Page 12 of The Princess Trap

“How do you know I’m important?”

She arched a brow. “Those men outside Chris’s door this morning. What were they, bodyguards?”

Ruben choked on his cake. “What—why would you—?”

“My uncle on my mum’s side, and all his kids, they’re in the military. Mostly air force.” She tapped her temple. “Plain clothes can’t hide that training. I can see it in you too.”

“Right,” he said faintly. His throat felt slightly scratchy. He reached for some water.

“And you’re rich as shit.” She nodded towards his suit. “I know that’s a Ricci.”

Great. He’d gone from choking on his cake to choking on his drink. “Howdo you know it’s a Ricci?” he spluttered.

“Mind your business,” she sniffed.

“Mindmybusiness?”

“Yes. Here’s a tip: if you want to fly under the radar, try toning it down to Armani or something.”

Ruben sighed. “Noted.”

“So what’s up with that? Are you sponsoring the Academy?” If he wasn’t so attuned to the tone of her voice, to the tilt of her lips and the light in her dark eyes, he might have missed the tinge of disapproval in her words. But Ruben had spent their lunch watching her as closely as he’d watched her hips that morning. So he noticed. And he wanted to know why.

“If I weren’t,” he said carefully, “would you try to persuade me?”

“Persuade you?” She took another bite of cake. He watched her jaw work as she chewed. The sight should not be erotic, but apparently his libido was on the rampage today.

“Convince me to join the cause,” he explained. “Enlist me. Whatever.”

“Ah. Um… Why, would you listen?”

“To you?” Beneath the table, his ankle was hooked around hers. Almost absent-mindedly, her foot had started rubbing against him, silky and slow, like a cat. “You know I would.”

“Oh Iknow, do I?” She grinned, and those damned dimples popped into view. “Because we’re such good friends?”

He leaned in, his voice low. “We could be good friends.” He shrugged. “Or something.”

“Or something?” she repeated, her voice soft.

He reached out to capture her wrist. No reason, except he enjoyed the sight of his fingers holding her still, and she seemed to enjoy it too. Every time he did it, her eyes widened and her lips parted and he wondered if that was how she’d look when he—

“Oh crap,” she said, twisting her head to read his watch. “I’m going to be late.”

Well, shit. So much for his skills of seduction. “Don’t worry. We’ve still got fifteen minutes.”

“We should start walking now, then,” she said. She retrieved the lipstick and mirror from her handbag, popping open the compact with an ease that spoke of practice. She arched a brow at him as she twisted up her lipstick. “Catch a waiter, darling, would you?”

Ruben requested the bill with just a look. Again: practice. Then he turned back to Cherry and said, “Don’tdarlingme.”

She paused, the lipstick partway through its journey round her mouth. She had a ridiculously defined cupid’s bow. He wanted to trace it with his tongue. “I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t need to manage me. I’m not Tabary.”

Her lips pursed, one side bright, the other faded. “No man wants to think of himself as a Chris Tabary. But whether you are or not remains to be seen.” Then she winked.

Winked.

This woman would be the death of him.