I arch a brow as I lift my chin. “Who said I was planning to dance?”
“I did. And since you now know people are at my beck and call, I’d like to dance with you.”
“That’s very high-handed.”
“That’s not an answer,” he parries.
I curtsy. “Thank you, Your Highness, but I must respectfully decline your request.”
He grins, mischief dancing in his blue eyes. “If that were a request, you’d know it.”
Well then. I puff out a laugh. “Then I must respectfully decline whatever you’re deciding to call that.”
His gaze wanders about my face and body. It’s a move I shouldn’t care about. A move I should automatically dismiss as I have with every other male who’s done it in the past. Butsomething about him doing it, the look of not just heat but of actual fire and seduction mixed with a dirty promise, makes my chest flutter and my skin hot. And let’s face it, my untouched vagina is both of those too.
“Make that two,” he says to the waiter, who bows and scurries off, anxious to get away from us so he can make our drinks. “Now you can tell me your name.”
Except I can’t. Not that it or I would be familiar to him, but he still can’t know my name. Instead, I go with a version of it, even when I likely shouldn’t.
“Ella.” I practically whisper it.
“Ella,” he repeats, and it’s almost sinful how my name moves across his full lips. “See, I’m not bored anymore.” He steps into me and wraps his hand around my waist. “Dance with me. It’s not a request.”
I narrow my gaze defiantly. “I don’t follow orders.”
His face dips until we’re inches apart, and for the first time all night, despite all the moves I’ve made and the risks I’ve taken, nerves hit, and adrenaline floods my veins. I can feel his breath, sweetened by bourbon, against my lips, and the scent of his expensive cologne surrounds me. It’s heady and intoxicating, and I hate that my body responds in kind, inching in ever so subtly.
“I wonder if that’s true,” he muses, almost to himself.
His words ghost over me, and my insides twist painfully. My entire life is about following orders with nothing for myself. It’s almost as if he can see through me, and I don’t like it.
“Beautiful Ella, would you do me the great honor of dancing with me? At least until my beck and call returns with our drinks.”
Damn him for being so charming and leaving me no option but to say yes. Because much like how I exploited Sir Robert’s manners, Prince Rowan is exploiting me with charm he’s wielding like a weapon.
Still, I don’t curtsy. “Thank you, Your Highness, I’d be honored.”
His lips twitch. “Liar. But I don’t care. I want to dance with you.”
He should care. He has no clue who or what I am.
Beyond my silver-blue gown, my dark hair perfectly placed, and the real diamonds sparkling in my ears, he has no clue. He sees me as a guest of the royal wedding. An attendee. An easy fuck like the rest of the women in here.
The reality is, I’m a ruse. An assassin doing her research before I strike. This family is the nightmare of my nonexistent life.
His large hand slides around me before it comes to rest on my hip, where he gives me a squeeze. His eyes are glazed as they hold mine before his lips shift to my ear.
“Where did you come from, and why have I not seen you before tonight?” he whispers, his voice sending shivers up my spine that I fight.
The answer is not so simple.
“I’m here on behalf of someone else.”
“Who?” he presses when I let it die there.
“My fairy godmother,” I tease. And she’s as wicked as they come.
He gives me a wry grin. “Then that makes you mine until at least midnight.” He moves my hand onto his forearm so he can escort me to the dance floor in the center of the freaking room, and now all goddamn eyes are on us.
