The Prince and the Pie Maker (The Rebel Royals 2)

“We can’t run off to Spain,” she said, picking up a mixing spoon. “There’s so much to do here.”

Alex took the mixing spoon from her. “You don’t have to do it all. You’ll have a full kitchen staff. And I’ll be here every step of the way, adding a pinch of spice to each of the dishes.”

She grinned at those words. Every time he said a variation of them—that he’d be there, that he was her partner, that she wasn’t alone—her heart did a complicated somersault.

“You’re going to be a princess,” he said. “You deserve to be pampered.”

“But …” She tripped over her tongue and had to swallow before she could get the rest of the words out. The sweet and spicy taste of their combined mixture now tasted bitter. “But it’s all fake. Us, I mean. We’re just pretending.”

“Just the part we want them to believe is fake. You and I ...”

Jan held her breath so

she would not miss a single word, not a single shift of his facial expression.

“You and I are gonna be partners for life.”

It wasn’t a declaration of love. She wasn’t even sure if it were a request for a date. She only knew she wanted to go. She wanted to go wherever this man wanted to take her. She wanted to eat whatever he put on her fork.

Unfortunately, before she could answer, a flash blared through the back window and into her eyes.

Alex pulled her to him, just like he’d done before. He used his body to shield her. Jan found herself once again in that soft space on his chest where she knew his heart lay beneath the fabric of his clothing and the warmth of his skin.

“It’s the press again,” he growled.

Jan looked up, but not out of the window. She fixed her gaze on Alex and his lips. “Let’s give them what they want.”

His gaze broke away from the window. His features softened when he looked down at her. He didn’t ask for clarification on her words. He knew exactly what she meant.

She was already in his arms. Their bodies were so close that their heartbeats were beginning to sync. Alex brought his hand to her cheek.

Jan’s lashes fluttered. She fought to keep her eyes open. She didn’t want to miss a moment of this. Not the sight of his lips brushing lightly over hers. Not the soft bump of his nose against hers. Not the question in his eyes just as he pressed his lips a touch more firmly against hers, deepening the kiss.

It was heady. Fiery sriracha, earthy peanut butter, tangy apples, and Alex.

“Are they still there?” Alex asked nuzzling her ear.

It took Jan a moment to focus. When her vision cleared, the window was clear. The photographer was walking away, looking down at this camera in one hand and fist-pumping the air with the other.

“Um, yeah, he’s still there.”

“Okay.” Alex left her ear, trailing kisses along the underside of her cheek until he made his way back to her mouth where he took a healthy sample of her lips.

Jan felt not a single twinge of remorse at her white lie. Technically, the cameraman was still there. But after another moment kissing Alex, Jan forgot all about the intruder.

Chapter Nineteen

Bells rang in his ear. Cheap perfume and sweat clogged his nostrils. Alcohol burned his tongue. Those were all fine assaults on his senses. What Alex hadn’t much cared for was the bare flesh gyrating over the plate the waiter had just sat down before him.

As soon as he’d seen the day’s special on the menu, his mouth had started salivating. He’d had Marrakchia before when he’d visited Morocco. When he’d heard that the chef of this local Cordovian club had installed a tangia, a clay pot used to slow cook meat, Alex had called ahead to order the dish. The onion saturated lamb dish had been placed on his table just moments after he’d taken his seat. It was piping hot. The aromatic smoke of turmeric and ginger curled around his nose. Then whirling hips had interrupted his first bite.

“Do you mind?” he asked the dancer.

If she heard him over the din of pulsing beats, she made no indication. She rotated her hips even faster in a series of syncopated motions meant to entice thirsty men. Alex wasn’t interested in the dancer’s milkshake. He was hungry for the dish. He clutched the fork in his hand, resolved to wait for the dance to end so that he could enjoy his meal without the show.

Belly dancing, as well as flamenco dancing, was an art in Cordoba. With the island nation’s proximity to both Spain and Egypt, many people studied the art forms. After centuries of effort, modern Cordovians had perfected and fused the styles together into something that was unique to their people. It was a style Alex enjoyed. But not at the moment.

The dancer wiggled her hips and belly in beat to the percussion. The woman was talented. Alex would give her that. He just was less interested in her show and more interested in the cooling dish that awaited his first bite.