“You didn’t what?” His tone sharpens. “Didn’t look? Didn’t touch?”
“Actually, I did both.”
He chuckles lightly and angles toward me, his eyebrows raised. “Where did you look and touch?”
His voice is a soft purr, decadent like velvet or melted chocolate. The way he asks that after the drawings I just saw is not helping my nipple situation. I can’t tell if he saw me looking at his portfolio or not, so I point to the visible papers, my gaze holding firm on his.
“Do you make it a habit to touch and look at things that don’t belong to you?”
Asshole.
“No, sir. I don’t. I apologize for overstepping.” I shift awayfrom him. “I was about finished in here anyway. I’ll let you have your study.”
I grab my trolley and head for the door when he stops me.
“Marcella?”
My eyes close. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Did you like them?”
I turn back to him. “Yes. I liked them. They’re very good.”
“Even the ones in the portfolio?”
Shit. He did see me.
“Yes. Even those.” There is no inflection in my tone, and my features stay neutral.
He rounds his desk and crosses the room to me. I swallow thickly as he approaches, standing over me, the weight of his gaze heavy on my face. I fight the urge to bite my lip or shift my position. It’s also one hell of a battle to maintain eye contact, the tension so thick between us you could cut it with a knife.
“Maybe next time a little more cleaning and a little less touching.” He dips in toward my ear, and I swallow thickly. “Unless that’s what you’re after here.” His warm breath ghosts across my skin.
My jaw locks, and my fists ball up.
Cocky fucking ass.
“No, sir,” I grit out. “It’s not.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to try.”
I step back and nail him with my ire. “While I’m sure you’ve had women throw themselves at you, you won’t get that from me. I’m not the least bit interested in that.”
His blue eyes pierce into mine. “And yet my pictures made you blush so pretty.”
Bastard. He’s testing me again, but I’m more than done with him. This is the real Prince Rowan. Not the charming drunk guy I met at the wedding who made me feel decadent and special.
“Your Highness?—”
“Rowan,” he corrects. “It’s not ‘sir’ or ‘Your Highness.’ Say it, scream it, yell it, whisper it. I don’t care?—”
I shake my head, cutting him off. “I’m not calling you that again.”
“We’ll see. You’re dismissed.”
I spin on the balls of my feet, grip my trolley, and hightail it out of here.
With how he drew me, despite the disguise, I can’t help but wonder just how much the prince knows about me and isn’t letting on.
