his shoulder to say, “Wear your hair down. We wouldn’t want you to look too businesslike, would we? It might remind Alex that you’re here to guard, not entertain, us.”
He was gone before she could reply, and there was still a lingering smile on her face as she slowly closed the door and leaned against it bemusedly. Then she gave herself a little shake and straightened slowly. What was the matter with her? She was as languid and dreamy-eyed as a teenager who’d been asked to her first prom by the captain of the football team. Where was the cool insouciance that had been her shield and buckler for so long? It had taken less than an hour for Lance Rubinoff to raise in her a bewildering mixture of emotions. The physical magnetism she could recognize and understand, but what of that odd melting tenderness? He was as stimulating and intoxicating as those margaritas that Nancy had offered her as liquid comfort.
Just when she became convinced that the slightly mad, impish dilettante was the true Prince Rubinoff, he allowed her a fleeting glimpse beneath the glittering facade to the personality beneath. It was like trying to unravel the clues in a complicated and masterly crafted mystery thriller. And she’d always had a passion for mysteries. It was the primary reason she’d entered her profession. Well, this particular mystery might be more addictive and dangerous than any she had solved to date. She would have to guard her own emotions as assiduously as she would guard Rubinoff and Alex Ben Raschid.
She strode briskly toward the bathroom door Rubinoff had indicated. She had left her suitcases downstairs at the reception desk, in the last-ditch hope that she could convince Rubinoff to abandon his blackmail ploy. She would have to call down and have them sent up. But first she’d shower and wash her hair. She cast a cursory glance about the bedroom.
She supposed it could be considered as luxuriously elegant as the rest of the suite, but it was definitely not to her taste. The cool-looking blue carpet contrasted perfectly with the rich cream taffeta spread on the king-sized bed. The Louis XIV chair in the corner of the room was cushioned in the same patterned cream taffeta. It was all very fastidious, expensive, and icily impersonal. Evidently this stiff, aloof beauty was what the hotel management considered suitable for its most august guests. Personally, she preferred a little more informality and color in her surroundings, and she had an idea that Lance Rubinoff did too.
As Honey entered the spacious blue-and-white bathroom and began to strip off her pants suit, she firmly dismissed Rubinoff from her consciousness. He had been occupying her thoughts far too much lately. She pulled the pins from her hair and let it tumble down her back in wild silky profusion. There was certainly no possibility of her leaving her hair loose just because that wild, impossible man liked it that way. No possibility at all.
THREE
“D ID I TELL you how beautiful you are this evening?” Lance Rubinoff murmured in her ear as he took her black velvet wrap and seated her with graceful panache at the small table. “Your hair shines like silver against that black velvet. I’m glad you wore it down.”
Honey fingered a long tress almost guiltily. “It had nothing to do with you. I just decided that there was no use antagonizing Alex unnecessarily.” She touched the skirt of the simple black velvet sheath she was wearing. “And my intention was not to be beautiful, just discreet.”
Rubinoff’s lips quirked and one eyebrow arched mockingly as his gaze ran over her lingeringly. The dress in question may have been modest in cut, with its bateau neckline and long tight sleeves, which ended at her wrists, but on Honey’s full, graceful figure it took on a tactile sensuality that was causing every man in the crowded smoky room to stare at her with distinct lasciviousness.
“Sorry, sweetheart, you didn’t succeed,” he drawled as he
He was gone before she could reply, and there was still a lingering smile on her face as she slowly closed the door and leaned against it bemusedly. Then she gave herself a little shake and straightened slowly. What was the matter with her? She was as languid and dreamy-eyed as a teenager who’d been asked to her first prom by the captain of the football team. Where was the cool insouciance that had been her shield and buckler for so long? It had taken less than an hour for Lance Rubinoff to raise in her a bewildering mixture of emotions. The physical magnetism she could recognize and understand, but what of that odd melting tenderness? He was as stimulating and intoxicating as those margaritas that Nancy had offered her as liquid comfort.
Just when she became convinced that the slightly mad, impish dilettante was the true Prince Rubinoff, he allowed her a fleeting glimpse beneath the glittering facade to the personality beneath. It was like trying to unravel the clues in a complicated and masterly crafted mystery thriller. And she’d always had a passion for mysteries. It was the primary reason she’d entered her profession. Well, this particular mystery might be more addictive and dangerous than any she had solved to date. She would have to guard her own emotions as assiduously as she would guard Rubinoff and Alex Ben Raschid.
She strode briskly toward the bathroom door Rubinoff had indicated. She had left her suitcases downstairs at the reception desk, in the last-ditch hope that she could convince Rubinoff to abandon his blackmail ploy. She would have to call down and have them sent up. But first she’d shower and wash her hair. She cast a cursory glance about the bedroom.
She supposed it could be considered as luxuriously elegant as the rest of the suite, but it was definitely not to her taste. The cool-looking blue carpet contrasted perfectly with the rich cream taffeta spread on the king-sized bed. The Louis XIV chair in the corner of the room was cushioned in the same patterned cream taffeta. It was all very fastidious, expensive, and icily impersonal. Evidently this stiff, aloof beauty was what the hotel management considered suitable for its most august guests. Personally, she preferred a little more informality and color in her surroundings, and she had an idea that Lance Rubinoff did too.
As Honey entered the spacious blue-and-white bathroom and began to strip off her pants suit, she firmly dismissed Rubinoff from her consciousness. He had been occupying her thoughts far too much lately. She pulled the pins from her hair and let it tumble down her back in wild silky profusion. There was certainly no possibility of her leaving her hair loose just because that wild, impossible man liked it that way. No possibility at all.
THREE
“D ID I TELL you how beautiful you are this evening?” Lance Rubinoff murmured in her ear as he took her black velvet wrap and seated her with graceful panache at the small table. “Your hair shines like silver against that black velvet. I’m glad you wore it down.”
Honey fingered a long tress almost guiltily. “It had nothing to do with you. I just decided that there was no use antagonizing Alex unnecessarily.” She touched the skirt of the simple black velvet sheath she was wearing. “And my intention was not to be beautiful, just discreet.”
Rubinoff’s lips quirked and one eyebrow arched mockingly as his gaze ran over her lingeringly. The dress in question may have been modest in cut, with its bateau neckline and long tight sleeves, which ended at her wrists, but on Honey’s full, graceful figure it took on a tactile sensuality that was causing every man in the crowded smoky room to stare at her with distinct lasciviousness.
“Sorry, sweetheart, you didn’t succeed,” he drawled as he
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