Royal Lockdown. Rebecca York

more polite man would have understood what she was doing and backed off. In this brief encounter she had already learned that Shane Peters didn’t necessarily observe the social niceties.

      He kept his gaze on her, and she had to remind herself to breathe calmly in and out.

      “I was hoping to see your father here.”

      “He was indisposed. He sent me in his place.”

      Peters’s face clouded with what looked like genuine concern. “I hope he’s all right.”

      “It’s nothing serious,” she quickly assured him. Gout was painful but not life threatening. Her father was back on his special diet now and medication that would diminish the attack.

      “Good.” Peters gave her a smile that must have melted many female hearts. “We should dance.”

      “Dance?” As she spoke the question, she realized that the orchestra had begun to play a waltz. It was one of her favorites. “The Blue Danube.”

      Peters opened his hands, as though inviting her to step into his embrace. “To celebrate the trade agreement,” he said.

      The invitation was very tempting, but she knew on a deeply personal level that she shouldn’t accept. She was also aware that Manfred was watching the exchange with interest. He had been with her for the past three years, and he knew how she always behaved in public.

      True to form, she gave Peters her standard answer. “I prefer to stay on the sidelines.”

      “One dance won’t hurt you, will it?” the American pressed. Obviously he didn’t know anything about royal protocol.

      She wanted to tell him that he’d already disturbed her equanimity enough for one evening, but that would give away far too much.

      So she thought of another way to create distance between them, to take them away from this place and time, at least temporarily.

      “My father met you on a rescue mission, right?”

      “Yes. In Barik. It’s near Libya.”

      “I know where it is.”

      “Sorry. I should have realized you’re a lot better educated than the average American who probably hasn’t even heard of the place.”

      She acknowledged the apology, then turned the conversation away from herself again. “My father is an expert in Middle Eastern languages.”

      “I always wondered why,” Peters answered without missing a beat.

      “Because he said that the Middle East would emerge as a center of power in the world and he wanted to be prepared.”

      “Very wise of him. And of course, his being able to speak Arabic helps him in negotiating for oil.”

      She smiled. “That, too.” Before he could get too far into economic issues, she brought the conversation back to the topic that interested her. “Tell me about the mission.”

      “What did your father say about it?” Peters countered.

      “He said that you went in to rescue a group of fifty-eight hostages, mostly engineers, teachers and missionaries, who were being held in the basement of a building in the densely populated downtown area. The captives were from the U.S., England, Australia and Beau Pays.”

      Peters’s face took on a faraway look, and she knew that, in some sense, he was back there in that civil war-torn country reliving the night he’d been dropped off by helicopter in the capital city.

      “They were held for weeks in horrible conditions. The world prayed for their safety, but the country was becoming more and more unstable, with insurgents fighting the government and fighting each other. The captors kept up negotiations, but they seemed to be getting nowhere. Finally, the only option was a rescue mission.”

      “Who else was on the team?”

      “Chase Vickers was our engineering expert. Ethan Matalon was our computer ace. Ty Jones was our demolitions man. And, of course, Vice President Davis was our tactical expert.”

      “You keep in touch with them?”

      “Well, I haven’t seen the vice president in years. But the others are still my friends. Chase is a driver who gets a lot of jobs working for VIPs when they’re in town. Ty is right over there.” He gestured with his hand. “He’s with the Secret Service guarding the vice president. A very prestigious assignment.”

      “You and the others got the hostages out of there.”

      “Most of them,” he answered, and she caught a flash of pain on his face. There were aspects of the mission that her father never talked about, and it looked as if she wouldn’t get a straight story from Peters, either. Something, she knew, had gone terribly wrong. But what?

      Peters was silent for several moments. Then, before she realized what was happening, he reached out and touched her hand.

      She wasn’t sure why he’d done it. To change the subject? To break through the barrier that she’d tried to erect between them? All she knew was that she felt a jolt of sensation like an electric shock going through her body.

      Her breath caught, and when she looked into his eyes, he appeared to be as stunned as she was.

      Life had taught her to be a realist. She knew a lot of men wanted to be seen with her because she was Princess Ariana, the heir to the throne of Beau Pays.

      But this man looked as if he was reacting to her on a very personal level.

      He was attracted to her. And she had the honesty to admit that she was attracted to him as well.

      So what would be the harm of one dance? They weren’t going to see each other after tonight. She’d be safely home tomorrow. And safely married six months after that.

      “Let’s dance,” she whispered.

      Manfred looked startled and started to say something, but she shook her head, and he closed his mouth.

      But obviously he would report this incident to King Frederick.

      “Watch my purse,” she said to him as she set it down on one of the tables.

      He nodded curtly.

      Yes, he would speak to her father. And if the king chastised her, she could always fall back on the excuse that she was being nice to one of his old friends.

      She let Peters lead her to the dance floor. She already knew that the two of them had nothing in common beyond the man’s long-ago mission with her father. In the span of a waltz, she’d find out that they really had nothing to say to each other, and she could walk away from him without regret.

      But she didn’t have to walk away yet. Not when he had taken her in his arms and pulled her to him so that her body touched his.

      She liked the way the man held her. The way he smelled—a combination of masculine skin and some woodsy scent she couldn’t identify. And she liked the way his large hand splayed across her back, his fingers grazing the line where her evening gown dipped along her backbone.

      She realized with a start that she was enjoying the proximity entirely too much. She should take a step back and put some distance between them. Instead she stayed where she was as he began to move her around the floor.

      He was an excellent dancer, and if he’d been anyone else, she could have relaxed in his arms and let him guide her smoothly through the waltz steps.

      But with proximity came tingling awareness spreading through her bloodstream. She tried her best to ignore the sensation. Yet when he gathered her closer and stared down into her eyes, she had to fight a swirl of unaccustomed emotions.

      A look of pure, burning sexuality passed between them. No man of her acquaintance would have dared to be so bold. Which only proved that she didn’t belong in Shane Peters’s arms. He must have had a lot