Leopold: Part Three (8 page)

That’s all that comment of his was—just an expression that came out wrong. There’s no way he meant anything else by it.

I decide to change the subject—as much for my sake as for his. “What did you have in mind?” I smile and draw in a long breath, trying to collect myself. “For our date, I mean? If we aren’t going to leave the house?”

“Ah, I procured some supplies, as I mentioned. I had some particular ingredients delivered that I believe you may enjoy. Perhaps I can surprise you in the kitchen.”

“I see.” I lift an eyebrow and look into his eyes. “You realize, of course, that I don’t put out on the first date.”

He smiles and his tongue trails along his bottom lip for a moment too long. “
You
realize, of course, that you may have—how did you say it?
Put out
before our first date, then?”

My cheeks burn again. “Only because…” I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “Only because we’d already had a first date.” I nod, mostly to myself. “Peanut butter sandwiches—first date. A full night of cuddling—second date.” My eyes go back to his and I almost have to bite my lip to try to hide my smile—and my embarrassment. “Last night would have been our third date. And a lady never puts out before the third date.” I have to press my lips together to suppress my laughter.

He lifts a brow, his eyes never leaving mine. “As I recall, the first two
dates
you mention happened on the
same
night. A long night, granted.” He narrows his gaze playfully. “But that would mean, Elle, you may not be as genteel as you tell yourself you are.”

“Mm. I don’t think I’ve
ever
used that word in my life, actually.”

“But I suppose that
also
means that we can have multiple
dates
on a single day. Which would mean that perhaps by tonight, we could be on our
third
official date—”

“Slow down there, friend. You’ve already scored, so I’m not sure why you feel the need to woo me now…”

He grins. “Ah, but I have much more to show you than what I already have. And I need to prove to you that I can be a gentleman, do I not?”

I only lift a brow in response.

“A gentleman could most definitely give a lady a kiss after their first proper date. It would only be fair, assuming things go well. At minimum, a kiss on the hand…” He scoots himself toward me and pulls my hand into his.

I yank it away before he can bring my fingers to his lips—I can already tell he has no intention of stopping with a kiss on the hand, and we’ve already gone too far with whatever is going on here.

The smile falls from my face. “Look, Leo, I’m not going to deny there’s some weird chemistry between us. But that’s all it is—chemistry. It’s not like this goes anywhere—once those cameras are off my sidewalk, you go back to your life and I get to
try
to go back to mine. If that’s even possible anymore. I mean, I’m probably going to have to join the military or something to be able to get a job. I’ll probably have to deploy to a war zone to be able to work as a doctor anywhere…”

He groans and closes his eyes for a moment. He looks back over at me after a moment. “Again, you’re worrying about the future, when there is no need. Let me make you a late lunch. Allow me to surprise you—I actually have more skill in the kitchen than you might think.” He lifts a brow. “Not that I’m not also quite skilled in how to make you come multiple times while bent over the kitchen counter…”

My cheeks burn at his words. “Leo, I understand the main objective here is to see how many times you can sleep with me before the paparazzi outside leave—”

“That is
not
my main objective. My main objective at this moment is to convince you to come into the kitchen with me—”

“Where you just
happen
to have wanted to bend me over earlier. Which was why we had to go out for the stupid condoms in the first place—”

“Where there just
happen
to be gourmet ingredients in your refrigerator for our lunch. Toss the condoms in the rubbish bin. It’s where they belong, anyway, in my opinion.” His eyebrows lift. “If it were up to me, Elle, there would never be anything between us again.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, remind me to go on the pill when we get out of this mess.”

“Go on the pill when we get out of this mess.”

“Funny.” My lips curl into a half-smile. “In the meantime—”

“Condoms, I know.” He rolls his eyes. “Not that we need to worry about—”

“We absolutely
do
need to worry about it. I’m not giving those reporters anything else to dig up.” I let out a sigh. “And I’m not convinced
any
of this is a good idea. And I’m
definitely
not convinced you’re here for anything
more than
taking me over the kitchen counter.”

He tries to hide his widening grin by breaking our gaze and smoothing his pants. He looks back over at me after a moment. “And what, darling Elle, is going to convince you that I returned because I want to be with you? Do I really need to take you home to meet my parents before you’ll trust that I
want
to be with you? That my intentions are only noble—?”

“There was nothing noble about what happened at the park. Or what happened last night.”

He frowns. “You enjoyed both the park
and
last night as much as I did.
More
than I did, if we’re counting the number of times you—”

“Whoa. Line crossed there, Leo.”

