Was it a dream? No, he thought it seemed more like a desire. And it excited the hell out of him to know the princess had written out her sexual fantasy ... perhaps a whole diary of fantasies?
Yes, there was definitely more to Lauren Ash than met the eye. If this was any indication, Lucky's take on her must be right. Nick barely knew her, had barely seen her, but God, he wanted her.
Then a bigger truth struck him.
Without quite meaning to, he'd just taken something from her, something huge, something he couldn't give back if he wanted to. No matter what he thought of her, and even regardless of coming into her house, he'd never meant to invade her privacy and could scarcely imagine a more private thing to have found. The realization was like a spear through his chest, guilt surging inside him.
Close the book, damn it. Close it. You shouldn't be here.
This was SO wrong.
Yet still, his heart raced like a teenager in possession of his first smuggled Playboy, and he found it painfully hard to resist finding out what else the princess saw in her mind when she lay down to sleep at night.
Close it. Now.
A noise jarred him and he jerked upright in the chair, yanking his gaze from the book.
The garage door. Shit.
Snapping the volume shut, he shoved it back in the precise spot he'd taken it from, then headed for the stairs, his heart threatening to pound through his chest. As he reached the foyer, he heard the door that led inside and knew it was too late. He stood statue-still beneath the chandelier, just waiting to be found. His mind spun, trying to devise a plausible reason to be in her house. There was none.
But then his brain finally started working, racing, forming a mental layout of the downstairs. If she headed to the kitchen, maybe he could get out through the front door. If she came through the dining room toward the stairs, though, he might be able to circle back the way he'd come in, if he was quiet enough.
He remained perfectly motionless, every reflex poised, hoping against hope he'd somehow be able to anticipate her moves. He could scarcely believe he'd ended up in such an unbelievable situation~espite a somewhat reckless youth, he'd never done anything that had felt this insanely criminal.
"Hi, Izzy, I'm home. Did you miss me?"
Izzy. Must be the cat. He thought the princess's voice had come from the kitchen. And even in his state of panic, he hadn't missed the affection, the genuine sweetness in her tone, a totally different timbre than he'd heard from her before-and it was reserved for the cat?
"Oh, fine," she said, sounding pouty. "Go running off to your precious pillow. See if I care. I have plenty of work to do anyway."
Work. In her office upstairs? He had no other choice than to assume that and act accordingly. He shuffled across the tile with slow, careful movements, pausing in the hallway that led to the back of the house where he'd come in, and waited, waited. until he heard her heels click toward the winding stairs.
Only when he felt reasonably sure she'd reached the second floor did he make a beeline for the back door. Creeping across more tile, gently turning the knob, he inched the French door open-and it squeaked.
Rather than wait around to see if she came running down the stairs, though, he stepped back out into the raging summer heat, reached in his pocket for the key, and quickly locked the door behind him.
Dropping the key back beneath the ceramic turtle that sprouted begonias from its shell, he took heavy strides around the house toward his van. Seemed like a smart time to go have lunch.
People never gave Davy funny looks until he started talking. He'd never figured out exactly why it made them realize he was different, but that's always when the change came.
A pretty woman could smile at him in a restaurant, but if he gathered the courage to say hi, her eyes would freeze up, and he'd see the smile sort of stick on her face like it was cut out and glued there, hiding something behind
Yes, there was definitely more to Lauren Ash than met the eye. If this was any indication, Lucky's take on her must be right. Nick barely knew her, had barely seen her, but God, he wanted her.
Then a bigger truth struck him.
Without quite meaning to, he'd just taken something from her, something huge, something he couldn't give back if he wanted to. No matter what he thought of her, and even regardless of coming into her house, he'd never meant to invade her privacy and could scarcely imagine a more private thing to have found. The realization was like a spear through his chest, guilt surging inside him.
Close the book, damn it. Close it. You shouldn't be here.
This was SO wrong.
Yet still, his heart raced like a teenager in possession of his first smuggled Playboy, and he found it painfully hard to resist finding out what else the princess saw in her mind when she lay down to sleep at night.
Close it. Now.
A noise jarred him and he jerked upright in the chair, yanking his gaze from the book.
The garage door. Shit.
Snapping the volume shut, he shoved it back in the precise spot he'd taken it from, then headed for the stairs, his heart threatening to pound through his chest. As he reached the foyer, he heard the door that led inside and knew it was too late. He stood statue-still beneath the chandelier, just waiting to be found. His mind spun, trying to devise a plausible reason to be in her house. There was none.
But then his brain finally started working, racing, forming a mental layout of the downstairs. If she headed to the kitchen, maybe he could get out through the front door. If she came through the dining room toward the stairs, though, he might be able to circle back the way he'd come in, if he was quiet enough.
He remained perfectly motionless, every reflex poised, hoping against hope he'd somehow be able to anticipate her moves. He could scarcely believe he'd ended up in such an unbelievable situation~espite a somewhat reckless youth, he'd never done anything that had felt this insanely criminal.
"Hi, Izzy, I'm home. Did you miss me?"
Izzy. Must be the cat. He thought the princess's voice had come from the kitchen. And even in his state of panic, he hadn't missed the affection, the genuine sweetness in her tone, a totally different timbre than he'd heard from her before-and it was reserved for the cat?
"Oh, fine," she said, sounding pouty. "Go running off to your precious pillow. See if I care. I have plenty of work to do anyway."
Work. In her office upstairs? He had no other choice than to assume that and act accordingly. He shuffled across the tile with slow, careful movements, pausing in the hallway that led to the back of the house where he'd come in, and waited, waited. until he heard her heels click toward the winding stairs.
Only when he felt reasonably sure she'd reached the second floor did he make a beeline for the back door. Creeping across more tile, gently turning the knob, he inched the French door open-and it squeaked.
Rather than wait around to see if she came running down the stairs, though, he stepped back out into the raging summer heat, reached in his pocket for the key, and quickly locked the door behind him.
Dropping the key back beneath the ceramic turtle that sprouted begonias from its shell, he took heavy strides around the house toward his van. Seemed like a smart time to go have lunch.
People never gave Davy funny looks until he started talking. He'd never figured out exactly why it made them realize he was different, but that's always when the change came.
A pretty woman could smile at him in a restaurant, but if he gathered the courage to say hi, her eyes would freeze up, and he'd see the smile sort of stick on her face like it was cut out and glued there, hiding something behind
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