Princess in the Iron Mask - By Victoria Parker Page 0,34

flinched.

Waiting until the attendant had darted towards the cockpit and disappeared from sight, she turned back to Lucas. ‘Are you angry with me?’ Stupid question when she was hyper-aware of the dark power emanating from his body, pulsing through the air, humming over her skin. Perversely, she’d never felt so protected in her entire life.

‘Goddamn furious. You play a dangerous game with me, Claudia. I make the rules. Comprende?’

Oh, she understood perfectly. ‘So tell me the new rules and I’ll obey. Every single one.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘WOW. BEING HEAD OF SECURITY must pay well.’

With the exception of Marianne, his housekeeper, Lucas had never had a woman in his home before. Now he knew why. It was a complete invasion of privacy and entirely too distracting. He’d rather camp with twenty men than one of Claudia.

‘Glass. Everywhere. I suddenly feel like a goldfish swimming around an enormous bowl,’ she said, with a quick tug on the sleeves of her jacket.

Ah, yes, Lucas mused, his mouth twisting. She preferred walls of steel to match the walls she’d built up inside herself. At first he’d thought the vulnerability was her cloak. He’d been wrong. It was her inner core. Everything was designed to fight off intruders like some high-tech alarm system. Together with her high intellect, it was unsurprising no one had managed to breach it.

Standing in the centre of the hundred-foot open-plan living area, he watched her absorb his life, the pit of his stomach weighted with lead. This was a mistake. He knew it. He didn’t want her here. Didn’t want any woman here. Especially not her. But what choice did he have? Dragging her to the palace would have been more barbaric than even he was capable of. And the panic, the terror, the vulnerability in her eyes—Dios, it got to him every time. At least here she was safe. From what haunting demons he had no idea. But he intended to find out.

‘The view is the most spectacular I’ve ever seen,’ she said, awe lending her voice a creamy note. She moved up close to the wide plate glass, looking towards the ocean, and sunlight gilded her in an angelic aura. He knew then she’d been in the dark too long.

She trailed her fingers along the polished black top of his baby grand and he could feel those very tips branding his skin, setting his blood on fire.

‘I’m not sure what I expected,’ she said, slowing to examine an original masterpiece taking centre stage on one of the few internal walls. ‘Beautiful brush strokes. I’m sure the National Gallery has one of these.’

With a tilt of her head she bestowed upon him her profile. The soft curve of her lip told him she knew all too well the value of the painting. But purchasing the portrait hadn’t been about money or investment or even the artist. It had everything to do with the subject.

‘What did you expect?’ he asked, unsure why he even cared for her opinion.

Swivelling on her low heels to face him, she gave a small smile, lifted at one side in a kind of embarrassment. ‘Probably some Americanised version of a bachelor pad. Huge TV, empty pizza boxes and...’ Colour warmed her cheeks rose-gold.

‘And?’

‘I was going to say a stash of Playboy magazines, but for all I know you have a girlfriend.’ Biting her lip, she lifted one foot, bent her ankle and scratched her opposite calf with the black peeptoe. ‘Which, come to think of it, is something I should’ve asked before I ki—’

Jumping in before the image engulfed him, he bit out, ‘I do not get involved with women, Claudia.’ He laid his commitment-free card face-up. For both their sakes. Lucas would not kiss her under this roof. Because if he did he would never stop.

Claudia pursed her lips, canted her head. ‘At all?’

‘No. Like you, I live for my work. I have neither the time nor the inclination for relationships.’

He had one-hour-stands with women who knew the rules. Claudia wouldn’t know what to do with a rulebook if it smacked her on the head—something that made him doubly wary of their current predicament.

‘Something else we have in common, then,’ she said.

‘I cannot think of any possible “something else”.’

‘You value your privacy. You don’t talk much about yourself.’

‘It is not necessary in my job.’ He was being sharp—overly so. But he needed her to understand. Just because she’d managed to wrangle herself a bed under his roof it didn’t mean she could burrow into his life.