The Star Princess Read online

  He would have chuckled, had the situation been appropriate. Instead, he allowed himself a small smile. “I will say only that my siblings and I were creative in seeking out mischievous diversions.”

  Ilana tipped her head to the side. “Are you still as creative?”

  He opened his mouth to deny it—roguery wasn’t a trait the Vedla clan cultivated—but he’d come to Earth, had he not? What did that say about the rebel in him?

  He clamped his mouth shut. By the heavens, what was he thinking, telling Ilana Hamilton about his boyhood exploits? No one outside his immediate family and the palace staff knew of those escapades, which had earned him many a scolding. The Vedlas were a disciplined breed. It would not do to have Ilana Hamilton think otherwise. He must act with dignity befitting his class.

  His tone turned formal. “On the matter of my driving the Porsche—the markings, the language, and the mechanisms with which one controls the car are primitive, but not difficult to learn.”

  Ilana drew back, as if his abrupt change in manner chilled her. “Primitive,” she muttered. “Not difficult to learn. Give me a break. It was all those garden carts you hijacked.”

  He swallowed a groan.

  She walked to where her can of pepper spray lay on the pavement. She retrieved it, then brandished it as a wand as she spoke. “You’re pretty humble. When my stepfather’s people came here for the first time, they had trouble.”

  He shrugged. “They were B’kahs.”

  That won him another laugh.

  Did all his opinions entertain her? It seemed so. For the life of him, Ché couldn’t determine what she found so funny. Could he not maintain his dignity around this woman? “I require your advice with which to choose temporary lodging for my holiday.”

  “It’s too late to find a room. You can stay in my place tonight. We’ll worry about the rest tomorrow.”

  She walked to the staircase. He remained rooted where he was. “You employ a chaperone?” He would have thought she’d have to summon one.

  “A chaperone?” She clearly struggled not to laugh.

  “We cannot stay alone together. It’s a breach of propriety. It will cause a scandal.”

  “Who’ll know? Unless you’re planning to call home and confess.”

  He stuttered. Great Mother, he’d never stuttered in his life! “-I-I I will do no such thing.”

  Ilana’s eyes twinkled delightedly. “I won’t say anything, either. I don’t have a chaperone. Or a cook, or a chauffer. No plants, no pets, no roommate. But I do have a guest room. That’s where you’ll sleep, nice and safe. If you’re that worried about me assaulting you, you can lock the—oh, damn!” She froze, her eyes widening as she peered over his shoulder at the street.

  “Paparazzi!” she hissed.

  His body tensed, ready to do battle. A figure crouched behind a ground car, aiming what Ché recognized as a camera.

  Ilana grabbed his chin and wrenched his head around. “Don’t let him get a shot of your face. Where are your sunglasses?” She yanked them from his coat pocket and slid them over his eyes. “Don’t talk.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, and she pressed her finger to his lips. “If I were on a foreign planet,” she said past gritted teeth, “and a representative of the indigenous species had just given me critical instructions, I wouldn’t argue!”

  She stood so close, clothed only in that distracting, insubstantial tiny shift. His senses soared to full alert, as in Bajha swordplay when he fell within striking range of his opponent. Her warm finger pressed against his lips.

  When her awareness of him flared in her eyes, he saw it. Holding himself very still, he watched her react to the feel of his mouth on her finger, the prick of his barely surfaced whiskers, the feel of his breath, the intensity of his stare.

  She dropped her hand with satisfying swiftness.

  Pleased, he smiled. In this particular arena, at least—man and woman—he’d been able to maintain his advantage.

  “This has never happened before,” she growled.

  It took him a moment to process that she meant the man wielding the camera. “The press usually ignores me,” she continued explaining under her breath. “I’m not as colorful as the rest of my family.”

  “I beg to differ,” Ché muttered in Basic.

  “It has to be because of the invitations. They’ve gone out, you know. For Ian and Tee’ah’s wedding.”

  “I well know the wedding,” he whispered back dryly.

  She winced. “Oops. I guess you would. Sorry.”

