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    Nobody's Princess
    Nobody's Princess
    Nobody's Princess
    Ebook189 pages2 hours

    Nobody's Princess

    By Jennifer Greene

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook


    MR. AUGUST

    Prince of a guy: Alex Brennan. Honest, loyal a fairy–tale hero.
    Damsel in distress: Regan Stuart. Jaded, cynical detests fairy tales.

    ONCE UPON A TIME
    there was a free spirit named Regan who believed in Prince Charming and happily–ever–afters. Then she kissed one frog too many. So instead of searching for knights in shining armour, she armed herself with hard–edged realism to ward off would–be Romeos .

    Alex knew that love hurt, but he also knew Regan needed to be saved. And though he was nobody's hero, he wanted to prove to this stubborn beauty that she was his princess .

    MAN OF THE MONTH:
    This guy proves chivalry isn't dead!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins Publishers Australia
    Release dateJul 1, 2012
    ISBN9781460873878
    Nobody's Princess
    Author

    Jennifer Greene

    Jennifer Greene has sold over 80 books in the contemporary romance genre. Her first professional writing award came from RWA–a Silver Medallion in l984–followed by over 20 national awards, including being honored in RWA's Hall of Fame. In 2009, Jennifer was given the RWA Nora Roberts LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD. Jennifer has degrees in English and Psychology, and lives in Michigan.

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      Book preview

      Nobody's Princess - Jennifer Greene

      One

      Alex Brennan had never considered himself a hero, but he believed that a good man lived his life by certain unshakable rules. The strong had a responsibility to protect the weak. A decent man never backed down from a principle. A guy without honor was lower than pond scum.

      That code of values was so ingrained that Alex rarely even thought about it. Until recently.

      Two weeks ago—specifically the day his bride stood him up at the altar—Alex had accidentally started noticing that a bunch of heroes throughout history had a common problem.

      Good guys had notoriously bad luck with their girls—and it was never more obvious than in the movies. Bogart, for instance, was left standing alone at the end of Casablanca. Gable never did get Scarlett. Costner went through all that bodyguarding nonsense with Whitney and ended up with a song instead of the girl.

      Late-afternoon sunshine speckled light and shadow on the dusty bookshelves of the public library. A winsome, whispery breeze redolent with magnolias drifted through the long, tall windows. The library was as lively as a morgue—which suited Alex’s mood to a T. No place on the planet beat Silvertree, North Carolina, on the first of May—every sane person in town had succumbed to the irresistible spring fever day and was out playing hookey. The deserted library offered him an ideal place to brood. He thumped a pencil end-to-end on the old, scarred oak table, as he further considered the problem.

      Those old tales seemed...well, telling. Heroes might conquer dragons, build a couple of empires, save mankind from some horrendous evil. But being good guys didn’t seem to guarantee success with their best girls. Maybe honor wasn’t sexy. Good guys just didn’t seem to stir a woman’s heart the way the bad boys did. A taste of wicked not only seemed to appeal to the delicate female gender...but they seemed to find good guys downright boring.

      A loud kerthump made Alex’s head shoot up. Someone had dropped a book in one of the nearby aisles. The thump was followed by a colorful expletive in a throaty female alto. Except for the librarians at the front desk, Alex had thought he had the place to himself. But beyond being temporarily startled by the noise, he paid no attention.

      Research tomes were precisely stacked in an impenetrable blockade all around him. Technically he’d popped into-the library to prepare for tomorrow’s class. High school kids today hated learning history as much as he had—which was why he’d broken with all Brennan tradition and done a damn fool crazy thing. He’d become a teacher.

      Alex never really felt he had a choice. Someone had to make history exciting to the kids. Someone had to convince them that history was more than dry dates, but a record of drama and courage and the power of the human spirit. Unless the kids understood how the human race screwed up, the next generation was just going to repeat the same mistakes. Teaching history was about making heroes come alive and serving them up to kids in the way of role models.

      Of course, a teacher had to keep the bubble gum generation awake to instill any of that. It was challenging to keep a dog awake on the semester covering medieval history, but Alex theorized that he could spice it up with some King Arthur lore—hence the weighty research tomes piled on the table around him. The ideals in the Arthurian legend were the stuff that lifted mankind from the Dark Ages—honor, loyalty, justice, chivalry. Camelot was meant to be a land where fairness and truth were nurtured, where beauty thrived, where love was an ideal.

      But Alex had barely opened the first text before the dark, broody mood kidnapped his attention. The problem was the legendary King Arthur. He was another blasted hero who’d lost his best girl. Another good guy who hadn’t done one thing wrong. But because honor couldn’t compete with a younger, sexier stud named Lancelot, Arthur had lost everything.

