Page 19 of The Princess Trap

He waited with bated breath in the darkness, the silence deafening. But then Hans said, his voice monotonous as ever, “Of course, Your Highness.”

Only a man who’d known Hans forever would detect the thread of disbelief hidden in those words. Or the undercurrent of fury.

But he’d deal with that later.

Satisfied, Ruben turned and put his arm around Cherry, switching to English. “I’m sorry. Come; we need to leave.”

She walked quickly, barely hesitating. But her shoulders were stiff, and her jaw was set.

Ruben had the sinking realisation that she didn’t want his touch.

Cherry paced her open-plan living room in stockinged feet, her mind churning.

Ruben was lounging on her sofa as if he owned the place, watching her with an infuriating smile on his face and an unsettling wariness in his eyes.

Finally, Cherry pulled herself together and turned to face him. “So you’re… some kind of celebrity.” She may not speak Swedish, or whatever language they’d used down there, but that much was obvious. “And you didn’t see fit to tell me that before doing…things. With me. In a public place. Correct?”

He rested one hand casually against the back of the sofa and arched a brow. “I suppose.”

“You suppose? Yousuppose?” She sounded like somebody’s mother. Reigning in her unease and her anger, Cherry forced herself to relax. She fluffed out her hair—he’d probably squashed the curls at the back, pushing her against that wall—then remembered her makeup. Crap.

Snatching her bag from the coffee table, she rifled through for a mirror. There weren’t any on the walls of her flat, except for the one in the bathroom. She didn’t need to be beautiful when she was alone.

“Cherry,” he sighed. “You look fine.”

“Fuck off.” Wait—she was supposed to be charming him. She flashed a smile to soften the words, then studied her reflection. Her hair was frizzy and her lipstick smudged beyond belief. Fine. She’d go with the ‘just laid’ look and hope he liked it.

Snapping her mirror shut, Cherry sauntered over to the sofa and sank down beside him. She swung her legs onto his lap and took his hand in hers, toying with his long, thick fingers. But now was not the time to focus on that sort of thing. Beneath his usual confidence he seemed unsettled, almost panicked. And downstairs he’d been absolutely frantic.

Looking up from under her lashes, she studied his face. His features were drawn, his jaw hard. “Are you married?” she asked. “You can tell me, you know.”

He smiled slightly. “Can I?”

Shit. She nodded beguilingly.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m married.”

Shooting up out of his lap, Cherry grabbed the nearest cushion and threw it at his head. “You piece of shit! You—”

Too late, she realised that he was laughing. Hysterically.

Cherry threw another pillow. “You’re not married at all, are you?”

“Of course not,” he choked out. He was still laughing. Smug fucking dick.

“It’s not funny!”

“Yes it is,” he wheezed. “‘You can tell me,’she says. Christ, does anyone fall for that?”

“Yes, actually.” She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Plenty of people.”

“Plenty,hm?” He caught his breath, still smiling. Then he held out a hand and said, “Come here.”

She ignored the way her pulse leapt at his command. “No. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I will. If you come here.”

“Tell me, or the next thing I throw at your head won’t be a pillow.”