Page 78 of Tabloid Princess

“What’s she like?”

I chuckled. “She wants to be a princess; that’s her sole aim in life.”

“Doesn’t every girl?”

“Not me. I just wanted to live.”

We watched one another, no one moving.

“So you haven’t been on a single date in six years?”

“Nope. And not before either.”

His smile grew. “Honestly I’m regretting the toasted sandwich now.”

I laughed, until he shifted forward and caught my face in his hands, edging himself over the sofa and kneeling next to me.

“Do you understand why this can’t work? I don’t know what you think is happening here, but I will cause you so much bad press.” My words were bubbling as he stared at me intently. “Come on, the teenage pregnancy thing is one thing, but what about where I grew up? My mum? It’s just wrong.”

The firm lines of his face, the burn in his gaze, told me he didn’t agree.

His lips told me a totally different story. They drew me a dream I couldn’t dare to believe.

I shifted up, meeting him, my body reacting without the agreement of my head. I sighed, my lips parting, opening for him to invade.

One of his hands slipped down my body, brushing at my curves and his tongue moved faster. A flash of heat consumed me, burning me up from the inside out, and the monster so alert and desperate revelled in the touch.

I groaned, trying to pull back but he didn’t let go. “Leia,” he whispered my name. “I think you’re going to drive me crazy.”

“I think it’s you in the driving seat of crazy.” My lips moved against his as I spoke, my head whirling with the scent of wine and his aftershave. I pushed at his chest, my fingers spreading across the material of his T-shirt.

“My priority is Daisy; do you understand that? I can’t do this with you because it will hurt her. One way or the other she will get hurt and I can’t allow that to happen.”

He pulled back, his expression dark.

“I get the impression you are used to getting what you want?”

“No.” He shook his head, but it wasn’t the whole truth. “I’m just frustrated. So many things in my life are difficult. More than difficult. Then you come strolling in, and…”

“Fuck everything up?”

He laughed, his body relaxing. “That. Yes.”

With a sigh he threw himself back against the sofa cushions, running a rueful hand through his dark hair. The inky tangled strands stood up at angles the newspapers had never managed to capture.

“Will you play for me?” I nodded towards the piano, desperate really to break the tension.

“I’d hate to inflate my ego even more.”

I flushed. “I don’t say the right things, do I?”

His smile grew. “Strangely you do.” He stood up and held a hand out for me. “Come.”

I followed him, my fingers curled in his; utterly off the scale of believability.

After he’d sat down, he patted the stool. “Come and sit.”

I did, automatically. I wondered if there was anything he could ask me I wouldn’t instantly want to do.