By Order of the Prince. Carla Cassidy

a little wired myself,” she admitted.

      “Perhaps we could go back to your place, have a cup of coffee and talk about things.”

      He could tell he’d shocked her. “Prince Antoine, my home is small and simple. It’s not exactly fit for a prince,” she replied.

      “A comfortable chair, some hot coffee and a little company is all I’d like. And please, call me Antoine.”

      “Then you can call me Beth. Coffee sounds good and then I’ll be glad to take you back to the resort. My place is only ten minutes from there.”

      “Then it’s settled, coffee at your house.” He leaned back against the seat and stared out the side window into the darkness. You’re a cliché, he thought ruefully. He was a prince who was afraid to trust anyone, with an aching depth of loneliness inside him and the mantle of power weighing heavily, definitely a cliché.

      For the past three weeks Antoine had done nothing but worry and wonder about the attack, about what danger might come from what unexpected source.

      He’d had long dialogues with the other men in the COIN coalition. Prince Stefan Lutece, Sheik Efraim Aziz, Sheik Amir Khalid and Antoine and his brother had all come here in the hopes of trade agreements with the United States that would benefit their small countries and instead had found nothing but treachery, danger and betrayal.

      At the moment Antoine was sick of it all. The resort had become a place of intense stress, of people yammering at him and palpable tension that filled the air the moment he stepped out of his rooms. He was looking forward to a little more time away from the luxurious surroundings.

      Beth turned off the road they had been traveling and onto a narrower road with deep embankments and thick trees on either side. “You drive this every night after dark?” he asked.

      “It’s the only way for me to get home. It’s not too bad as long as you make sure you stay on the road.”

      A small laugh escaped him. “That would be an understatement. I’m sure it gets quite dangerous in the winter.”

      “I call this car my little engine that could.” She tapped the steering wheel with a long slender finger. “Although I have to admit more than once in the winters somebody from the hotel has had to come to get me because I don’t have four-wheel drive.”

      He could tell she was beginning to relax with each minute they spent together. He wanted that. For just a little while he wanted to be treated like an ordinary man and not like a prince.

      “This feels very isolated,” he said as the trees on either side of the road seemed to crawl closer.

      “It is. It’s a pretty big spread but most of it hasn’t been cleared or anything. My grandfather bought the land years ago, long before there was a resort. My father and mother chose to make it their home after my grandparents died and I’ve always lived here. I like the isolation, the beautiful nature that surrounds me when I step outside my front or back door. Is your country beautiful?”

      “White beaches, blue seas, lush flowers…yes, Barajas is very beautiful, but I find Wyoming to be as beautiful, just different.”

      She turned off the road and onto a driveway that led to a small cottage. A light shone from the front porch, a welcome beacon in the darkness that had fallen. Colorful flowers spilled from boxes under the windows. It looked like something from a fairy tale, an enchanted cottage in the middle of the wilderness.

      “It’s not much,” she said with a touch of defensiveness. “But it’s all mine and I love it here.” This time her words held an obvious sense of pride.

      The sense of welcome that the porch light had emitted continued on into the house. As Antoine stepped inside the living room the earthy burnt orange and browns of the décor instantly put him at rest.

      “Please, have a seat.” She gestured him toward the overstuffed sofa. “I’m just going to get out of my uniform. I’ll be right back to start the coffee.”

      She disappeared down the hallway and Antoine sank into the comfortable couch cushion and gazed around the room. Like subtle facial features that could give away internal emotions and weaknesses, he knew a room could speak volumes about the person who lived in it.

      A bookcase stood against one wall, one of the shelves filled with framed photos of Beth with an older woman who appeared to be her mother. The television was small, as if watching it wasn’t a top priority. A paperback lay on the end of the coffee table, the couple’s clinch on the cover letting him know it was a romance novel. A wind chime tinkled a lovely melody from someplace outside the windows.

      A lonely romantic who loved nature, he thought. There was no sign of a man’s presence anywhere in the room. An old record player sat next to a stack of ancient LPs and it was easy for him to imagine her curled on the sofa with a book in hand while old, romantic music filled the house.

      He looked up as she returned to the room, clad in a pair of jeans that looked slightly worn and hugged her long slender legs to perfection. Her mint-green T-shirt fit a little big but not so much that he didn’t notice the press of her full breasts against the material.

      He suddenly wished he was in a pair of jeans, on the back of a horse with her, her arms wrapped tightly around him as they rode carefree across a pasture. It was a vision that brought the first burst of pleasure he’d felt since arriving in Wyoming.

      “Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make the coffee,” she said.

      He followed after her, unable to avoid noticing the way her jeans cupped her shapely buttocks. Why was there no man in her life? A woman like her should have a man to thrill her with his lovemaking and then hold her tight through the darkness of the night.

      The kitchen was a surprise. Large and airy, with a breakfast nook that was surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows, it was obviously the heart of the house. Gourmet copper-bottomed pans hung from a rack above the stove and a variety of cooking-aid machines lined the counters.

      “You like to cook.” He stated the obvious.

      She flashed him a bright smile that warmed him in places he hadn’t realized were cold. “I love to cook. It’s my secret passion.” She pointed him to the round oak table in the nook. “Have a seat. The coffee will be ready in just a minute and I have some leftover red velvet cake to go with it.”

      He sat and enjoyed the view of her bustling to get the coffee brewing. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed the pleasure of a woman. For weeks before the trip to the resort there had been meeting after meeting to decide what to offer and what they needed from the trade agreements they intended to make. There had been almost no time for any kind of a social life.

      “Hopefully Jane will have something for you tomorrow,” she said as she placed a creamer and sugar bowl on the table. Then went back to the counter and returned with a platter holding a cake that looked as if it had just come out of a bakery.

      “Hopefully,” he replied. “But I don’t want to talk about any of that tonight. Tonight I want to talk about ordinary things, things that don’t set off a burn of anger in my belly. I noticed that you have a lot of pictures of you and your mother in the living room.”

      “Yes. My dad died when I was six and when I was thirteen my mom developed a severe heart condition. Unfortunately she passed away three years ago.”

      “My parents died when I was young.” A long-remembered grief touched Antoine’s heart. He thought about the horrific night of his parents’ deaths often, recognized and never forgot the lesson he’d learned that night.

      “I’m so sorry.” She poured the coffee and carried the cups to the table, then sank down in the chair opposite his. “Was it some kind of an accident?”

      “Actually, they were murdered.” She gasped and he continued, “My father was initially my mother’s bodyguard. He was an American, an ex-mercenary and they fell in love and married. Unfortunately my father had