If 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.

Blood wells up immediately, spilling onto the half-sliced pepper.

Elle is at my side in an instant. She grabs a paper towel from the roll on the counter.

“Here,” she says. “Apply pressure.”

She doesn’t hand the towel to me, though. Instead, she takes my hand and squeezes the towel against my cut herself. Her fingers are soft and slightly cool, and though the touch isn’t sexual, my body responds immediately.

“You need to be more careful,” she says.

“I was distracted. Has anyone ever told you that you have the most delightful laugh?”

Her ears flush pink. “You need to pay attention to what you’re doing when you’re using a knife. Don’t let yourself get distracted.”

“I couldn’t help myself.” My grin spreads. “I seem to be injuring myself quite often around you, Elle. It’s a good thing I have you here to take care of me.”

She shakes her head. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to do something far worse to yourself next time. I swear, I have no idea how you’ve made it this far in life without losing a limb or something.”

“Because I made it this far without meeting a woman who distracts me the way you do.” I curl my hand, tightening my fingers around hers.

The amusement is gone from her eyes, and instead she looks hesitant and vulnerable again. “Leo, I…”

“You what?”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“That’s all right,” I say, my voice a low rumble. “I know enough for the both of us.” I bring her hand up to my mouth and brush my lips across the back of her knuckles. Then I let my tongue slip out and flick it gently against her skin. A quiver moves through her.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she says. “You’re injured.”

“It’s hardly more than a paper cut.”

“But it could still get infected.” She pulls her hand out of mine.

“If you wish to clean and bandage it, I won’t stop you,” I tell her. “But nor will that change what I’m feeling right now.” She hasn’t moved away from me, and I step around her, trapping her against the counter with one arm on either side of her.

“You really are insatiable. And insufferable.” A bit of the humor has returned to her face, but this time it’s not because she’s let her guard down—this time it’s a shield. A way to deflect my attention.

“Tell me to move,” I say. I won’t force myself upon her, even if my body is suddenly tense with need. Even if I can think of little else but throwing her down on this counter and taking her right here, the way I nearly did this morning.

“We haven’t even finished our date yet,” she says.

Another deflection.

“Then tell me to finish,” I say. “Tell me you’d prefer that I go back to chopping vegetables.”

“We really should eat something.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She hesitates. I wait, my breath frozen in my chest, wondering whether she’ll continue to try and push me away or succumb once more to the hunger between us.

Finally, ever so slowly, her hands reach up. Her fingers brush gently against my cheeks, and I force myself to remain still, to let her move at her own pace.

Then, suddenly, she grabs my face and yanks my mouth down to hers.

It’s the first time she’s initiated a kiss between us. And my blood responds to that knowledge nearly as much as it responds to the heat of her lips against mine. A growl comes from somewhere deep in my chest as my arms loop around her.

My God, I’ll never get enough of her. I’m wild with hunger, aching with the need to be inside of her again. It’s only been, what—an hour or two? But it feels like a lifetime.

She buries her fingers in my hair, and I slide my hands down her body. In an instant, I’m fully hard. She groans as my hand curls around her breast.

“What do you think?” I murmur against her mouth. “Should we finish what we began this morning?” My thumb glides across her nipple, and I feel it tighten into a hard bud beneath her shirt. “Shall I throw you down on this counter?”

Before she can respond, I drop my hands down to her hips and lift her up, setting her on the edge of the counter in front of me. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me against her as our mouths find each other again.

I take that as a yes, I think, sliding my tongue across hers.

I find the waistband of her leggings and slide my hands inside, running them across the soft, smooth skin of her ass. She bites down on my tongue, and I moan. She arches against me, her hips pressing against my arousal.

I’m going to eat you up. Every last bit of you.

I hear a growl escape me as I start to push her leggings lower. I have to partially lift her to get them over her ass, but I’m not ready to flip her over onto her stomach yet. Instead, I slip my hand between her legs, just like I did this morning. She’s already dripping wet again, and I smile against her lips as I slide a finger down through her wetness. It slips easily inside of her, and she bucks against my hand.

I move my finger slowly, in part to tease her and in part to gauge how tender she is at the moment. Honestly, after all the sex we’ve had, I’m feeling a little raw myself—but that pain only heightens the sensations I’m feeling. Nothing will keep me from joining with her again.

I add a second finger to the first, and this time she pulls her face away from mine. Her head falls back, and a soft, breathy cry escapes her lips. She writhes against me, her body showing me exactly what she wants.

I need to be inside of her. Now.

I start to lift her up, preparing to flip her over. My fingers are digging into the soft flesh of her perfect bottom when I hear a loud, sudden WHOOOOSH.

Elle stiffens. I lift my head, blinking dazedly at her.

Her eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. She shoves at my shoulder with one hand and tugs at her leggings with the other. “The onions!”

I’m still half-mad with desire as I lower her back to the counter and turn, but then I instantly go cold when I see what she means.

The pan with the onions has caught on fire.

* * *