The Heiress's Pregnancy Surprise (Heirs to an Empire 2)

Class. That was Aurora and that was Charlotte, all the way. He was so out of his league. He was a cop’s son who grew up on beans on toast and then moved to the army where the food was, if not better, more plentiful. Charlotte, though not a snob, had been raised with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth.

Why was he thinking this way, anyway? He needed to walk away, and soon.

“Come on, Jacob. I think we should dance.”

His blood warmed even as the denial sprang to his lips. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

She grabbed his hand. “You’re not my bodyguard anymore. Tonight you’re my guest. There are no rules, nor protocols or ethics to follow.”

“What about my personal code?”

She put her free hand on her hip. “Does that code include turning down a woman in the most fabulous dress ever? Because if it does, I don’t like your code.”

He nearly laughed, then gave in. “All right. I’ll dance with you.” Not like it was a hard choice anyway. The chance to hold her in his arms was too sweet to resist. Just this once, he told himself.

She led him to the floor in front of the small stage and he tugged on her hand, deftly pulling her into his arms. He wasn’t a great dancer, but he could be smooth if he kept the steps simple. Her eyes widened in surprise at the first contact, then warmed as she melted into his embrace. The scent of her—something slightly floral—wrapped around him. It was February, a month of white and gray and brown in New York, but Charlotte was as beautiful and alive as an English country spring.

He turned her to the music and realized what a sappy thing he’d just thought.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said, close to his ear. The crazy-high heels she wore brought her closer to his height, and the way their bodies brushed lit him on fire.

“I’m adequate at best,” he replied, keeping his hand appropriately at the curve of her back, no lower.

She turned her head so their gazes met. “You’re more than adequate, Jacob. This week you’ve put up with me and you’ve been so supportive, when I know that isn’t in your job description. I just want to say thank you. For going above and beyond.”

“You are far from my most challenging assignment,” he murmured. “It was my pleasure.”

“Oh, don’t say that. Not pleasure. Not when...”

Her voice trailed off, and warning bells went off in his head. The music carried on but now every point at which their skin touched, electricity shot between them. “Charlotte,” he warned.

“Don’t.” Her eyes flashed at him. “Don’t say you don’t feel it, too, because I know you do.”

He couldn’t deny it.

And there were too many reasons why he couldn’t—shouldn’t—let this go any further, but he couldn’t say them here, not at a crowded party, not while dancing. He would do it when they were alone. As they would be later. In the same Manhattan apartment, and in separate bedrooms.

“Jacob,” she whispered. He barely heard her but he saw her lips move.

He had seen his name on someone else’s lips like that before, and the pain of it struck him right in the heart, a cold dagger of regret.

The circumstances were different, but a man didn’t get over losing someone they loved so easily. Charlotte was not in mortal danger. She was not taking crazy risks as an informant. But Jacob had been responsible for Jacinta’s death. He knew better than to let his success go to his head. He was a simple guy with a lot of flaws, who sucked at personal relationships, and he had no business thinking about a woman like Charlotte Pemberton in that way.

“You went somewhere,” she said, drawing him back into the present even though his feet hadn’t stopped moving. “Where?”

“Nowhere you’d care to go,” he replied, his voice hardening.

“Are you sure?” She tried a smile, but her eyes were soft. “It’s okay, Jacob.”

“What’s okay?”

Her fingers trailed over his shoulder. “To feel this way. To...want what you think you can’t have.”

“Charlotte.” She was so close to propositioning him and he knew he needed to say no but didn’t want to. He thought of the butterfly necklace sitting back in his drawer, thought about how the colors would have looked tonight against her skin and with the bright hue of her gown. Whatever had happened this week had made her come out of her cocoon, hadn’t it? The woman in his arms right now was Charlotte Pemberton. She wasn’t Aurora Germain’s daughter or the company PR spokesperson. She was her own woman, on her own terms. And she was, for all intents and purposes, articulating that she wanted to be with him.

As if she could sense his inner battle, she stepped away when the song ended. “Come, let’s get another drink.”

They weaved their way through the crowd to the bar, where she ordered a gin and tonic and he ordered another Scotch. Drinks in hand, she lifted her glass in a toast and touched it to his. “To Amelie being back in France, and Aurora for being the bastion of fashion.”