The Prince's Cowboy Double

“Still, someone may mention one of the dukes or counts, or even their wives. It’s important that you are not caught making a mistake regarding your relatives.”

“His relatives,” Hank clarified, scowling at Milos Anatole, who knelt beside him with a mouthful of pins and some chalk. “You know, these pants looked just fine to me.”

“Prince Alexi is approximately one half inch taller than you, Mr. McCauley,” the uppity, nervous valet announced around the mouthful of pins.

“Yeah, but a half inch? I’m only going to be wearing his things for a few hours.”

“It’s entirely possible someone could notice that your clothes didn’t fit perfectly,” Lady Wendy explained.

Hank shook his head. This prince really was a bore. Like the most important thing in the world was whether his pants “broke” at just the proper place above his expensive Italian shoes.

“Who’s gonna be lookin’ that hard at my pants?” Hank asked, putting both hands on his hips.

Milos frowned up at him. Wendy blinked at him as if he’d said something ridiculous.

“What?”

“Mr. McCauley, the prince is under constant observation by a variety of press. Both legitimate publications and the more irritating paparazzi track his every move. They will be at all the events.”

Hank narrowed his eyes. “You never said anything about folks following me around, taking dozens of pictures.”

“More like hundreds,” Wendy told him in a matter-of-fact voice that for some reason irritated the hell out of him.

Hank squared his shoulders, trying his best to be intimidating. “You owe me.”

“You have yet to name your price,” she informed him. “Of course, I’ve already explained that the Belegovian treasury is not an endless well of funds.”

“You want me to name my price?”

“Yes, I would appreciate the courtesy. After all, you may decide not to accept a check from the official account. Belegovia is somewhat farther than Oklahoma, as I believe you mentioned—”

“Sarcasm just doesn’t suit a sweet lady like you,” Hank complained, thoroughly tired of this hotel room and all the facts he’d been forced to memorize. Not to mention a fussy haircut and all those tiny alterations.

“I thought I was being terribly clever.”

“Well, you’re not,” he informed her peevishly. “And as for my fee, I’ve decided on part of it.”

“Part of it? Really, Mr. McCauley, I must insist you decide on a reasonable amount—”

“Tonight. I want to go out with you to the River-walk and have some fun.”

She let out a long-suffering sigh. “We are a little busy tonight.”

“We’re just about finished, that’s what we are,” he said, his fingers going to the fastening on Prince Alexi’s slacks. “We need to get out of here for a few hours. Have a little fun. I’ll bet you don’t relax enough. A couple of tequila sunrises and a stroll along the river is just what you need.”

“I need to succeed in this mission.”

“Damn, Lady Wendy, you sound like some secret agent. This isn’t life or death, you know. You said we were visiting a children’s hospital and a zoo. That means some baby kissin’ and smilin’ at cuddly little animals.”

“No, Mr. McCauley, that is not what this is all about! This is about my career, Prince Alexi’s reputation, and quite possibly the future of the monarchy in Belegovia!” Her voice had risen to such a level that Hank was surprised somebody didn’t start pounding on the wall, yelling for them to shut up. Of course, that kind of thing didn’t happen in these fancy suites like it did in the cheap motels he’d stayed at while he was on the circuit. Since he’d retired, he’d gotten used to some of the finer things in life, like nice hotels with thick terry cloth towels and twenty-four-hour room service.

“That does it,” he announced, batting Milos’s hands away from the crease in the slacks. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Haven’t you been listening? We must succeed. You must be accepted as Prince Alexi!”

“I can’t do my best work if I’m all stressed out,” he said, shaking his head. “You need to get out of those stuffy clothes and into something more comfortable. I’ve got a hankerin’ for a cold beer and some hot salsa.”

“Mr. McCauley, we are not going out on the town!”

“Sure we are. It’s part of my fee. Look in that bag over there on the couch. I bought you a T-shirt that’s just what you need for strollin’ along the river on a real pretty night like this.”

Lady Wendy ran her hands through her hair, loosening several strands. Hank smiled to himself. She was too easy to rile, too predictable for her own good. All he had to do was push her buttons and she got all huffy. If there was ever a woman who needed to relax and have some fun, she was Lady Wendy.

Besides, no one should visit San Antonio and miss the Riverwalk.

“You’d better run and change,” he told her, his hands resting on the waistband of Prince Alexi’s slacks. “In about ten seconds I’m gonna be pretty near naked. Now, I don’t mind if you don’t,” he said, easing the zipper lower, “but I figure a lady with your sensibilities wouldn’t want to see my beat up ol’ body.”

“Mr. McCauley, please! We don’t have time for fun.”

He let pass her unintentional implication that seeing his “beat up old body” would be fun. He walked a fine line—too much teasing and she’d get real mad. “Well, we need to make some, then. I just can’t tolerate the thought of you missin’ the Riverwalk, much less the Alamo. Why, it’s a national shrine!”

“If I promise to come back and visit Texas another time, will you continue working?”

Hank shook his head as he finished unzipping the slacks. “I’d like to believe you, Lady Wendy, but I just can’t. I know how busy you career women are. You can’t guarantee that you’ll make it back to Texas. It’s my duty to make sure you see as much of it as possible.”

“It’s my job to make sure you can pass as Prince Alexi.”

“Unless you’re ready to compare more than accents and clothes between Prince Alexi and me, you’d better get on out of this room and change into that T-shirt.” He lowered the slacks a couple of inches, revealing white briefs.

“Is there no way to talk you out of this insanity?” she asked, blushing a nice pink and staring at the framed artwork over the couch.

“Nope.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. Hank hid his smile. He was enjoying this way too much. He couldn’t wait to see what Lady Wendy was like after a couple of tequila sunrises and a little two-stepping.

Grabbing the bag containing the pretty Texas T-shirt he’d picked out earlier, she stalked across the room like some British general going to battle. “We’ll go to this Riverwalk for one hour,” she said, obviously trying to compromise. “I suppose you do deserve a little time off for being such a good sport.”

“With an attitude like that, we’re bound to have a good time,” he said with a chuckle.

GWENDOLYN COULDN’T remember ever being this frustrated and confused. Hank McCauley was the most exasperating, most difficult man she’d had the misfortune to meet. First, he’d insisted on driving his own vehicle—a monstrously large truck, no less. Then he’d driven right up to the front portico of the hotel, despite her instructions to go to the service entrance. He’d kissed her quite deliberately so she’d appear more like one of the women he preferred—except she knew she didn’t look a thing like the busty, flirtatious young tarts who flocked to such testosterone-rich cowboys. He’d needed a nap once they were checked in. Now, after only several hours of fittings, a haircut and lessons, he needed a little holiday on this Riverwalk!

“Damn you, Prince Alexi,” she muttered under her breath. “I hope you’re having a perfectly miserable time, wherever you are.”

If he were having a terrible time with his truck-stop waitress, he would end his trip promptly. Everything would return to normal and her job would not be in jeopardy. She would not retreat to England in disgrace to face her overly critical father, who believed she should find a titled, moneyed peer and settle down to a life of charitable works and social engagements, and produce her husband’s heir and a spare.

The key word there was settle. She had no intention of giving up her career to fit the image of what her stuffy, antiquated father thought was proper for an English lady.

She lifted the soft T-shirt from the bag. A pristine white background held a line of blue flowers—she supposed they were the famed Texas bluebonnets she’d seen on various publications—and a prettily lettered “Texas” in green below. The shirt was certainly a far cry better than some she’d seen—and even imagined Mr. McCauley preferring—which featured ugly animals called armadillos and crude sayings regarding beer, sex and other suggestive activities.