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I hate that I’m being won over by these luxuries. I hate that I like feeling special. I should be criticizing everything. But is it so bad to enjoy nice things once in a while?
A weight presses down on the back of my seat, and something deep in my gut tightens. Staring at my little bag of goodies, I try to ignore the hard, fast thumping in my heart.
That smell…that presence…
It’s not Will Broderick standing behind me. It’s a man whose voice does something visceral to my body. “You seem to be enjoying your gift bag, Miss Crawley. Or were you planning on returning that, too?”
Everything goes still, yet my body rages. Blood turns to fire as I force myself to rotate my head, but I already know what I’ll find behind me.
Prince Silas is leaning a forearm against the back of my chair, that coy smirk dancing over his lips. My eyes snag on the arm that leans against my chair. The long, graceful fingers, neat fingernails, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. The shirt straining against his biceps, and casual openness of the top button. He’s…effortless. A stray dark-brown curl falls over his forehead as his eyes twinkle. Yes, they freaking twinkle. Ugh. He arches a brow as he meets my eye, then takes a long few moments to let his gaze drift over my lips, my neck, my chest, and all the way down to my feet.
I…I like the way he looks at me. I like the heat that floods my veins wherever he looks. The tightening of my gut, the way every inch of my body feels too sensitive whenever he’s around.
Moving slowly, I zip up the bag of goodies and place it to the side. I wait for Prince Silas's gaze to reach mine again, not missing the heat in his eyes as they sweep over my body. Heat reflected in my own eyes, I’m sure. My mouth is bone-dry, and the only thing I can do is sit here and try to control my raging heart.
I know I’m in trouble.
Clearing my throat, I straighten up and give him a nod. “Prince Silas,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I was told your brother would be leading the tour.” Mercifully, my voice doesn’t tremble. To me it sounds thin and tinny, but my ears are whistling so loudly it’s hard to tell.
Silas's lips curl, and the knotting in my stomach becomes almost painful. Heat whips across my thighs as I clench them together, trying to think of anything except the way his mouth moves when he speaks. “Change of plans, Jazz.”
I close my eyes for a beat. I told him to call me by my nickname, but hearing it on his tongue…it does something for me. Something hot and fiery and deep. Something that most definitely will get in the way of me doing my job.
I expect the Prince to move on to someone else, to greet the half-dozen other reporters, to make a little speech before we take off. Instead, he slides into the seat across from me and stretches his long legs out. His ankle brushes mine, sending sparks flying up my legs. I resist the urge to pull away. That little spot of connection between us thrums with heat. Energy.
From the far end of the plane, I see Will Broderick’s head poke up above the seats like a meerkat. I feel his gaze on me, but I ignore it. He’ll tease me about this, I’m sure. Ask me why I’m getting special attention.
Prince Silas leans his hand on his knuckles, elbow on the armrest of his seat, watching me. “Why did you send it back?”
I know he means the chain. Swallowing past the mass in my throat, I sketch a casual shrug. “It was inappropriate.”
“How so?”
“I’m not sure you’re aware of what I write, Your Highness. Or that I was scheduled to be on this tour. Both those things make me unable to accept gifts from you.”
“Well aware of what you write, Jazz,” he says, those sinful lips curling again. “I’ve been a fan of your work for a while.”
I snort. “As much a fan as I am of yours, I assume.”
The Prince doesn’t answer right away. His eyes search mine for a moment, body completely relaxed in the seat across from me, ankle still touching mine. Why can I feel that in the pit of my stomach? Why is the heat of his ankle against my pant leg making me sweat?
He’s in control here, not me. I’m on his plane, his turf, his playground. “Looks like we’ll be spending the next few months together,” he finally says in a low voice that sends thrills rushing through my veins. “I look forward to it.”
Prince Silas is the second man to say that to me in the span of an hour, but this is the first time my body reacts the way it does. Heat whips through my core, blood turning to fire. I’m looking forward to it, too.
Then, the reality of my situation sets in. I won’t be able to keep the royals at arm’s length. I won’t be watching Prince Wolfe from a distance—I’ll be up close and personal with the first man who’s made me feel the heat of his touch in months.
Trouble doesn’t even begin to cover what I’m in.
8
Silas
The plane is so smooth on takeoff that I barely even realize we’ve left the ground. Glancing out the little oval-shaped window, my thoughts remain on the deck below. On Jacinthe.
It’s not right for a woman to look that good. As soon as I saw her walking across the tarmac, I knew I’d be heading down to talk to her. See her. Be close to her. It’s like there’s a tether stuck to my gut—or my cock—dragging me closer to her whenever she’s near. Half an hour after our conversation, I’m still sporting a semi.
Very princely of me.
