“This is ridiculous.” But when she tried to shift away, he blocked her again. “You don’t even like me, really, and I—well I’ve always …” His eyes were so dark, dark, amused and as hypnotic as the view from her window. “That is, I’ve always thought that …”

“I don’t recall that you stuttered before.”

“I didn’t. I don’t.” She passed a hand through her hair. “You’re making me very nervous.”

“I know. It’s amazingly rewarding.”

“Well, I don’t like it. No,” she said weakly, when he lowered his mouth to hers. This time it wasn’t wild or desperate, but soft and teasing. The hand she had lifted in protest fell limply to her side. She didn’t reach for him, didn’t touch him, but stood swaying … floating … drowning.

The triumph should have moved through him. She was his now; he could feel it in the way her head fell back, her lips parted. At that moment she was completely open to him, his to fill with whatever needs moved through him. But instead of triumph came an ache, a need to stroke, protect, soothe. Promise. He wanted the thrill, and was left with the thirst.

“Go wash your face,” he murmured, and stepped aside.

Eve was out of the room faster than dignity allowed.

* * *

Eve took a hard look at herself in the mirror of the rest room backstage. She was making a fool of herself—and it was going to stop. For whatever reason of his own, Alexander had decided to play games. That didn’t mean she had to go along with it. He was making her feel foolish. Look foolish. She could tolerate a great deal, but not that. Pride was vital to her, pride in who she was, in what she’d made of and for herself. She wasn’t going to turn into a babbling idiot because Alexander had suddenly decided she’d make a good playmate. Or bedmate.

That made her swallow quickly. Years before she’d hoped for his attention, even in her girlish way dreamed of it. She’d been stung by his disinterest, galled by his silent disapproval. She’d gotten over all of that. She scrubbed at her hands for the third time.

Maybe the problem was that she’d begun to think of Alexander as a person again, as a man. Things would be better if she thought of him as His Royal Highness—a title, aloof, lofty and a bit cold.

It didn’t come easy when she could still feel the way the warmth had transferred from his lips to hers.