The Prince And The Nanny. Cara Colter

his dark coloring and the fact she had not inspected his toenails, though his nostrils were a definite pass. Still, the feeling was not appropriate—not nanny and prince, but man and woman.

      The universe was being exceedingly cruel! She jerked her hand out of his. There was no feeling in the world she had to fight more than that one! Oh, how that feeling could make a woman weak, and cloud her judgment.

      She should know.

      No, there was no trusting yourself once that zing, was in the air, once that hope blossomed to life. In no time at all, she would be wasting hours of her life mooning, shopping for the perfect little thinking-of-you card, waiting for the phone to ring, trying on dresses with a view to what he might like.

      She was having this reaction without his passing the toenail test!

      It felt as if every bit of progress she had made in the last six months was suddenly threatened by a single touch from this stranger. It was as if the bottom was falling out of her world, as if she was tumbling crazily down with it.

      “Miss Winslow,” he said, and his voice was an enchantment—deep, masculine, faintly musical. “What a pleasure.”

      She loved his accent. She tried to bite out Your Royal Highness, but somehow she could not. If she knew how to curtsy, she suspected she would!

      She tried to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear, failed, and then shoved her hands behind her back.

      Say something, she ordered herself. “Hi.”

      She felt the man in the green uniform’s tiny flinch, but if the prince was in any way offended it did not show.

      He regarded her with those clear, astonishing eyes, and then smiled faintly.

      The smile was devastating, despite the fact his two front teeth were faintly crooked and over lapped each other. Crooked teeth was on her list!

      Still, that smile took the faint sternness on a face too young to hold sternness and washed it away. The faint imperfection of his teeth was oddly appealing.

      So, despite the teeth his mouth was entirely kissable. One kiss and she would know. Prince, or toad?

      Stop it, she ordered herself.

      “Please,” he said, “have a seat.” He gestured to a chair, and then took a seat on the sofa at right angles to it. “Would you care for a refreshment?”

      Whiskey on the rocks. Make it a double. “No, thank you.” She knew she should add Your Royal Highness or at least sir, but she was unable to do so, barely able to squeak out her refusal.

      “Tell me a little about yourself,” he invited.

      She stared at him, and then asked, flabbergasted, “Why?”

      He frowned slightly. She suspected he was not accustomed to any request being questioned. Arrogant, she reminded herself. Still, he regarded her so thoughtfully she had to fight to keep from squirming.

      Finally he said, “I read about your act of heroism in the newspaper. I’m here in New York on business. It made me curious about you.”

      “Oh.” There was a terrible desire to spill it all—about the fear and loneliness and crippling self-doubt and self-evaluation and humiliation since her father’s death. There was a terrible desire to dismiss the arrogance, and trust whatever it was she saw in those eyes.

      Depth?

      Those eyes, she reminded herself, that had complete strangers in the lobby making fools of themselves, waving signs that said Someday My Prince Will Come.

      “There’s nothing to know,” she said, hastily, her voice cool in defense of that familiar craving that she felt.

      His silence was as commanding as his question had been, so she added, “Really.”

      He still said nothing, and so she felt compelled to fill the silence between them.

      “It wasn’t an act of heroism,” she said hurriedly, though she realized probably one did not correct the prince. “It wasn’t anything of the sort. It happened very quickly, and I never once made a conscious decision. I was crossing the street with the light, I realized a car was coming much too quickly, and that it wasn’t going to stop. I managed to shove the stroller out of the way, the car hit me. Not even very hard, really.”

      She had a bruise on her hip the size of a pineapple, but even thinking about her naked hip in the presence of the prince seemed wildly off color, like thinking of nine fannies, which of course now she was!

      “But isn’t that the nature of true courage?” he asked softly, “That it comes naturally, without a conscious thought?”

      “No,” she said, “it’s not. True courage is to feel fear, and then to act in an honorable way, despite that.”

      “Is it possible both forms are equally relevant?”

      She had a feeling of being in a dream. She, who was only an hour removed from having butterscotch pudding spilled down her front, she who had irreverent and uncontrollable thoughts about the name of her employer’s most dignified business, she who thought about toilet paper wrapped dogs at funerals, was now sitting in a suite having a philosophical conversation with a prince. She was trying desperately to see him through the filter of her Fatal Flaws List, and just as desperately trying to conduct herself with some semblance of grace.

      Prudence might have laughed at the absurdity of life, if she didn’t make the mistake of meeting his eyes.

      She saw it again. Depth. Something absurdly compelling. Eyes like that could make a woman do or say something really stupid.

      Mrs. Smith’s Academy of Nine Fannies.

      “It wasn’t courage,” she insisted. “Instinct.”

      “A mother having that kind of instinct I could understand. But to put yourself in such peril for a child that was not your own, that is something else.”

      “I’m trying to tell you it was nothing,” she said.

      “And I’m trying to tell you,” he said, his voice soft with command, “that it was something.”

      “Oh.” Nearly as bad as hi but the man was stealing her breath and her wits at the same time as he was being arrogant! He hadn’t even been there. Who was he to decide what it had or hadn’t been?

      “I am considering offering you a position in my household.”

      She stared at him, aghast. She was barely going to be able to survive this interview with her vow intact. No men. No kisses. No attractions. No dates. No. No. No. She had six months to go! He was flawed, obviously, but to test herself by working in his household? Never!

      “Your Royal Prince,” she said, “I don’t want to work for you. I mean in your household. I mean I am very happy where I’m at.”

      Your Royal Prince! Mrs. Smith should have never trusted her with this kind of delicate assignment!

      She didn’t like that smile one little bit, now. It said clearly that what she wanted was of little or no significance to him.

      His life was about getting what he wanted. She suspected always. She hated that. Men who always get what they want was moving to number one on her list.

      “I look after children,” she stated uneasily. “What would I do in your household?”

      “I have two children,” he answered.

      For some reason that left her flummoxed. She hadn’t thought he was married. Why not? How couldn’t he be? When he looked like that, and obviously the female population was intent on throwing themselves at him, how could he be unattached?

      Oh, so this was what the universe was showing her. The prince was not ugly, fat, old or bald, though he did have some flaws. The biggest one: yippee, he was unavailable. She should be dancing for joy! Instead she felt strangely bereft, already giving in