He grins, holding his palms up to me. “Apologies.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “And if what I mentioned
is
what it takes for you to believe me, then we’ll go to Montovia so you may meet my family properly.” He shrugs. “As soon as the press leaves, at least in sufficient quantity, I’ll take you home. I have no objections.”

I lift a brow. “Right.”

“Name your terms then, Elle. Tell me what you want me to do to prove to you that I’m only thinking of you. Of
us
.”

The truth is, there’s nothing he can do to convince me. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and I have no idea what it is that’s below me. I only know I have to jump—and if there’s nothing below to catch me, I’m not going to survive. Leo is telling me there’s a net, but there’s no reason for me to believe him. No reason to trust him but his word. And I’m not sure I
can
trust him—I almost believe him when he says he left me this morning to protect me. That his intentions were only noble. When I think about what he’s already done—how he defended my honor in Rio de Campo and what he just did in front of those cameras to take the attention away from me—I’m not sure how I
can’t
believe him. There have just been so many times in my past—so many things that have happened when I’ve allowed myself to trust someone. So much humiliation and pain. I’m not sure if I can take the last step off the cliff to see if maybe… I’m just not sure it’s worth it to try. To risk being destroyed again.

He said he loved me
. I mean, he didn’t
say
it—not like that. But there has to be something going on in his head that would make him use the word
love
at all. There must be something here other than lust. I want to believe him when he says there is, but it’s going to hurt so much if he’s lying to me, whatever his reasons are. I don’t think I can survive another betrayal of my trust again. I snapped so hard after the last time—Owen was right to come with me to Rio de Campo. He was right to worry about me then, and he’s not here to protect me now. Even if his gut
does
tell him he trusts Leo, there’s nothing in my gut telling me that. It’s only telling me to be very, very cautious—just like it always does.

And there’s nothing here for me now to cushion the blow if Leo should decide to stomp on my heart the way it’s been crushed too many times before.

I look over at him and let out a long breath, extending my hand.

He lifts it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my fingers.

I smile. “Surprise me, Leo.”

I
f there’s
one thing I know, it’s how to charm a woman with the most romantic and lavish of dates.

Unfortunately, my dates usually involve five-star restaurants, expensive gifts, and sometimes even tickets for an impromptu weekend away to Paris or Barcelona. My money and status don’t mean much when I can’t leave this house.

Still, I am nothing if not resourceful, and I have every intention of giving Elle the date of a lifetime. I might not have the world at my fingertips as I usually do, but I still have my charms, after all.

She’s still smiling at me as I release her fingers. How is it that something as simple as a smile from a woman can tie my stomach up in knots? She doesn’t smile nearly enough—and I intend to change that. While we’re trapped here together, I want her to do nothing but smile. Know nothing but joy and laughter.

We’ll have to face the rest of the world soon enough.

I keep my grin on my face as I lead her into the kitchen, but inside, the implications of what I’ve done are starting to sink in. This morning, I thought I could protect Elle by walking away from her. Only a short while later, I changed my mind and decided the best way to protect her was by returning to her and keeping her safely hidden from the press. And then, in one impulsive moment, I threw all my better sense out the window. Because I’m a selfish bastard.

This is what I wanted all along—to have Elle and to let the world know she is mine and mine alone. A twinge in my conscience reminds me that my choice will be difficult for her, but now that the act is done, now that this can’t be undone, it’s easier to suppress those moral objections. It’s a testament to what she does to me that I can swing so wildly from one course of action to the other. But as I’ve told her, there’s no fighting what we have between us. Not anymore.

It seems like she’s finally accepted that fact, too. Elle has been just as confused as I have—one moment pushing me away, the next claiming she can’t trust me not to leave her—but it seems that my little publicity stunt has finally made her see the truth. I wasn’t lying when I told her I would take her to Montovia. I’ll take her anywhere in the world she wants to go, in front of anyone and everyone. Right now, though, I just want to keep that smile on her face. Take advantage of the time we have together. We’ll have to worry about the consequences of my actions later—with the press and with my family—but right now, I’m perfectly happy to forget about that. No one has ever accused me of being responsible—why should I start now?

No, I have no intention of doing anything but giving Elle the best date of her life.

When we get to the kitchen, however, I realize I have a challenge ahead of me. While I took care to ensure her pantry was filled with a wide array of gourmet ingredients, I never paused to consider the possibility that
I
might have to cook anything myself. I have many talents, but I usually prefer to leave the preparation of my meals to professional chefs.

I glance over at Elle. She’s looking at me expectantly, the hint of a smile still on her lips.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” I say, pressing my hand to the small of her back and ushering her toward the table. “I’ll get everything prepared.”

