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I almost take it back, but now he’s coming closer. Dragging a hand over the stubble on his jaw. His gaze sweeps over me. Rests briefly on my breasts, which are now perfectly outlined by my thin top thanks to my braless state. My stupid freckled nipples tighten the second they have his attention.
For a moment, I don’t think he heard the question. But then that big broad body is mere inches away as he brings his lips close to my ear.
“A secret? Hmm. Well…” His breath tickles my hair. “When you took your top off downstairs…” His voice gets dangerously low. “It got me rock hard.”
Oh my God.
Before I can even register that, he’s gone, softly closing my door behind him.
12
THE THING ABOUT POLO IS, IDON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT POLO.
Standing under a long white tent, I stare with fascination at the horses galloping around the pitch. With every crack of a mallet, I struggle to keep track of the ball. Like golf, I don’t know how anyone follows the damn thing. All I see are hooves and sticks and flying tufts of dirt and grass. It’s exciting, though. Energetic. Even if I don’t understand the rules or exactly what I’m watching. Celeste tries her best to sum it up for me when she sees my eyes glaze over, explaining it’s not too dissimilar to football, a comparison that makes even less sense until I realize she means soccer.
She was right about the scenery at least. There’s no shortage of hot guys who’ve stepped off the covers of a fashion magazine in their crisp white button-downs, blazers, and perfect Amalfi Coast tans. A lot of tall, gorgeous women on their arms too.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding at the raised platform where a small group of spectators watch the match.
“You certainly aim high, don’t you?” She grins at me. “That’s Prince James. The queen’s sister’s son.”
I don’t know what I expected a royal to look like in real life. Not that he should be adorned with medals and sashes or anything fancy, but he just looks so…average. A regular guy in a casual summersuit. Maybe because in England, the monarchy isn’t surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents in dark suits and sunglasses.
Still, I never thought I’d find myself at the same venue as a member of the royal family. Like it’s a totally normal thing to do.
“I’m surprised he’s showing his face in public,” remarks Yvonne, who stands on the other side of Celeste. Nate was here a moment ago, though we barely said hello before Yvonne sent him off to get her a drink. “Only last week, he was all over theMailgetting into his car with that Alisha woman from Eurovision.”
I lift a brow. “Isn’t he married?”
“Exactly.” Yvonne huffs. “And he had the nerve to deny it like we didn’t all see it with our own eyes. He’s a prick.”
The girls turn their attention back to the match. I attempt to as well, but it isn’t long before my vision once again becomes a blur of horse legs and mallets. I give up. Polo is the sport equivalent of gibberish.
I poke Celeste in the arm. “How are things going with Roberto?”
She slides her sunglasses down and follows as the teams charge past us down the field. “Yeah, good. He travels a lot, so he’s out of town this week. These were his tickets to the match, actually.”
“Thank him for me then. I’m not sure I’m following, but it’s fun.”
“Lee told me about your painting. Any luck identifying the mystery woman?”
“Yes, Abbey.” Yvonne leans in. “I hear you’ve got a secret Tulley. Naughty lot, that family.”
So I keep hearing. But most of the available information I’ve found on the Tulley clan is about its current members. My findings on the Tulleys of the WWII era thus far are limited to the duke and duchess, and there’s very little about their children or extended family.
“I found a small art museum in Rye, where the artist is from,” I tell the girls. “So I’m hoping they’ll have more information about him and maybe his subjects. I’m taking the train out there tomorrow.”
“Nate’s from East Sussex,” Yvonne says as he arrives with her champagne.
He hands her the flute, then drags a hand through his tousled hair. “What’s that?”
“Abbey is hunting an artist in Rye. Weren’t you headed that way to see your mum and dad tomorrow?”
He casts his gaze at me, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. About my outfit, my hair, and whether I’d worn enough sunscreen or turned a hideous shade of cooked while outdoors. The knee-length green dress I’d chosen for today seemed modest when I slipped it on, but when Nate’s dark eyes rest briefly on my bare legs, I suddenly feel like it’s way too short. Nate, meanwhile, manages effortless indifference, somehow pulling off wearing only a fitted T-shirt and jeans as if we’re all ridiculous for trying so hard.
His hair falls across his face. It isn’t eighties-rock-star long but not close-cropped either. Just deliciously messy and curling slightly at his nape. I become obsessed with the way a strand sticks to his eyelashes.
“You want a lift, Abbey?” he asks.
