The Prince and The Marriage Pact. Valerie Parv

      “And then?”

      “All right, I had some thought of researching the Champagne Pact for my TV series.”

      If she hadn’t felt so terrible, Annegret knew she wouldn’t have made the admission so readily. In her experience, people were more open if they didn’t know her purpose, at least not at first. Ethics demanded that she identify herself at some point, but she hadn’t lied to the prince. She had come to his country for Donna’s sake.

      As teenagers, she and Donna had sworn a childish oath to attend one another’s weddings, imagining the handsome men who would one day sweep them off their feet. It had happened to Donna. For herself, Annegret wasn’t sure it was ever going to. Prince Maxim might look like the magnificent specimen who had starred in her young dreams, but there the resemblance ended.

      He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Was that why you were snooping around, looking for the painting?”

      She felt a flash of annoyance. “I wasn’t snooping. No one stopped me from exploring, so I did.”

      “Unfortunately, I can’t argue with you.” His tone said the security lapse would be fixed so it wouldn’t happen again. Heads would roll, she didn’t doubt.

      She didn’t want it to be on her account. “Please don’t hold your people responsible. I was the one at fault.” Fleetingly, she wondered what her colleagues back home would say if they could hear their take-no-prisoners boss pleading with royalty.

      His jaw hardened. “Nonetheless, they are responsible. However, since the same circumstances are unlikely to occur again, a reprimand should suffice.”

      She couldn’t help herself. “It must be nice having so much power,” she said dryly.

      Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he observed, “The same might be said about you.”

      Given that she was the one lying flat on her back on a hospital bed, even one as luxurious as this, she was puzzled, and said so.

      He freed a hand to gesture elegantly. “In your line of work, you reach millions of people with your belief that royalty is parasitical and unproductive.”

      “I never said that.”

      “You imply it every time you deal with the subject.”

      Since it was what she believed, she couldn’t argue. But his suggestion that she was one-sided in her handling of it stung more than the doctor’s shot. “I haven’t had much luck convincing your peers to tell their side of the story.”

      His gimlet gaze skewered her. “Our side?”

      She shifted restively, wishing their relative positions didn’t put her at such a disadvantage. She settled for raising herself higher on the pillow. This time he didn’t try to restrain her. Pity. “There you go,” she stated. “You don’t feel you have anything to prove, do you?”

      “Not to you.”

      “What about to the people who believe royalty is a relic of the past?”

      “Preaching to the converted isn’t the same as presenting a balanced viewpoint.”

      She felt another flash of annoyance. He had a knack for touching sore spots, she’d noticed. That wasn’t all he touched. The way he looked at her now, arrogant enough to prove his point and yet self-assured enough not to care, made her mouth go dry.

      He wore a designer suit that skimmed the taut lines of his body. Handmade shoes polished to a mirror shine. Every hair was in place except for an errant curl escaping across his high forehead. That curl managed to make him look distractingly human, and she felt her hand stir, wanting to brush it back for him.

      Resolutely she folded her fingers into a fist, burying it in the cashmere blanket she was resting on. “Are you accusing me of bias, Your Highness?”

      “If the shoe fits.”

      Instead of the ire she expected to feel, satisfaction poured through her. “You realize what you’ve done? Now you have to give me an interview about the Champagne Pact.” She played her trump card. “For balance.”

      He waited long enough for his silence to tell her he didn’t have to do anything. “I’ll consider it,” he said finally. “In the meantime, you’re to rest.”

      In truth, she needed to rest, but not here. “I don’t have anything with me for an overnight stay.”

      “The staff will provide for your needs. Are you hungry?”

      By rights her reaction to the plant venom should have killed her appetite. It hadn’t. “A little,” she admitted.

      “I’ll have a meal sent in to you.”

      This had gone far enough. “Now that your doctor’s potion has done its job, I’d prefer to return to my hotel. I can rest there as easily as I can here. If it makes you feel better, you can provide a limo for me and a guard to make sure I get there.”

      The prince stepped closer, looming over her. “I have a better idea. You can spend the night in one of the guest suites, where the doctor will be on call.”

      It was an improvement on remaining where she was. “Very well.”

      “And dine with me.”

      “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

      More than she had already done, his expression telegraphed more effectively than words. “Think nothing of it. I’ll give the orders. When you’re recovered enough to move, someone will escort you to me.”

      “I’m ready now.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, gripping the edge when the room swam around her. She didn’t resist when he turned her shoulders and eased her back onto the pillow. “Well, maybe in a little while,” she conceded, alarmed at feeling so weak.

      He smiled. “Take all the time you need.”

      She let her eyes drift shut and the room slowly steadied. She heard the prince talking to the doctor, but felt too enervated to focus on what they were saying. She should be pleased with herself. She had gained something that had long eluded her—an honest-to-goodness prince who was willing to talk about royal life from the inside. If she could convince him to do it on camera, she would have an award-winning program.

      Not a bad payoff for getting herself attacked by a carnivorous plant, she thought as her senses shut down.

      She awoke feeling disoriented. Then memory flooded back. She sat up cautiously, but the room stayed steady. The doctor’s potion and a long rest had done their work. “What time is it?” she asked the nurse who came in and checked a chart at the foot of her bed.

      The woman dropped a hand to Annegret’s wrist and counted beats before saying, “It’s almost six.”

      Watching the nurse make a note on the chart, Annegret asked, “Six in the evening?”

      The nurse replaced the chart. “You slept so soundly, Prince Maxim ordered that you not be disturbed.”

      Warmth infused Annegret. She had dreamed of Maxim standing over her, taking her hand. Had it only been a dream? “Was he here while I was asleep?”

      “Twice. Would you like to freshen up? He had someone fetch your things from the Hotel de Merrisand. They’ll be conveyed to your suite as soon as you are discharged from the infirmary.”

      Annegret was sure she hadn’t told him the name of her hotel, and she most certainly hadn’t given permission for anyone to go into her room. “How did he…”

      “He is the prince,” the nurse said, as if it explained everything.

      Perhaps it did. At least Annegret could be thankful he hadn’t gone to her hotel room himself. She found it easier to think of a stranger touching her personal belongings, than to imagine Maxim doing it. It would be like having him touch her.

      A