Page 20 of The Princess Trap
He arched a brow, but let his hand drop. “Fine. You should sit down, though.”
Oh dear. That sounded ominous.
Before she could really start panicking, a knock came at the door. An inappropriately loud knock, the kind made by menwith large fists and underdeveloped common sense. She let out a huff. “Would that be your mysterious bodyguards?”
“Yes,” Ruben said, without a hint of apology. Had she really been ready to sleep with this man? He was bloody irritating.
Cherry stomped out into the hall and yanked open her front door. A huge man stood in the doorway, dressed entirely in black. The man who’d been in Chris’s office with Ruben just that morning. The man who’d stormed into the alleyway after that photographer.
She eyed him warily. “Do you speak English? Because I don’t speak Swedish.”
His thin lips twitched into something that might have been a smile. “Danish,” he said.
“Oh, sorry. I’m not big on languages.”
“It is no problem. I am Hans. May I come in?”
Cherry, who had given up on all pretence of charm—surprise photographs and denied orgasms would do that to a girl—stepped aside with an ill-mannered sigh and said, “If you must.”
The huge man dwarfed her tiny flat’s narrow hallway. He headed towards the living room as if he’d been here a thousand times before, not bothering to take off his shoes.
Bloody men.
Cherry slammed the door shut.
When she returned to the living room, she found Hans standing by the window, peering out into the night, and Ruben on the sofa with… her cat, Whiskey. The fat little tabby was stretched out on Ruben’s lap, purring. Getting fur all over his £3,000 suit. He didn’t appear to mind. He rubbed her belly, and didn’t even flinch when she dug all of her claws into his hand.
Cherry tried not to be impressed.
“So,” she said, clapping her hands together. “This is cozy.”
Hans turned away from the window to look at her dispassionately. Ruben continued playing with Whiskey, who hadn’t even acknowledged Cherry’s presence. Bloody traitor.
Scrabbling for the remnants of her poise, Cherry picked up the pillows she’d thrown. “I’d offer you both a cuppa,” she said, “only I don’t really want to.”
Hans inclined his head. “That’s quite alright, Madam.”
How irritating.
But Ruben turned wide, hurt eyes on her. “Really, Cherry? Denying us tea? Is that necessary?”
It took her a second to realise that he was taking the piss. She shot him a glare. He responded with a lazy smile that had her treacherous heart leaping even as her temper rose.
“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” she snapped.
Hans blinked. Then he frowned at Ruben. “You didn’t tell her?”
“I was easing into it.”
“No you bloody weren’t,” Cherry spluttered. “You haven’t told me shit!”
With a sigh, Ruben plucked Whiskey off of his lap and set the cat down on the floor. She, mortally offended, stuck both nose and whiskers in the air before sauntering off.
“Okay,” Ruben said. “I’ll get on with it, if you like.”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m a prince.”
