she was an aristocrat, speaking English with the same refined accent as Prince Michel, as if she was a product of the best education that money could buy.

Instinct told him that her excuse about meeting someone was a brush-off. He probably wasn’t to her taste, but she was too well-bred to say so. The term soured his thoughts, reminding him uncomfortably of his ex-wife. He grinned wryly to himself. If anyone had taught him the futility of chasing the unattainable, it should have been Jemima Huntly-Jordan.

He’d known when they met that Jemima Huntly was as far outside his class as diamonds were to cut glass. He should have heeded the warning signs when she lectured him on proper behavior on their first dates. But he had been a few years younger, although not enough to excuse his foolishness, and madly in love with her. He had to admit he had also been flattered that a woman like her—daughter of an ambassador, and “old money” from head to toe—could love a rancher with no family background and money so new it crackled.

What a fool he’d been, he thought. Later she’d admitted to being bored with her own social set and attracted by his no-frills attitude to life. The novelty had started to wear off almost as soon as they were married, particularly when he tried to rein in her reckless spending habits.

He hadn’t expected her to live like a pauper, only to moderate her spending once in a while. Asking her to limit herself to one clothes-shopping trip to Europe a season had seemed reasonable to Hugh, but evidently not to Jemima, who acted as if he had asked her to wear rags.

“I’m a rancher, not an oil sheik,” he’d reminded her, his hands full of accounts emblazoned with the crests of foreign fashion houses.

“You resent me spending money but you’ll squander millions on that horse—Caravan, or whatever its name is.”

“Carazzan Liberte,” he’d supplied, knowing it was useless to try to explain the horse’s importance to their future. Ever since his last foster father had dragged him outside and challenged him to a fist fight that had settled once and for all that Hugh wasn’t as tough as he pretended, he had finally found out what he was—a rancher who belonged to the land as he belonged nowhere else.

Hugh would always be grateful to Big Dan Jordan for showing him that, and for recognizing the potential in a kid nobody else wanted. Until Dan took him in hand, Hugh had been thrown out of a string of foster homes for being uncontrollable. He bitterly regretted Dan’s premature death from a heart attack and had set out to justify the faith Dan had shown in him by leaving him the land that gave him his start.

Dan had passed on to Hugh his dream of breeding the world’s best riding horses. He’d known that Carazzan was the key after seeing a news story about an old horse trainer who had spotted the young stallion leading a wild herd on Nuee and had come out of retirement to catch and tame this one fantastic horse. Hugh knew how the man must have felt. He had wanted Carazzan from the moment he saw the story.

He had hardly been able to contain his excitement on hearing that Carazzan was for sale. But Jemima had drained their account of the money Hugh had set aside to buy the horse and took off to Paris with it. As a result Carazzan was bought by a member of the Carramer royal family. Maybe trying to buy the horse from them was a fool’s errand, but Hugh had been a fool before and would be again. He only knew he wouldn’t rest until the horse was where it belonged, in his possession.

Even so, he could have forgiven Jemima for taking the money. What he couldn’t forgive was her taking another man with her then flaunting it when friends mentioned to him having seen them in each other’s arms.

“It was a fling with an old flame. It means nothing,” she had said when he confronted her.

It meant a lot to Hugh. Having lost the first person in the world he’d been able to trust, he couldn’t believe his own wife could betray his trust without realizing the damage she’d done. He had quietly asked for a divorce, offering to take all the blame himself and to give her whatever she required for a comfortable life without him.

He had reckoned without her fury at being, as she put it, cast aside. Jemima had set out to spread rumors that his finances were in trouble, he was about to lose the ranch and he was impotent to boot. He could laugh about it now, but eighteen months ago she had nearly achieved her aim and finished him. As the baseless rumors spread, business associates began to avoid him, his credit dried up, and land he needed for expansion became mysteriously unavailable.

It had taken every ounce of street-cunning he possessed to ride out the crisis and to show the world that, not only was he not in trouble, he was prospering. Little by little, confidence in him was reestablished and he could get back to business-as-usual.