Prince of my Panties (Royal Package 2)

“I wasn’t missing,” she whispers, tilting her head back to catch my eye. “Just because you can’t find something doesn’t mean it’s missing, Jeffrey.”

“What are you missing, Elizabeth?” I murmur, running my fingers along the stubborn curve of her jaw.

“A happy ending for my sister,” she says with a shiver that I hope is more about my touch and less about the cool mountain breeze.

“And what about you? Don’t you think you deserve one of those, too?”

She sighs, but she doesn’t look away. She holds my gaze, silently challenging me to keep pushing, to keep doubting, to keep thinking I know better than she does simply because my beliefs are more logical.

But I’m not going to push any more tonight. I want her safe far more than I want to prove I’m right.

I’ll take her home, get some food in her stomach and another good night’s sleep under her belt. And then we’ll see where we stand and how far I’m willing to go to convince Elizabeth it’s time to hope for things for herself, and not only for her sisters.

I step back, my hand falling to my side. “I’ll follow you.”

“Why don’t I follow you? That way you won’t have to fret about my poor driving all the way up the mountain.”

“I’m always going to fret about your driving, whether you’re in front of me, behind me, or halfway across the world.”

Her lips quirk. “Oh, come on, I’m not that bad. I’ve never even gotten a ticket. Not even a warning.”

“Then I suppose there is reason to believe in miracles, after all.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” She rolls her eyes. “Fine. You can follow me, then, since you’re such a glutton for punishment.”

I am a glutton for punishment, I think, as I start toward my car, parked on the street. If I weren’t, I would listen to my saner self—do not follow Lizzy back to the cabin, do not vow to restore her faith in the future, do not fall any more in love with this mercurial woman than I am already.

But in my experience, the heart doesn’t mind a little punishment now and then.

Not when it’s for the one it adores.

10

Elizabeth

I emerge from the bathroom in fresh pajamas—grown-up pajamas this time, hand made from flowing blue silk. They whisper around my legs as I head for the kitchen, seeking the source of the heavenly smells wafting through the cabin. I reach the top of the stairs to find Jeffrey busy at the stove.

And not wearing a shirt.

Holy Moses…

Mouth going dry, I stop dead, leaning against the stair railing, unable to keep my greedy gaze from tracking up and down, up and down, soaking in the sight of him in black cotton pajama pants and…nothing else.

He’s not even wearing socks, a fact I would usually find repulsive. In general, I’m not a fan of man feet—they’re too large, knobby, and hairy—but Jeffrey’s are…nice.

Elegant. Maybe even a little sexy.

Wrinkling my nose, I stick out my tongue at the thought.

Gross. Feet aren’t sexy. I don’t like feet. But that doesn’t stop me from imagining what it would be like to cross to Jeffrey, balance my toes on top of his larger ones, and use that extra inch or two to fit my lips to his without getting a crick in my neck.

I want to kiss him.

Really kiss him. A hot, hungry kiss that demands satisfaction.

But I can’t afford to lower my guard with him again. Not yet, not until I’m sure he can be trusted.

“Hungry?” he asks without turning to look at me.

“Starving,” I murmur, but I’m not thinking about the delicious smells that tempted me up the stairs. I’m thinking about all the delicious muscles rippling over his shoulders and down his back and how much I want to trace the path of each one with my tongue.

“Then head over here,” he says. “The curry’s almost ready.”

“Oh, I love curry.” My mouth instantly starts to water. “I’ve only had it twice, but I daydream about it all the time.”

“Oh, yeah?” He glances over his shoulder, his gaze flicking down to take in my pajamas with an appreciative sound. “Those are nice.”

“Thank you. I made them.”

“They’re beautiful.” He turns back to the food, adding casually, “I’d like to see you in more of your designs.”

“Oh, well…thanks.” I finger the hem of my shirt, flattered but also strangely nervous. “I don’t have many things here. Just these and a couple of dresses. And the lingerie collection, but I don’t wear those pieces.”

“Why not?” He reaches for one of the lime slices resting on the cutting board beside the stove.

“Yes, lots of lime,” I say with a groan. “Lime makes it so good. Drench it, Jeffrey. Squeeze out every last drop.”

He turns, narrowing his eyes on mine. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

“Doing what?” I ask, his gaze making my throat feel tight.