She squeezed his hand—a reprimand, he thought.
He grinned.
“You’ve shown me what you thought I would want to see.”
He kept smiling at her perceptive comment.
“Now, take me to your favorite place.”
He jerked to a halt, and she came to a stop two strides later. When she turned back to him, they studied each other.
This tour had begun as a distraction, an impulse. Nothing personal, but rather a duty he’d taken too far. Now, she wanted something different, some piece of him. He knew if he offered it, she would hungrily lap it up. And she would greedily guard it.
He tugged on her hand, and she came to him like a tether. He dropped his forehead to hers, his free hand landing on the nape of her neck. They stood for a moment.
Tristan kissed her on the top of her head. “This way then.”
A mischievous glint twinkled in Tristan’s eyes, like some impulsivity had been set free.
“Trainers tied tight?” he asked. At Ele’s nod, he grasped her hand and tugged. “Let’s go then.”
He took off at a jog with Ele in tow. When she didn’t hesitate, he flashed a smile at her. He set an easy pace, and Ele, whose only athletic achievement was an ability to run far, met him stride for stride. They looped through the halls until they reached a door that took them outside. They burst through it into a dappled gray light. Sprinkles from the sky misted over them, but they kept at it. Ele looked over her shoulder to see Robert about to step over the threshold. She held her free hand up, stopping his progress. Although his eyes widened, he did as she had bidden and allowed the door to close in front of him.
It was slick under their feet, and when Ele slid, Tristan’s hand tightened on hers.
“I’ve got you,” he assured her.
For the first time in twelve years, Ele felt safe with someone other than her security team and her brother. She wasn’t positive, but she thought if Jamie could see her now, he would be smiling indulgently at her. It made her giggle. With her hand clasped in Tristan Davenport’s and the misting rain shimmering around them and the bright green of the endless pitch as a backdrop, Eleanor Ann-Juliet Josephine Altamirano, second in line to the throne, was running through the rain.
She stopped abruptly, her hand loosening on Tristan’s, and tilted her face to the sky. A broad smile spread across her face. She enjoyed the unencumbered feeling. She didn’t know how or why, but she knew Tristan understood because he waited quietly, letting her have her moment. In a way she couldn’t remember, she was happy.
She turned her head and enjoyed the picture of Tristan at her side. Ele knew it was an anomaly, a fissure in the space-time continuum, if you would. A perfect moment that couldn’t be scheduled or predicted or scripted in any way. Who knew that when she’d stepped out of the Range Rover this morning, she would find this accord with such an unlikely person?
He was glorious. He wasn’t classically handsome. His features not regular enough for that. But those catlike eyes were striking, and against his dark skin, they glowed with intelligence and mirth. He seemed to always be smiling and maybe silently laughing at everything and everyone. Even now, as he studied her, the right side of his mouth curved upward like he might be fighting a smile, and his eyes were bright with unsuppressed amusement. She’d bet Tristan Davenport suppressed nothing.
When their gazes met, the look in his changed. They darkened with something that sent heat seeping through her.
Then, his hands were on her face, and he was angling her head to receive his mouth. Lush, damp from the rain, and hot, his lips landed on hers. Her hands flew to his wrists, anchoring her. Without any ask, her mouth opened under his, and their tongues tangled—exploring, tasting, memorizing. It ended as abruptly as it’d started. Tristan backed away from her. She fumbled half a step as her hands fell to her sides. Tristan caught her, holding her by her shoulders.
“Sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re right,” she snapped, embarrassed at her lack of grace.
But Tristan just tilted his head in question. “Kissed you or stopped?”
“Stopped,” she answered unthinkingly. Cringing, she dropped her head, hoping to hide her blush.
He laughed. His hand soothed her on the nape of her neck as he placed a quick kiss on the top of her head.
“We are outside. I should have used more discretion,” he explained.
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.” He increased the distance between them. Looking her up and down, he seemed to make some decision. “This is it,” he said simply, suddenly sheepish.
“The pitch?”
He shrugged. “Not very exciting, I know. But the pitch—at any time of the day really, but especially in the morning before my mates come out to mark it all up—there’s just something special about it.”