Home > The Bossy Prince (Rugged and Royal #3)(6)

The Bossy Prince (Rugged and Royal #3)(6)
Author: Lili Valente

The thought of her alone with me in my room is tempting, too, which is why I asked her to meet me in the closet. It’s a large closet—a walk-in with enough space to hold my entire wardrobe, let alone the clothes necessary for a long ski weekend—but the glare from the ceiling is an ugly yellow, and the space smells strongly of feet.

It’s guaranteed to shut down inappropriate sexy thoughts and justified because of the added privacy for our top-secret conversation.

Or some such nonsense. Whatever it takes to keep Zan separate from the bed and my head in the game.

Until recently, I’d have thought a woman with murder in her eyes would kill any spark of attraction, but Zan’s homicidal glare…

Well, for some reason, it does it for me.

It really, really does.

I should probably book an appointment with my Union Ten psych evaluator to see what’s going on there—and whether it’s serious enough to compromise my effectiveness as an agent—but even as the thought flits through my head, I know I won’t act on it.

I don’t want to confess my feelings for Zan.

I want to shut them down. As swiftly and as efficiently as possible.

She’s off-limits in so many ways it’s not remotely amusing. She’s my co-worker, soon to be my subordinate, and her sisters are either married to or about to marry my brothers. A bad romance between the two of us would make both our work and personal lives extremely uncomfortable.

And it would be a bad romance.

No doubt in my mind.

Zan is a roaring bonfire—beautiful and compelling, but if you try to hug it, you’re going to get burned. And who needs to hug fire when there are so many lovely women in the world who aren’t mortally dangerous?

I’ve just finished changing into my pajamas—grey sweatpants and an old black tee shirt—when a soft knock comes at my door. A beat later, Zan slips inside and closes it behind her.

I lift my arm, motioning toward the closet, but my words get lost somewhere between my brain and lips.

Zan is wearing pajamas, too. Silky, clingy pajamas. The long-sleeved button-up shirt and pants mold to her body, making it obvious she’s not wearing a bra. Possibly not panties, either, though I refuse to let my eyes linger on the curve of her ass long enough to find out for sure.

Instead, I swallow hard and force my gaze to hers, my brain short-circuiting again as I note the shy smile on her face and the noticeable lack of malice in her expression.

She almost looks happy to be here.

Happy…

Have I ever seen Zan happy? I don’t think I have, not even when we were children. Determined, devoted, curious, vengeful, competitive, irritated, exasperated, and homicidal? Yes.

Happy…no.

“Sorry I’m late,” she whispers, her voice as raspy and cute as a kitten’s tongue. “Sabrina and Andrew were in the kitchen feeding each other crackers and being repulsively in love until a few minutes ago.”

“No worries.” I rake a hand through my damp hair, letting my gaze drop to the carpet for a moment before returning to her face.

Hmm. Still pleasant. Friendly, even.

My spy tail begins to tingle, sensing a trap, but I can’t help but observe, “This is nice.”

She arches a brow as she pads closer, her hips swaying with a graceful ease that makes me think she’s an amazing dancer.

She refused to dance after dinner last night—staying on the sidelines with Andrew and Sabrina, poking gentle fun at Jeffrey and Lizzy as they wiggled awkwardly on the bistro’s dance floor, proving they really are a perfect match and far more concerned with enjoying each other than playing it cool.

But if Zan had joined them, I bet she would have been the furthest thing from awkward. She would have had every ski bum in the joint fighting for the chance to sway closer to the deceptively diminutive blonde.

Zan’s a good six inches shorter than her sisters, and her head barely reaches the middle of my chest, but she’s a powerhouse, a mentally acute and physically dangerous spy who’s been undercover for half her life.

When she asks, “What’s nice?” I remind myself of that fact.

That she’s brilliant and highly trained, and any sudden change of behavior should be suspicious. Still, I hear myself say, “You. Looking like you’ve decided I’m not so bad, after all. You’re very pretty when you’re not plotting to murder me in my sleep.”

She laughs—actually laughs out loud—for the first time in my presence. “Oh, come on. I wouldn’t do it in your sleep. You’re a decent guy. You deserve a fighting chance.”

I arch a brow, and my lips hook up on one side. “Oh, yeah? Decent? When did you come to this realization? I thought I was Satan’s unpardonable spawn.”

She lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. “I don’t see the point in continuing to butt heads. We had a misunderstanding last summer, but that’s over now. You’re my brother-in-law and soon to be my boss. Unless...” She trails off, her lips pursing as she crosses her arms, causing her breasts to lift higher, straining the silk fabric of her pajama top enough to erase any doubt about that bra.

There is no bra. Only Zan’s perfectly shaped breasts and two small, but equally perfect, nipples I would like to worship with my mouth for the rest of the year.

Surely, if we ravaged each other senseless from now until New Year’s Eve, we’d be able to defuse the sexual tension. Perhaps even eliminate it entirely. I know I’m not the only one who feels it, the electricity between us, the potential energy crackling in the air every time we’re close enough to touch.

Zan was as taken off guard by our kiss last summer as I was. I’d bet my favorite surfboard she’s thought about it—maybe even wondered what it might be like to do it again, this time in private, with no audience and no reason to stop kissing until we’ve both had our fill of each other.

“Or was dangling that carrot a ruse to get me alone in your room?” she asks, leaving me scrambling to catch up with the conversation.

I’ve clearly missed something while I imagined all the things I’d like to do to her with my tongue.

This has to stop. I’ve never been an uptight spy, but I’ve always been a professional one. I’ve worked with beautiful women before—even had to fake a relationship with another agent while we were undercover—but I’ve never been tempted to cross the line between personal and professional.

And no, there’s no official policy against dating other Union Ten members, but this job is sufficiently exhausting without bringing it home every night. As much as I hate lying to my family about what I do all day, leading them to believe I’m an incredibly slow tourist-site coder at best and a lazy baby brother at worst, I love going home to people who don’t know I’m a secret agent. People who would never imagine I know how to use a gun, let alone that I carry one almost everywhere I go. People to whom I’m just Nick, their brother, their son, their fun-loving friend with an above-average love of pizza, travel, and gorgeous women.

But not this gorgeous woman.

She’s number one on my personal “No Fly” list.

Must focus.

Must launch Operation: Get Zan Out of My Life before we make our already awkward family and work situations even worse.

“No ruse.” I motion toward the closet. “But let’s add another wall between us and the outside world before we chat. Just in case.”

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