The bar was booth-lined with a packed dance floor, while the rear courtyard was even more crowded with brightly dressed locals coming together at the end of a hard day. The whole place was loud and lively, filled with people laughing, calling out and telling stories at the tops of their lungs. No wonder Kris liked it here. The throng absorbed his status and he could sit at the bar like any other guy in a black tank, unbuttoned plaid shirt and jeans. Which, to Frankie’s continued bewilderment, was a lot of them. This cowboy-chic fashion trend worked in his favor.
He’d just accepted his second drink from the bartender, and was rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck, eyeing the room like a fighter in the ring spoiling for an outlet for his surging testosterone. It was dangerous. Every time she looked at him, her temperature rose, and when he’d leaned in earlier to ask what she wanted to drink, he’d smelled so sexy that some delirious instinct wanted to rub his scent all over her naked body. The man was practically vibrating with a sinful energy.
Holding her breath, she leaned in and spoke under the noise. “You’re acting volatile.”
His answering grin was utterly wild.
Christ.
He got this way when he felt out of control. Attempting to balance out the scales by being out of control.
“Get out of predator mode,” she told him firmly. “We don’t need trouble.”
He drew challengingly from his beer, eyes locked on her. “You could handle it.”
“What?”
He slid a forearm along the counter toward her. Edgy, magnetic. “Trouble.”
“Your Highness,” she said, nodding at the bartender as he set a bowl of hot chips between them. “I recommend you dance this off.”
He stayed close, eyes on hers, so she picked up her glass of lemonade and bit down on the straw. She wasn’t sitting next to gentle Kris, who gazed into her soul and murmured words she’d never forget. She was sitting next to Kris who had stress pent up inside him like a caged beast clawing to get out. And he wanted to let it out, with her as the closest target.
“Your hair drives me crazy,” he said, voice coarse, eyes too intense for so few drinks in.
She scarcely bothered to raise a brow. For the sake of her prince’s privacy, her earpiece wasn’t broadcasting this conversation to the entire security team, but for the sake of his safety, it was being received by Hanna and Peter. Peter lurked near the dance floor and Hanna laughed easily as she fended off unwanted attention farther up the bar counter.
“You keep it so short at the sides.” Kris’s attention moved across her scalp. “There’s no opening for me to tuck your hair back.”
“If you paid attention to the look on my face,” she said, “you’d see there’s no opening for you to do a damn thing.”
His attention slipped to the side of her neck. “Will you dance with me?”
“No.”
“Will you storm onto the dance floor and haul anyone off me who gets too close?”
Frankie scanned the room, feigning distraction. “Possibly.”
“What if they put their hand on my ass?”
“Depends if it looks like you want it there.”
“What if they take me back to their place?” His question was quiet, but not careful. Proof that she was another contributing factor to this mood. “What would you do then?”
“Scout their home before you go in, make them sign a nondisclosure agreement, and wait in the car out front.”
Scowling, he pulled back and drained his beer dry. Not the answer he wanted. He signaled for another drink, grabbed a handful of chips, and turned to talk to the guy on his other side.
Frankie was down to the salt at the bottom of the bowl, watching the room without interest as Kris continued to chat with the guy and his friends, when someone brushed against her shoulder. She tensed, turning with a frown.
“Hey,” said a man with wavy hair, dark skin, and eyelashes for days. He held cash in one hand, presumably waiting for his drink, and smiled at her as he leaned against the bar.
“Hey,” she said, eyeing him over.
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
She wanted to say I’m with numbnuts, but instead said, “First time.”
“You look good in those shorts.”
She bit back a groan. Complimenting a woman’s legs was the most generic pickup line in Kiraly—mountain living worked wonders for the thighs—but admittedly, hers were on full display in her green high-waisted cutoffs. She’d dressed to blend in. She’d matched it with a cherry summer-weight jacket to conceal the gun in her shoulder holster. Before she could answer, Kris was leaning into her space, arm stretching along the counter in front of her, and saying, “Yeah, well you should see her in a crown.”
Shock slackened the man’s face. “Woah. Sorry, didn’t see you there, Highness,” he said, and hightailed it into the crowd without waiting for his drink.
Frankie rounded on Kris, her temper snarling. “What was that?”
He relaxed, sprawled against the bar, closer to her than he should be. “What?”
“That,” she snapped.
“That what?”
“You were being—” Her jaw slid as she bit the word back.
Eyes glittering, he leaned all the way into her space. Close, closer, until their breaths merged, and it was all she could do to glare him down without her eyes crossing. He challenged her in a voice sharp like drawn claws. “I was being what, Frankie?”
“Territorial,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You’re my bodyguard, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you dare—”
He cocked an eyebrow, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom what she meant.
“—make it sound so possessive,” she finished.
“Mine,” he said again, daring her, and she sensed his primal thrill at saying such a thing in the middle of a crowded bar. “You’re mine and he can’t have you.”
“Brute.” She flicked another glance over his shoulder—and stopped breathing as fear detonated inside her. Hand snapping to her earpiece, she said, “Secure the baby,” and launched off the barstool straight at the man who was coming up behind Kris for the fourth time in twenty minutes, withdrawing his hand from his pocket with a dark shape in his grip.
Kris landed on his front behind the bar counter. Peter crushed him and Hanna dropped into a crouch by one shoulder. His heart hammered; his muscles deadlocked.
“What the hell is going on?” he shouted over the public’s startled screams. His cheek was pressed into a sticky spill on the wooden floor, and all he could see was the feet of the bar staff as they gathered at the opposite end. “Where’s Frankie?” Suddenly he was struggling like a deer in a drop net. “Where the fuck is Frankie?”
“She’s handling it.” Hanna’s thigh was pressed against the back of his head and right shoulder, her weight bearing down to help keep him pinned as she presumably watched over the top of the counter. Not that Peter needed help.
“Handling what?” Kris roared, pushing against the resolute weight on his back.
“The threat,” she answered severely. “Now don’t act like a man who thinks his wife can’t carry the groceries. She’s got this.”