Capturing the Crown Bundle. Nina Bruhns

cleared their throat.

      “Who asked that?” Voice deadly calm, Chase searched their faces. No one stepped forward.

      “Then we’re done here,” he said, taking Sydney’s arm to lead her off.

      “I have one more question.” A woman wearing too much makeup and an overloud orange dress raised her hand.

      Chase sighed. “Go ahead.”

      “Miss Conner, you never answered the question.” Her broad face had the determination of a bulldog. “Is there any truth to the rumor that you and Prince Reginald were married before his death?”

      His expression furious, Chase shook his head.

      “She’s engaged to me,” he said.

      Several in the crowd gasped audibly, but none louder than Sydney.

      Once said, Chase wanted to call those words back. He had no idea what had come over him. The declaration had just popped out. From nowhere. He knew better. What he’d said was not only foolish, but improbable, implausible and highly suspect. Yet now, having said them, he realized he’d have to make them work—somehow, until something could be done to rectify his mistake.

      Sydney gazed up at him, her eyes wide and impossibly blue. “Engaged? We are so not—”

      “Talking about this now,” Chase put in smoothly. Then, partly because she had a mutinous set to her chin, and partly because her open mouth just looked so damn inviting, he kissed her again.

      As before, the moment his mouth covered hers, he was lost in a tidal wave of desire and need. Standing stiffly, she sighed into his mouth. Then, as lust all but consumed him, she brought her arms up around his neck, tangled her free hand in his hair, and held him in place. Her tongue stroked and tempted and teased and either she was the best damn actress he’d ever met, or she craved him as badly as he wanted her.

      He almost forgot they were standing in a hospital surrounded by reporters. His desire for Sydney filled him, and any other time, any other place, they would have made hot, urgent love.

      Out of the question. He lifted his head, breathing raggedly, and fought to regain his shattered control.

      Now though, the ultimate PR professional had a pressing problem. With her wild kisses and her body melded so close to his, she’d aroused the hell out of him. They had a crowd of spectators. If he turned to face the reporters now, they’d know exactly how much he wanted Sydney, his brand new fiancée.

      Her breathing as ragged as his, she hid her face against his chest, her color high.

      The reporters all shouted questions—and ribald comments—at once. Dimly he became aware of flashbulbs popping. Damn. He had to hand it to her. Sydney had succeeded in making him do what he’d never done in his entire career in public relations—lose control in front of the press. Hell, he thought ruefully, hanging on to the last shreds of his tattered restraint as he eyed the news cameras, in this case, in front of the entire world.

      Still, he couldn’t help longing to finish what he’d inadvertently started. Another time, another place…

      Regretfully, he took a deep breath and, keeping Sydney tight against him, turned partially to face them. Ignoring the upraised hands, the videocams, the shouts, he forced his expression into an indulgent smile. “Ladies, gentlemen. May we have a little privacy, please?” A foolish request. He knew it, they knew it, but by simply asking, he’d guaranteed himself a bit more time to get his unruly hormones under control.

      As he’d expected, this caused a good-natured uproar. Most laughed and shouted ribald jokes. A few loudly protested. While they argued among themselves, Chase tried to think of playing golf, which was the most calming, un-sexy thing he could think of.

      He had to give Sydney credit. Though one look at her dilated pupils and unsteady breathing told him she was just as affected as he, she smoothed her hair with one hand, her shirt with the other, and straightened. When she did look toward the crowd, her serene expression gave nothing away.

      She wore, he thought with grudging respect, the face of someone used to dealing with the press. In his line of work, he had to admire that. Royals like her made his job that much easier.

      Together they ignored the reporters. Thirty seconds later, feeling almost normal, he removed his arm from Sydney’s shoulders.

      “So are you aiming to move up in the palace hierarchy, Mr. Savage?”

      He answered smoothly, though he knew what they meant. “Not possible. I don’t have royal blood. You should know better than that.”

      “But she does.” A woman with short dark hair, dressed casually in faded jeans and hiking boots, pointed at Sydney. “She’s a princess of Naessa. What does this bode for the two countries’ continued relations?”

      Political implications. Not good. Carrington hadn’t briefed him on the official palace response.

      While he searched for a suitable nonanswer, Sydney straightened and lifted her chin. With his hand still on her shoulder, he could feel her tension—she all but vibrated with it.

      Her blue eyes were cool as she measured the other woman. “No, as someone else so succinctly pointed out earlier, I’m illegitimate. I have no real title. I’m certain there are quite a few of Prince Kerwin’s by-blows running around Naessa. My actions carry neither political clout nor connotations.”

      This brought another round of shouted queries.

      Sydney held up her hand. “You know and I know that I have no real claim to fame. I live a quiet life, not bothering anyone. And no one, including the press, bothers me. Most importantly, I don’t think any of this makes me particularly newsworthy.”

      “You were seen quite frequently with Prince Reginald, before he died.”

      She sighed. “He was a great fan of the symphony.”

      The dryness of her tone made a few of them chuckle.

      “Were you two lovers while she was sleeping with the Prince?” Paul Seacrist, of Silvershire Inquisitor fame, stepped forward. The tabloid, known as The Quiz, bore the logo of a large, all-seeing eye. Which often felt particularly appropriate, since their cameramen seemed to be everywhere.

      Sydney gasped. Chase squeezed her shoulder, letting her know he intended to handle this one himself.

      At the smug knowing leer on the man’s pinched face, a stab of anger went through Chase, sharp as a knife. If he gave in to impulse and punched the guy out, there’d be hell to pay. What a field day they’d have with that!

      He took a deep breath. He hadn’t gotten to his position as head of PR by losing control.

      Quieting, all the reporters watched them, waiting for a reaction, cameras ready.

      Suddenly, Chase realized he recognized the voice. It had been Seacrist who earlier had hurt Sydney by calling her illegitimate and unwanted. He took a step forward.

      Seacrist continued to wait expectantly. Something in his expression told Chase he knew if Chase touched him, not only would he have the story of the year, but a million-dollar lawsuit, as well.

      Damn it!

      It took all of his training and skill, but Chase kept his head. “You’ve just insulted me, Miss Conner and the deceased prince. I expect an apology. Now.”

      “Apology?” The other man looked disappointed. “I was only asking a simple question. I meant no insult.”

      Chase inclined his head, accepting the reporter’s words, since he could do little else.

      There were more questions, all routine. Chase fielded two or three about the baby, answering in such generalities that he told them absolutely nothing. He’d developed a knack for this sort of thing, appearing to be utterly forthright while revealing little of the truth.

      Doing