Free Taming the Prince by Elizabeth Bevarly

soft brush of his fingers over her skin had just been too exquisite for words.
    “I’ve encountered worse than Fawn over the years,” she added.
    He grinned, but there wasn’t an ounce of happiness in his expression. “Have you now?”
    She nodded slowly. “I was on the girls’ cricket team at school. And we were a vicious lot, I assure you.”
    Shane dropped his hand back to his side, and blew out an exasperated breath. “So what do we do now?”
    Sara dipped her head toward the basket and thermos. “Do you want to risk eating something?”
    He didn’t turn his attention in that direction, but nodded. “I don’t think it’ll hurt us. Something tells me they don’t want us dead just yet.”
    Oh, no, Sara agreed silently. She was sure the two of them were of much more use to the Black Knights alive. For now, at any rate.
    “Then shall we?” she said.
    He nodded again. “Sure. Your place or mine?”
     
    Shane palmed his weary eyes, scrubbed his hands over his face, and wished like hell that he had access to a razor. And a sink. And a bar of soap. And—hey, why not?—a really big bottle of Scotch. He had no idea how much time had passed since he and Sara had been thrown into this little room, but they had long ago finished off the stalebread and weak tea that their captors had given them, and they’d both been allowed to take a couple of bathroom breaks. Not that knowing the time would have helped him out, anyway. He was still on Pacific Standard Time himself. His gut told him that the sun was just now rising over the east coast of the U.S.—because he was really in the mood for a dawn patrol surf—which would make it midafternoon where they were.
    Not that he had any major plans for the day or any important appointments he had to keep. So what was the big deal, right?
    He told himself he should try to get some sleep, that he was useless to himself and Sara in his current state of exhaustion. Although he’d nodded off once or twice since they’d eaten, he hadn’t been able to do anything more than doze intermittently. He supposed he was still a little buzzed over all the adrenaline that had pumped through his body in the last few days, ever since receiving that fateful phone call from Marcus and the queen of Penwyck. Between that and this little episode with the Black Knights, his body and mind both were on overload. He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised that sleep eluded him.
    He glanced over at his companion to find that she suffered from no such problem herself. In fact, Sara had succumbed to her own exhaustion and fallen into a deep sleep a long time ago—though he wasn’t sure exactly how long. Hell, he couldn’t be sure about much of anything at this point. Except for the fact that Sara Wallington looked pretty damned adorable when she slept.
    Her pink sweater and white blouse were smudged with dirt and dust in a number of places now, and her crisp tailored skirt was more than a little sooty and rumpled. Her stockings bore a long run in one of the legs, and the hijackers had taken her shoes along with his own. Her hair had long ago spilled from its terse binding, and now it cascaded in a tangle over her shoulders and forehead. He’d been surprised to see that it was slightly curly, so tightlyhad she had it bound. Even the shiner she sported courtesy of Fawn the Terrible couldn’t harden her appearance. She was still Miss Pink Sweater and Pearls, even if the terrorists had swiped her pearls along with her shoes.
    Still, there was something about her current state of disorder that made Shane smile, because it hinted at a rash, untamed nature that might lurk beneath her carefully created, pink-sweatered exterior. And even though she’d been through hell, she’d managed to hang on to her spirit and her courage and her dignity. She might be pink sweaters and pearls, but there was steel and fire beneath them. And all Shane could think about at the moment was what an appealing bundle of