  “I am not.”

  She smoothed her bangs away from her forehead and stared up at him. Her unruly bleached-blond hair looked soft to the touch. Her eyes were wide, without guile. “Heartbroken?” she asked.

  He reared back. “No.”

  “Bitter?”

  “Indeed not.”

  She smiled kindly as if she didn’t believe him.

  To make matters worse, a tear crawled down his cheek. With the heel of his palm he rubbed moisture from his stinging eyes. Blasted spray. He was many things right now: weary, annoyed, exasperated, disorganized, dissatisfied, and unfocused, to name a few. But lovesick he was not. If not for propriety, he’d grab Ilana’s arm, haul her close, and make her see how wrong she was.

  But he could manage courtesy for one night, could he not? Particularly toward the crown prince’s sister, who was generous enough to offer him hospitality, though she clearly hadn’t expected him, and didn’t appear to have any great love for the Vash Nadah, family ties notwithstanding. Tomorrow, however, he’d be on his vacation, and away from this disconcerting woman’s scrutiny.

  “Wait here,” he ordered. “I will chase him away.” With one hand spread wide and shielding his face, he strode toward the bad-mannered intruder.

  Lights from the camera flashed as the man backed toward another vehicle. Smirking, Ché amplified the menacing nature of his advance.

  “No!” Ilana caught up to Ché and tugged on his arm.

  “But he troubles you.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I will make him go.”

  “It’s only a few photos. If we turn it into an incident, they’ll have a whole story.”

  The flashes began anew. Ilana tugged on Ché’s free arm, the one that didn’t shield his face. “Please?”

  He made a noise in the back of his throat and reluctantly turned, dropping his hand once his back was to the cameraman. “At home this would not happen,” he grumbled. “We have palace guards to prevent it.”

  “I don’t live in a palace.”

  For that, he was grateful. “Palaces can become tedious,” he admitted.

  She threw him a curious glance. Then she swore. “Walk faster. He’s following us. What a jerk. He’s on the grass, there in the dark.” She scowled. “I hope he steps in dog poop.”

  “Dog…poop?”

  “Canine excrement.”

  “Ah.” So, it was true: Earth-dwellers permitted their captive creatures to defecate in public places. It would take some getting used to, this wild-and-woolly planet Earth.

  They ducked up the stairs. “Then I, too, will hope that he steps in dog poop,” he said magnanimously.

  Ilana choked out an unexpected laugh. As they rounded the top of the second flight, a man jogged down from an upper floor. He wore typical Earth attire—jeans and what Ché recognized as a “sweatshirt.” On his head was a brimmed cap labeled “Angels.”

  The man almost tripped over his own feet, slowing to stare at Ché—because of the mirrored eye-shaders, Ché supposed. But if he removed them, his pale Vash eyes would give the curious Earth-dweller even more to gawk at.

  “Hey, Ilana. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Sam.” Ilana dabbed at her reddened nose. “This is my upstairs neighbor,” she explained to Ché. “Sam, this is…this is my friend, Ché.”

  Sam stuck out his hand, and Ché grasped it, an Earth-dweller gesture of greeting with which he was fortunately familiar. “W
hat’s up, Frenchie?” Sam asked.

  “Not—,” Ilana began to correct.

  Ché stopped her with a touch of his hand on her arm. He hadn’t given it much forethought, but an assumed name would not hurt.

  Simultaneously, they sneezed.

  “Aw,” Sam said, grinning. “Matching colds. Love sucks, doesn’t it?”

  Ilana wiped her nose with a tissue. “I sprayed us with pepper spray.”

  Sam’s mouth twisted. “Different strokes—”

  “Accidentally.”

  “Right.” Hands shoved in his jeans pockets, Sam grinned, then skipped the rest of the way down the stairs. There he turned and called up to them, “Try Reddi-Wip next time. It doesn’t have as many side effects.”

  Ilana groaned and shoved open her door.

  “Ready whip?” Ché queried. Colloquial speech baffled him.