      Alex wasn’t inclined to take the comparison too far. He was no King Arthur. Still, he knew that precise feeling of loss. Painfully, intimately well.

      Another kerthump sounded from the next book aisle over. Then another. Followed by a trail of extremely loud and colorful curses from the same throaty female alto.

      Alex shot an exasperated scowl in the general direction of Ms. Klutz. No one, but no one, ever hung out in the myths and legends section but him. And especially on this to-die-for spring day, he should have been guaranteed a private refuge in this back corner of the library. Couldn’t a guy wallow in a deep, dark case of self-pity in peace and quiet?

      Apparently not. He’d barely thrown down his pencil before the lady abruptly charged around the corner, juggling a good dozen hefty books and heading for him at a dead run.

      For a second Alex froze like the iceberg in the Titanic’s path. Not that the woman was so big—the tonnage of books teetering in her arms looked bigger than she did. But she was obviously hustling to get them to the table and set them down before they all toppled and fell. The mission was doomed. Alex caught a fleeting impression of flashing scarlets and wild silky hair before disaster struck.

      She made it to the oak table, but not before the volumes started shifting and spilling. Her river of books crashed into the sea of his. Several sailed to the floor; one ended on his lap.

      Curses followed. Not his. Being out of breath didn’t seem to limit her vocabulary, and totally incomprehensibly—once she got rid of her armload—she started laughing.

      I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You just can’t imagine the day I’ve had. It’s been one thing after another. ... Here, I’ll get that. You don’t have to help—

      Alex instinctively sprang to his feet. Helping a lady in trouble was second nature, an integral part of the Southern gentleman’s code he grew up with—but in this case, basic survival instincts were the far more powerful motivator. God knew how much more damage she could do if left to her own devices.

      She was breathlessly huffing and puffing as she bounced down to pick up the fallen books. On one of her bounces back up, her elbow came mortifyingly close to a poke in his crotch. He opened his mouth, closed it faster than a fish and caught a noseful of some spicy, exotic perfume. By the time he’d rescued the last of the fallen books, she’d managed to knock over more of his meticulously neat research stack.

      I’ll get it, I’ll get it. Sheesh, I’m sorry—

      Nothing to be sorry about. Accidents happen.

      All I had to do was make two trips, but no, I was trying to save time and carry all the books at one time. It’s just that they were all so heavy—

      I can see that.

      I must have sounded like a bull in a china shop, but I never expected to find anyone else back here. I’ve come to think of this as my sacred spot because no one else is ever back here. My air conditioner at home went on the fritz, and I just needed to get in a couple hours’ work where it was cool—you don’t mind if I sit at the same table, do you?

      Mind? Alex craved peace. He needed quiet. The Silvertree Public Library had two stories of sprawling space for her to choose another table. And not that a gentleman would ever lift his territorial leg on a lady, but he was here first. Still, manners had been imprinted so deeply in the men in his family that his response was automatic.

      No problem, he said, and then swiftly pulled a book in front of him and ducked his head.

      Eventually she quit huffing and puffing. Eventually she sat down. Eventually she noisily rearranged her hodgepodge of books and clattered in her purse for a pen, and finally—there was a God—she settled down.

      Alex couldn’t.

      He vaguely recognized her. Typical of North Carolina small towns, Silvertree was a friendly place. Maybe they’d pulled into the same gas station, or he’d seen her in a grocery store or on the street. Alex couldn’t imagine a man younger than 105 who’d fail to notice her.

      She was several inches shorter than his six feet, but her figure—delicately speaking—could inspire a guy to crash a car or two to get a closer look. Her hair was caramel brown, shoulder length, with silky scoops of curls all over the place. No order. No control. Which about summed up the rest of her as well, Alex mused.

      A long sun-shaped earring dangled from one ear, a long moon earring from the other. Apparently they were a matched set. She was wearing a scallop-necked red T-shirt—snug enough to give a man a heart attack—and a long skirt that was a swirl of colors: fuchsias, oranges and reds all blurred together. Her sandals showed off red-painted toenails—about the same color as her strawberry lipstick. Bracelets dangling clanged every time she moved.

      Alex wasn’t trying to sneak looks at her, but she moved a lot. And every time he glanced up, faster than bad news, he found her hazel eyes on him.

      Her eyes were huge. Deep set and as lushly dramatic as the rest of her. She wasn’t precisely pretty, but her oval face had a complexion as pale and soft as vanilla, with high broad cheekbones and a full sensual mouth. Her face was unignorably striking, and her figure was downright dangerous. The skirt concealed her legs, but she didn’t appear to be carrying any spare pounds—except upstairs. The stretchy T-shirt made no secret of the lush, voluptuous curves above her waist.

