“You are not a party girl.”
“Never have been. I spend Fashion Weeksonor holed up in my hotel room, rejuvenating.”
“You’re so honest. I like that about you.”
“You’re the same.”
“And?” he prompted, sitting beside her.
“I like it too, as if you didn’t know.”
“Considering how much you donotlike about me, affirmation of what you do is not a bad thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am a prince. I am ruthless. I am rich. I am royal.”
“Prince and royal are the same thing.”
“You’ve mentioned it in regard to both roles.”
“I never said I didn’t like you.” Even when she’d been hurting so badly.
“Not in so many words.”
“Not in any words.”
“That is good to know.”
She was totally lost as far as this conversation went, and just on the side of too tired and mentally exhausted to figure it out.
Dima patted his own thigh. “Here.”
“Here what?” she asked.
“Your feet. You should have worn tennis shoes today.”
“My sandals were perfectly comfortable.” For the first hours of sightseeing anyway. Her feet ached now.
“Give them to me.”
“You asked for it.” She wasn’t turning down a foot rub, even by a prince.
Maybe especially by a prince.
It turned out that Prince Dimitri of Mirrus gave a magnificent foot massage.
“How soon will we be back at the dock?” she asked.
“We’ll have dinner on board and then dock in time to make our flight.”
“I didn’t repack before leaving your apartment this morning.”
“My people will take care of it.”
“I should insist on doing it for myself.”
“Why?”