frustrated and annoyed—but mostly at himself, not at her. And he wanted her to take some of the clothes. Actually, he wanted a lot of things, but at least that was doable.
“Are you going to wear your sundress to bed?” he asked archly.
She looked up at him and made a face. “No.”
“Then you’re going to have to take something, aren’t you?”
“No,” she said stoutly, though she was beginning to see his point.
He was about to make a response, but his mobile rang and he flipped it open impatiently. “Yes?” he said.
She went on putting the clothes away.
“Good,” he said to his phone companion. “Okay, I’ll tell her.”
She stopped, looking at him questioningly as he closed the phone and turned her way.
He looked at her with a faint, hopeful smile. “I take it you understand you’re going to have to stay here tonight? But don’t worry. In the morning I’ll take you back.”
She frowned and faced him bravely. “No. I won’t go.”
His smile faded. “You will go.”
She shook her head. He searched her eyes.
“I can read the thoughts whirring in your clever little mind, Julienne. You have plans. But I’m afraid I’m still a step ahead of you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Rolfo found your driver. I’ve sent him back to the convent.” He was smiling again. “So I’m afraid any run for the border you might have had in mind will have to be postponed.”
She looked away, biting her lip. He was right. Without Popov, her plans were down the drain. Now what was she going to do?
“Sorry about that,” he added, and she felt a shiver of outrage at his attitude. He could at least try to understand her point of view. But she had to admit his taunting tone put a different light on things. And now she was going to need some clothes, just to survive.
But only a few. Looking back at the rack, she began to pick through all the things she’d loved at first sight, rejecting one after another and reaching for some simpler items—a pair of jeans, a jersey pullover, and of course a basic nightgown. It was time to have a more honest romance with fashion.
Andre showed her the room she could use for the night. It was fairly plain, but the queen-sized bed looked like luxury to a young woman who was used to the thin, firm sleeping arrangements at the convent.
He looked at her thoughtfully as she stowed her new clothes away in a drawer in the bureau.
“We really should have a chaperone,” he noted, almost to himself.
She thought he was nuts. “Of course,” she responded with a hint of sarcasm. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with mock innocence. “Maybe you can call one of your lady-friends from the casino? I’m sure either one would be happy to come and be my pal for the evening.”
He knew she was needling him, but he grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I see. Perfect companions for you, but not for me.”
“Exactly.”
She shook her head. “Don’t you have staff with you?”
“No. I prefer to be alone.”
“But …”
“I have Rolfo, my valet, and a couple of bodyguards available at a moment’s notice. But they are very discreet. You won’t even know it when you see them.” He hesitated over the term valet. After all, Rolfo was a lot more than that to him. Still, that wasn’t something he could explain to her right now.
“They tell me you spend a lot of time gracing the pages of the tabloids. But, since I’m not allowed to read the papers until they’re censored, I don’t know that first-hand.”
His mouth twisted. What could he say? He was perfectly happy that someone was keeping his lurid image and all the make-believe stories away from her. It was all garbage anyway.
“Let’s talk about your wedding,” Andre said suddenly.
“It’s your wedding,” she responded crisply, rising and going to the expanse of glass overlooking the lake. The lights of the city were reflected in the inky black water. “You’re the one who planned it.”
“Most women love to talk about weddings,” he said, slightly exasperated. “Why don’t you want to talk about yours?”
Turning to face him, she put her hands on her hips. “I’m not having a wedding, Andre. I don’t want to marry Alphonso.”
“Prince Alphonso,” he corrected sharply.
“Prince Alphonso,” she repeated dutifully. “Or, as I prefer to call him, Prince Dweeb.”
He frowned. “Enough of that. He’s a perfectly decent and respectable young man.”