Christmas in His Royal Bed / Rossellini's Revenge Affair. Yvonne Lindsay

platters and bottle of wine, to him. “You’re not planning on eating with me?” she asked, not bothering with even a modicum of civility as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and tapped the red-tipped toes of one bare foot impatiently.

      “We have a lot to do, as you’ve said, and I agree that taking dinner in your rooms is a good way to make rapid progress. We’ll eat on the balcony,” he added, pulling the cart out onto the terrace. “You’ll like it out there. Bring some of your files, if you like, and we can discuss them while we eat.”

      She didn’t say anything, but he wouldn’t have stopped if she had. Giving her the chance to respond was only inviting a refusal, and he had no intention of being put off.

      She followed him to the French doors, still without uttering a word, but stopped before actually stepping onto the balcony.

      It was still light outside, edging into dusk, and the bright shades of sunset could be seen on the far horizon. The temperature, normally quite comfortable at this time of year, was even warmer than usual, giving him no qualms about inviting her out in little more than a thin slip of satiny material.

      And if she got cold…well, he could think of several ways to heat things up quickly enough.

      He moved to the round, glass-topped table outside, and pretended not to be watching her as he transferred their dinner from the cart. In reality, however, he kept track of her in his peripheral view. He saw her fingers twisting nervously on the frame of the open double doors, and her bare toes curling on the threshold rather than taking the step that would bring her out onto the balcony.

      “Maybe I should change,” she said in a soft voice.

      Though he was careful not to let it show, he felt a flash of triumph. She had apparently accepted that arguing or asking him to leave was futile. He was here for dinner, and he meant to stay.

      Raising his head, he once again looked directly at her. He wanted her sitting across from him just like that, with her legs bare and the turquoise fabric bringing out the sparkle in her dark eyes.

      “What you’re wearing is fine,” he replied. “This is a casual meal, and we’ll be talking about the charities most of the time. In fact, I’ll join you in getting more comfortable.”

      Shrugging out of his suit jacket, he hung it neatly over the back of his chair, removed his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “How’s that?” he asked, giving her a moment to study his appearance. “I can remove more of my clothing if you like, but I have a feeling you would consider that a bit too casual. Am I right?”

      He cocked a brow, silently challenging her to deny it. If he had his way, they would both be naked before the night was over.

      For a second, she returned his look with a steady, rebellious one of her own, then spun around and disappeared into the bedroom.

      At first, he thought she’d gone to cover herself in battle armor. But she reappeared a moment later, still wearing the same nightgown and robe, and not a stitch more. She was also carrying a legal pad and small stack of folders.

      She took a seat and pulled her chair closer to the table, acting as though she was sitting down to a business lunch in a full business suit. But he certainly wasn’t going to complain now that he had her exactly where he wanted her.

      Following her lead, he lifted the silver covers from both plates and set them aside, then took his own seat across from her. He uncorked the bottle of wine, from one of Glendovia’s own vineyards, and poured a healthy portion for each of them.

      Nicolas made small talk while they ate. And though Alandra’s side of the conversation was stilted at first, eventually she relaxed and spoke to him as easily as she would anyone else.

      They’d just begun discussing the plans for the children’s home when a knock sounded at the sitting room door.

      “That will be dessert,” Nicolas announced. Rising to his feet, he slung his jacket over his arm. “Let’s move things into the other room, shall we?”

      He strolled in that direction, leaving her to follow with her stack of files.

      Before the waiting servant had a chance to knock a second time, Nicolas pulled the door open, gestured for him to enter and instructed him to serve the coffee and dessert at the low, square table in front of the fireplace.

      While that was being taken care of, Nicolas lowered the lights, then proceeded to build a small fire in the hearth.

      Alandra watched from the bedroom doorway, chagrined to find herself admiring the broad expanse of the prince’s back. The narrow span of his waist. The ripple of muscles beneath his crisp white shirt and dark trousers as he moved.

      She swallowed hard, feeling a flush of heat flow over her chest, up her neck and into her cheeks.

      Noticing Nicolas’s considerable physical attributes was the last thing she should be doing. Finding him attractive at all, in any way, would be the kiss of death. A risk she could not afford.

      And yet she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him.

      “Isn’t it a little warm for a fire?” she asked as the servant finished his task and slipped silently from the room.

      “I thought you might be chilly,” the prince replied, turning from the flickering flames and glancing in her direction.

      His attention lingered on her bare legs, she noticed, and it took all her willpower not to shift uncomfortably or attempt to cover herself. The only thing that kept her from doing either was the knowledge that he’d noticed the tiny goose bumps beginning to break out on her arms and legs earlier. She was unaccountably touched by his consideration, which was not what she wanted to be feeling.

      “We won’t get too close,” he said, dragging the table back from the hearth a few more inches before taking two cushions from the sofa. “Come, have a seat.”

      He lowered himself onto one of the cushions on the floor and sat cross-legged, leaving the other for her. Instead of sitting across from each other, they would now be much closer, with only one small corner of a rather small table between them.

      It wasn’t the typical setup for a business meeting. But then, her attire wasn’t exactly typical, either. None of this was.

      Striding across the room in her bare feet, she set her files aside and curled her legs beneath her as she sat down.

      Nicolas poured coffee from a brightly polished silver carafe while Alandra studied the dessert. A fluffy, golden pastry was sliced into layers and filled with large, juicy strawberries and a decadent amount of rich cream. Her mouth watered just looking at it.

      Because this situation could easily begin to take on a romantic feel, Alandra immediately started back on the topic of Christmas at the orphanage, and didn’t stop until they’d made it through the pastries and a cup of coffee each. To his credit, Nicolas stuck with the conversation, never trying to change the subject or insert a level of intimacy that didn’t belong.

      His enthusiasm and participation delighted her. She’d expected him to put in only a minimum amount of effort, to convince her he’d brought her to his country for legitimate reasons rather than simply to become the latest in what she was sure was a string of lovers.

      But he was taking their conversations and the business of organizing these fund-raisers seriously. Taking her seriously.

      It was a welcome change after being made the butt of any number of jokes and cruel jibes back home once the rumors had spread that she’d been sleeping with a married man.

      Despite the cup of coffee she’d just consumed, Alandra found herself blinking tired eyes and covering her mouth to stifle a yawn. And maybe she was off her game, maybe her defenses were down, because it seemed sensible, almost natural, to join Nicolas when he moved closer to the fire.

      She reclined beside him, letting the flickering flames and the opulence of her surroundings lull her. Keeping company with a gorgeous prince didn’t hurt,