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  Sure, it might be that easy.

  But then again, it might not.

  He had no reason on earth to believe that a woman like this one would want anything to do with him. From the way she dressed and acted, Joe was willing to bet big bucks that she wouldn’t want any kind of permanent thing with a guy like him.

  Veronica St. John—“Sinjin,” she pronounced it with that richer-than-God accent—could probably trace her bloodline back to Henry the Eighth. And Joe, he didn’t even know who the hell his father was. And wouldn’t that just make dicey dinner conversation. “Catalanotto… Italian name, isn’t it? Where exactly is your father from, Lieutenant?”

  “Well, gee, I don’t know, Ronnie.” He wondered if anyone had ever called her Ronnie, probably not. “Mom says he was some sailor in port for a day or two. Catalanotto is her name. And where she came from is anyone’s guess. So is it really any wonder Mom drank as much as she did?”

  Yeah, that would go over real well.

  But he wasn’t talking about marriage here. He wasn’t talking about much more than quenching that sharp thirst he felt whenever he looked into Veronica St. John’s eyes. He was talking about one night, maybe two or three or four, depending on how long this operation lasted. He was talking short-term fling, hot affair—not a lot of conversation required.

  It was true, he didn’t have a lot of experience with debutantes, but hell, her money and power were only on the surface. Peel the outer trappings away, and Veronica St. John was a woman. And Joe knew women. He knew what they liked, how to catch their eye, how to make them smile.

  Usually women came to him. It had been a long while since he’d actively pursued one.

  This could be fun.

  “We trained to learn how to drop instantly into rapid-eye-movement sleep,” Joe said, evenly meeting the crystal blueness of Veronica’s eyes. “It comes in handy in a combat situation, or a covert op where there may be only brief stretches of time safe enough to catch some rest. It’s kept more than one SEAL alive on more than one occasion.”

  “What else do SEALs learn how to do?” Veronica asked.

  Oh, baby, what you don’t know…

  “You name it, honey,” Joe said, “we can do it.”

  “My name,” she declared in her cool English accent, sitting back in her chair and gazing at him steadily, “is Veronica St. John. Not honey. Not babe. Veronica. St. John. Please refrain from using terms of endearment. I don’t care for them.”

  She was trying to look as chilly as her words sounded, but Joe saw heat when he looked into her eyes. She was trying to hide it, but it was back there. He knew, with a sudden odd certainty, that when they made love, it was going to be a near religious experience. Not if they made love, When. It was going to happen.

  “It’s a habit that’s gonna be hard to break,” he said.

  Veronica stood, briefcase in hand. “I’m sure you have a number of habits that will be a challenge to break,” she said. “So I suggest we not keep the tailor waiting a minute longer. We have plenty of work to do before we can get some sleep.”

  But Joe didn’t move. “So what am I supposed to call you?” he asked. “Ronnie?”

  Veronica looked up to find a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. He knew perfectly well that calling her “Ronnie” would not suit. He was smiling, and she was struck by the even whiteness of his teeth. He may have chipped one at one time, but the others were straight and well taken care of.

  “I think Ms. St. John will do quite well, thank you,” she said. “That is how the prince addresses me.”

  “I see,” Joe murmured, clearly amused.

  “Shall we?” she prompted.

  “Oh, yes, please,” Joe said overenthusiastically, then tried to look disappointed. “Oh…you mean shall we leave? I thought you meant…” But he was only pretending that he misunderstood. He couldn’t keep a smile from slipping out.

  Veronica shook her head in exasperation. “Two days, Lieutenant,” she said. “We have two days to create a miracle, and you’re wasting time with sophomoric humor.”

  Joe stood, stretching his arms above his head. His feet and legs were bare underneath his robe. So was the rest of him, but Veronica was determined not to think about that.

  “I thought you were going to call me ‘Your Highness.”’

  “Two days, Your Highness,” Veronica repeated.

  “Two days is a breeze, Ronnie,” he said. “And I’ve decided if I’m the prince I can call you whatever I want, and I want to call you Ronnie.”

  “No, you most certainly will not!”

  “Why the hell not? I’m the prince,” Joe said. “It’s your choice—Ronnie or Honey. I don’t care.”

  “My Lord, you’re almost as incorrigible as Tedric,” Veronica sputtered.

  “‘My Lord,”’ Joe mused. “Yeah, you can call me that. Although I prefer ‘Your All-Powerful Mightiness.’ Hey, while I’m making royal decrees, why don’t you go ahead and give the serfs a day off.”

  He was laughing at her. He was teasing her, and enjoying watching her squirm.

  “You know, this is going to be a vacation for me, Ron,” he added. “Two days of prep is a cakewalk.”

  Veronica laughed in disbelief. How dare he…? “Two days,” she said. “You’re going to have to completely relearn how to walk and talk and stand and sit and eat. Not to mention memorizing all the names and faces of the aides and ambassadors and government officials that the prince is acquainted with. And don’t forget all the rules and protocols you’ll have to learn, all of the Ustanzian customs and traditions…”

  Joe spread his hands and shrugged. “How hard could it be? Give me a videotape of Tedric and half an hour, and you’ll think I’m the same guy,” he said. “I’ve gone on far tougher missions with way less prep time. Two days—forty-eight hours—is a luxury, sweetheart.”

  How could he think that? Veronica was so stressed out by the rapidly approaching deadline she could barely breathe.

  “Less than forty-eight hours,” she told him sharply. “You have to sleep some of that time.”

  “Sleep?” Joe smiled. “I just did.”

  5

  “And never, ever open the door yourself,” Veronica said. “Always wait for someone—a servant—to do it for you.”

  Joe gazed at her across the top of his mug as he sat on the other side of the conference table in Tedric’s royal suite. “Never?” he said. He took a sip of coffee, still watching her, his dark eyes mysterious, unreadable. “Old Ted never opens the door for anyone?”

  “If he were with a king or a queen, he might open the door,” Veronica said, glancing down at her notes. And away from those eyes. “But I doubt you’ll be running into any such personages on this tour.”

  “What does Ted do when he’s all alone?” Joe started to put his mug down on the richly polished oak tabletop, but stopped as if he were afraid to mar the wood. He pulled one of Veronica’s file folders closer and set his mug down on top of the stiff manila. “Just stand there until a servant comes along to open the door? That could be a real drag if he’s in a rush to use the head.” He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow on the table, as he continued to gaze at her.

  “Your Highness, an Ustanzian prince never rests his elbows on the top of a table,” Veronica said with forced patience.

  Joe smiled and didn’t move. He just watched her with half-closed bedroom eyes that exuded sexuality. They’d been working together all night, and not once had he let her forget that she was a woman and he was a man. “I’m not a Ustanzian prince,” he said. “Yet.”

  Veronica folded her hands neatly on top of her notes. “And it’s not called a ‘head,”’ she said. “Not john, not toilet, not bathroom. It’s a water closet. W.C. We went through this already, remember, Your Highness?”

  “How about I call it the Little Prince’s Room?” Joe asked.

  Veronica laughed despite her growing sense of doom. Or maybe because of it. What was she going to do about Joe