“What are you planning to make?” she asks as I hold out a chair for her.

I lean forward over her shoulder so I can murmur into her ear. “That, dear Elle, is a surprise.”
To both of us.

Once she’s settled, I straighten and stride over to the pantry. I might not have any cooking skills to speak of, but if there’s one thing I know about dating, it’s that confidence and charm will get me a long way.

“Would you care for some wine while you wait?” I ask her. “I took the liberty of procuring several bottles of the finest vintage.”

“You’re just trying to get me drunk,” she says, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice.

“I’m insulted, Elle.” I turn back toward her. “Alcohol is a crutch for men who can’t attract women on their own. Frankly, I’m disgusted by the number of men who use it to take advantage of women who would otherwise be disinclined to engage with them. I have never needed alcohol to win a woman’s affections, and I have no intention of ever condescending myself to the level of that scum. I was merely trying to be polite. This is a date, after all. I don’t intend to overlook any of the details.”

She looks almost as if she’s trying not to laugh.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she says, smiling. “It was only a joke. And maybe I will take that glass of wine. You’re right—it’s been a rough day.”

My lips curl back up into a grin. “Any preference? I have several—”

“Surprise me.”

I’m still smiling as I turn back toward the counter. It’s a small thing, letting me choose her wine, but I’ll accept any bit of trust she is willing to give me. I select the merlot—it’s a fine wine, one I had for the first time at a five-star restaurant right in Beverly Hills—and pour us each a glass.

When I bring it to her, she holds out a hand. I let my fingers brush against hers as I pass her the glass.

“I thought we might have a toast,” I say.

Her eyebrow rises. “To what?”

I hold out my glass. There are a dozen things I might say—
To us
, perhaps, or
To this intoxicating madness
, or even
To another night of mind-blowing passion
—but most of my ideas are too risky. Instead, I simply say, “To possibilities.”

Something shines in her eyes as she raises her glass to meet mine. “To possibilities.”

I don’t take my eyes from hers as I lift my glass to my lips. I hope she is truly open to the possibilities of what might happen between us. By the time this “date” is over, I intend to have swept her lingering doubts away.

She takes a sip of her wine and smiles. “Good choice. I don’t know a lot about wine, but this is delicious.”

“I wouldn’t give you anything less than the best.”

“Dare I ask how much this cost?”

“A gentleman never discusses such mundane things with his date,” I say. “Now, I should probably get our meal started.”

But now that brings me back to my dilemma—I have no idea how to prepare anything but the simplest of meals.

A recipe—I should start with a recipe.

I slide my mobile out of my pocket and pull up the internet. I have some of the world’s finest ingredients at my disposal—certainly I can find some way to put them to good use.

I don’t want to make anything too heavy or rich. But I also want this meal to express the luxurious generosity I usually lavish on my dates—it won’t do to simply make her a peanut butter sandwich, as much as the thought appeals to my stomach.

“Do you need any help?” Elle asks from the table.

“Not at all,” I tell her. “I’m simply pulling up one of my favorite recipes. You just enjoy your wine.” I look up from my phone. “Shall we play some music?”

She leans back in her chair, her eyes bright. “If this is a date, then maybe we should talk. Get to know each other a little better.”

I resist the urge to remind her how I’ve gotten to know her quite well—from many angles—over the last twenty-four hours. While other women might find that suggestive charm pleasurable, even titillating, I suspect Elle is after something different.

“We can do whatever you wish,” I say with a smile. “Did you have a particular topic in mind?”

She shrugs and takes another sip of her wine. “I don’t know. It could be anything, really—our favorite things, our hobbies, our families. Normal date stuff.”

“If you are looking for an ordinary evening, then I am not your fellow,” I say. “I aim for nothing less than extraordinary.”
Now I just need to find a blasted recipe.

“A little cocky, aren’t we?”

“I’m merely telling the truth. I take great pleasure in ensuring a woman enjoys herself down to the finest detail.” In my experience, I’m often well-rewarded for that attention later in bed.

My thumb pauses on my phone, freezing over a recipe for a vegetable frittata. This might work—it’s light enough for the time of day but still elegant enough to elevate this meal from the ordinary. Most importantly, the recipe looks simple enough that even I should be able to manage it.

I turn to the fridge and start to retrieve the ingredients—eggs, milk, goat cheese, bell peppers, butter, arugula. From the larder, I grab onions, olive oil, and tomatoes.

When I turn back around, Elle has come up to the counter, her glass of wine in her hand. “Can you tell me what you’re making yet?”

“I’m making the most delectable frittata you will ever taste,” I tell her.