  “Never mind,” Ilana said. She pulled him through her front door and slammed it closed behind them.

  Chapter Six

  Ilana expelled a breath of relief. Closing her eyes briefly, she leaned back against the closed door, her hands flat against the cool white wood, and inhaled the sweet scent of her living room. She’d bought fresh lilacs the day before in the flower market by the pier. Good thing. The scent calmed her. A little. And it eased the effects of the pepper spray, which thankfully had been mild due to the smallness of the burst, bonehead that she was, and the wind. Here she thought she’d stepped into The Terminator. Instead, the last few minutes had played out like a bad romantic comedy.

  She opened her heavy eyes and massaged her temples. A few curling strands of hair fell over her face. With the inbred insolence so characteristic of royal Vash Nadah men, Ché clasped his hands behind his back and took in the details of her small living room. Her couch was yellow, the two chairs sea-blue, and the walls white. The floor was whitewashed wood covered with groups of pillows, area rugs, and nautical bric-a-brac she’d acquired here and there. Nothing matched. She found the disarray appealing. In her home, there was only one rule: no plants, pets, or anything she had to water, trim, feed, or walk.

  She liked her place. It was bright and happy, so she could feel that way, too. Even when she wasn’t.

  Sniffling, she pressed the tissue in her hand to her burning nose. Ché sneezed. Removing his glasses, he wiped his eyes, muttering something that didn’t sound like language Mama Vedla would likely use.

  Ilana hid her smirk by blowing her nose. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

  It looked as if he’d smile. Then he appeared to catch himself. “Quite.” He pocketed his sunglasses. “It is safe to remove my eyeshaders now that we are inside, yes? I would not want to further anger the indigenous species.”

  Startled, she laughed. He looked pleased. “You have a sense of humor,” she told him.

  “You think I am joking?”

  Touché.

  She shook her head. “Prince Ché What-the-hell-are-you-doing-here Vedla, I’ve already convinced myself not to like you. Don’t make me change my mind.”

  He gave her that you-are-an-alien-creature look she’d come to expect. “Actually, Ilana, you do not know as much as you think you do about Vash men.”

  “I know enough. All I ever want to. Believe me.”

  His golden eyes sparked with challenge, an almost playful look that made Ilana wonder if Ché knew was sexy as hell. “We shall see,” was all he said.

  “I guess we will, won’t we?” she shot back.

  The air crackled with this unexpected verbal sparring; She found it exhilarating.

  Smoothly, Ché moved on to the photos on her walls, Ilana’s UCLA diploma, and the filmmaking awards she’d won. He stood there, handsome and poised, at the top of his game; he exuded power and wealth, the kind of confidence born into a man. If ever there was a surreal scene, this was it: Ché Vedla, the man who personified everything Ilana wanted to avoid, standing in the middle of her living room. She was tempted to grab the Canon in her bedroom so she could record the event for all posterity.

  “You create entertainment,” he said.

  She liked the way he said that. He’d expressed what she did for a living perfectly. “Yeah. I’m a filmmaker. My partners and I run a production company that makes movies. We’ve only made three so far, just finished the last. That was what I was working on when I met you the first time.” When your idiot brother singlehandedly almost tore apart the Federation.

  …Before Ché stepped in and along with Ian helped save the day, she reminded herself. “We each have our specialties, and even then we share tasks. Mostly, I’m the DP—the director of photography. That means I’m the person responsible for the lighting and cinematography of a film. I decide how a scene should look, taking into account things like contrast and depth of field. But when I can, I enjoy just being the camera operator.” She added Basic words and hand motions to her English to help him grasp her explanation. Strangely, she wanted him to understand what she did for a living. She wanted his respect. And yet, she wasn’t sure why. Why was it so important that this man, this uppity Vash prince, acknowledge that a woman could do more than produce babies, or act as a decorative fixture on his arm? She had a snowball’s chance in hell of changing his views, just as he’d never get her to see why the Vash liked their royal women held back and hidden away.

