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“Thank you,” Isabelle said, her voice soft. “Arrive at six, please.”
He bowed. “As you wish, Princess.”
“Thank you for taking your duty to serve her so…diligently,” George said, his head cocked to the side. As Isabelle came out into the hallway, he tossed an arm over her shoulder. “Our countries are ever so grateful—especially since they will be uniting soon.”
Gordon tightened his jaw. “I’m just doing my job.”
“As long as everyone remembers that,” George said, looking Gordon up and down with a curled upper lip. “And as long as everyone remembers their place in this world.”
The last thing Isabelle saw, before the doors shut, was the look on Gordon’s face.
He looked like he was ready to kill someone.
Namely…George.
Chapter Nine
Later that night, Gordon fell onto on the couch in her hotel hallway and lifted his water to his mouth, his grip on the glass tight. After the little episode in the elevator, followed by the surprise visit from Prince fucking George himself, he’d been in a less than stellar mood. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t wait until Max came to relieve him from duty.
Last night had been hell, sitting outside her door all night, knowing he couldn’t have her. Tonight would be even worse. He eyed the door, his heart thumping in his ears. It would be so easy to walk up to it, knock, and go inside. To take what she offered, and then take even more. So. Fucking. Easy.
And yet so fucking wrong, all at the same time. Her actions were like a see-saw, going up and down non-stop in his mind. One second she was on the ground, telling him she wanted him and only him, and the next she was in the air, calling him Mr. Waybrook and sidling up to a prince for pride and country.
Did she really want him, or was it all an act to get him back in her bed before she settled down and married a proper prince? He couldn’t see a world where she wanted to be his, though. Not like he wanted her, anyway.
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It just didn’t make sense. He didn’t know her country’s laws, but if she was expected to marry a prince, he had a feeling her parents—and country—wouldn’t approve of her shacking up with an average American. She had duties. Expectations. Rules she had to live by. People who counted on her to make the best choice for them, no matter the cost to herself.
Shit, he was starting to sound like her now.
He didn’t have as many rules as she did, but his only rule was pretty simple. What made this situation all the harder was how murky the water was surrounding Isabelle.
Yes, she was supposed to marry George. Yes, they’d met. But they weren’t in love. They weren’t even engaged yet. So who was to say he couldn’t have her?
Before she said yes?
And maybe, just maybe, he’d find a way to convince her that she deserved more than an arranged marriage. Maybe she would say no…and then maybe they would…
Shit, they would nothing.
She was still a princess, and he was still not a prince.
He dropped his head back against the cushions. “Damn it.”
After eying her room again, he set his water down, stood up, and walked to her door. He refused to give it any more thought. She wasn’t George’s yet, as long as they hadn’t kissed or fucked. To the best of his knowledge, that hadn’t happened.
Not yet, anyway.
So she was his…until she wasn’t.
He made it to her door in seconds. That’s how close he’d been to her, unable to touch. Unable to take. She’d gone inside thirty minutes ago, so she shouldn’t be asleep yet. If she was, well, he’d take that as a sign that this wasn’t meant to be, then. He’d go sit his ass back down on the couch and have no regrets in the morning.
He stood there for a second, his head pounding with the knowledge of what he was about to do. Lifting his hand, he knocked three times.
The door cracked open, and Isabelle peeked through. She blinked at him. Her long, wavy, soft blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders. She’d taken off all traces of makeup, and her soft pink lips looked shiny and fresh. He’d never seen her like this. So…
Real.