Prince of my Panties (Royal Package 2)

“No, I’m not seriously threatening to kill you.” She growls low in her throat. “Argh! You’re the most obtuse, infuriating, patience-chafing man on the planet. I can’t believe I thought I wanted to sleep with you. I must have been out of my head with fever. Only a diseased mind would make that call.”

“I kept trying to tell you that,” I snap before I realize what I’m saying. When I do, I clench my jaw and grit out, “And same here. If I’d had a good night’s sleep since we arrived, I wouldn’t have said the things I said last night. I wouldn’t even have thought them.”

“Good.” Her eyes narrow. “Because we are never getting naked together now. I would rather die a virgin and take my dusty hymen with me to the grave.”

I blink, so shocked that I drop my guard for a moment.

A moment is all it takes for Elizabeth to execute an eel-slippery flip onto her side and wiggle out from under me, kneeing me in the groin on her way out.

Pain floods between my legs, but I refuse to groan.

Or to let her get away.

I bite down on the inside of my lip, ignoring the agony spreading through my midsection as I lunge for her. But I miss her arm and tumble off the bed onto the wooden floor. I crunch my neck and give my skull a good knock, but my aching balls are what really slows me down.

By the time I make it back to my feet, Elizabeth is already slamming the bedroom door behind her.

Hearing her footsteps thudding up the stairs, I rip open the door and race after her, but she’s insanely fast for a woman who’s been feverish for days.

Still, I’m certain I’m going to catch her, so certain I’m shocked to reach the top of the stairs and find no sign of her anywhere. The main room isn’t large, and there’s nowhere to hide.

I rush to the window, but her car is still parked next to mine. On the table by the door, her keys are still in the ceramic lily pad dish provided for the purpose.

Heart pounding harder, I wrench open the tiny coat closet. She isn’t inside, and I didn’t really expect her to be. It’s the smallest closet I’ve ever seen, and two black parkas take up most of the available space. I hurry around the kitchen counter, but there’s no Lizzy crouched on the tiles.

I search behind every piece of furniture in the living room before taking my investigation outside. No sign of her in the back yard or the forest beyond or in any of the ditches I stomp through as I scour the area. I search until the sunset light begins to fade, finally returning to the house to do another sweep. But still…nothing.

It’s like she’s vanished off the face of the earth.

Poof. One second here and gone the next.

Like magic.

But there’s no such thing as magic or curses or invisibility cloaks. Elizabeth is somewhere.

It’s just somewhere I haven’t thought to look yet.

I pace the floor by the kitchen, raking my hand through my hair and making a fist as I try to think like an enraged, possibly insane princess determined to get rid of an unwelcome gentleman companion at any cost.

At first, I reject the possibility that she’s fled on foot. She must realize I can catch up to her quickly in one of the cars. But the more I think about it, the more I suspect that must be her plan. She’s not here or in the surrounding woods, and she wouldn’t keep going up the road away from town. We took an exploratory drive in that direction a couple of days ago. There’s nothing up there but trees and more trees and an abrupt dead end long before the summit.

She must be headed back to the village where I found her.

At dusk. On foot. After being seriously ill. With no cell phone or money or anything else a woman —or anyone—would want or need.

Lizzy’s purse is still on the table by the door, too, left behind along with all her clothes and the sewing bag down in the bedroom.

She must really hate me, I realize as I grab my keys and wallet and head out to the car, to leave that sewing bag behind. The rest of her things are replacable but whatever she’s designing seems to mean the world to her. She kept trying to sneak away to work on it, even when she was so feverish she could barely lift a glass of water to her lips without shaking, and she was quick to hide her precious creations from me whenever I entered the room.

I felt oddly hurt by that. I couldn’t care less about clothes or fashion—I wear nearly the same thing nearly every single day—but I’m curious about her work.