Except Francine. His own overgrown house cat.
He blinked. Where had that come from?
You know where,his dragon informed him, smoke billowing from every word.
Francine.HisFrancine—a dangerous thought.
His own overgrown house cat—impossible. The words should never have crossed his mind.
As though Francine would ever allow herself to be referred to as ahouse cat.
He hadn’t been looking at her—he’d been careful not to—but her shimmering hair caught the light as her head turned. She cast one disdainful look over her shoulder and returned to her conversation, lips curving in an entirely feline smile.
Knowledge thudded into his chest like a fist. If he didn’t watch himself, he would find himself doing anything for her.
Dinner wound to a close. He escorted Francine back to their suite, waiting like a shadow on the wall as she kicked off her spike heels and flung herself onto one of the plush sofas.
He had already made too many mistakes. He still didn’t know what the lynx shifter had been looking for in their rooms. He’d let his weakness show in front of the other bodyguards.
He’d let his thoughts cross the unbreachable wall that must lie between him and Francine Delacourt.
He couldn’t let it happen again.
Francine snarled something under her breath as she stretched out on the sofa. He made no response.
She glared up at him. “Stop that,” she snapped.
“Stop what?”
“Behaving like you’re part of the furniture.” She switched to telepathic speech. *I thought you hated being treated like you were still Harper’s lapdog.*
*And I thought the whole reason I was here was to pretend I was yours,*he responded icily.
Heat flooded her face, a blush like spring over mountains that had only ever known the frost.
Realization struck. *I didn’t mean—*
*Obviously not.*She pulled in her legs, turning away from him to stare out past the balcony to where the sea stretched to the horizon, black and brooding beneath a starless sky. *You’re right. We both need to play our parts properly. The devoted bodyguard and the—*
Her thoughts went fuzzy, and Julian searched her reflection in the window. She did not look as though she were looking at the waves.
*The princess of the Delacourt pride,*she said at last.
He could not possibly miss the bitterness in her thoughts, and he could not possibly do anything about it. He clenched one fist at his side, willing himself not to imagine stroking his fingers through her hair.
Tipping her chin up so those angry eyes had nothing to look at but him.
Kissing her.
His jaw tightened.
“Have you eaten?”
Her question shocked him out of his thoughts. “No.”
She made a disgusted sound. “You need to eat if you’re going to heal! Never mind. We can order something from the kitchen.”
His silence must have said more than he intended. She flung her hair back and made the call, her voice bored and sulky in a way that grated false against his senses as she told whoever was on the other end of the line to send up a midnight snack.
