A Royal Mess and Her Knight To Remember

riddling her body. “I guess you’ve seen me wet a few times now.”

His eyes darkened. “Have I?”

Wildly, she wondered if she was only imagining the possible sexual context of what she’d said, or the heat in his eyes.

He stepped closer and she retreated, lifting the hose up as a weapon. “Stay back.”

Stopping short, he lifted his hands. “Staying back.”

“Good. Because you’re looking at me funny again.”

“I am?”

“I nearly threw myself at you before,” she reminded him, still wielding her weapon. “And you didn’t take me up on it, so-”

“Clearly, I was not in full use of my faculties at the time. Natalia, put down the hose.”

She didn’t. “You’re in use of your faculties now, do you think?”

“Oh, yeah.” He lifted his gaze from the hose in her hand and ran his eyes slowly over her, from her wet head to her wet toes, then back again, touching on every place in between. “You look good all wet and dirty, Natalia.”

“Obviously, you need your eyes checked.”

“My eyes are fine.”

She looked at him then, really looked. He was no longer devouring her body, but looking right into her eyes, and it was clear he was thinking he liked what he saw. Natalia the woman, not the princess.

Her dream come true.

So why then did she take another step back? And suddenly, oddly, wish with all her heart that he wanted both the woman and the princess? “I think I’m going to get a hot shower and change,” she said slowly.

He stepped forward. “I need a hot shower, too.”

Lord, all that heat and hunger in his gaze. Once again she lifted the hose. “I can arrange a cold one.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

A dare. He didn’t know her well enough, or he would never have said such a thing. She was the middle child. A born hellion. Never had she let a dare pass unanswered.

The adolescent in her warred with the woman. The woman who wanted to be noticed. Wanted. Held. Kept.

None of these things were a really good idea. Not when the princess within her suddenly reared her head and demanded equal time as the woman.

Truth was, she was this whole, complicated human being, and she wanted cowboy Timothy Banning to see it.

Would he?

Maybe if he could ever stop “rescuing” her for long enough to really see her. She glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes and realized…he was again looking at her body. Her wet body.

And there was nothing in his expression that signified he wanted to do anything but devour her.

On the spot.

She shivered in delight and reservation at the same time.

“Natalia? Put down the hose.”

“I can’t do that, Tim,” she said softly, wondering how he’d look all drenched with water. Probably pretty darn breathtaking.

“Why not?” he asked, just as softly.

“Because I find I’m still a little mad.” Not really. Hot, yes. Very hot.

And it was mostly his fault. Given that, no one could blame her for what she wanted to do. Not a single person.

He was looking at her, focusing all his attention on her in a way that made her feel indelibly female. And powerful. The powerful part was a definite mistake on his part. “Natalia-”

“I’m sorry,” she said ahead of time, and leveled him in the chest with the hose.

But the joke was on her because as the droplets slid down his chest and absorbed into the waistband of the soft jeans hung low on his hips, her mouth watered. Her body overheated. And ached.

Damn it, all she’d done was reawaken those pesky lust hormones.

THE NEXT MORNING Tim still couldn’t get over it. He was miles from the house on his horse, checking fences, and already he needed a shower.

A cold one.

It wasn’t the weather making him hot, though it was an unseasonably warm day. It wasn’t the torn fence he’d just found. Nor the missing cattle. Nor the fact he had a sick calf.

It happened to be his cook. The woman he’d hired only to help her out. The woman he’d brought home intending to give her a leg up, a place to regroup.

Instead she’d knocked him for a loop. And it wasn’t about how she’d pushed him flat on his ass into the mud with the cold water from the hose the day before.

It was how she made him see things. Food for instance. Watching her eat and enjoy her food was pretty much a mind-blowing experience, even if they obviously had very different ideas on what good food was.

Bottom line, he’d had no idea how little passion he’d put into his life lately.

She made him smile, too, at every turn. When was the last time he’d wanted to kiss a woman stupid and laugh at the same time?

And then there was how she made him feel when she looked at him as if he were the greatest man on the face of the earth. Why did she do that? Didn’t she know it cut right through his heart and made him want things he was better off not wanting?

She was leaving, possibly today. Tomorrow for certain. He’d paid her daily, expecting every morning to wake up and find her gone, but she was always in the kitchen ahead of him, no matter how early.

Cooking.

The food had been awful. He swiped his forearm across his forehead and pulled his shirt away from his body, wondering how many candy bars and other snack foods he’d consumed with the guys in the past few days trying to ward off starvation.

But he’d miss her.

The thought was sudden and strong. Which was how he found himself heading back to the house in the middle of the day, with no real reason except to see her.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Damn, he was too late. She’d gone, just like she’d come.

Then a sound came from the kitchen, a horrible sort of caterwauling, and he moved through the house with growing urgency. Someone was hurt. Someone was dying.

Bursting through the double doors from the living room, Tim took in the sight of Natalia, her back to him, wildly gyrating as if she had a bee in her pants.

“Natalia?”

She didn’t answer, and that’s when he saw the earphones on her head, attached to his portable CD player hooked on her belt.

And the noise? It was singing. Natalia’s singing, and it was beyond horrible.

She had a large bowl tucked under one arm, the other hand whipping whatever was in it into a frenzy. Her entire body shook and shimmied while she sang at the top of her very untalented lungs.

Leaning against the wall, he shook his head as a big grin split his face. Oblivious to his presence, she continued singing in her godawful pitch, wailing with pure, passionate abandonment. She danced better than she sang-slightly. Her moves were decidedly late eighties, but the wriggle she had going was enough to make his eyes cross with lust. Definitely he liked the wriggle.

Then she slowed with the music as it came to a halt, and thrust a Saturday Night Fever finger into the air. She had one hip out, legs straight, passion on her face and he couldn’t contain his laugh.

With a screech, she whirled around, whipping off the earphones. There was a rim of chocolate around her