      She was...Alex searched his mind for the right descriptive term. Sexy shot to his brain faster than a bullet, but was swiftly, uneasily rejected. Hell, he hadn’t thought of a sexist term like that since he was a teenager. Alarming was more like it.

      In fact, alarming seemed to describe her perfectly. There was nothing wrong with her haunting hazel eyes, flashy style or mesmerizing red mouth. But Alex’s taste in women had always been more like...well, like Gwen.

      His fiancée had been petite. A lady, inside and out. Gwen was soft-spoken and soft-mannered, prone to wearing fragile feminine pastels that suited her blond-and-blue-eyed fairness. She’d been everything Alex had ever dreamed of in a woman. Everything he’d waited a lifetime to find.

      Until she’d left him at the altar, and run off with a ten-years-younger, good-looking rogue named Lance.

      You look really caught up in sad thoughts.

      Alex’s head shot up. Beg your pardon?

      Those huge hazel eyes were all over his face again, studying him as intrusively as a cop could frisk a suspect. I don’t mean to pry. You just had this look, as if you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Are you okay?

      No, he wasn’t okay. He wasn’t remotely okay. But he didn’t know the woman from Adam, couldn’t believe she would ask a total stranger such a nosy question. And for sure, he couldn’t imagine how to answer it.

      His reticence seemed to fly right by her. The undauntable woman smiled...a slow, warm smile that crinkled those eyes into pinpoints of light. Impulsively she leaned over the table and extended a hand, offering him a view down the scooped neck of her T-shirt that turned his throat desert dry.

      I’m Regan. Regan Stuart. I know I’ve seen your face around town somewhere—do you teach at the college?

      No. That is, I’m a teacher—but I teach high school history, nothing at the college level—

      Well, I’m a teacher, too. I thought I might have seen you around the Whitaker College library before—I’m an assistant prof, teach women’s studies. And you’re—?

      Alex Brennan. He didn’t want to give up his name, any more than he wanted to shake her hand, but there seemed no way of avoiding either without being rude. Her palm clapped against his in an exuberant, pumping handshake, as forthright and blunt as she was. Her skin was soft, though, and warmer than sunlight.

      She dropped her hand quickly enough, but his pulse was suddenly skidding down a slick, unfamiliar road At thirty-four, Alex was more than familiar with hormones, but it was one thing to recognize her attractiveness, and another to feel a kindling responsiveness to her. He loved Gwen. And Gwen had always inspired loving, sensual feelings in him, but not this strange, flash-fire kind of sexual awareness.

      It made him feel guilty. And nervous. Quickly he stuffed his hands in his pockets and hoped she didn’t notice his sudden awkwardness.

      She didn’t seem to. Nothing seemed to quell her gregarious friendliness. Well, nice to meet you, Alex. It’s really rare I find anyone in the myths and legends section but me, and I couldn’t help but notice all your books. ... You’re preparing for a class?

      Yes. And I’m afraid I really have a lot to do. Thankfully, she took the hint. Her head ducked, then his head ducked. Pages turned. A spring-laden breeze whispered in the open windows. It was peaceful just like that.

      For maybe two minutes.

      Do you like teaching?

      Hell. It was like trying to concentrate with a fire alarm going off next to him. He wasn’t sure why she kept ringing his personal fire alarm, but she was far too disturbing a woman to possibly ignore.

      Yeah, I love teaching, he answered her, and heard the instinctive stubborn note in his voice. He got grief all the time—especially from his brother, Merle—on his choice of career. The Brennans were one of the old, landed families in Silvertree. Few in the community could fathom what the Sam Hill he was doing in a classroom. Alex didn’t care what anyone thought, but he was used to no one understanding.

      "Me, too. I love working with young people. I even believe that corny line from the Whitney Houston song about ‘the children are our future.’ Can’t imagine doing anything else. All animated, she leaned forward, giving him another throat-parching view. You’ve really got me curious, though. I see all the books around you on Camelot and the Arthurian legend...but I thought you said you taught history?"

      I do. But we’re in the medieval stretch. The kids are in no big hustle to get excited about 1066 and the Battle of Hastings.

      I’m with them. Her eyes danced with teasing humor. I can well imagine that King Arthur is an easier sell.

      "Anything’s an easier sell than the Dark Ages. And it’s not like I can’t teach them something from the Camelot legend. Half our political concepts about equality and democracy came from the ideals emerging in that time...." Alex suddenly frowned, startled to realize he was actually inviting more conversation with her.

      She seemed at ease, as if they were old friends. "Yeah, I practically inhaled the

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