The Princess and the Bodyguard by Morgan Ashbury Page B

and rabble-rousers.”
    Rachel watched with interest as Peter’s hand, until now resting calmly on the table beside his place setting, pressed so hard against the cloth-covered surface that his knuckles whitened. “This isn’t something you should be taking lightly, Rachel,” he said tightly. “This is a serious situation. I don’t think these threats against you are a joke.”
    Marie entered, carrying a tray, and Rachel swallowed back her retort.
    “Oh, Mr. Jones,” the maid said, pausing before deftly settling Rachel’s breakfast in front of her. “I didn’t know you’d arrived.”
    “I’m in no hurry, Marie.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Rachel picked up her spoon to attack her yogurt first. Marie poured coffee in her cup, then carried the pot around the table to fill Peter’s.
    “Bacon or sausage this morning, sir?”
    “Sausage, thanks.”
    “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack eating greasy meat every morning,” Rachel said, unable to resist the urge to tease him.
    “Bite your tongue. If Robert hears you refer to his five-star cuisine as greasy, he’ll have a fit.”
    “Since you’re the only one in the household he cooks meat and eggs for every morning, I think he might agree with me. And I’m not taking the threat against me lightly, at all. I’ve been the soul of cooperation.”
    “You know, Your Highness, a woman goes banging on a man’s bedroom door late at night, she’s taking her reputation in her hands. She can never know what might happen to her.”
    Rachel had been ready for the non sequitur, but she felt a shiver run down her spine, regardless. His eyes and his tone both promised sensual delights, but she understood the warning he implied. She also knew he was fighting his attraction to her with Herculean effort. That, she couldn’t understand. What red-blooded, healthy, hetero man would refuse what she offered? She knew she wasn’t ugly. Maybe he wasn’t really hetero.
    “Are you gay?”
    “No, I’m not gay.”
    “Well, good. That would have thrown a spanner into the works, as you English say.”
    “I’m not English, I’m Canadian.”
    “Same thing.” Oh, it was hard not to smile when Peter gritted his teeth and came close to losing his cool. She set aside her yogurt and picked up her muffin. Downing the last of her coffee, she made the decision to sacrifice the rest of her breakfast time in favor of a strategic withdrawal. The scene only needed a final, parting shot.
    Tilting her head in what she hoped was a coquettish pose, she said, “You’re right, though. You can never know what might happen. Especially since I’ve decided that I’m not so much a woman of the new millennium as I had hoped. Who knew I could be old-fashioned? Anyway, darling, the next move is yours. But please, don’t wait too long. Wanting, and doing without, is painful. For both of us. And in this case, the pain is completely unnecessary.”
    She didn’t wait to see what affect her words had. She simply beat a hasty retreat to her apartment and to the work that awaited her there.

Chapter 7
     
     
    Peter’s temper rose by the minute.
    The little minx could have brought these folders down to him personally. But no, she’d dragooned her maid Gina into delivering them.
    The next time he saw her, he would—what? Closing his eyes, he massaged the bridge of his nose and faced the sad truth. He was fast coming to the end of his rope where Rachel de la Croix was concerned.
    So why not take what she offered?
    Getting up from his desk, he walked over to the window where he could watch the grounds staff hard at work in the garden. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he let his thoughts wander back.
    When he’d come to Boisdemer, he’d never intended to stay more than a year. He’d stayed three in England, a record for him since leaving home. He’d believed himself a gypsy at heart and that the wanderlust must have come down to him from generations past, when his forebears had left