  “But now we’re in between projects. We’re hoping to find a great script, or an idea we love. Then we’ll have to find investors, or get a grant. And if that doesn’t work out, we’ll probably have to find work as a crew for other people’s projects to make money.” She cracked a smile. “If it gets really bad, I’ll find a part-time gig at a restaurant, or the video store across the street so I can eat.”

  At that, Ché glanced up sharply. Had he assumed she lived off the limitless B’kah wealth? Had he ever socialized with anyone who lived as simply as she did? Welcome to the real word, Mr. Prince.

  “But that’s the nature of the business,” she finished with a shrug. “It’s unpredictable at first—and even later on, everyone tells me.”

  He nodded, his classic features reserved. “You love your work.”

  She jerked her gaze up to his. Pale, intense eyes glowed in his shadowed face. And yet, she couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t make out what he thought of her passion for her art. “Yes. I love it. I love making movies. I can put the pictures I see in my head out there for others so they can enjoy them, too. I love tweaking a scene until it gives the exact feeling I’m looking for, the shot that evokes the right mood. I never want to give it up.”

  She felt suddenly awkward. It was that morningafter feeling where, now that the rush of lust had passed, you realized that you’d been physically very intimate with someone you weren’t sure you wanted to know that well—or know at all. It felt like that now with Ché, only she’d been intimate emotionally, not physically, revealing hopes and dreams she’d never intended to bare.

  He rewarded her with interest and maybe even admiration; she could see it in his expression as he took a closer look at her trophies, accolades, and memorabilia. Or was it wishful thinking on her part? One thing was for sure: enigma described Ché Vedla perfectly.

  On her kitchen counter, her answering machine was blinking. She strode across the room to get a closer look. There were fifteen messages waiting. Since her friends and associates used her cell, this could only mean one thing.

  Dread filling her, she touched the Play button. “Ms. Hamilton, this is Paul Friedman from the Wall Street Journal—” She skipped to the next message. “Hello, I’m Marjorie Stevens with the Los Angeles Ti—” Ilana winced. “This is Newsweek magazine calling for—”

  “Ah!” She punched the Off button. “First the reporter, then the jerk with the camera, and now this.”

  Ché waved at the front door, which she’d bolted. “At least the beasts are locked outside for the night.”

  She snorted. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

  Ché appeared unsure whether he
should laugh or act insulted. “You consider me a beast?”

  She dropped her hands to her hips and gave him a slow, very thorough once-over. Big hands. Big feet. She supposed it would be too crude to admit that she hoped so. “Too early to tell,” she said.

  With something between indignation and awe, Ché regarded her. She strode across the living room and extended her hands. “Since you’re staying, let me put away your coat.”

  Slowly, he unbuttoned his Armani suit. His shoulders and biceps flexed as he shrugged off the jacket.

  “Thank you.” He draped the coat across her outstretched arms. The fabric smelled like him, a masculine scent of clean, warm skin, and something exotic and different, reminding her that he was anything but the guy next door.

  He tugged on his shirt sleeves, smoothing out the wrinkles. The white linen was so fine that the Vash-bronze skin of his upper body showed through. The palms of Ilana’s imagination slid over the cool shirt, her fingers slipping under the fabric to explore firm, hot skin.

  “I’ll put away your coat,” she said quickly. “Sit down, make yourself at home.” Take off the rest of your clothes; I won’t mind.

  She spun away to hang the jacket in the closet. An umbrella fell out. She righted it. Then her vacuum cleaner tried to lunge forward. With her knee, Ilana shoved it back inside, slammed the door, then paused to compose herself before she turned around.

  Did Tee’ah have any idea what she’d given up to marry Ian?

  Ilana cut off the thought. Her brother was an Earth guy at heart, and that’s what Tee’ah wanted. Someone without pretense, someone who wasn’t spoiled, who would let her have the freedom she wanted. Not someone like Ché. Sure, with the sex lessons he’d had and a genetically perfect bod, Ché would be the ideal fling. But what woman in her right mind would want to be his wife? His queen?