Ella swallowed, stared. Said nothing. Do you want to spend more time with me? It was such an open, honest question, and he’d said it with such sincerity. It discomfited her, made her want to answer just as honestly. She was intrigued by this man. Intrigued and interested.
But she couldn’t answer that question honestly. She couldn’t answer at all, because this was getting too dangerous. She didn’t flirt, or have casual dates or even relationships. She worked. It was the only thing that was safe, with guaranteed success.
Ella cleared her throat. “I think we should keep this professional.”
Philippe smiled faintly. “What’s not professional about you showing me around the city?”
Now she blushed. Had she misunderstood him completely? “I mean… Mr. Bryant will want to meet with you…”
“Even so, I’m quite sure there will be time to see a few sights.”
“Well, yes—”
“And I’d like to see them with you. Aren’t you supposed to be keeping me happy?” His eyes glinted knowingly, and Ella felt a futile flare of anger. He was practically blackmailing her. How could she say no, when so much rested on this bid? She couldn’t let Chase down, not after all the chances he’d given her. And the truth was, annoyingly, she didn’t want to say no.
“We’ll see,” she said finally, and Philippe smiled in what could only be called triumph. He knew he’d won.
Was he just toying with her, Ella wondered. A girl in every port? What else could it be?
“It’s getting late,” he said, taking his napkin from his lap and tossing it on the table. “Let me escort you downstairs and find you a taxi.”
“It’s not necessary,” Ella said quickly. “I live close enough to walk.”
“Then I’ll walk you to your door,” Philippe said, and Ella couldn’t help but think she’d asked for that one.
They didn’t talk as they left the restaurant and entered the elevator—after Philippe had paid the bill, despite the fact that Ella knew Chase had intended to host the royal. They soared down thirty-five floors, alone in the small space, the tension suddenly seeming to coil and stretch between them. Ella snuck a glance at Philippe, taking in the hard line of his jaw, the vivid blue of his eyes. His hair was the color of sunlight on oak.
Outside, the air was cold and crisp, and Columbus Circle had emptied out except for a few taxis streaking by in a yellow blur. Philippe turned to her with a smile.
“Which way?”
“North.” They started walking up Broadway. “Don’t you need your security?” Ella asked. “I didn’t think royalty could just walk around unescorted.”
“It’s a risk I like to take once in a while,” Philippe said with a shrug. “Before my sister abdicated, I went around as I pleased. It’s been hard to let that go.”
“I’m sure,” Ella murmured. She’d assumed the prince was pampered, that he wore his privilege with lazy entitlement. Now she wondered. They walked in silence for a few more minutes and then Ella stopped in front of the respectable walk-up she called home. “This is it.” She turned to him with an awkward smile, her heart pounding although she refused to wonder why.
Philippe smiled and lifted his hand. Ella held her breath. He brushed his finger through a tendril of hair that had escaped from her chignon. Her breath came out in a rush. “Philippe—”
“Snowflake,” he said, still smiling. He pointed upward. “It’s snowing.”
Ella felt her cheeks heat. She’d thought he was going to kiss her. And she wouldn’t have resisted.
Philippe dropped his hand. “Goodbye, Ella,” he said, and walked away into the night.