His lips were warm and soft on hers. Ella opened her mouth as he deepened the kiss, his arms coming around her as his tongue slid into her mouth. She trembled, not from cold, but from the overwhelming desire that washed over her in a tidal wave of sensation. Too much. She pulled away and Philippe smiled down at her.
“We shouldn’t—”
“Why shouldn’t we?” he asked, sounding amused. Ella just shook her head, her brain on overload.
What was she doing? Forget the whole one-day, one-date thing, because that wasn’t what she did. Who she was. Especially not with a man like Philippe. She pulled away and started skating toward the exit. He caught up with her easily, taking her arm as he drew her to the side.
“Let go of me—”
“Ella, what’s wrong?” She shook her head again, and Philippe frowned. “It was just a kiss.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not— I don’t—” She felt ridiculously prudish, yet she couldn’t help who she was. Couldn’t keep herself from knowing that a fling—or even a kiss—with a prince was not in her nature.
Gently Philippe put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You don’t what?”
“I don’t do the not-thinking thing,” she blurted. “I can’t switch my brain off and just have fun with you, accepting that’s all it is. I’m sorry, because you’re charming and handsome and I have had fun, but I think it’s time we called this all to a halt.”
Philippe gazed down at her seriously and Ella stared back, feeling ridiculous yet determined.
“You’re lovely when you’re all worked up,” he said, and she pulled away from him.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I’m serious, Philippe—”
“So am I. I’ve enjoyed today more than any day in recent memory—”
“Even more than the all-night beach party in Cannes?” she snapped, hating that she was going there yet needing to at the same time.
Philippe’s expression froze. “I thought we were going to leave the tabloids and gossip magazines out of this.”
“That’s kind of hard when you’re in them so often.”
“And you believe everything you read?”
She lifted her chin. “Are you telling me those stories aren’t true, Philippe, at least in part?”
He hesitated, and she saw the answer in his eyes. “They are true,” he said heavily, “in part. But that doesn’t mean I want them to be.”
“Oh, poor little prince who has to go party all night long,” she mocked, angry with him as well as with herself for getting drawn in to this ridiculous argument.
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right. And I don’t want to.”
She shouldn’t care what he did, who he was. But it was already too late; she cared far too much. All those years of guarding her heart and living for work, and then this happened in the space of a single day.
She turned away and headed once more to the exit. “This date is over.”