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The prince had sent only one that really mattered.
It was a note written by one of his lackeys on a sheet of vellum that weighed almost much as her computer, and it took half a dozen paragraphs to say, basically, “Go away.”
The one certainty was her father’s insistence that the royal House of Valenti had stolen the land in question. And how could that be possible? Anna asked herself tiredly. She didn’t know much about what her father called the old country, but she knew enough to be certain that peasants didn’t argue with princes.
For all she’d learned, she might as well still be back in coach, without access to her computer.
And without access to the man seated on the aisle seat beside her.
Anna gave him a covert glance.
Access was the wrong word to use. He had not looked at her or spoken to her since they’d sat down. He had a computer on his lap, too, and it was the only thing that claimed his attention.
That was fine.
The hell it was.
Calmer now, she could look at him and admit that he was a beautiful sight. That chiseled, masculine face. That hard body. Those strong-looking hands, one lightly wrapped around his computer, the other working its touch pad …
She knew what his hands felt like.
Back in the lounge, he’d grasped her shoulder. Here, he’d put his palm lightly on the small of her back, guiding her into the window seat. His touch had been impersonal then.
What if he touched her differently?
Not that automatic, you-first thing men did, but a stroke of those long, tanned fingers. A caress of that powerful hand.
Anna frowned, shifted in her seat.
Such nonsense!
He wasn’t her type and she wasn’t his. He’d like girlie women. Pliable in nature, eager to please, the kind who’d do whatever it took to make a man happy.
She was none of that.
“Prickly,” a guy she’d dated a couple of times had called her.
“Difficult,” another had claimed.
“Tough as nails,” her brothers said, with pride.
Yes, she was.
How else did a woman get to make it in a world dominated by men, or endure growing up in a household where your mother walked two paces behind your father? Metaphorically, of course, but still …
Back to peasants and princes. And the man next to her. And the simple fact that in this situation he was the prince. Not because of their different seating arrangements but because he’d done something gracious and she …
She had not.
Would a simple thank you have killed her?
No. It would not have.
Was it too late to say the words now? It’s never too late to say something nice, she could almost hear her sister, Izzy, saying. Okay. She wasn’t sweet like Iz—she never would be—but she could try.
“Finished already?”
She blinked. He was looking at her, a hint of a smile on his lips.