Amusement flashes in her eyes as I spread out the ingredients in front of me.

“Have you ever made one before?” she asks.

“Not this particular recipe, but I assure you, Elle, I am a man of many talents.” I take a fortifying sip of wine as I look back down at the recipe on my phone. It appears my first step is to chop and prep the vegetables. The recipe suggests that I start by sautéing the onions in the olive oil so they can cook while I dice the peppers.

I frown. I’ve eaten sautéed vegetables before, but I’ve never had to sauté anything myself—what exactly does that entail?

I glance up at Elle, prepared to ask her, but when I see the look in her eyes—she seems to know I have no idea what I’m doing—I think better of the plan. I quickly do a search on my phone.

“I believe you said you wanted to talk,” I say, hoping to distract her. It’s more difficult to bluff my way through this process with her standing right here watching me. “Why don’t you tell me more about your family?”

I grab two onions and pull a knife from the wooden block sitting on the counter. Chopping these shouldn’t be too difficult.

“You’ve already met Owen,” Elle says. “There’s not much left to say about him. Oh—and there’s a cutting board below the sink. That’s probably easier than cutting them on a plate.”

“Thank you,” I say, turning quickly toward the sink. “I didn’t want to assume your kitchen was stocked with professional tools.”

She laughs. “A cutting board is hardly a
professional
tool. Most people have one. I have pans, too, believe it or not. They should be in the cabinet beside the oven.”

I retrieve the cutting board and the pan, trying—and failing—to come up with a charming remark to offset what is quickly becoming a fine display of incompetence.

Elle, meanwhile, seems to be finding the entire thing far too amusing. Perhaps I shouldn’t have given her wine on an empty stomach—she looks like she’s hardly containing her laughter.

“I thought you were in Montovia’s Royal Military?” she says. “Didn’t they teach you basic cooking skills?” She sets down her glass. “And make sure you take the skin off those onions first.”

“Members of the royal family sleep in separate quarters and receive separate meals during their time in the Royal Military,” I say, inelegantly peeling the skins off the two onions in front of me. “For security reasons, you understand.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Like they thought someone would try to poison you or something?”

“It was a consideration, yes,” I say.
Also because the rations they consume in the military are far below my family’s usual standards.
“Even in times of peace, members of the royal family can be targets of violence or kidnappings.”

I can’t tell whether she’s impressed or simply further amused by this statement. “Which is why you attacked Matthias when he was following you into the rainforest that day?”

“My family has wealth and political influence,” I say. “I must always be on guard for those who would take advantage of my position.” I begin to take the knife to the onions.
Vegetable chopping
isn’t a skill most princes are obliged to learn, but I do know how to use a knife—though the utility knives we used in the military were far different than the one I now have in my hand.

Elle is silent while I chop. When I glance up at her, she appears to be deep in thought. I’m grateful for her momentary distraction and quickly finish chopping the onion—while I’m effectively accomplishing the task, even I can see my effort is clumsy at best. The bits of onion are all different shapes and sizes, and they keep sliding out from beneath my blade. Finally, I give up and pour them all into the pan. I cover them liberally with olive oil and turn on the heat to let them cook while I turn back to the rest of my ingredients.

Elle is finally looking at me again.

“Do lots of people try to take advantage of your position?” she asks. “Not just kidnappers, I mean. Normal people you meet.”

I pull a green bell pepper onto the cutting board in front of me.

“Anyone with large amounts of money or influence is subjected to all manner of requests for both,” I say. “It’s difficult sometimes to discern whether someone’s interest in me is purely selfish on their part.”

“Their
interest
,” she repeats, almost to herself. “Are you talking about women?”

It’s my turn to laugh. “I’ve no doubt that my money is quite attractive to many women, especially since I take such great joy in showering my dates with luxury. But I suspect my romantic life would be a little different if I were four decades older and three hundred pounds heavier. Then again, maybe not.” I look up at her. “You tell me, Elle. Do I have nothing to offer a woman but my money or my title?”

Her cheeks redden. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I should hope not.” I grin. “Perhaps I flatter myself, but I’d like to think that most of my appeal with women comes from my natural charm and dashing good looks.”

She grins. “Certainly not your humility.”

“I should hope not.”

She laughs in response, and the bright sound makes something swell inside of me. Having her here next to me, smiling and laughing with me, fills me with a deep pleasure. I thought I was under her spell before when I only had her passion. I wasn’t prepared for what I’d feel when I had her joy as well.

I’m so enamored of the sound of her laughter that I don’t pay attention to my knife—or my finger.

“
Fuck!
” I curse as the blade slips, slicing deep into the skin on the index finger of my left hand.