The Bossy Prince (Rugged and Royal #3) - Lili Valente Page 0,8
out of sex dreams.
Seriously, the sex dreams have to stop. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since we arrived at the resort. No matter how comfy the beds are or how much scotch I drink before hitting the sheets, the fact Zan is asleep in the room next to mine is apparently too much for my libido to handle.
The thought of her alone with me in my room is tempting, too, which is why I asked her to meet me in the closet. It’s a large closet—a walk-in with enough space to hold my entire wardrobe, let alone the clothes necessary for a long ski weekend—but the glare from the ceiling is an ugly yellow, and the space smells strongly of feet.
It’s guaranteed to shut down inappropriate sexy thoughts and justified because of the added privacy for our top-secret conversation.
Or some such nonsense. Whatever it takes to keep Zan separate from the bed and my head in the game.
Until recently, I’d have thought a woman with murder in her eyes would kill any spark of attraction, but Zan’s homicidal glare…
Well, for some reason, it does it for me.
It really, really does.
I should probably book an appointment with my Union Ten psych evaluator to see what’s going on there—and whether it’s serious enough to compromise my effectiveness as an agent—but even as the thought flits through my head, I know I won’t act on it.
I don’t want to confess my feelings for Zan.
I want to shut them down. As swiftly and as efficiently as possible.
She’s off-limits in so many ways it’s not remotely amusing. She’s my co-worker, soon to be my subordinate, and her sisters are either married to or about to marry my brothers. A bad romance between the two of us would make both our work and personal lives extremely uncomfortable.
And it would be a bad romance.
No doubt in my mind.
Zan is a roaring bonfire—beautiful and compelling, but if you try to hug it, you’re going to get burned. And who needs to hug fire when there are so many lovely women in the world who aren’t mortally dangerous?
I’ve just finished changing into my pajamas—grey sweatpants and an old black tee shirt—when a soft knock comes at my door. A beat later, Zan slips inside and closes it behind her.
I lift my arm, motioning toward the closet, but my words get lost somewhere between my brain and lips.
Zan is wearing pajamas, too. Silky, clingy pajamas. The long-sleeved button-up shirt and pants mold to her body, making it obvious she’s not wearing a bra. Possibly not panties, either, though I refuse to let my eyes linger on the curve of her ass long enough to find out for sure.
Instead, I swallow hard and force my gaze to hers, my brain short-circuiting again as I note the shy smile on her face and the noticeable lack of malice in her expression.
She almost looks happy to be here.
Happy…
Have I ever seen Zan happy? I don’t think I have, not even when we were children. Determined, devoted, curious, vengeful, competitive, irritated, exasperated, and homicidal? Yes.
Happy…no.
“Sorry I’m late,” she whispers, her voice as raspy and cute as a kitten’s tongue. “Sabrina and Andrew were in the kitchen feeding each other crackers and being repulsively in love until a few minutes ago.”
“No worries.” I rake a hand through my damp hair, letting my gaze drop to the carpet for a moment before returning to her face.
Hmm. Still pleasant. Friendly, even.
My spy tail begins to tingle, sensing a trap, but I can’t help but observe, “This is nice.”
She arches a brow as she pads closer, her hips swaying with a graceful ease that makes me think she’s an amazing dancer.
She refused to dance after dinner last night—staying on the sidelines with Andrew and Sabrina, poking gentle fun at Jeffrey and Lizzy as they wiggled awkwardly on the bistro’s dance floor, proving they really are a perfect match and far more concerned with enjoying each other than playing it cool.
But if Zan had joined them, I bet she would have been the furthest thing from awkward. She would have had every ski bum in the joint fighting for the chance to sway closer to the deceptively diminutive blonde.
Zan’s a good six inches shorter than her sisters, and her head barely reaches the middle of my chest, but she’s a powerhouse, a mentally acute and physically dangerous spy who’s been undercover for half her life.
When she asks, “What’s nice?” I remind myself of that fact.